the english spy: an original work characteristic, satirical, and humorous. comprising scenes and sketches in every rank of society, being portraits drawn from the life by bernard blackmantle. the illustrations designed by robert cruikshank. by frolic, mirth, and fancy gay, old father time is borne away. london: published by sherwood, jones, and co. paternoster-row. . [illustration: cover] [illustration: frontispiece] [illustration: titlepage] bernard blackmantle{*} to the reviewers. "but now, what quixote of the age would care to wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?" messieurs the critics, after twelve months of agreeable toil, made easy by unprecedented success, the period has at length arrived when your high mightinesses will be able to indulge your voracious appetites by feeding and fattening on the work of death. already does my prophetic spirit picture to itself the black cloud of cormorants, swelling and puffing in the fulness of their editorial pride, at the huge eccentric volume which has thus thrust itself into extensive circulation without the usual _cringings_ and _cravings_ to the _pick fault tribe_. but i dare defy the venal crew that prates, from tailor place* to fustian herald thwaites.{**} * the woolly editor of the breeches makers', alias the "westminster review." ** the thing who writes the leaden (leading) articles for the morning herald. let me have good proof of your greediness to devour my labours, and i will dish up such a meal for you in my next volume, as shall go nigh to produce extermination by _surfeit_. one favour, alone, i crave--give me _abuse_ enough; let no squeamish pretences of respect for my bookseller, or disguised qualms of apprehension for your own sacred persons, deter the _natural_ inclination of your hearts. the slightest deviation from your _usual course_ to independent writers--or one step towards commendation from your _gang_, might induce the public to believe i had _abandoned my character_, and become one of your _honourable fraternity_-the very _suspicion of which_ would (to me) produce irretrievable ruin. _your masters_, the _trading brotherhood_, will (as usual) direct you in the course you should pursue; whether to approve or condemn, as their _'peculiar interests_ may dictate. most _sapient_ sirs of the secret _bandit'_ of the screen, inquisitors of literature, raise all your _arms_ and _heels_, your _daggers, masks_, and _hatchets_, to revenge the daring of an _open foe_, who thus boldly defies your _base_ and _selfish views_; for, basking at his ease in the sunshine of public patronage, he feels that his heart is rendered invulnerable to your_ poisoned shafts_. read, and you shall find i have not been parsimonious of the means to grant you _food_ and _pleasure_: errors there are, no doubt, and plenty of them, grammatical and typographical, all of which i might have corrected by an _errata_ at the end of my volume; but i disdain the wish to rob you of your office, and have therefore left them just where i made them, without a single note to mark them out; for if all the _thistles were rooted up_, what would become of the _asses?_ or of those "who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, and, knowing nothing, ev'ry thing believe?" fully satisfied that swarms of _literary blow flies_ will pounce upon the errors with delight, and, buzzing with the ecstasy of infernal joy, endeavour to hum their readers into a belief of the profundity of their critic erudition;--i shall nevertheless, with churchill, laughingly exclaim--"perish my muse" "if e'er her labours weaken to refine the generous roughness of a nervous line." bernard blackmantle. contents. page introduction preface, in imitation of the first satire of persius reflections, addressed to those who can think. reflections of an author--weighty reasons for writing-- magister artis ingeniique largitor venter--choice of subject considered--advice of index, the bookseller--of the nature of prefaces--how to commence a new work a few thoughts on myself a shandean scene, between lady mary old-- style and horatio heartly school--boy reminiscences. on early friend-- ship character of bernard blackmantle. by horatio heartly eton sketches of character the five principal orders of eton--doctor, dame, colleger, oppidan, and cad. a sketch taken opposite the long walk eton dames; an ode, neither amatory, ill-- natured, nor pathetic election saturday. a peep at the long chambers--the banquet--reflections on parting--arrival of the provost of king's college, cam-- bridge, and the pozers--the captain's oration--busy monday --the oppidan's farewell--examination and election of the collegers who stand for king's--the aquatic gala and fire-- works--oxonian visitors--night--rambles in eton--transfor- mations of signs and names--the feast at the christopher, with a view of the oppidan's museum, and eton court of claims an eton election scene herbert stockhore, the montem poet laureate. a sketch from the life, as he appeared in the montem procession of may, . by bernard blackmantle and robert transit life in eton; a college chaunt in praise of private tutors recollections of an old etonian eton montem farewell to eton my vale the freshman. reflections on leaving eton university--a whip--sketches on the road--the joneses of jesus--picturesque appearance of oxford from the distance--the arrival--welcome of an old etonian--visit to dr. dingyman--a university don-- presentation to the big wig--ceremony of matriculation christ church college. architectural reminiscences--descriptive remarks--simi- litude between the characters of cardinal wolsey and napoleon the dinner party. bernard blackmantle's visit to tom echo--oxford phrase- ology--smuggled dinners--a college party described-- topography of a man's room--portrait of a bachelor of arts --hints to freshmen--customs of the university college servants. descriptive sketch of a college scout--biography of mark supple--singular invitation to a spread taking possession of your rooms. topography of a vacant college larium--anecdotes and propensities of predecessors--a long shot--scout's list of necessaries--condolence of university friends the excursion to bagley wood western entrance into the metropolis. a descriptive sketch. general views of the author relative to subject and style --time and place--perspective glimpse of the great city-- the approach--cockney salutations--the toll house-- western entrance to cockney land--hyde park--sunday noon-sketches of character, costume, and scenery--the ride and drive--kensington gardens--belles and beaux- stars and fallen stars--singularities of -tales of ton- on dits and anecdotes--sunday evening--high life and low life, the contrast--cockney goths--notes, biographical, amorous, and exquisite the opera. the man of fashion--fop's alley--modern roué and frequenters--characteristic sketches in high life--blue stocking illuminati--motives and manners--meeting with the honourable lillyman lionise--dinner at long's--visit to the opera--joined by bob transit--a peep into the green room--secrets behind the curtain--noble amateurs and foreign curiosities--notes and anecdotes by horatio heartly the royal saloon. visit of heartly, lionise, and transit--description of the place--sketches of character--the gambling parsons--horse chaunting, a true anecdote--bang and her friends--moll raffle and the marquis w.--he play man--the touter-- the half-pay officer--charles rattle, esq.--life of a modern roue--b------ the tailor--the subject--jarvey and brooks the dissector--"kill him when you want him" the spread, or wine party at brazen-nose. a college wine party described--singular whim of horace eglantine--meeting of the oxford crackademonians --sketches of eccentric characters, drawn from the life-- the doctor's daughter--an old song--a round of sculls-- epitaphs on the living and the dead--tom tick, a college tale--the voyagers--notes and anecdotes the oxford rake's progress town and gown, an oxford row. battle of the togati and the town--raff--a night--scene in the high-street, oxford--description of the combatants-- attack of the gownsmen upon the mitre--evolutions of the assailants--manoeuvres of the proctors and bull--dogs-- perilous condition of blackmantle and his associates, eglan- tine, echo, and transit--snug retreat of lionise--the high-- street after the battle--origin of the argotiers, and inven- tion of cant--phrases--history of the intestine wars and civil broils of oxford, from the time of alfred--origin of the late strife--ancient ballad--retreat of the togati-- reflections of a freshman--black matins, or the effect of late drinking upon early risers--visit to golgotha, or the place of sculls--lecture from the big--wigs--tom echo receives sentence of rustication towne and gowne the stage coach, or the trip to brighton. improvements in travelling--contrast of ancient and modern conveyances and coachmen--project for a new land steam carriage--the inn--yard at the golden cross, charing cross--mistakes of passengers--variety of characters--ad- vantages of the box--seat--obstructions on the road--a pull--up at the elephant and castle--move on to kennington common--new churches--civic villas at brixton--modern taste in architecture described--arrival at croydon; why not now the king's road?--the joliffe hounds--a hunting leader--anecdotes of the horse, by coachee--the new tunnel at reigate--the baron's chamber--the golden ball --the silver ball--and the golden calf--entrance into brighton the proposition. family secrets--female tactics--how to carry the point sketches at brighton. the pavilion party--interior described--royal and noble anecdotes--the king and mathews characters on the beach and steyne, brighton. on bathing and bathers--advantages of shampooing-- french decency--brighton politeness--sketches of character --the banker's widow--miss j----s--mrs. f---- --peter paragraph, he london correspondent--j--k s----h--the french consul--paphian divinities--c---- l----, esq. squeeze into the libraries--the new plunging bath-- chain pier--cockney comicalities--royal gardens--the club house metropolitan sketches. heartly, echo, and transit start for a spree--scenes by daylight, starlight, and gaslight--black monday at tatter-- sail's--the first meeting after the great st. leger--heroes of the turf paying and receiving--dinner at fishmongers' hall --committee of greeks--the affair of the cogged dice--a regular break--down--rules for the new club--the daffy club, or a musical muster of the fancy: striking portraits-- counting the stars--covent garden, what it was and what it is--the finish--anecdotes of characters--the hall of infamy, alias the covent garden hell visit to westminster hall. worthies thereof--legal sketches of the long robe--an awkward recognition--visit to banco regis--surrey col-- legians giving a lift to a limb of the law--out of rule and in rule--"thus far shalt thou go, and no further"--park rangers personified--visit to the life academy, somerset house--r. a--ys of genius reflecting on the true line of beauty--peep into the green rooms of the two theatres royal, drury lane and covent garden--bernard blackmantle reading his new play and farce--the city ball at the mansion house--the squeeze--civic characters--return to oxford-- invite to cambridge--jemmy gordon's frolic--term ends illustrations in the english spy. (by r. cruikshank unless otherwise attributed) we hope it will be generally admitted that few volumes have a more decided claim upon the public patronage, in respect to the novelty and variety of design, as well as the number of illustrations, than the one here presented to the reader. to speak of the choice humorous talent engaged in the work would only be to re-echo the applauding sentiments of the reviewers and admirers of rich graphic excellence. cruikshank and rowlandson are names not unworthy a space upon the same roll with hogarth, gilray, and bunbury: to exhibit scenes of character in real life, sketched upon the spot, was an undertaking of no mean importance; particularly, when it is remembered how great the difficulty must have been in collecting together accurate portraits. the work, it will be perceived, contains thirty-six copper- plates, etched, aquainted, and coloured, by and under the direction of the respective artists whose names appear to the different subjects, the principal part of which are the sole production of mr. robert cruikshank. the wood engravings, twenty-eight in number, besides the _vignettes_, (which are numerous), are equally full of merit; and will be found, upon examination, to be every way worthy the superior style of typographical excellence which characterises the volume, i. the frontispiece is intended to convey a general idea of the nature of the work; combining, in rich classic taste, a variety of subjects illustrative of the polished as well as the more humble scenes of real life. it represents a gothic temple, into which the artist, mr. robert cruikshank, has introduced a greater variety of characteristic subject than was ever before compressed into one design. in the centre compartment, at the top, we have a view of a terrestrial heaven, where music, love, and gay delight are all united to lend additional grace to fashion, and increase the splendour of the revels of terpsichore. in the niches, on each side, are the twin genii, poetry and painting; while the pedestals, right and left, present the protectors of their country, the old soldier and sailor, retired upon pensions, enjoying and regaling themselves on the bounty of their king. in the centre of the plate are three divisions representing the king, lords, and commons in the full exercise of their prerogatives. the figures on each side are portraits of bernard blackmantle (the english spy), and his friend, robert transit (the artist), standing on projecting pedestals, and playing with the world as a ball; not doubting but for this piece of vanity, the world, or the reviewers for them, will knock them about in return. on the front of the pedestals are the arms of the universities of oxford and cambridge; and in the centre armorial shields of the cities of london and westminster. the picture of a modern hell, in the centre, between the pedestals, has the very appropriate emblems of misery and death, in the niches on each side. crowning the whole, the genius of wit is seen astride of an eagle, demonstrative of strength, and wielding in his hand the lash of satire; an instrument which, in the present work, has been used more as a corrective of we than personal ill-nature. ii. the five principal orders of society. the king-corinthian; an elegant female-composite; the nobleman-doric; a member of the university-ionic; and the buck of fashion-tuscan. on the left hand may be seen a specimen of the exquisite, a new order in high estimation at the west end of the town; and on the right hand stands an old order of some solidity in the eastern parts of the metropolis. fashion, taste, and fame, are emblematical of the varied pursuits of life; while the army and navy of the country are the capitals that crown the superstructure, combining the ornamental with the useful. iii. first absence, or the sons of old etona answering morning muster-roll. a view of the school-yard, eton, at the time first absence is called, and just when the learned doctor keat is reviewing the upper school. (portraits.) iv. the oppidan's museum, or eton court of claims at the christopher. bernard blackmantle and robert transit sitting in judge- ment after election saturday, apportioning the remuneration money to the different claimants of the surrounding trophies. v. eton montem, and the mount, salt hill. an accurate sketch of this ancient customary procession made upon the spot. vi. the first bow to alma mater. bernard blackmantle's introduction to the big wig on his arrival at oxford. vii. flooring of mercury, or burning the oaks. a scene in tom quadrangle, oxford. "if wits aright their tale of terror tell, a little after great mercurius fell, *** gownsmen and townsmen throng'd the water's edge to gaze upon the dreadful sacrilege: *** ------there with drooping mien a silent band canons and bedmaker together stand:-- *** in equal horror all alike were seen, and shuddering scouts forgot to cap the dean." viii. college comforts. taking possession of your rooms. bernard blackmantle taking possession of his rooms in brazennose. scout's list of wants. standing the quiz of the togati visible propensities of your predecessor. the day of purification. ix. cap-ing a proctor, or oxford bull-dogs detecting brazennose smugglers. tom echo and horace eglantine lowering the plate-basket, after the college-gates are closed, to obtain a supply of fresh provision, are detected by the proctor and town marshal with their bull-dogs: in their alarm the basket and its contents are suddenly let fall upon the proctor, who is not able to under- stand the joke. x. the arrival, or western entrance into cockney land. portrait of high and low life dandies and dandysettes. xi. the green-room of the king's theatre, r noble amateurs viewing foreign curiosities. portraits of ten noble and distinguished patrons of the opera, with those of certain daughters of terpsichore. xii. the royal saloon in piccadilly, or an hour after the opera. heartly, lionise, and transit in search of character--the gambling parsons--legs and leg-ees-tats men and touters-- moll raffle and bang. xiii. oxford transports, or university exiles. albanians doing penance for past offences. a scene sketched from the life. horace eglantine is proposing "the study of the fathers," a favourite college toast, while tom echo is enforcing obedience to the president's proposition by finishing off a shirker. dick gradus having been declared absent, is taking a cool nap with the ice-pail in his arms and his head resting upon a greek lexicon: in the left hand corner may be seen a scout bearing off a dead man, (but not without hope of resurrection). bob transit and bernard blackmantle occupy the situation on each side of dick gradus; in the right-hand corner, horace's servant is drawing the last cork from the parting bottle, which is to welcome in the peep o' day. injustice to the present authorities it should be stated, that this is a scene of other limes.--vide a. xiv. show sunday, a view in the broad walk, christ church meadows, oxford. portraits of the togati and the town, including big wigs, nobs, and dons. among the more conspicuous are dr. kett, lord g. grenville, dr. grovesnor, alderman fletcher, and mr. swan. xv. town and gown. battle of the togati and town raff of oxford, a night scene. --bernard and his friends, horace and tom, distributing among the bargees of st. clement's. xvi. black matins, or the effects of late drinking upon early risers. a most imposing scene.-time seven o'clock in the morn- ing, the last bell has just tolled, and the university men have just turned out, while the hunting-frock, boots, and appear- ance of some of the party, proclaim that they have just turned in; all are eager to save fine and imposition, and not a few are religiously disturbed in their dreams. the admirable disorder of the party is highly illustrative of the effect produced by an evening wine party in college rooms. xvii. golgotha, or the place of sculls. tom echo receiving sentence of rustication. the big wigs in a bustle. lecture on disobedience and chorus of the synod. reports from the isle of bull dogs. running foul of the quicksands of rustication after having passed point failure and the long hope. nearly blown up at point nonplus, and obliged to lay by to refit. xviii. the evening party at the pavilion, brighton. (by o. m. briohty.) interior of the yellow room--portraits of his majesty, the duke of york, and princess augusta, marquis and marchioness of conyngham, earl of arran, lord francis conyngham, lady elizabeth and sir h. barnard, sir h. turner, sir w. knighton, sir e. nagle, and sir c. paget, sketched from the life. xix. the king at home, or mathews at carlton house. a scene founded on fact; including portraits of the king, mathews, and other celebrated persons. xx. a frolic in high life, or, a visit to billings- gate. a very extraordinary whim of two very distinguished females, whose portraits will be easily recognised. xxi. characters on the steyne, brighton. portraits of illustrious, noble, and wealthy visitors--the banker's widow--a bathing group--the chain pier, &c. xxii. tom echo laid up with the heddington fever, or an oxonian very near the wall. symptoms of having been engaged too deeply in the study of hie fathers. portrait of a well-known esculapian chief. xxiii. monday after the great st. leger, or heroes of the turf paying and receiving at tattersall's. this sketch was made upon the spot by my friend transit, on the monday following the result of the last great st. leger in , when the legs were, for the most part, in mourning from the loss of their favourite sherwood. some long faces will be easily recognized, and some few round ones, though barefoots, not easily be forgotten. the tinkers were many of them levanters. here may be seen the peer and the prig, the wise one and the green one, the pigeon and the rook amalgamated together. it is almost unnecessary to say, the greater part of the characters are portraits. xxiv. exterior of fishmongers'-hall, st. james's street, with a view of a regular breakdown. portraits of the master fishmonger, and many well- known greeks and pigeons. xxv. interior of a modern hell. (vide the affair of the cogged dice.) portraits of upwards of twenty well-known punters and frequenters--greeks and pigeons, noble and ignoble--the fishmonger in a fright, or the gudgeon turned shark--expose of saint hugh's bones--secrets worth knowing. (see work.) xxvi. the daffy club, or a musical muster of the fancy. interior of tom belcher's parlour. heartly and bob in search of character. striking likenesses of boxers, betters, &c.--with a pen and ink sketch of a noted--one--a fine school for practical experience. (for key to portraits- see work.) xxvii. peep ' days and family men at the finish. a night scene near covent garden--coffee and comical company. xxviii. family men at fault, or an unexpected visit from the bishop and his chaplains. a scene near covent garden, in which are introduced certain well-known characters and bow-street officers: in- cluding messrs. bishop, smith, ruthven, and townshend. xxix. the hall of infamy, alias oyster saloon, in brydges-street, or new covent garden hell. portraits of the old harridan and her flask man tom. sketches of sharps and flats, green ones and impures. done from the life. xxx. westminster hall. portraits of well-known worthies of the bar.--the maiden brief.--dick gradus examining a witness. xxxi. surrey collegians giving a lift to a limb of the law. interior of the king's bench prison--rough-drying a lawyer. xxxii. r-a-ys of genius reflecting on the true line of beauty at the life academy, somerset house. (by t. rowlandson.) bob transit's first appearance as a student. sketching from the life. outlines of character. how to grow rich but not great. secrets worth knowing, and portraits of all the well-known. xxxiii. bernard blackmantle reading his play in the green-room of covent garden theatre. portraits of messrs. c. kemble, fawcett, farley, jones, farren, grimaldi, macready, young, t. p. cooke, chapman, blanchard, abbott, cooper, yates, and the english spy; mrs. davenport, miss chester, miss m. tree, miss love, and mrs. davison. xxxiv. bernard blackmantle reading his farce in the green room of the theatre royal, drury lane. (by t. wageman.) portraits of elliston, dowton, harley, munden, knight, liston, oxberry, sherwin, gattie, wallack, terry, g. smith, and barnard, miss stephens, mrs. orger, madame vestris, mrs. harlowe, and the english spy. the likenesses are all studies from the life. xxxv. the city ball at the mansion house. portraits of the duke of sussex, the lord mayor (waith- man) and lady mayoress, the sheriffs laurie and whittaker, aldermen wood and curtis, sir richard phillips, messrs. hone, patten, with other well-known characters. xxxvi. jemmy gordon's frolic. a cambridge tale. vide peter house. illustrations on wood from original designs by cruikshank, rowlandson, gilray, and finlay, engraved by bonner and hughes. vignette on title page. old father time borne away on the shoulders of the genii, frolic, mirth, and fancy. . the author's chamber--index, the bookseller, and ber- nard blackmantle, projecting a new work . horatio heartly reading the "english spy" to lady mary oldstyle . a correct view of eton college from the playing-fields . the five principal orders of eton--doctor, dame, colleger, oppidan, and cad. a sketch taken opposite the long walk . the cloisters, eton college . herbert stockhore, the montem poet laureate, a sketch from the life as he appeared in the montem procession of may, . accurate view of the interior of eton college hall . interior of eton school room . the oxonian reclining, an emblematical design . five characteristic orders of oxford . portrait of mr. b--the classical alma mater coachman of oxford . view of christchurch college . a bachelor of arts drinking of the pierian spring . view of bagley wood with the gipsy party. an extraordinary fine specimen of art, by bonner. . mother goose, a portrait . kensington gardons, sunday evening. portraits of well-known fashionable eccentricities . vignette.--he subject and the resurrection jarvey, or "kill him when you want him" . albanians starting for a spree, or tom tick on the road to jericho . waiting for bail . the don and the fair of st. clement's. an oxford scene . the university rake's progress . the newly invented steam coach . view of the pavilion, brighton, from the london road . a night scene, or, a rum start near b---- h----l . the widow's ultimatum. a cutting joke, with a most affecting catastrophe . college frolics, or catching urals at ch. ch. . roues rusticating in surrey, or, the first glimpse of banco regis . term, ends--adieu to fagging--the high-street, oxford --the togati in a bustle--the merry good bye the english spy. nor rank, nor order, nor condition, imperial, lowly, or patrician, shall, when they see this volume, cry, "the satirist has pass'd us by:" but, with good humour, view our page depict the manners of the age. introduction. "the proper study of mankind is man." a rhapsody. life's busy scene i sing! its countenance, and form, and varied hue, drawn within the compass of the eye. no tedious voyage, or weary pilgrimage o'er burning deserts, or tempestuous seas, my progress marks, to trace great nature's sources to the fount, and bare her secrets to the common view. in search of wonders, let the learn'd embark, from lordly elgin, to lamented park, to find out what i perhaps some river's course, or antique fragments of a marble horse; while i, more humble, local scenes portray, and paint the men and manners of the day. life's a theatre, man the chief actor, and the source from which the dramatist must cull his choicest beauties, painting up to nature the varied scenes which mark the changeful courses of her motley groups. here she opes her volume to the view of contemplative minds, and spreads her treasures forth, decked in all the variegated tints that flora, goddess of the flowery mead and silvery dell, with many coloured hue, besprinkles the luxuriant land. here, reader, will we travel forth, and in our journey make survey of all that's interesting and instructive. man's but the creature of a little hour, the phantom of a transitory life; prone to every ill, subject to every woe; and oft the more eccentric in his sphere, as rare abilities may gild his brow, setting form, law, and order at defiance. his glass a third decayed 'fore reason shines, and ere perfection crowns maturity, he sinks forgotten in his parent dust. such then is man, uncertain as the wind, by nature formed the creature of caprice, and as atropos wills, day by day, we number to our loss some mirth-enlivening soul, whose talents gave a lustre to the scene.-serious and solemn, thoughts be hence away! imagination wills that playful satire reign:--by sportive fancy led, we take the field. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ preface, in imitation of the first satire of persius. dialogue between the author and his friend. author. however dangerous, or however vain, i am resolved. friend. you'll not offend again? author. i will, by jove! friend. take my advice, reflect; who'll buy your sketches author. many, i expect. friend. i fear but few, unless, munchausen-like, you've something strange, that will the public strike: men with six heads, or monsters with twelve tails, who patter flash, for nothing else prevails in this dull age. author. then my success is certain; i think you'll say so when i draw the curtain, and, presto! place before your wond'ring eyes a race of beings that must 'cite surprise; the strangest compound truth and contradiction owe to dame nature, or the pen of action; where wit and folly, pride and modest worth, go hand in hand, or jostle at a birth; where prince, peer, peasant, politician meet, and beard each other in the public street; ~ ~~ where ancient forms, though still admired, are phantoms that have long expired; where science droops 'fore sovereign folly, and arts are sick with melancholy; where knaves gain wealth, and honest fellows, by hunger pinch'd, blow knav'ry's bellows; where wonder rises upon wonder-- friend. hold! or you may leave no wonders to be told. your book, to sell, must have a subtle plot--mark the great unknown, wily ***** ****: print in america, publish at milan; there's nothing like this scotch-athenian plan, to hoax the cockney lack-brains. author. it shall be: books, like madeira, much improve at sea; 'tis said it clears them from the mist and smell of modern athens, so says sage cadell, whose dismal tales of shipwreck, stress of weather, sets all divine _nonsensia_ mad together; and, when they get the dear-bought novel home, "they love it for the dangers it has overcome." friend. i like your plan: "art sure there's no offence?" author. none that's intended to wound common-sense. for your uncommon knaves who rule the town, your m.p.'s, m.d.'s, r.a.'s and silk gown, empirics in all arts, every degree, just satire whispers are fair game for me. friend. the critic host beware! author. wherefore, i pray? "the cat will mew, the dog will have his day." let them bark on! who heeds their currish note knows not the world--they howl, for food, by rote. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ reflections, addressed to those who can think. reflections of an author--weighty reasons for writing-- magister artis ingeniique largitor venter--choice of subject considered--advice of index, the book-seller--of the nature of prefaces--how to commence a new work. author (solus). i must write--my last sovereign has long since been transferred to the safe keeping of mine hostess, to whom i have the honor to be obliged. i just caught a glance of her inflexible countenance this morning in passing the parlour door; and methought i could perceive the demon aspect of suspicion again spreading his corrosive murky hue over her furrowed front. the enlivening appearance of my golden ambassador had for a few days procured me a faint smile of complacency; but the spell is past, and i shall again be doomed to the humiliation ~ ~~ of hearing mrs martha bridget's morning lectures on the necessity of punctuality. well, she must be quieted, (i.e.) promise crammed, (satisfied, under existing circumstances, is impossible): i know it will require no little skill to obtain fresh supplies from her stores, without the master-key which unlocks the flinty heart; but _nil desperandum_, he who can brave a formidable army of critics, in pursuit of the bubble fame, may at least hope to find wit enough to quiet the interested apprehensions of an old woman. and yet how mortifying is the very suspicion of inattention and disrespect. i have rung six times for my breakfast, and as many more for my boots, before either have made their appearance; the first has indeed just arrived, with a lame apology from mine hostess, that the gentleman on the first floor is a very impetuous fellow, requires prompt attention, gives a great deal of trouble--but--then he pays a great deal of money, and above all, is very punctual: here is my _quietus_ at once; the last sentence admits of no reply from a pennyless author. my breakfast table is but the spectre of former times;--no eggs on each side of my cup, or a plate of fresh lynn shrimps, with an inviting salt odour, that would create an appetite in the stomach of an invalid; a choice bit of dried salmon, or a fresh cut off the roll of some violet-scented epping butter;--all have disappeared; nay, even the usual allowance of cream has degenerated into skimmed milk, and that is supplied in such cautious quantities, that i can scarce eke it out to colour my three cups of inspiring bohea. (a knock at the door.) that single rap at the street door is very like the loud determined knock of a dun. the servant is ascending the stairs--it must be so--she advances upon the second flight;--good heavens, how stupid!--i particularly told her i should not be in town to any of these people for a month. the inattention of servants is unbearable; they can tell fibs ~ ~~ enough to suit their own purposes, but a little white one to serve a gentleman lodger, to put off an impertinent tradesman, or save him from the toils of a sheriffs officer, is sure to be marred in the relation, or altogether forgotten. i'll lock my chamber door, however, by way of precaution. (servant knocking.) "what do you want?" "mr. index, sir, the little gentleman in black." "show him up, betty, directly." the key is instantly turned; the door set wide open; and i am again seated in comfort at my table: the solicitude, fear, and anxiety, attendant upon the apprehensions of surprise, a bailiff, and a prison, all vanish in a moment. "my dear index, you are welcome; the last person i expected, although the first i could have wished to have seen: to what fortunate circumstance am i to attribute the honor of this friendly visit?" "business, sir; i am a man of business: your last publication has sold pretty well, considering how dreadfully it was cut up in the reviews; i have some intention of reprinting a short edition, if you are not too exorbitant in your demands; not that i think the whole number will be sold, but there is a chance of clearing the expenses. a portrait by wageman, the announcement of a second edition, with additions, may help it off; but then these additional costs will prevent my rewarding your merits to the extent i am sensible you deserve." "name your own terms, index, for after all you know it must come to that, and i am satisfied you will be as liberal as you can afford." put in this way, the most penurious of the speculating tribe in paper and print would have strained a point, to overcome their natural infirmity: with index it was otherwise; nature had formed him with a truly liberal heart: the practice of the trade, and the necessary caution attendant upon bookselling speculations, only operated as a check to the noble-minded generosity of the ~ ~~ man, without implanting in his bosom the avarice and extortion generally pursued by his brethren. the immediate subject of his visit arranged to our mutual satisfaction, i ventured to inquire what style of work was most likely to interest the taste of the town. 'the town itself--satire, sir, fashionable satire. if you mean to grow rich by writing in the present day, you must first learn to be satirical; use the lash, sir, as all the great men have done before you, and then, like canning in the cabinet, or gifford and jeffery as reviewers, or byron and southey as poets, you will be followed more from the fear of your pen than from the splendour of your talents, the consistency of your conduct, or the morality of your principles. sir, if you can but use the tomahawk skilfully, your fortune is certain. '_sic itur ad astra_.' read blackwood's noctea ambrosiance. take the town by surprise, folly by the ears; 'the glory, jest, and riddle of the world' is man; use your knowledge of this ancient volume rightly, and you may soon mount the car of fortune, and drive at random wherever your fancy dictates. bear in mind the greek proverb, '_mega biblion, mega kakon_.' in your remarks, select such persons who, from their elevated situations in society, ought to be above reproof, and whose vices are, therefore, more worthy of public condemnation: '------------ridiculum acri fortius ac melius magnas plerumque secat res.' by this means you will benefit the state, and improve the morals of society. the most wholesome truths may be told with pleasantry. satire, to be severe, needs not to be scurrilous. the approval of the judicious will always follow the ridicule which is directed against error, ignorance, and folly." how long little index might have continued in this strain i know not, if i had not ventured to suggest ~ ~~ that the course he pointed out was one of great difficulty, and considerable personal hazard; that to arrive at fortune by such means, an author must risk the sacrifice of many old connexions, and incur no inconsiderable dangers; that great caution would be necessary to escape the fangs of the forensic tribe, and that in voluntarily thrusting his nose into such a nest of hornets, it would be hardly possible to escape being severely stung in retaliation. "_pulchrum est accusari ah accusandis_," said my friend, the bookseller, "who has suffered more by the fashionable world than yourself? have you not dissipated a splendid patrimony in a series of the most liberal entertainments? has not your generous board been graced with the presence of royalty? and the banquet enriched by the attendant stars of nobility, from the duke to the right honorable knight commander. and have you not since felt the most cruel neglect from these your early associates, and much obliged friends, with no crime but poverty, with no reproach but the want of prudence? have you not experienced ingratitude and persecution in every shape that human baseness could find ingenuity to inflict? and can you hesitate to avail yourself of the noble revenge in your power, when it combines the advantages of being morally profitable both to yourself and society? '------------velat materna tempora myrto.' virg. 'when vice the shelter of a mask disdain'd, when folly triumph'd, and a nero reign'd, petronius rose satiric, yet polite, and show'd the glaring monster full in sight; to public mirth exposed the imperial beast, and made his wanton court the common jest.'" with this quotation, delivered with good emphasis, little index bade me good morning, and left me impressed with no mean opinion of his friendship, ~ ~~ and with an increased admiration of his knowledge of the world. but how (thought i) am i to profit by his advice? in what shape shall i commence my eccentric course? a good general at the head of a large army, on the eve of a general battle, with the enemy full in view, feels less embarrassment than a young author finds in marshalling his crude ideas, and placing the raw recruits of the brain in any thing like respectable order. for the title, that is quite a matter of business, and depends more upon the bookseller's opinion of what may be thought attractive than any affinity it may possess to the work itself. dedications are, thanks to the economy of fashion, out of date: great men have long since been laughed into good sense in that particular. a preface (if there be one) should partake something of the spirit of the work; for if it be not brief, lively, and humorous, it is ten to one but your reader falls asleep before he enters upon chapter the first, and when he wakes, fears to renew his application, lest he should be again caught napping. long introductions are like lengthy prayers before meals to hungry men, they are mumbled over with unintelligible rapidity, or altogether omitted, for the more solid gratifications of the stomach, or the enjoyments of the mind. in what fantastic shape and countenance then shall an author appear to obtain general approbation? or in what costume is he most likely to insure success? if he assumes a fierce and haughty front, his readers are perhaps offended with his temerity, and the critics enraged at his assurance. if he affects a modest sneaking posture, and humbly implores their high mightinesses to grant him one poor sprig of laurel, he is treated slightingly, and despised, as a pitiful fellow who wants that essential ingredient in the composition of a man of talent and good breeding, ycleped by the moderns confidence. if he speaks of ~ ~~ the excellence of his subject, he creates doubts both with his readers and reviewers, who will use their endeavours to convince him he has not a correct knowledge of his own abilities. but if, like a well bred man at court, he enters the drawing-room of literature in good taste, neither too mean nor too gaudy, too bold or too formal, makes his bow with the air and finish of a scholar and a gentleman, and passes on to his place, unheedful of remark (because unconscious of offence), he is sure to command respect, if he does not excite admiration. accept then, reader, this colloquial chapter, as the author's apology for a preface, an imaginary short conference, or letter of introduction, which brings you acquainted with the eccentric writer of this volume; and as in all well regulated society a person is expected to give some account of himself before he is placed upon terms of intimacy with the family, you shall in the next page receive a brief sketch of the characteristics of the author. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ a few thoughts on myself. the early biography of a man of genius is seldom, if ever, accurately given to the public eye, unless, indeed, he is one of those _rara avis_ who, with the advantages of great qualifications, inherits high ancestral distinctions. but if, as is generally the case, from obscurity of birth and humble life he rises into notice by the force and exertion of his talents, the associates of his brighter fortunes know but little of the difficulties which have obstructed his progress, or the toils and fatigues he has endured, to arrive at that enviable point from which the temple of fame, and the road to fortune, may be contemplated with some chance of enjoyment and success. unwilling to speak of himself, lest he should incur the charge of vanity or egotism, he modestly trusts to the partial pen of friendship, or the conjectural pen of the commentator, to do justice to events which no quill could relate so well as his own, and which, if impartially and sensibly written, must advance him in the estimation of society, and convince the world that with the mastery of the great secret in his power, he was not more capable of appreciating the characters of the age than familiar with the lights and shadows of his own. "honour and shame from no condition rise; act well your part, there all the honour lies." the reader will, no doubt, anticipate that the name of bernard blackmantle is an assumed quaint cognomen, and perhaps be not less suspicious of the author's right and title to the honorary distinction annexed: ~ ~~ let him beware how he indulges in such chimeras, before he has fully entered into the spirit of the volume before him, lest, on perusal, conviction should compel him to retract the ungracious thought. to be plain, he is not desirous of any higher honorary distinction than the good opinion of his readers. and now, sons and daughters of fashion! ye cameleon race of giddy elves, who flutter on the margin of the whirlpool, or float upon the surface of the silvery stream, and, hurried forwards by the impetus of the current, leave yourselves but little time for reflection, one glance will convince you that you are addressed by an old acquaintance, and, heretofore, constant attendant upon all the gay varieties of life; of this be assured, that, although retired from the fascinating scene, where gay delight her portal open throws to folly's throng, he is no surly misanthrope, or gloomy seceder, whose jaundiced mind, or clouded imagination, is a prey to disappointment, envy, or to care. in retracing the brighter moments of life, the festive scenes of past times, the never to be forgotten pleasures of his halcyon days, when youth, and health, and fortune, blest his lot, he has no tongue for scandal--no pen for malice--no revenge to gratify, but is only desirous of attempting a true portraiture of men and manners, in the higher and more polished scenes of life. if, in the journey through these hitherto unexplored regions of fancy, ought should cross his path that might give pain to worthy bosoms, he would sooner turn aside than be compelled to embody the uncandid thought. "unknowing and unknown, the hardy muse "boldly defies all mean and partial views; "with honest freedom plays the critic's part, "and praises, as she censures, from the heart." and now, having said nearly as much as i think prudent of myself, and considerably more than my ~ ~~ bookseller usually allows by way of prefatory matter, i shall conclude this chapter by informing the reader of some facts, with which i ought to have commenced it, namely--for my parents, it must suffice that my father was a man of talent, my mother accomplished and esteemed, and, what is more to their honour, they were affectionate and kind: peace to their manes! i was very early in life bereft of both; educated at one of the public schools, i was, in due time, sent to matriculate at oxford, where, reader, i propose to commence my eccentric tour. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] a shandean scene, between lady mary oldstyle and horatio heartly. "i know him well," said horatio, with a half-suppressed sigh, as he finished the introductory chapter to the first volume of the english spy, or colloquial sketches of men and manners. "he is no misanthrope," said my aunt, taking off her spectacles to wipe away the pearly drop which meek-eyed pity gave to the recollection of scenes long passed. horatio paused--the book dropped instinctively upon his knee, as his raised eye involuntarily caught the benign aspect of virtue and intelligence, softened by the crystal gems of feeling. "i wish i knew where he lived," said my aunt. "i'll find him out," said horatio;-"do," said my aunt, "and tell him an old friend of his father's, on whom fortune has deigned to smile in the winter of her days, would feign extend to him as much of worldly happiness as can be derived from the enjoyment of worldly treasure." ~ ~~ by that sort of magical attraction which imperceptibly links together the souls of kindred spirits, horatio's chair had made an angular movement, of at least six degrees, in a direction nearer to his venerable relation: no lover ever pressed with more fervency of affection the yielding hand of his soul's deity, than did the grateful nephew, at this moment, clasp within his eager grasp the aged palm of bounteous charity. "i wish he may accept your kind offer," said horatio. "and why should he not?" said my aunt, with a half inclination of extricating her hand, and a penetrating glance of doubt, directed full in the face of the speaker: "i know not," said horatio, (hesitating, as if fearful of giving offence), "but,"-"but what?" said my aunt;-"but i fear his natural love of independence, and eccentricity of mind, will admit of no constraint, which his high sense of honor will anticipate must be partially the case whenever he submits himself to accept the favors of even such generous hearts as yours." "he would feel no such thing," said my aunt. "he could not resist the impression," said horatio; "your liberality would, i know, be calculated to dispossess him of the painful sensation; but if the inherent pride of the man could be subdued, or calmed into acquiescence, by breathing the enchanting air of friendship, the weight of gratitude, the secret monitor of fine-wrought minds, would overpower his tongue, and leave him, in his own estimation, a pauper of the poorest class." "then i'll adopt another mode," said my aunt; "and though i hate the affectation of secret charities, because i think the donor of a generous action is well entitled to his reward, both here and hereafter,--i'll hand out some way, anonymously or otherwise, to indulge my humour of serving him." "you are an angel!" said horatio, with his eyes fixed on the ground--(the spirit of the angel of benevolence,--quoth reason, whispering in his ear, would have been ~ ~~ a better metaphor,--certainly inhabits the aged bosom of your father's sister). horatio's upraised eye rested on the wrinkled front of his antique relative, just as the corrective thought gleamed in visionary brightness o'er his brain; the poetic inspiration of the moment fled like the passing meteor, but the feeling which excited it remained engrafted on his memory for ever. "how shall we find him out, my dear horatio?" said my aunt, her whole countenance animated with delight at the last flattering ejaculation of her nephew-"where shall we seek him?--i'll order the carriage directly." the glow of pleasure and anticipatory gratification, which at this moment beamed in the countenance of the old lady, brought back the circling current of health to the cheeks of age, and, with the blush of honest feeling, dispelled the stains of time; the furrowed streaks of care vanished from her front, and left her whole frame proportionably invigorated. if the mere contemplation of a generous action can thus inspire the young, and give new life to age, what a load of misery and deformity might not the sons and daughters of nature divest themselves of, by following the inherent dictates of benevolence! reflection, whenever he deigned to penetrate the pericranium of my cousin horatio, took entire possession of the citadel, and left him not even the smallest loophole for the observation of any passing event. he was just fixed in one of these abstracted reveries of the mind, traversing over the halcyon scenes of his collegiate days, and re-associating himself with his early friend, the author of the eccentric volume then in his hand, when the above monition sprung from his heart, like the crystal stream that sparkles in the air, when first it bursts through the mineral bondage of the womb of nature. "you are right," said my aunt. horatio started with surprise, almost unconscious of her presence, or ~ ~~ what he had said to deserve her approbation. "true happiness," she continued, "is the offspring of generosity and virtue, and never inhabits a bosom where worldly interest and selfish principles are allowed to predominate. there are many who possess all the requisites for the enjoyment of true happiness, who, from the prejudices of education, or the mistaken pride of ancestry, have never experienced the celestial rapture: they have never been amalgamated with society, are strangers to poverty themselves, and cannot comprehend its operation upon others; born and moving in a sphere where the chilling blasts of indigence never penetrate, or the clouds of adversity appal, they have no conception of the more delightful gratification which springs from the source of all earthly happiness, the pleasure and ability of administering to the wants and comforts of our fellow creatures." "yours is the true philosophy of nature, aunt," said horatio, "where principle and practice may be seen, arm in arm, like the twin sisters, charity and virtue,--a pair of antique curiosities much sought after, but rarely found amid the assemblage of _virtu_ in the collections of your modern people of fashion." "i'll alter my will to-morrow morning," thought my aunt; "this boy deserves to be as rich in acres as he already is in benevolence: he shall have the leicestershire estate added to what i have already bequeathed him, by way of codicil." "you would be delighted with my friend bernard, aunt," said horatio, "that is, when he is in good spirits; but you must not judge of him by the common standard of estimation: if, on the first introduction, he should happen to be in one of those lively humours when his whole countenance is lighted up with the brilliancy of genius, you would be enraptured by the sallies of his wit, and the solidity of his reasoning; but if, on the contrary, he should unfortunately ~ ~~ be in one of those abstracted moods when all terrestrial objects are equally indifferent, you will, i fear, form no very favourable opinion of his merit. he is an eccentric in every respect, and must not be judged of by the acquaintance of an hour. we were boys together at eton, and the associations of youth ripened with maturity into the most sincere friendly attachment, which was materially assisted by the similarity of our dispositions and pursuits, during our residence at college. your kind notice of my poor friend, aunt, has revived the fondest recollections of my life--the joyous scenes of infancy, when the young heart, free from the trammels of the world, and buoyant as the bird of spring, wings along the flowery path of pleasure, plucking at will the sweets of nature, and decking his infant brow with wreaths of fresh gathered wild flowers." horatio paused, not for want of subject, but a train of recollections overpowered his memory, producing an unspeakable sensation, which for a moment choked his utterance. "there is a blank in this work, which you shall fill up," said my aunt; "you must perform the office of an impartial historian for your friend, and before we proceed farther with this volume, give me the history of your school-boy days." [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ school-boy reminiscences. on early friendship. in many a strain of grief and joy my youthful spirit sung to thee; but i am now no more a boy, and there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me. time on my brow has set his seal; i start to find myself a man, and know that i no more shall feel as only boyhood's spirit can. etonian. there is an imperceptible but powerfully connecting link in our early associations and school-boy friendships, which is very difficult to describe, but exceedingly grateful to reflect on; particularly when the retrospective affords a view of early attachments ripened into perfection with maturity, and cementing firmly with increasing years. youth is the period of frankness and of zeal, when the young heart, buoyant with hope and cheering prospects, fills with joy, and expands in all the brightness of fancy's variety. the ambition, lures, and conflicting interests of the world, have as yet made no inroad upon the mind; the bosom is a stranger to misery, the tongue to deceit, the eye glows with all the luxuriance of pleasure, and the whole countenance presents an animated picture of health and intelligence illumined with delight. the playfulness or incaution of youth may demand correction, or produce momentary pain; but the tears of ~ ~~ infancy fall like the summer dew upon the verdant slope, which the first gleam of the returning sun kisses away, and leaves the face of nature tinged with a blush of exquisite brilliancy, but with no trace of the sparkling moisture which lately veiled its beauty. this is the glittering period of life, when the gay perspective of the future seems clothed in every attractive hue, and the objects of this world assume a grace divine: then it is that happiness, borne on the wings of innocence and light-hearted mirth, attends our every step, and seems to wait obedient to our will. what a painful reverse may not the retrospective view afford! how unlike is the finished picture to the inspiring sketch. the one breathing the soft air of nature, and sparkling in brilliant tints of variegated hues, serene, clear, and transparent, like the magic pencilling of the heavenly claude, shedding ambrosial sweets around. the reverse indistinct, and overpowered with gloomy shadows, a mixture of the terrific and the marvellous, like the stormy and convulsive scenes of the mighty genius of salvator rosa, with here and there a flash of wildest eccentricity, that only serves to render more visible the murky deformity of the whole. horatio had just finished his introductory rhapsody, when the door opened, and my aunt's servant entered with tea and toast: the simmering of the water round the heated tube of the urn, tingling in the ears of heartly, broke the thread of his narration. there was a pause of nearly a minute, while john was busy in arranging the equipage. "you should have waited till i had rung, john," said my aunt. "please your ladyship," said john, "you directed me always to bring tea in at six precisely, without waiting for orders." my aunt looked puzzled: "you are right, john, i did; and (addressing horatio) the fault of the interruption must therefore rest with me." horatio bowed; the compliment was too flattering to be ~ ~~ misunderstood. "draw the curtains, john," said my aunt, "and make up the fire: we can help ourselves to what we want--you need not wait; and do not interrupt us again until you are rung for." "this is very mysterious," thought john, as he closed to the drawing-room door; and he related what he thought to my lady's maid, when he returned to the servants' hall. "you are, no conjurer, john," said mrs. margaret, with an oblique inclination of the head, half amorous and half conceited--"the old lady's will has been signed and sealed these three years; i was present when it was made--ay, and i signed it too, and what's more, i knows all its contents; there are some people in the world (viewing herself in an opposite looking-glass) who may be very differently circumstanced some day or other." john's heart had long felt a sort of fluttering inclination to unburthen itself, by linking destinies with the merry mrs. margaret; the prospect of a handsome legacy, or perhaps an annuity, gave an additional spur to john's affectionate feelings, and that night he resolved to put the question. all this mrs. margaret had anticipated, and as she was now on the verge of forty, she very prudently thought there was no time to lose. "they are a pair of oddities," continued the waiting-maid; "i have sometimes surprised them both crying, as if their hearts would break, over a new book: i suppose they have got something very interesting, as my lady calls it and mr. horatio is sermonizing as usual."--mrs margaret was not far wrong in her conjecture, for when my aunt and horatio were again alone, she rallied him on the serious complexion of his style. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ character of bernard blackmantle. by horatio heartly. you shall have it from his own pen, said horatio. in my portfolio, i have preserved certain scraps of bernard's that will best speak his character; prose and poetry, descriptive and colloquial, hudibrastic and pastoral, trifles in every costume of literary fancy, according with the peculiar humour of the author at the time of their inditing, from these you shall judge my eccentric friend better than by any commendation of mine. i shall merely preface these early offerings of his genius with a simple narrative of our school-boy intimacy. i had been about three months at eton, and had grown somewhat familiar with the characters of my associates, and the peculiarities of their phraseology and pursuits, when our dame's party was increased by the arrival of bernard blackmantle. it is usual with the sons of old etona, on the arrival of a fresh subject, to play off a number of school-boy witticisms and practical jokes, which though they may produce a little mortification in the first instance, tend in no small degree to display the qualifications of mind possessed by their new associate, and give him a familiarity with his companions and their customs, which otherwise would take more time, and subject the stranger to much greater inconvenience. bernard underwent all the initiatory school ceremonies and ~ ~~ humiliations with great coolness, but not without some display of that personal courage and true nobleness of mind, which advances the new comer in the estimation of his school-fellows. first impressions are almost always indelible: there was a frankness and sincerity in his manner, and an archness and vivacity in his countenance and conversation, that imperceptibly attached me to the young stranger. we were soon the most inseparable cons,{ } the depositors of each other's youthful secrets, and the mutual participators in every passing sport and pleasure. naturally cheerful, bernard became highly popular with our miniature world; there was however one subject which, whenever it was incautiously started by his companions, always excited a flood of tears, and for a time spread a gloomy abstraction over his mind. bernard had from his very infancy been launched into the ocean of life without a knowledge of his admiral{ } but not without experiencing all that a mother's fondness could supply: when others recapitulated the enjoyments of their paternal home, and painted with all the glow of youthful ardour the anticipated pleasures of the holidays, the tear would trickle down his crimsoned cheek; and quickly stealing away to some sequestered spot, his throbbing bosom was relieved by many a flood of woe. that some protecting spirit watched over his actions, and directed his course, he was well assured, but as yet he had never been able to comprehend the mystery with which he was surrounded. his questions on this point to his mother it was evident gave her pain, and were always met by some evasive answer. he had been early taught to keep his own secret, but the prying curiosity of an eton school-boy was not easily satisfied, and too often rendered the task one of great pain and difficulty. on these occasions i would seek friends. the eton phrase for father. ~ ~~ him out, and as the subject was one of too tender a nature for the tongue of friendship to dwell upon, endeavour to divert his thoughts by engaging him in some enlivening sport. his amiable manners and generous heart had endeared him to all, and in a short time his delicate feelings were respected, and the slightest allusion to ambiguity of birth cautiously avoided by all his associates, who, whatever might be their suspicions, thought his brilliant qualifications more than compensated for any want of ancestral distinction. the following portrait of my friend is from the pen of our elegant con, horace eglantine. a portrait. a heart fill'd with friendship and love, a brain free from passion's excess, a mind a mean action above, a hand to relieve keen distress. poverty smiled on his birth, and gave what all riches exceeds, wit, honesty, wisdom, and worth; a soul to effect noble needs. legitimates bow at his shrine; unfetter'd he sprung into life; when vigour with love doth combine to free nature from priestcraft and strife. no ancient escutcheon he claim'd, crimson'd with rapine and blood; he titles and baubles disdain'd, yet his pedigree traced from the flood. ennobled by all that is bright in the wreath of terrestrial fame, genius her pure ray of light spreads a halo to circle his name. the main-spring of all his actions was a social disposition, which embraced a most comprehensive view ~ ~~ of the duties of good fellowship. he was equally popular with all parties, by never declaring for any particular one: with the cricketers he was accounted a hard swipe{ } an active field{ } and a stout bowler;{ } in a water party he was a stroke{ } of the ten oar; at foot-ball, in the playing fields, or a leap across chalvey ditch, he was not thought small beer{ } of; and he has been known to have bagged three sparrows after a toodle{ } of three miles. his equals loved him for his social qualities, and courted his acquaintance as the _sine qua non_ of society; and the younger members of the school looked up to him for protection and assistance. if power was abused by the upper boys, bernard was appealed to as the mediator between the fag{ } and his master. his grants of liberties{ } to the commonalty were indiscriminate and profuse, while his influence was always exerted to obtain the same privileges for his numerous proteges from the more close aristocrats.{ } he was always to be seen attended by a shoal of dependents of every form in the school, some to get their lessons construed, and others to further claims to their respective stations in a good bat-man. to run well, or keep a good look out. strong and expert. a first rate waterman. not thought meanly of. sometimes this phrase is used in derision, as, he does not think small beer of himself. a walk. any sixth or fifth form boy can fag an oppidan underling: the collegers are exempted from this custom. the liberties, or college bounds, are marked by stones placed in different situations; grants of liberties are licences given by the head boys to the juniors to break bounds, or rather to except them from the disagreeable necessity of shirking, (i. e.) hiding from fear of being reported to the masters. to that interesting original miscellany, the 'etonian,' i am indebted for several valuable hints relative to early scenes. the characters are all drawn from observation, with here and there a slight deviation, or heightening touch, the rather to disguise and free them from aught of personal offence, than any intentional departure from truth and nature. ~ ~~ the next cricket match or water expedition. the duck and green pea suppers at surley hall would have lost half their relish without the enlivening smiles and smart repartees of bernard blackmantle. the preparations for the glorious fourth of june were always submitted to his superior skill and direction. his fiat could decide the claims of the rival boats, in their choice of jackets, hats, and favors; and the judicious arrangement of the fire-works was another proof of his taste. let it not, however, be thought that his other avocations so entirely monopolized him as to preclude a due attention to study. had it been so, his success with the [greek phrase] would never have been so complete: his desire to be able to confer obligations on his schoolfellows induced bernard to husband carefully every hour which he spent at home; a decent scholarship, and much general knowledge, was the reward of this plan. the treasure-house of his memory was well stored, and his reputation as an orator gave promise of future excellence. his classical attainments, if not florid, were liberal, and free from pedantry. his proficiency in english literature was universally acknowledged, and his love of the poets amounted to enthusiasm. he was formed for all the bustle of variegated life, and his conversation was crystallized with the sparkling attractions of wit and humour. subject to the weakness to which genius is ever liable, he was both eccentric and wayward, but he had the good sense to guard his failing from general observation; and although he often shot his arrows anonymously, he never dipt them in the gall of prejudice or ill-nature. i have dwelt upon his character with pleasure, because there are very few who know him intimately. with a happy versatility of talents, he is neither lonesome in his solitude, nor over joyous in a crowd. for his literary attainments, they must be judged of by their fruits. i cannot better conclude my attempt ~ ~~ to describe his qualifications than by offering his first essay to your notice, a school-boy tribute to friendship. true friendship. 'infido scurræ distabit amicus.' horace. how very seldom do we find a relish in the human mind for friendship pure and real; how few its approbation seek, how oft we count its censures weak, disguising what we feel. adulation lives to please, truth dies the victim of disease, forgotten by the world: the flattery of the fool delights the wise, rebuke our pride affrights, and virtue's banner's furl'd. wherefore do we censure fate, when she withholds the perfect state of friendship from our grasp, if we ourselves have not the power, the mind to enjoy the blessed hour, the fleeting treasure clasp? this (i have reason to believe his first poetical essay) was presented me on my birthday, when we had been about two years together at eton: a short time afterwards i surprised him one morning writing in his bedroom; my curiosity was not a little excited by the celerity with which i observed he endeavoured to conceal his papers. "i must see what you are about, bernard," said i. "treason, horatio," replied the young author. "would you wish to be implicated, or become a confederate? if so, take the oath of secrecy, and read." judge of my surprise, when, on casting my eye over his lucubrations, i perceived he had been sketching the portraits of the group, with ~ ~~ whom we were in daily association at our dame's. as i perceive by a glance at his work that most of his early friends have parts assigned them in his colloquial scenes, i consider the preservation of this trifle important, as it will furnish a key to the characters. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ eton sketches of character. '----i'll paint for grown up people's knowledge, the manners, customs, and affairs of college.' portraits in my dame's dining-room. at the head of the large table on the right hand you will perceive the honourable lilyman lionise, the second son of a nobleman, whose ancient patrimony has been nearly dissipated between his evening parties at the club-houses, in french hazard, or rouge et noir, and his morning speculations with his betting book at tattersall's, newmarket, or the fives-court; whose industry in getting into debt is only exceeded by his indifference about getting out; whose acquired property (during his minority) and personals have long since been knocked down by the hammer of the auctioneer, under direction of the sheriff, to pay off some gambling bond in preference to his honest creditor; yet who still flourishes a fashionable gem of the first water, and condescends to lend the lustre of ~ ~~ his name, when he has nothing else to lend, that he may secure the advantage of a real loan in return. his patrimonial acres and heirlooms remain indeed untouched, because the court of chancery have deemed it necessary to appoint a receiver to secure their faithful transmission to the next heir. the son has imbibed a smattering of all the bad qualities of his sire, without possessing one ray of the brilliant qualifications for which he is distinguished. proud without property, and sarcastic without being witty, ill temper he mistakes for superior carriage, and haughtiness for dignity: his study is his toilet, and his mind, like his face, is a vacuity neither sensible, intelligent, nor agreeable. he has few associates, for few will accept him for a companion. with his superiors in rank, his precedent honorary distinction yields him no consideration; with his equals, it places him upon too familiar a footing; while with his inferiors, it renders him tyrannical and unbearable. his mornings, between school hours, are spent in frequent change of dress, and his afternoons in a lounge à la bond-street, annoying the modest females and tradesmen's daughters of eton; his evenings (after absence{ } is called) at home, in solitary dissipation over his box of liqueurs, or in making others uncomfortable by his rudeness and overbearing dictation. he is disliked by the dame, detested by the servants, and shunned by his schoolfellows, and yet he is our captain, a _sextile, a roue_, and above all, an honourable. tom echo. a little to the left of the exquisite, you may perceive tom's merry countenance shedding good-humour around him. he is the only one who can _absence_ is called several times in the course of the day, to prevent the boys straying away to any great distance from the college, and at night to secure them in quarters at the dames' houses: if a boy neglects to answer to his name, or is too late for the call, inquiry is immediately made at his dame's, and a very satisfactory apology must be offered to prevent punishment. manage the _sextile_ with effect: tom is always ready with a tart reply to his sarcasm, or a _cut_ at his consequence. tom is the eldest son of one of the most respectable whig families in the kingdom, whose ancestors have frequently refused a peerage, from an inherent democratical but constitutional jealousy of the crown. independence and tom were nursery friends, and his generous, noble-hearted conduct renders him an universal favorite with the school. then, after holidays, tom always returns with such a rich collection of fox-hunting stories and sporting anecdotes, and gives sock{ } so graciously, that he is the very life of dame ------'s party. there is to be sure one drawback to tom's good qualities, but it is the natural attendant upon a high flow of animal spirits: if any mischief is on foot, tom is certain to be concerned, and ten to one but he is the chief contriver: to be seen in his company, either a short time previous to, or quickly afterwards, although perfectly innocent, is sure to create a suspicion of guilt with the masters, which not unusually involves his companions in trouble, and sometimes in unmerited punishment. tom's philosophy is to live well, study little, drink hard, and laugh immoderately. he is not deficient in sense, but he wants application and excitement: he has been taught from infancy to feel himself perfectly independent of the world, and at home every where: nature has implanted in his bosom the characteristic benevolence of his ancestry, and he stands among us a being whom every one loves and admires, without any very distinguishing trait of learning, wit, or superior qualification, to command the respect he excites. if any one tells a good story or makes a laughable pun, tom retails it for a week, and all the school have the advantage of hearing and enjoying it. any proposition for a boat party, cricketing, or a toodle into windsor, or along the banks of the thames good cheer; any nicety, as pastry, &c. ~ ~~ on a sporting excursion, is sure to meet a willing response from him. he is second to none in a charitable subscription for a poor _cad_, or the widow of a drowned _bargee_; his heart ever reverberates the echo of pleasure, and his tongue only falters to the echo of deceit. horace eglantine is placed just opposite to lily man lionise, a calm-looking head, with blue eyes and brown hair, which flows in ringlets of curls over his shoulders. horace is the son of a city banker, by the second daughter of an english earl, a young gentleman of considerable expectations, and very amusing qualifications. horace is a strange composition of all the good-natured whimsicalities of human nature, happily blended together without any very conspicuous counteracting foible. facetious, lively, and poetical, the cream of every thing that is agreeable, society cannot be dull if horace lends his presence. his imitations of anacreon, and the soft bard of erin, have on many occasions puzzled the cognoscenti of eton. like moore too, he both composes and performs his own songs. the following little specimen of his powers will record one of those pleasant impositions with which he sometimes enlivens a winter's evening: to eliza. oh think not the smile and the glow of delight, with youth's rosy hue, shall for ever be seen: frosty age will o'ercloud, with his mantle of night, the brightest and fairest of nature's gay scene. or think while you trip, like some aerial sprite, to pleasure's soft notes on the dew-spangled mead, that the rose of thy cheek, or thine eyes' starry light, shall sink into earth, and thy spirit be freed. then round the gay circle we'll frolic awhile, and the light of young love shall the fleet hour bless while the pure rays of friendship our eve-tide beguile, above fortune's frowns and the chills of distress ~ ~~ the most provoking punster and poet that ever turned the serious and sentimental into broad humour. every quaint remark affords a pun or an epigram, and every serious sentence gives birth to some merry couplet. such is the facility with which he strings together puns and rhyme, that in the course of half an hour he has been known to wager, and win it--that he made a couplet and a pun on every one present, to the number of fifty. nothing annoys the exquisite _sextile_ so much as this tormenting talent of horace; he is always shirking him, and yet continually falling in his way. for some time, while horace was in the fourth form, these little _jeu-d'esprits_ were circulated privately, and smuggled up in half suppressed laughs; but being now high on the fifth, horace is no longer in fear of _fagging_, and therefore gives free license to his tongue in many a witty jest, which "sets the table in a roar." dick gradus. in a snug corner, at a side table, observe that shrewd-looking little fellow poring over his book; his features seem represented by acute angles, and his head, which appears too heavy for his body, represents all the thoughtfulness of age, like an ancient fragment of phidias or praxiteles placed upon new shoulders by some modern bust carver. dick is the son of an eminent solicitor in a borough town, who has raised himself into wealth and consequence by a strict attention to the principles of interest: sharp practice, heavy mortgages, loans on annuity, and post obits, have strengthened his list of possessions till his influence is extended over half the county. the proprietor of the borough, a good humoured sporting extravagant, has been compelled to yield his influence in st. stephen's to old gradus, that he may preserve his character at newmarket, and continue his pack and fox-hunting festivities at home. the representation of the place is now disposed of to the best bidder, but the ambition of the father has long since determined upon sending his son (when of age) ~ ~~ into parliament--a promising candidate for the "loaves and fishes." richard gradus, m.p.--you may almost perceive the senatorial honor stamped upon the brow of the young aspirant; he has been early initiated into the value of time and money; his lessons of thrift have been practically illustrated by watching the operations of the law in his father's office; his application to learning is not the result of an innate love of literature, or the ambition of excelling his compeers, but a cold, stiff, and formal desire to collect together materials for the storehouse of his memory, that will enable him to pursue his interested views and future operations on society with every prospect of success. genius has no participation in his studies: his knowledge of greek and latin is grammatical and pedantic; he reads livy, tacitus, sallust, cæsar, xenophon, thucydides, in their original language; boasts of his learning with a haughty mien and scornful look of self-importance, and thinks this school-boy exercise of memory, this mechanism of the mind, is to determine the line between genius and stupidity; and has never taken into consideration that the mere linguist, destitute of native powers, with his absurd parade of scholastic knowledge, is a solitary barren plant, when opposed to the higher occupations of the mind, to the flights of fancy, the daring combinations of genius, and the sublime pictures of imagination. dick is an isolated being, a book-worm, who never embarks in any party of pleasure, from the fear of expense; he has no talents for general conversation, while his ridiculous affectation of learning subjects him to a constant and annoying fire from the batteries of etonian wit. still, however, dick perseveres in his course, till his blanched cheeks and cadaverous aspect, from close study and want of proper exercise, proclaim the loss of health, and the probable establishment of some pulmonary affection that may, before he scarcely reaches maturity, blight the ambitious hopes of his father, and consign ~ ~~ the son "to that bourne from whence no traveller returns." horatio heartly. at the lower end of the room, observe a serene-looking head displaying all the quiet character of a youthful portrait by the divine raphael, joined to the inspiring sensibility which flashes from the almost breathing countenance and penetrating brilliancy of eye, that distinguishes a guido. that is my bosom friend, my more than brother, my mentor and my guide. horatio is an orphan, the son of a general officer, whose crimsoned stream of life was dried up by an eastern sun, while he was yet a lisping infant. his mother, lovely, young, and rich in conjugal attachment, fell a blighted corse in early widowhood, and left horatio, an unprotected bud of virtuous love, to the fostering care of lady mary oldstyle, a widowed sister of the general's, not less rich in worldly wealth than in true benevolence of heart, and the celestial glow of pure affection. heartly is a happy combination of all the good-humoured particles of human nature blended together, with sense, feeling, and judgment. learned without affectation, and liberal without being profuse, he has found out the secret of attaching all the school to himself, without exciting any sensation of envy, or supplanting prior friendships. horatio is among the alumni of eton the king of good fellows: there is not a boy in the school, colleger, or oppidan, but what would fight a long hour to defend him from insult; no--nor a sparkling eye among the enchanting daughters of old _etona_ that does not twinkle with pleasure at the elegant congée, and amiable attentions, which he always pays at the shrine of female accomplishment. generous to a fault, his purse--which the bounty of his aunt keeps well supplied--is a public bank, _pro bono publico_. his parties to _sock_ are always distinguished by an excellent selection, good taste, and superior style. in all the varied school sports and pastimes, his manly form and vigorous constitution gain him a superior ~ ~~ station among his compeers, which his cheerful disposition enables him to turn to general advantage. nor is he in less estimation with the masters, who are loud in their praises of his assiduity and proficiency in school pursuits. horatio is not exactly a genius: there is nothing of that wild eccentricity of thought and action which betokens the vivid flights of imagination, or the meteoric brightness of inspiration; his actions are distinguished by coolness, intrepidity, and good sense. he does not pretend to second sight, or a knowledge of futurity; but on the present and the past there are few who can reason with more cogency of remark, or with more classic elegance of diction: with such a concentration of qualities, it is not wonderful that his influence extends through every gradation of the juvenile band. his particular attachments are not numerous; but those who have experienced the sincerity of his private friendship must always remain his debtor--from deficiency of expression; among the most obliged of whom is--the author. bob transit. bob has no fixed situation; therefore it would be in vain to attempt to say where he may be found: sometimes he is placed next to bernard, and between him and heartly, with whom he generally associates; at other times he takes his situation at the side table, or fills up a spare corner opposite to dick gradus, or the exquisite, either of whom he annoys, during dinner, by sketching their portraits in caricature upon the cover of his latin grammar, with their mouths crammed full of victuals, or in the act of swallowing hot pudding: nor does the dame sometimes escape him; the whole table have frequently been convulsed with laughter at bob's comic representation of miss --------'s devout phiz, as exhibited during the preparatory ceremony of a dinner grace: the soul of whim, and source of fun and frolic, bob is no mean auxiliary to a merry party, or the exhilarating pleasure of a broad grin. ~ ~~ bob's _admiral_ is an r.a. of very high repute; who, having surmounted all the difficulties of obscure origin and limited education, by the brilliancy of his talents, has determined to give his son the advantage of early instruction and liberal information, as a prelude to his advancement in the arts. talent is not often hereditary (or at least in succession); but the facility of transit's pencil is astonishing: with the rapidity of a fuseli he sketches the human figure in all its various attitudes, and produces in his hasty drawings so much force of effect and truth of character, that the subject can never be mistaken. his humour is irresistible, and is strongly characterized by all the eccentricity and wit of a gilhay, turning the most trifling incidents into laughable burlesque. between him and horace eglantine there exists a sort of copartnership in the sister arts of poetry and painting: horace rhymes, and bob illustrates; and very few in the school of any note have at one time or other escaped this combination of epigram and caricature. bob has an eye to real life, and is formed for all the bustle of the varied scene. facetious, witty, and quaint, with all the singularity of genius in his composition, these juvenile _jeux d'esprits_ of his pencil may be regarded as the rays of promise, which streak with golden tints the blushing horizon of the morn of youth. as bob is not over studious, or attached to the latin and greek languages, he generally manages to get any difficult lesson construed by an agreement with some more learned and assiduous associate; the _quid pro quo_ on these occasions being always punctually paid on his part by a humorous sketch of the head master calling first absence, taken from a snug, oblique view in the school-yard, or a burlesque on some of the fellows or inhabitants of eton. in this way bob contrives to pass school muster, although these specimens of talent have, on more than one occasion, brought him to the block. it must however ~ ~~ be admitted, that in all these flights of fancy his pencil is never disgraced by any malignancy of motive, or the slightest exhibition of personal spleen. good humour is his motto; pleasure his pursuit: and if he should not prove a porson or an elmsley, he gives every promise of being equally eminent with a bunbury, gillray, or a rowlandson. varied groups are disposed around the room, and make up the back ground of my picture. many of these are yet too young to particularize, and others have nothing sufficiently characteristic to deserve it; some who have not yet committed their first fault, and many who are continually in error; others who pursue the straight beaten track to scholastic knowledge, and trudge on like learned dromedaries. two or three there are who follow in no sphere-eccentric stars, shooting from space to space; some few mischievous wags, who delight in a good joke, and will run the risk of punishment at any time to enjoy it; with here and there a little twinkling gem, like twilight planets, just emerging from the misty veil of nature. these form my dame's dinner party. reader, do not judge them harshly from this hasty sketch: take into your consideration their youth and inexperience; and if they do not improve upon acquaintance, and increase in estimation with their years, the fault must in justice rather be attributed to the author than to any deficiency in their respective merits. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ the five principal orders of eton, doctor, dame, colleger, oppidan, and cad. a sketch taken opposite the long walk. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] eton dames*; an ode, neither amatory, ill-natured, nor pathetic. let oxford beaux, to am'rous belles, love's warm epistles write; or cambridge youths, in classic dells, invoke the shadowy night. * the above _jeu-d'esprit_ made its appearance on one of those joyous occasions, when the sons of old etona return from oxford and cambridge, filled with filial regard for early scenes and school-boy friendships, to commemorate a college election. it was, at the time, purposely attributed to some of these waggish visitors, a sort of privileged race, who never fail of indulging in numerous good-humoured freaks with the inhabitants of eton, to show off to the rising generation the pleasantries, whims, and improvements of a college life. the subject is one of great delicacy, but it will, i hope, be admitted by the merry dames themselves, that my friend bernard has in this, as in every other instance, endeavoured to preserve the strongest traits of truth and character, without indulging in offensive satire, or departing from propriety and decorum.--horatio heartly. ~ ~~ let cockney poets boast their flames, of ' vicked cupit' patter: be mine a verse on eton dames-- a more substantial matter. i care not if the graces three have here withheld perfection: brown, black, or fair, the same to me,-- e'en age is no objection. a pleasing squint, or but one eye, will do as well as any; a mouth between a laugh and cry, or wrinkled, as my granny. a hobbling gait, or a wooden leg, or locks of silvery gray; or name her madge, or poll, or peg, she still shall have my lay. perfection centres in the mind, the gen'rous must acknowledge: then, muse, be candid, just, and kind, to dames of eton college.* * the independent students, commonly called _oppidans_, are very numerous: they are boarded at private houses in the environs of the college; the presiding masters and mistresses of which have from time immemorial enjoyed the title of _domine_ and _dame_: the average number of _oppidans_ is from three hundred to three hundred and fifty. five principal orders of eton ~ ~~ proem. said truth to the muse, as they wander'd along, "prithee, muse, spur your pegasus into a song; let the subject be lively,--how like you the belles?" said the muse, "he's no sportsman that kisses and tells. but in females delighting, suppose we stop here, and do you bid the dames of old eton appear; in your mirror their merits, with candour, survey, and i'll sing their worth in my very best lay." no sooner 'twas said, than agreed:--it was done, wing'd mercury summon'd them every one. miss a***lo. first, deck'd in the height of the fashion, a belle, an angel, ere chronos had tipt her with snow, advanced to the goddess, and said, "you may tell, that in eton, there's no better table, you know;" and by truth 'twas admitted, "her generous board is rich, in whatever the seasons afford." the miss t*****s. of ancients, a pair next presented themselves, when in popp'd some waggish oxonian elves, who spoke of times past, of short commons, and cheese, and told tales, which did much the old ladies displease. "good morning," said truth, as the dames pass'd him by: young stomachs, if stinted, are sure to outcry. mrs. r******u. on her _domine_ leaning came dame b******u, the oldest in college, deck'd in rich furbelow. ~ ~~ she curtsied around to the _oppidan_ band, but not one said a word, and but few gave a hand. truth whisper'd the muse,, who, as sly, shook her head, saying, "where little's told, 'tis soon mended, it's said." mrs. g******e. when s******e appear'd, what a shout rent the air! the spruce widow affords the most excellent cheer; for comfort in quarters there's nothing can beat her, so up rose the lads with a welcome to greet her: the muse with true gallantry led her to place, and truth said good humour was writ in her face. mrs. d****n. with a face (once divine), and a figure still smart, and a grace that defies even time's fatal dart, dame d****n advanced, made her curtsy, and smiled: truth welcomed the fair, the grave, witty, and wild; all, all gave their votes, and some said they knew that her numbers by no measure equall'd her due. miss s******s. "by my hopes," said the muse, "here's a rare jolly pair, a right merry frontispiece, comely and fair, to good living and quarters." "you're right," nodded truth. a welcome approval was mark'd in each youth. and 'twas no little praise among numbers like theirs, to meet a unanimous welcome up stairs. miss l******d. lavater, though sometimes in error, you'll find may be here quoted safely; the face tells the mind. good humour and happiness live in her eye. her motto's contentment you'll easily spy. five principal orders of eton ~ ~~ a chair for miss l******d truth placed near the muse; for beauty to rhyme can fresh spirit infuse. mrs. v******y. v******y, in weeds led and angel along, accomplish'd and pretty, who blush'd at the throng. the old dame seem'd to say, and i'faith she might well, "sons of eton, when saw you a handsomer belle?" if any intended the widow to sneer, miss a------won their favor, and banish'd the jeer. three sisters, famed for various parts, one clerks, and one makes savoury tarts; while t'other, bless her dinner face, cuts up the viands with a grace, advanced, and met a cheerful greeting from all who glorify good eating. mrs. w. h****r. with a smile, _à la confident_, came mrs. h, whose domine writing to eton's sons teach: in college, the handiest man you can find for improvements of all sorts, both building and mind: he seem'd on good terms with himself, but the muse said, "the dame claim'd a welcome which none could refuse." dame a****s. dame a****s, respected by all, made her way through the throng that assembled at eton that day. old chronos had wrinkled her forehead, 'tis true; yet her countenance beam'd in a rich, mellow hue of good humour and worth; 'twas a pleasure to mark how the dame was applauded by each eton spark. ~ ~~ miss b*******k. long and loud were the plaudits the lady to cheer, whom the doctor had treated somewhat cavalier: "too young," said the ancient, "the proverb is trite; age and wisdom, good doctor, not always unite." "for prudence and worth," said truth, "i'll be bound she may challenge the dames of old eton around." a crowd pressing forward, the day growing late, truth whisper'd the muse, "we had better retreat; for though 'mong the dames we are free from disasters, i know not how well we may fare with the masters. there's carter, and yonge, knapp, green, and dupuis,* all coming this way with their ladies, i see. our visit, you know, was alone to the belles; the masters may sing, if they please, of themselves. truth mounted a cloud, and the poet his nag, and these whims sent next day by the post-office bag. * lower, and assistant masters, who keep boarding-houses. until lately this practice was not permitted; but it must be confessed that it is a salutary arrangement, as it not only tends to keep the youth in a better state of subjection, but in many instances is calculated to increase their progress in study, by enabling them to receive private instruction. [illustration: page [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ election saturday. a peep at the long chambers--the banquet--reflections on parting--arrival of the provost of king's college, cambridge, and the pozers--the captain's oration--busy monday--the oppidan's farewell--examination and election of the collegers who stand for king's--the aquatic gala and fireworks--oxonian visitors--night--rambles in eton-- transformations of signs and names--the feast at the christopher, with a view of the oppidan's museum, and eton court of claims. now from the schools pour forth a num'rous train, light-hearted, buoyant as the summer breeze, to deck thy bosom, eton: now each face anticipation brightens with delight, while many a fancied bliss floats gaily o'er the ardent mind, chaste as the nautilus, spreading her pearly spangles to the sun: the joyous welcome of parental love, the heart-inspiring kiss a sister yields, a brother's greeting, and the cheering smiles of relatives and friends, and aged domestics, time-honor'd for their probity and zeal, whose silvery locks recall to mem'ry's view some playful scene of earliest childhood, when frolic, mirth, and gambol led the way, ere reason gave sobriety of thought.- now bear the busy _cads_ the new-lopt bough of beech-tree to the dormitories, while active collegers the foliage raise against the chamber walls. a classic grove springs as by magic art, cool and refreshing, a luxury by nature's self supply'd, delicious shelter from the dog-star's ray. in thought profound the studious _sextile_ mark in learned converse with some ancient sage, whose aid he seeks to meet the dread provost. the captain fearless seeks the ancient stand, where old etona's sons, beneath time's altar-piece,* have immemorial welcomed _granta's_ chief. in college-hall the merry cook prepares the choicest viands for the master's banquet: a graceful, healthy throng surround the board, and temp'rance, love, and harmony, prevail. now busy dames are in high bustle caught, preparing for each oppidan's departure; and servants, like wing'd mercury, must fly o'er windsor bridge to hail the london coach. adieus on ev'ry side, farewell, farewell, rings in each passing ear; yet, nor regret nor sorrow marks the face, but all elate with cheerful tongue and brighten'd eye, unite to hail with joy etona's holiday. now comes the trial of who stands for king's, examinations difficult and deep the provost and his pozers to o'ercome. to this succeeds the grand aquatic gala, a spectacle of most imposing import, where, robed in every costume of the world, the gay youth direct the glittering prow; a fleet of well-trimm'd barks upon the bosom of old father thames, glide on to pleasure's note: ~ ~~ the expert victors are received with cheers, and the dark canopy of night's illumin'd with a grand display of brilliant fires. * shortly after the arrival of the provost, he proceeds through the cloisters, where he is met by the captain, or head boy of the school, who speaks a long latin oration before him, standing under the clock. to an old etonian the last week in july brings with it recollections of delight that time and circumstances can never wholly efface. if, beneath the broad umbrage of the refreshing grove, he seeks relief from care and sultry heat, memory recalls to his imagination the scenes of his boyhood, the ever pleasing recollections of infancy, when he reclined upon the flowery bosom of old father thames, or sought amusement in the healthful exercise of bathing, or calmly listened to the murmuring ripple of the waters, or joined the merry group in gently plying of the splashing oar. with what eager delight are these reminiscences of youth dwelt on! with what mingled sensations of hope, fear, and regret, do we revert to the happy period of life when, like the favorite flower of the month, our minds and actions rivalled the lily in her purity! who, that has ever tasted of the inspiring delight which springs from associations of scholastic friendships and amusements, but would eagerly quit the bustle of the great world to indulge in the enjoyment of the pure and unalloyed felicity which is yet to be found among the alumni of eton?--election saturday--the very sound reverberates the echo of pleasure, and in a moment places me (in imagination) in the centre of the long chambers of eton, walking beneath the grateful foliage of the beech-tree, with which those dormitories are always decorated previous to election saturday. i can almost fancy that i hear the rattle of the carriage wheels, and see the four horses smoking beneath the lodge-window of eton college, that conveys the provost of king's to attend examination and election. then too i can figure the classic band who wait to ~ ~~ receive him; the dignified little doctor leading the way, followed by the steady, calm-visaged lower master, carter; then comes benedict yonge, and after him a space intervenes, where one should have been of rare qualities, but he is absent; then follows good-humoured heath, and knapp, who loves the rattle of a coach, and pleasant, clever hawtry, and careful okes, and that shrewd sapper, green, followed by medium dupuis, and the intelligent chapman: these form his classic escort to the cloisters. but who shall paint the captain's envied feelings, the proud triumph of his assiduity and skill? to him the honourable office of public orator is assigned; with modest reverence he speaks the latin oration, standing, as is the custom from time immemorial, under the clock. there too he receives the bright reward, the approbation of the provost of king's college, and the procession moves forward to the college-hall to partake of the generous banquet. on sunday the provost of king's remains a guest with his compeer of eton. but busy monday arrives, and hundreds of oxonians and cantabs pour in to witness the speeches of the boys, and pay a tribute of respect to their former masters. the exhibition this day takes place in the upper school, and consists of sixth form oppidans and collegers. how well can i remember the animated picture eton presents on such occasions: shoals of juvenile oppidans, who are not yet of an age to have been elected of any particular school-party, marching forth from their dames' houses, linked arm in arm, parading down the street with an air and gaiety that implies some newly acquired consequence, or liberty of conduct. every where a holiday face presents itself, and good humour lisps upon every tongue. here may be seen a youthful group, all anxiety and bustle, trudging after some well-known _cad_, who creeps along towards the windsor coach-office, loaded with portmanteaus, carpet bags, and ~ ~~ boxes, like a norfolk caravan at christmas time; while the youthful proprietors of the bulky stock, all anxiety and desire to reach their relatives and friends, are hurrying him on, and do not fail to spur the _elephant_ with many a cutting gibe, at his slow progression. within doors the dames are all bustle, collecting, arranging, and packing up the wardrobes of their respective boarders; servants flying from the hall to the attic, and endangering their necks in their passage down again, from anxiety to meet the breathless impetuosity of their parting guests. books of all classes, huddled into a heap, may be seen in the corner of each bedroom, making _sock_ for the mice till the return of their purveyors with lots of plum-cake and savoury tarts. the more mature are now busily engaged in settling the fashion of their costume for the approaching gala; in receiving a visit from an elder brother, or a young oxonian, formerly of eton, who has arrived post to take _sock_ with him, and enjoy the approaching festivities. here a venerable domestic, whose silver locks are the truest emblem of his trusty services, arrives with the favorite pony to convey home the infant heir and hope of some noble house. now is garraway as lively as my lord mayor's steward at a guildhall feast-day; and the active note of preparation for the good things of this world rings through the oaken chambers of the christopher. not even the _sanctum sanctorum_ is forgotten, where, in times long past, i have quaffed my jug of bulstrode, "in cool grot," removed from the scorching heat of a july day, and enjoyed many a good joke, secure from the prying observations of the _domine_. one, and one only, class of persons wear a sorrowful face upon these joyous occasions, and these are the confectioners and fruitresses of eton; with them, election saturday and busy monday are like the herald to a jewish black fast, or a stock exchange holiday: they may as well _sport their oaks_ (to use an oxford phrase) till the ~ ~~ return of the oppidans to school, for they seldom see the colour of a customer's cash till the, to them, happy period arrives. on the succeeding days the examinations of the collegers proceed regularly; then follows the election of new candidates, and the severe trial of those who stand for king's. these scholastic arrangements generally conclude on the wednesday night, or thursday morning, and then pleasure mounts her variegated car, and drives wherever fancy may direct. formerly i find seven or eight scholars went to king's;{*} but in consequence of the fellows of eton holding pluralities, the means are impoverished, and the number consequently reduced to two or three: this is the more to be regretted, on account of the very severe and irrecoverable disappointment the scholars experience in losing their election, merely on account of age; as at nineteen they are superannuated, and cannot afterwards receive any essential benefit from the college. not the blue waves of the engia, covered with the gay feluccas of the greeks, and spreading their glittering streamers in the sun; nor the more lovely * this noble seminary of learning was founded by hen. vi. in . its establishment was then on a limited scale; it has long since been enlarged, and now consists of a provost, vice-provost, six fellows, two schoolmasters, with their assistants, seventy scholars, seven clerks, and ten choristers, besides various inferior officers and servants. the annual election of scholars to king's college, cambridge, takes place about the end of july, or the beginning of august, when the twelve senior scholars are put on the roll to succeed, but they are not removed till vacancies occur; the average number of which is about nine in two years. at nineteen years of age the scholars are superannuated. eton sends, also, two scholars to merton college, oxford, where they are denominated post-masters, and has likewise a few exhibitions of twenty-one guineas each for its superannuated scholars. the scholars elected to king's succeed to fellowships at three years' standing. ~ ~~ adriatic, swelling her translucent bosom to the gentle motion of the gondolier, and bearing on her surface the splendid cars and magnificent pageant of the doge of venice, marrying her waters to the sea, can to an english bosom yield half the delight the grand aquatic eton gala affords; where, decked in every costume fancy can devise, may be seen the noble youth of britain, her rising statesmen, warriors, and judges, the future guardians of her liberties, wealth, and commerce, all vying with each other in loyal devotion to celebrate the sovereign's natal day.{*} then doth thy silvery bosom, father thames, present a spectacle truly delightful; a transparent mirror, studded with gems and stars and splendid pageantry, reflecting a thousand brilliant variegated hues; while, upon thy flowery margin, the loveliest daughters of the land press the green velvet of luxuriant nature, outrivalling in charms of colour, form, and beauty, the rose, the lily, and the graceful pine. there too may be seen the accomplished and the gay youth labouring for pleasure at the healthful oar, while with experienced skill the expert helmsman directs through all thy fragrant windings the trim bark to victory. the race determined, the bright star of eve, outrivalled by the pyrotechnic _artiste_, hides his diminished head. now sallies forth the gay oxonian from the christopher, ripe with the rare falernian of mine host, to have his frolic gambol with old friends. pale luna, through her misty veil, smiles at these harmless pleasantries, and lends the merry group her aid to smuggle signs, alter names, and play off a thousand fantastic vagaries; while the eton townsman, robed in * the grand aquatic gala, which terminates the week's festi- vities at eton, and concludes the water excursions for the season, was originally fixed in honour of his late majesty's birthday, and would have been altered to the period of his successor's, but the time would not accord, the twelfth day of august being vacation. ~ ~~ peaceful slumber, dreams not of the change his house has undergone, and wakes to find a double transformation; his _angel_ vanished, or exchanged for the rude semblance of an oxford _bear_, with a cognomen thereto appended, as foreign to his family nomenclature "as he to hercules." in the morning the dames are wailing the loss of their polished knockers; and the barber-surgeon mourns the absence of his obtrusive pole. the optician's glasses have been removed to the door of some prying _domine_; and the large tin cocked hat has been seized by some midnight giant, who has also claimed old crispin's three-leagued boot. the golden fish has leaped into the thames. the landlord of the lamb bleats loudly for his fleece. the grocer cares not a fig for the loss of his sugar-loaves, but laughs, and takes it as a currant joke. old duplicate is resolved to have his balls restored with interest; and the lady mother of the black doll is quite pale in the face with sorrow for the loss of her child. mine host of the vine looks as sour as his own grapes, before they were fresh gilded; and spruce master pigtail, the tobacconist, complains that his large roll of real virginia has been chopped into short cut. but these are by far the least tormenting jokes. that good-humoured cad, jem miller, finds the honorary distinction of private tutor added to his name. dame ----s, an irreproachable spinster of forty, discovers that of mr. probe, man-midwife, appended to her own. mr. primefit, the eton stultz, is changed into botch, the cobbler. diodorus drowsy, d.d., of windsor, is re-christened diggory drenchall, common brewer; and the amiable mrs. margaret sweet, the eton pastry-cook and confectioner, finds her name united in bands of brass with mr. benjamin bittertart, the baker. the celebrated christopher caustic, esq., surgeon, has the mortification to find his esculapian dormitory decorated with the sign-board of mr. slaughtercalf, a german butcher; while his handsome brass pestle ~ ~~ and mortar, with the gilt galen's head annexed, have been waggishly transferred to the house of some eton dickey gossip, barber and dentist. mr. index, the bookseller, changes names with old frank finis, the sexton. the elegant door plate of miss caroline cypher, spinster, is placed on the right side of nicodemus number, b.a., and fellow of eton, with this note annexed: "new rule of addition, according to cocker." old amen, the parish clerk, is united to miss bridget silence, the pew opener; and theophilus white, m.d. changes place with mr. sable, the undertaker. but we shall become too grave if we proceed deeper with this subject. there is no end to the whimsical alterations and ludicrous changes that take place upon these occasions, when scarce a sign or door plate in eton escapes some pantomimic transformation.* * representations to the masters or authorities are scarcely ever necessary to redress these whimsical grievances, as the injured parties are always remunerated. the next day the spoils and trophies are arranged in due form in a certain snug sanctum sanctorum, the cellar of a favorite inn, well known by the name of the _oppidan's_ museum; for a view of which see the sketch made on the spot by my friend bob transit. here the merry wags are to be found in council, holding a court of claims, to which all the tradesmen who have suffered any loss are successively summoned; and after pointing out from among the motley collection the article they claim, and the price it originally cost, they are handsomely remunerated, or the sign replaced. the good people of eton generally choose the former, as it not only enable them to sport a new sign, but to put a little profit upon the cost price of the old one. the trophies thus acquired are then packed up in hampers, and despatched to oxford, where they are on similar occasions not unfrequently displayed, or hung up, in lieu of some well-known sign, such as the mitre, &c. which has been removed during the night. ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] the following jeu-d'esprits issued upon the interference of the authorities at the conclusion of the last election. the "dance of thirty sovereigns" is an allusion to the fine imposed, which was given to the poor. a ladder dance. a moving golden fish. the fall of grapes, during a heavy storm. the cock'd hat combat. a march to the workhouse. bird-cage duett, by messrs. c***** and b****. a public breakfast, with a dance by thirty sovereigns. glee--"when shall we three meet again." the barber's hornpipe, by the learned d****. the turk's head revel. saint christopher's march. the committee in danger. the cloisters, eton [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ herbert stockhore, the montem poet laureate. a sketch from the life, as he appeared in the montent procession of may, . by bernard blackmantle, and robert transit bending beneath a weight of time, and crippled as his montem ode, we found the humble son of rhyme busy beside the public road. nor laurel'd wreath or harp had he, to deck his brow or touch the note that wakes the soul to sympathy. his face was piteous as his coat, 'twas motley strange; e'en nature's self, in wild, eccentric, playful mood, had, for her pastime, form'd the elf, a being scarcely understood-- half idiot, harmless; yet a gleam of sense, and whim, and shrewdness, broke the current of his wildest stream; and pity sigh'd as madness spoke. ~ ~~ lavater, lawrence, camper, here philosophy new light had caught: judged by your doctrines 'twould appear the facial line denoted thought.{ } but say, what system e'er shall trace by scalp or visage mental worth? the ideot's form, the maniac's face, are shared alike by all on earth. "comparative anatomy--" if, stockhore, 'twas to thee apply'd, 'twould set the doubting gallist free, and spurzheim's idle tales deride. but hence with visionary scheme, though bell, or abernethy, write; be herbert stockhore all my theme, the laureate's praises i indite; he erst who sung in montem's praise, and, thespis like, from out his cart recited his extempore lays, on eton's sons, in costume smart, who told of captains bold and grand, lieutenants, marshals, seeking _salt_; of colonels, majors, cap in hand, who bade e'en majesty to halt; it is hardly possible to conceive a more intelligent, venerable looking head, than poor herbert stockhore presents; a fine capacious forehead, rising like a promontory of knowledge, from a bold outline of countenance, every feature decisive, breathing serenity and thoughtfulness, with here and there a few straggling locks of silvery gray, which, like the time-discoloured moss upon some ancient battlements, are the true emblems of antiquity: the eye alone is generally dull and sunken in the visage, but during his temporary gleams of sanity, or fancied flights of poetical inspiration, it is unusually bright and animated. according to professor camper, i should think the facial line would make an angle of eighty or ninety degrees; and, judging upon the principles laid down by lavater, poor herbert might pass for a solon. of his bumps, or phrenological protuberances, i did not take particular notice, but i have no doubt they would be found, upon examination, equally illustrative of such visionary systems. ~ ~~ told how the ensign nobly waved the colours on the famous hill; and names from dull oblivion saved, who ne'er the niche of fame can fill: who, like to campbell, lends his name.{ } to many a whim he ne'er did write; when witty scholars, to their shame, 'gainst masters hurl a satire trite.{ } but fare thee well, ad montem's bard,{ } farewell, my mem'ry's early friend the author of "the pleasures of hope," and the editor of the new monthly; but-"_tardè, quo credita lodunt, credimus_." it has long been the custom at eton, particularly during montem, to give herbert stockhore the credit of many a satirical whim, which he, poor fellow, could as easily have penned as to have written a greek ode. these squibs are sometimes very humorous, and are purposely written in doggrel verse to escape detection by the masters, who are not unfrequently the principal porsons alluded to. the following laughable production was sold by poor herbert stockhore during the last montem: we hardly think we need apologise for introducing this specimen of his muse: any account of eton characteristics must have been held deficient without it. the montem ode. may , . muses attend! the british channel flock o'er, call'd by your most obedient servant, stockhore. aid me, o, aid me, while i touch the string; montem and captain barnard's praise i sing; captain barnard, the youth so noble and bright, that none dare dispute his worthy right to that gay laurel which his brother wore, in times that remember long before. what are olympic honours compared to thine, captain, when majesty does combine with heroes, their wives, sons and daughters great, to visit this extremely splendid fête. enough! i feel a sudden inspiration fill my bowels; just as if the tolling bell had sent forth sounds a floating all along the air just such parnassian sounds, though deaf, i'm sure i hear. ~ ~~ may misery never press thee hard, ne'er may disease thy steps attend: listen, ye gents; rude boreas hold your tongue! the pomp advances, and my lyre is strung. first comes marshal thackeray, dress'd out in crack array; ar'nt he a whacker, eh? his way he picks, follow'd by six, like a hen by her chicks: enough! he's gone. as this martial marshall is to music partial, the bandsmen march all his heels upon. he who hits the balls such thumps, king of cricket-bats and stumps,-- barnard comes; sound the drums-- silence! he's past. eight fair pages, of different ages, follow fast. next comes the serjeant-major, who, like an old stager, without need of bridle walks steadily; the same dolphin major by name, major dolphin by title. next struts serjeant brown, very gay you must own; with gallant mr. hughes, in well-polish'd shoes; then sampson, who tramps on, strong as his namesake. then comes webb, who don't dread to die for his fame's sake. next shall i sing of serjeant king, and horace walpole, holding a tall pole, who follows king and antrobus, though he's "pulchrior ambobus." ~ ~~ be all thy wants by those supply'd, whom charity ne'er fail'd to move{ }: this eccentric creature has for many years subsisted entirely upon the bounty of the etonians, and the inhabitants of windsor and eton, who never fail to administer to his wants, and liberally supply him with many little comforts in return for his harmless pleasantries. then to salthill speed on, while the troops they lead on; both mr. beadon, and serjeant mitford, who's ready to fi't for't. then mr. carter follows a'ter; and denman, worth ten men, like a knight of the garter; and cumberbatch, without a match, tell me, who can be smarter? then colonel hand, monstrous grand, closes the band. pass on, you nameless crowd, pass on. the ensign proud comes near. let all that can see behold the ensign dansey; see with what elegance he waves the flag--to please the fancy. pass on, gay crowd; le mann, the big, bright with gold as a guinea-pig, the big, the stout, the fierce le mann, walks like a valiant gentleman. but take care of your pockets, here's salt-bearer platt, with a bag in his hand, and a plume in his hat; a handsomer youth, sure small-clothes ne'er put on, though very near rival'd by elegant sutton. thus then has pass'd this grand procession, in most magnificent progression. farewell you gay and happy throng! ~ ~~ etona's motto, crest, and pride, is feeling, courage, friendship, love. farewell my muse! farewell my song' farewell salthill! farewell brave captain; as ever uniform was clapt in; since fortune's kind, pray do not mock her; your humble poet, herbert stockhore. herbert stockhore was originally a bricklayer, and now resides at a little house which he has built for himself, and called mount pleasant, in a lane leading from windsor to the meadows. he has a wife and daughter, honest, industrious people, who reside with him, and are by no means displeased at the visit of a stranger to their eccentric relative. some idea of the old man's amusing qualifications may be conceived from the following description, to which i have added the account he gives of his heraldic bearings. it must be recollected that the etonians encourage these whims in the poor old man, and never lose an opportunity of impressing stockhore with a belief in the magnificent powers of his genius.--after we had heard him recite several of his unconnected extempore rhapsodies, we were to be indulged with the montem ode; this the old man insisted should be spoken in his gala dress; nor could all the entreaties of his wife and daughter, joined to those of myself and friend (fearful of appearing obtrusive), dissuade old herbert from his design. he appeared quite frantic with joy when the dame brought forth from an upper apartment these insignia of his laureateship; the careful manner in which they were folded up and kept clean gave us to understand that the good woman herself set some store by them. the wife and daughter now proceeded to robe the laureate bard: the first garment which was placed over his shoulders, and came below his waist, was a species of tunic made out of patches of bed-furniture, trimmed in the most fantastic manner with fragments of worsted fringe of all colors. over this he wore an old military jacket, of a very ancient date in respect to costume, and trimmed like the robe with fringe of every variety. a pair of loose trowsers of the same materials as the tunic were also displayed; but the fashion of the poet's head-dress exceeded all the rest for whimsicality: round an old soldier's cap a sheet of pasteboard was bent to a spiral form, rising about fourteen inches, and covered with some pieces of chintz bed-furniture of a very rich pattern; in five separate circles, was disposed as many different colors of fringes; some worsted twisted, to resemble feathers, was suspended from the side; and the whole had the most grotesque appearance, more nearly resembling the papal crown in similitude than any thing else i can conceive. ~ ~~ poor harmless soul, thy merry stave shall live when nobler poets bend; the poor old fellow seemed elated to a degree. we had sent for a little ale for him, but were informed he was not accustomed to drink much of any strong liquor. after a glass, herbert recited with great gesture and action, but in a very imperfect manner, the montem ode; and then for a few minutes seemed quite exhausted. during this exhibition my friend transit was engaged in sketching his portrait, a circumstance that appeared to give great pleasure to the wife and daughter, who earnestly requested, if it was published, to be favored with a copy. we had now become quite familiar with the old man, and went with him to view his montem car and arabian pony, as he called them, in a stable adjoining the house. on our return, my friend transit observed that his cart required painting, and should be decorated with some appropriate emblem. herbert appeared to understand the idea, and immediately proceeded to give us a history of his heraldic bearings, or, as he said, what his coat of arms should be, which, he assured us, the gentlemen of eton had subscribed for, and were having prepared at the heralds' college in london, on purpose for him to display next montem. "my grand-father," said stockhore, "was a hatter, therefore i am entitled to the beaver in the first quarter of my shield. my grandfather by my mother's side was a farmer, therefore i should have the wheat-sheaf on the other part. my own father was a pipe-maker, and that gives me a noble ornament, the cross pipes and glasses, the emblems of good fellowship. now my wife's father was a tailor, and that yields me a goose: those are the bearings of the four quarters of my shield. now, sir, i am a poet--ay, the poet laureate of montem; and that gives me a right to the winged horse for my crest. there's a coat of arms for you," said poor herbert; "why, it would beat every thing but the king's; ay, and his too, if it wasn't for the lion and crown." the attention we paid to this whim pleased the poor creature mightily; he was all animation and delight. but the day was fast declining: so, after making the poor people a trifling present for the trouble we had given them, my friend transit and myself took our farewell of poor herbert, not, i confess, without regret; for i think the reader will perceive by this brief sketch thero is great character and amusement in his harmless whims. i have been thus particular in my description of him, because he is always at montem time an object of much curiosity; and to every etonian of the last thirty years, his peculiarities must have frequently afforded amusement. ~ ~~ and when atropos to the grave thy silvery locks of gray shall send, etona's sons shall sing thy fame, _ad montem_ still thy verse resound, still live an ever cherish'd name, as long as _salt_{ } and sock abound. salt is the name given to the money collected at montem. [illustration: page ] the doubtful point. "why should i not read it," thought horatio, hesitating, with the mss. of life in eton half opened in his hand. a little chesterfield deity, called prudence, whispered--"caution." "well, miss hypocrisy," quoth the student, "what serious offence shall i commit against propriety or morality by reading a whimsical jeu-d'esprit, penned to explain the peculiar lingual localisms of eton, and display her chief characteristic follies." "it is slang," said prudence. "granted," said horatio: "but he who undertakes to depict real life must not expect to make a pleasing or a correct picture, without the due proportions of light and shade. 'vice to be hated needs but to be seen.' playful satire may do more towards correcting the evil than all the dull lessons of sober-tongued morality can ever hope to effect." candour, who just then happened to make a passing call, was appointed referee; and, without hesitation, agreed decidedly with horatio.{ } life at eton will not, i hope, be construed into any intention of the author's to follow in the track of any previous publication: his object is faithfully to delineate character, not to encourage vulgar phraseology, or promulgate immoral sentiment. ~ ~~ life in eton; a college chaunt in praise of private tutors.{ } time hallowed shades, and noble names, etonian classic bowers; pros,{ } masters, fellows, and good dames,{ } where pass'd my school-boy hours; private tutor, in the eton school phrase, is another term for a _cad_, a fellow who lurks about college, and assists in all _sprees_ and sports by providing dogs, fishing tackle, guns, horses, bulls for baiting, a badger, or in promoting any other interdicted, or un-lawful pastime. a dozen or more of these well known characters may be seen loitering in front of the college every morning, making their arrangement with their pupils, the _oppidans_, for a day's sport, to commence the moment school is over. they formerly used to occupy a seat on the low wall, in front of the college, but the present headmaster has recently interfered to expel this assemblage; they still, however, carry on their destructive intercourse with youth, by walking about, and watching their opportunity for communication. the merits of these worthies are here faithfully related, and will be instantly recognised by any etonian of the last thirty years. _pros_. eton college is governed by a provost, vice- provost, six fellows, a steward of the courts, head-master, and a lower, or second master; to which is added, nine assistant masters, and five extra ones, appointed to teach french, writing, drawing, fencing, and dancing. the school has materially increased in numbers within the last few years, and now contains nearly five hundred scholars, sons of noblemen and gentlemen, and may be truly said to be the chief nursery for the culture of the flower of the british nation.--see note to page . _dames_. the appellation given to the females who keep boarding-houses in eton. these houses, although out of the college walls, are subject to the surveillance of the head master and fellows, to whom all references and complaints are made. ~ ~~ come list', while i with con,{ } and sock{ } and chaunt,{ } both ripe and mellow, tell how you knowledge stores unlock, to make a clever fellow.{ } for greek and latin, classic stuff, let tug muttons{ }compose it; give oppidans{ } but blunt{ }enough, what odds to them who knows it. a dapper dog,{ } a right coolfish,{ } who snugly dines on pewter; quaffs bulstrode ale,{ } and takes his dish. con. a con is a companion, or friend; as, "you are cons of late." sock signifies eating or drinking niceties; as, pastry, jellies, bishop, &c. chaunt, a good song; to versify. this is not intended as an imputation on the learned fellows of eton college, but must be taken in the vulgar acceptation--you're a clever fellow, &c. tug muttons, or tugs, collegers, foundation scholars; an appellation given to them by the oppidans, in derision of the custom which has prevailed from the earliest period, and is still continued, of living entirely on roast mutton; from january to december no other description of meat is ever served up at college table in the hall. there are seventy of these young gentlemen on the foundation who, if they miss their election when they are nineteen, lose all the benefits of a fellowship. oppidans, independent scholars not on the foundation. blunt, london slang (for money), in use here. a dapper doc, any thing smart, or pleasing, as, "ay, that's dapper," or, "you are a dapper dog." a right cool fish, one who is not particular what he says or does. bulstrode ale, a beverage in great request at the christopher. when the effects were sold at bulstrode, garraway purchased a small stock of this famous old ale, which by some miraculous process he has continued to serve out in plentiful quantities ever since. the joke has of late been rather against mine host of the christopher, who, however, to do him justice, has an excellent tap, which is now called the queen's, from some since purchased at windsor: this is sold in small quarts, at one shilling per jug. ~ ~~ in private with his tutor.{ } in lieu of ancient learned lore, which might his brain bewilder, rum college slang he patters o'er, with cads{ }who chouse{ } the guilder. who's truly learn'd must read mankind, truth's axiom inculcates: the world's a volume to the mind, instructive more than pulpits.{ } come fill the bowl with _bishop_ up, _clods,{ } fags,{ } and skugs{ } and muttons{ }_; when _absence_{ } calls ye into sup, drink, drink to me, ye gluttons. i'll teach ye how to kill dull care, improve your box of knowledge,{ } many of the young noblemen and gentlemen at eton are accompanied by private tutors, who live with them to expedite their studies; they are generally of the college, and recommended by the head master for their superior endowments. cad, a man of all work, for dirty purposes, yclept private tutor. see note , page . chouse the guilder. chouse or chousing is generally applied to any transaction in which they think they may have been cheated or overcharged. guilder is a cant term for gold. nothing in the slightest degree unorthodox is meant to be inferred from this reasoning, but simply the sentiment of this quotation-'the proper study of mankind is man.' clods, as, "you clod," a town boy, or any one not an etonian, no matter how respectable. fags, boys in the lower classes. every fifth form boy has his fag. scug or skug, a lower boy in the school, relating to sluggish. muttons. see note . absence. at three-quarters past eight in summer, and earlier in winter, several of the masters proceed to the different dames' houses, and call absence, when every boy is compelled to be instantly in quarters for the night, on pain of the most severe punishment. box of knowledge, the pericranium. with all that's witty, choice, and rare, 'fore all the _slugs_{ } of college. of private tutors, vulgo cads, a list i mean to tender; the qualities of all the lads, their prices to a _bender_.{ } first, shampo carter{ } doffs his _tile_, to dive, to fish, or fire; there's few can better time beguile, and none in sporting higher. slugs of college, an offensive appellation applied to the fellows of eton by the townsmen. bender, a sixpence. note from bernard blackmantle, m.a. to shampo carter and co. p.t.'s:-- messieurs the cads of eton, in handing down to posterity your multifarious merits and brilliant qualifications, you will perceive i have not forgotten the signal services and delightful gratifications so often afforded me in the days of my youth. be assured, most assiduous worthies, that i am fully sensible of all your merits, and can appreciate justly your great usefulness to the rising generation. you are the sappers and miners of knowledge, who attack and destroy the citadel of sense before it is scarcely defensible. it is no fault of yours if the stripling of eton is not, at eighteen, well initiated into all the mysteries of life, excepting only the, to him, mysterious volumes of the classics. to do justice to all was not within the limits of my work; i have therefore selected from among you the most distinguished names, and i flatter myself, in so doing, i have omitted very few of any note; if, however, any efficient member of your brotherhood should have been unintentionally passed by, he has only to forward an authenticated copy of his biography and peculiar merits to the publisher, to meet with insertion in a second edition. bernard blackmantle. bill carter is, after all, a very useful fellow, if it was only in teaching the young etonians to swim, which he does, by permission of the head master. tile, a hat. ~ ~~ joe cannon, or my lord's a gun,{ } a regular nine pounder; to man a boat, stands number one, and ne'er was known to flounder. there's foxey hall{ } can throw the line with any walton angler; to tell his worth would task the nine, or pose a cambridge wrangler. next, pickey powell{ } at a ball is master of the wicket; can well deliver at a call a trite essay on cricket. jem flowers { } baits a badger well, for a bull _hank, or tyke_, sir; and as an out and out bred _swell_,{ } was never seen his like. a gun--"he's a great gun," a good fellow, a knowing one. joe is a first rate waterman, and by the etonians styled "admiral of the fleet." "not a better fellow than jack hall among the cads," said an old etonian, "or a more expert angler." barb, gudgeon, dace, and chub, seem to bite at his bidding; and if they should be a little shy, why jack knows how to "go to work with the net." who, that has been at eton, and enjoyed the manly and invigorating exercise of cricket, has not repeatedly heard jem powell in tones of exultation say, "only see me '_liver thin here_ ball, my young master?" and, in good truth, jem is right, for very few can excel him in that particular: and then (when jem is _bacchi plenis_,) who can withstand his _quart of sovereigns_. on such occasions jem is seen marching up and down before the door of his house, with a silver quart tankard filled with gold--the savings of many years of industry. jem flowers is an old soldier; and, in marshalling the forces for a bull or a badger-bait, displays all the tactics of an experienced general officer. caleb baldwin would no more bear comparison with jem than a flea does to an elephant. when it is remembered how near eton is to london, and how frequent the communication, it will appear astonishing, but highly creditable to the authorities, that so little of the current slang of the day is to be met with here. ~ ~~ there's jolly jem,{ } who keeps his punt, and dogs to raise the siller; of _cads_, the captain of the hunt, a right and tight good miller. next barney groves,{ } a learned wight, the impounder of cattle, dilates on birth and common right, and threats _black slugs_ with battle. big george { } can teach the use of fives, or pick up a prime terrier; or _spar_, or keep the game alive, with beagle, bull, or harrier. savager{ } keeps a decent nag, jem miller was originally a tailor; but having dropt a stitch or two in early life, _listed_ into a sporting regiment of cads some years since; and being a better shot at hares and partridges than he was considered at the _heavy goose_, has been promoted to the rank of captain of the private tutors. jem is a true jolly fellow; his house exhibits a fine picture of what a sportsman's hall should be, decorated with all the emblems of fishing, fowling, and hunting, disposed around in great taste. barney groves, the haughward, or impounder of stray cattle at eton, is one of the most singular characters i have ever met with. among the ignorant barney is looked up to as the fountain of local and legal information; and it is highly ludicrous to hear him expatiate on his favourite theme of "our birthrights and common rights;" tracing the first from the creation, and deducing argument in favor of his opinions on the second from doomsday book, through all the intricate windings of the modern inclosure acts. barney is a great stickler for reform in college, and does not hesitate to attack the fellows of eton (whom he denominates black slugs), on holding pluralities, and keeping the good things to themselves. as barney's avocation compels him to travel wide, he is never interrupted by water; for in summer or winter he readily wades through the deepest places; he is consequently a very efficient person in a sporting party. george williams, a well-known dog fancier, who also teaches the art and science of pugilism. savager, a livery-stable keeper, who formerly used to keep a good tandem or two for hire, but on the interference of the head master, who interdicted such amusements as dangerous, they have been put down in eton. ~ ~~ but's very shy of lending, since she put down her tandem _drag_,{ } for fear of keates offending. but if you want to splash along in glory with a _ginger_,{ } or in a stanhope come it strong, try isaac clegg,{ } of windsor. if o'er old father thames you'd glide, and cut the silvery stream; with hester's{ } eight oars mock the tide, he well deserves a _theme_. there's charley miller, and george hall,{ } can beasts and birds restore, sir; and though they cannot bark or squall, look livelier than before, sir. handy jack's { } a general blade, there's none like garraway, sir; boats, ducks, or dogs, are all his trade, he'll fit you to a say, sir. dr a g, london slang for tilbury, dennet, stanhope, &c. a ginger, a showy, fast horse. isaac clegg is in great repute for his excellent turn outs, and prime nags; and, living in windsor, he is out of the jurisdiction of the head master. hester's boats are always kept in excellent trim. at eton exercise on the water is much practised, and many of the scholars are very expert watermen: they have recently taken to boats of an amazing length, forty feet and upwards, which, manned with eight oars, move with great celerity. every saturday evening the scholars are permitted to assume fancy dresses; but the practice is now principally confined to the steersman; the rest simply adopting sailors' costume, except on the fourth of june, or election saturday, when there is always a grand gala, a band of music, and fireworks, on the island in the thames. miller and hall, two famous preservers of birds and animals; an art in high repute among the etonians. a famous boatman, duck-hunter, dog-fighter; or, according to the london phrase--good at everything. ~ ~~ tom new { } in manly sports is old, a tailor, and a trump, sir; and _odd fish bill_,{ } at sight of gold, will steer clear of the bump,"{ } sir. a list of _worthies_, learn'd and great in every art and science, that noble youths should emulate, to set laws at defiance: the church, the senate, and the bar, by these in ethics grounded, must prove a meteoric star, of brilliancy compounded. ye lights of eton, rising suns, of all that's great and godly; the nation's hope, and dread of _duns_, let all your acts be _motley_. learn arts like these, ye oppidan, if you'd astonish greatly the senate, or the great divan, with classics pure, and stately. give greek and latin to the wind, bid pedagogues defiance: these are the rules to grace the mind with the true gems of science. tom new, a great cricketer. bill fish, a waterman who attends the youngest boys in their excursions. the bump, to run against each other in the race. ~ ~~ apollo's visit to eton. ~ ~~ this whimsical production appeared originally in , in an eton miscellany entitled the college magazine; the poetry of which was afterwards selected, and only fifty copies struck off: these have been carefully suppressed, principally we believe on account of this article, as it contains nothing that we conceive can be deemed offensive, and has allusions to almost all the distinguished scholars of that period, besides including the principal contributors to the etonian, a recent popular work: we have with some difficulty filled up the blanks with real names; and, at the suggestion of several old etonians, incorporated it with the present work, as a fair criterion of the promising character of the school at this particular period. the practice of thus distinguishing the rising talents of eton is somewhat ancient. we have before us a copy of verses dated , in which waller, the poet, and other celebrated characters of his time, are particularised. at a still more recent period, during the mastership of the celebrated doctor barnard, the present earl of carlisle, whose classical taste is universally admitted, distinguished himself not less than his compeers, by some very elegant lines: those on the late right hon. c. j. fox we are induced to extract as a strong proof of the noble earl's early penetration and foresight. "how will my fox, alone, by strength of parts. shake the loud senate, animate the hearts of fearful statesmen? while around you stand both peers and commons listening your command. ~ ~~ while _tully's_ sense its weight to you affords, his nervous sweetness shall adorn your words. what praise to pitt,{ } to townshend, e'er was due, in future times, my pox, shall wait on you." at a subsequent period, the leading characters of the school were spiritedly drawn in a periodical newspaper, called the world, then edited by major topham, and the rev. mr. east, who is still, i believe, living, and preaches occasionally at whitehall. from that publication, now very scarce, i have selected the following as the most amusing, and relating to distinguished persons. the great earl of chatham. recollections of an old etonian. the lords littleton--father and son, formed two opposite characters in their times. the former had a distinguished turn for pastoral poetry, and wrote some things at eton with all the enthusiasm of early years, and yet with all the judgment of advanced life. the latter showed there, in some traits of disposition, what was to be expected from him; but he too loved the muses, and cultivated them. he there too displayed the strange contraries of being an ardent admirer of the virtues of classic times, while he was cheating at chuck and all-fours; and though he affected every species of irreligion, was, in fact, afraid of his own shadow. the whole north family have, in succession, adorned this school with their talents--which in the different branches were various, but all of mark and vivacity. to the younger part, dampier was the tutor; who, having a little disagreement with frank north on the hundred steps coming down from the terrace, at windsor, they adjusted it, by frank north's rolling his tutor very quickly down the whole of them. the tutor has since risen to some eminence in the church. lord cholmondeley was early in life a boy of great parts, and they have continued so ever since, though not lively ones. earl of buckingham was a plain good scholar, but ~ ~~ would have been better at any other school, for he was no poet, and verse is here one of the first requisites; besides, he had an impediment in his speech, which, in the hurry of repeating a lesson before a number of boys, was always increased. it was inculcated to him by his dame--that he must look upon himself as the reverse of a woman in every thing, and not hold--that whoever "_deliberates is lost_." lord harrington was a boy of much natural spirit. in the great rebellion, under _forster_, when all the boys threw their books into the thames, and marched to salt hill, he was amongst the foremost. at that place each took an oath, or rather swore, he would be d------d if ever he returned to school again. when, therefore, he came to london to the old lord harrington's, and sent up his name, his father would only speak to him at the door, insisting, at the same time, on his immediate return. "sir," said the son, "consider i shall be d--d if i do!" "and i" answered the father, "will be d--d if you don't!" "yes, my lord," replied the son, "but you will be d--d together i do or no!" the storers. anthony and tom, for west indians, were better scholars than usually fell to the share of those _children of the sun_, who were, in general, too gay to be great. the name of the elder stands to this day at the head of many good exercises; from which succeeding genius has stolen, and been praised for it. tom had an odd capability of running round a room on the edge of the wainscot, a strange power of holding by the foot: an art which, in lower life, might have been serviceable to him in the showing it. and anthony, likewise, amongst better and more brilliant qualifications, had the reputation of being amongst the best dancers of the age. in a political line, perhaps, he did not _dance attendance_ to much purpose. harry conway, brother to the present marquis of ~ ~~ hertford, though younger in point of learning, was older than his brother, lord beauchamp; but he was not so forward as to show this preeminence: a somewhat of modesty, a consciousness of being younger, always kept him back from displaying it. in fact, they were perfectly unlike two irish boys--the wades, who followed them, and who, because the younger was taller, used to fight about which was the eldest. pepys. a name well known for barnard's commendation of it, and for his exercises in the _musæ etonenses_. he was amongst the best poets that eton ever produced. kirkshaw, son to the late doctor, of leeds, and since fellow of trinity college. when his father would have taken him away, he made a singular request that he might stay a year longer, not wishing to be made a man so early. many satiric latin poems bear his name at eton, and he continued that turn afterwards at cambridge. he was remarkable for a very large head; but it should likewise be added, there was a good deal in it. on this head, his father used to hold forth in the country. he was, without a figure, the head of the school, and was afterwards in the caput at the university. wyndham, under barnard, distinguished himself very early as a scholar, and for a logical acuteness, which does not often fall to the share of a boy. he was distinguished too both by land and by water; for while he was amongst the most informed of his time, in school hours, in the playing fields, on the water, with the celebrated boatman, my guinea piper at cricket, or in rowing, he was always the foremost. he used to boast, that he should in time be as good a boxer as his father was, though he used to add, that never could be exactly known, as he could not decently have a _set-to_ with him. ~ ~~ fawkener, the major, was captain of the school; and in those days was famed for the "_suaviter in modo_," and for a turn for gallantry with the windsor milliners, which he pursued up the hundred steps, and over the terrace there. as this turn frequently made him overrun the hours of absence, on his return he was found out, and flogged the next morning; but this abated not his zeal in the cause of gallantry, as he held it to be, like _ovid_, whom he was always reading, suffering in a fair cause. fawkener, everard, minor, with the same turn for pleasure as his brother, but more open and ingenuous in his manner, more unreserved in his behaviour, then manifested, what he has since been, the bon vivant of every society, and was then as since, the admired companion in every party. prideaux was remarkable for being the gravest boy of his time, and for having the longest chin. had he followed the ancient "_sapientem pascere barbam_," there would in fact have been no end of it. with this turn, however, his time was not quite thrown away, nor his gravity. in conjunction with dampier, langley, and serjeant, who were styled the learned cons, he composed a very long english poem, in the same metre as the bath guide, and of which it was then held a favour to get a copy. he had so much of advanced life about him, that the masters always looked upon him as a man; and this serious manner followed him through his pastimes. he was fond of billiards; but he was so long in making his stroke, that no boy could bear to play with him: when the game, therefore, went against him, like fabius-_cunctando restituit rem_; and they gave it up rather than beat him. hulse. amongst the best tennis-players that eton ever sent up to windsor, where he always was. as a poet he distinguished himself greatly, by winning one of the medals given by sir john dalrymple. his ~ ~~ exercise on this occasion was the subject of much praise to doctor forster, then master, and of much envy to his contemporaries in the sixth form, who said it was given to him because he was head boy. these were his arts; besides which he had as many tricks as any boy ever had. he had nothing when præpositer, and of course ruling under boys, of dignity about him, or of what might enforce his authority. when he ought to have been angry, some monkey trick always came across him, and he would make a serious complaint against a little boy, in a hop, step, and a jump. montague. having a great predecessor before him under the appellation of "_mad montague_" had always a consolatory comparison in this way in his favor. in truth, at times he wanted it, for he was what has been termed a genius: but he was likewise so in talent. he was an admirable poet, and had a neatness of expression seldom discoverable at such early years. in proof, may be brought a line from a latin poem on cricket: "_clavigeri fallit verbera--virga cadit_." and another on scraping a man down at the _robin hood_: "_radit arenosam pes inimicus humum_." the scratching of the foot on the sandy floor is admirable. during a vacation, lord sandwich took him to holland; and he sported on his return a dutch-built coat for many weeks. the boys used to call him _mynheer montague_; but his common habit of oddity soon got the better of his coat. he rose to be a young man of great promise, as to abilities; and died too immaturely for his fame. tickell, the elder. _manu magis quam capite_ should have been his motto. by natural instinct he loved ~ ~~ fighting, and knew not what fear was. he went amongst his school-fellows by the name of hannibal, and old tough. a brother school-fellow of his, no less a man than the marquis of buckingham, met, and recognised him again in ireland, and with the most marked solicitude of friendship, did every thing but assist him, in obtaining a troop of dragoons, which he had much at heart. tickell, minor, should then have had the eulogy of how much elder art thou than thy years! in those early days his exercises, read publicly in school, gave the anticipation of what time and advancing years have brought forth. he was an admirable scholar, and a poet from nature; forcible, neat, and discriminating. the fame of his grandsire, the tickell of addison, was not hurt by the descent to him. his sister, who was the beauty of windsor castle, and the admiration of all, early excited a passion in a boy then at school, who afterwards married her. of this sister he was very fond; but he was not less so of another female at windsor, a regard since terminated in a better way with his present wife. his pamphlet of _anticipation_, it is said, placed him where he since was, under the auspices of lord north; but his abilities were of better quality, and deserved a better situation for their employment. lord plymouth, then lord windsor, had to boast some distinctions, which kept him aloof from the boys of his time. he was of that inordinate size that, like falstaff, four square yards on even ground were so many miles to him; and the struggles which he underwent to raise himself when down might have been matter of instruction to a minority member. in the entrance to his dame's gate much circumspection was necessary; for, like some good men out of power, he found it difficult to get in. when in school, or otherwise, he was not undeserving of praise, either as to temper or ~ ~~ scholarship; and whether out of the excellence of his christianity, or that of good humour, he was not very adverse to good living; and he continued so ever after. lord leicester had the reputation of good scholarship, and not undeservedly. in regard to poetry, however, he was sometimes apt to break the eighth commandment, and prove lie read more the musee etonenses than his prayer-book. inheriting it from lord townshend, the father of caricaturists, he there pursued, with nearly equal ability, that turn for satiric drawing. the master, the tutors, slender prior, and fat roberts,--all felt in rotation the effects of his pencil. there too, as well as since, he had a most venerable affection for heraldry, and the same love of collecting together old titles, and obsolete mottos. once in the military, he had, it may be said, a turn for arms. in a zeal of this kind he once got over the natural mildness of his temper, and was heard to exclaim--"there are two griffins in my family that have been missing these three centuries, and by g-, i'll have iliem back again!"-this passion was afterwards improved into so perfect a knowledge, that in the creation of peers he was applied to, that every due ceremonial might be observed; and he never failed in his recollection on these antiquated subjects. tom plummer gave then a specimen of that quickness and vivacity of parts for which he was afterwards famed. but not as a scholar, not as a poet, was he quick alone; he was quick too in the wrong ends of things, as well as the right, with a plausible account to follow it. in fact, he was born for the law; clear, discriminating, judicious, alive, and with a noble impartiality to all sides of questions, and which none could defend better. this goes, however, only to the powers of his head; in those of the heart no one, and in the best ~ ~~ and tenderest qualities of it, ever stood better. he was liked universally, and should be so; for no man was ever more meritorious for being good, as he who had all the abilities which sometimes make a man otherwise. in the progress of life mind changes often, and body almost always. both these rules, however, he lived to contradict; for his talents and his qualities retained their virtue; and when a boy he was as tall as when a man, and apparently the same. capel loft. in the language of eton the word gig comprehended all that was ridiculous, all that was to be laughed at, and plagued to death; and of all gigs that was, or ever will be, this gentleman, while a boy, was the greatest. he was like nothing, "in the heavens above, or the waters under the earth;" and therefore he was surrounded by a mob of boys whenever he appeared. these days of popularity were not pleasant. luckily, however, for himself, he found some refuge from persecution in his scholarship. this scholarship was much above the rate, and out of the manner of common boys. as a poet, he possessed fluency and facility, but not the strongest imagination. as a classic, he was admirable; and his prose themes upon different subjects displayed an acquaintance with the latin idiom and phraseology seldom acquired even by scholastic life, and the practice of later years. beyond this, he read much of everything that appeared, knew every thing, and was acquainted with every better publication of the times. even then he studied law, politics, divinity; and could have written well upon those subjects. these talents have served him since more effectually than they did then; more as man than boy: for at school he was a kind of gray beard: he neither ran, played, jumped, swam, or fought, as ~ ~~ other boys do. the descriptions of puerile years, so beautifully given by _gray_, in his ode: "who, foremost, now delight to cleave, with pliant arm, thy glassy wave? the captive linnet which enthrall? what idle progeny succeed, to chase the rolling circle's speed, or urge the flying ball?" all these would have been, and were, as non-descriptive of him as they would have been of the lord chancellor of england, with a dark brow and commanding mien, determining a cause of the first interest to this country. added to this, in personal appearance he was most unfavored; and exemplified the irish definition of an open countenance--a mouth from ear to ear. lord hinchinbroke, from the earliest period of infancy, had all the marks of the montagu family. he had a good head, and a red head, and a roman nose, and a turn to the _ars amatoria_ of ovid, and all the writers who may have written on love. as it was in the beginning--may be said now. though in point of scholarship he was not in the very first line, the descendant of lord sandwich could not but have ability, and he had it; but this was so mixed with the wanderings of the heart, the vivacity of youthful imagination, and a turn to pleasure, that a steady pursuit of any one object of a literary turn could not be expected. but it was his praise that he went far in a short time; sometimes too far; for barnard had to exercise himself, and his red right arm, as the vengeful poet expresses it, very frequently on the latter end of his lordship's excursions. in one of these excursions to windsor, he had the good or ill fortune to engage in a little amorous amement with a young lady, the consequence of ~ ~~ which was an application to lucina for assistance. of this doctor barnard was informed, and though the remedy did not seem tending towards a cure, he was brought up immediately to be flogged. he bore this better than his master, who cried out, after some few lashes--"psha! what signifies my flogging him for being like his father? what's bred in the bone will never get out of the flesh." gibbs. some men are overtaken by the law, and some few overtake it themselves. in this small, but happy number, may be placed the name in question; and a name of better promise, whether of man or boy, can scarcely be found any where. at school he was on the foundation; and though amongst the collegers, where the views of future life, and hope of better days, arising from their own industry, make learning a necessity, yet to that he added the better qualities of genius and talent. as a classical scholar, he was admirable in both languages. as a poet, he was natural, ready, and yet distinguished. amongst the best exercises of the time, his were to be reckoned, and are yet remembered with praise. for the medals given by sir john dalrymple for the best latin poem, he was a candidate; but though his production was publicly read by doctor forster, and well spoken of, he was obliged to give way to the superiority of another on that occasion. describing the winding of the thames through its banks, it had this beautiful line: "_rodit arundineas facili sinuamine ripas------_" perfect as to the picture, and beautiful as to the flowing of the poetry. he had the good fortune and the good temper to be liked by every body of his own age; and he was not enough found out of bounds, or trespassing against "sacred order," to be disliked by those of greater age who were set over him. ~ ~~ after passing through all the different forms at eton, he was removed to cambridge; where he distinguished himself not less than at school in trials for different literary honors. there he became assistant tutor to sir peter burrell, who then listened to his instructions, and has not since forgotten them. as a tutor, he was somewhat young; but the suavity of his manners took away the comparison of equality; and his real knowledge rendered him capable of instructing those who might be even older than himself. [illustration: page ] apollo's visit to eton.{ } t'other night, as apollo was quaffing a gill with his pupils, the muses, from helicon's rill, (for all circles of rank in parnassus agree in preferring cold water to coffee or tea) the discourse turned as usual on critical matters, and the last stirring news from the kingdom of letters. but when poets, and critics, and wits, and what not, from jeffery and byron, to stoddart and stott,{ } had received their due portion of consideration, cried apollo, "pray, ladies, how goes education? for i own my poor brain's been so muddled of late, in transacting the greater affairs of the state; and so long every day in the courts i've been stewing, i've had no time to think what the children were doing. there's my favorite byron my presence inviting, and milman, and coleridge, and moore, have been writing; and my ears at this moment confoundedly tingle, from the squabbling of blackwood with cleghorn and pringle: but as all their disputes seem at length at an end, and the poets my levee have ceased to attend; since the weather's improving, and lengthen'd the days, for a visit to eton i'll order my chaise: this poem, the reader will perceive, is an humble imitation of leigh hunt's "feast of the poets;" and the lines distinguished by asterisks are borrowed or altered from the original. a writer in "the morning post," mentioned by lord byron, in his "english bards and scotch reviewers." ~ ~~ there's my sister diana my day coach to drive, and i'll send the new canto to keep you alive. so my business all settled, and absence supply'd, for an earthly excursion to-morrow i'll ride." thus spoke king apollo; the muses assented; and the god went to bed most bepraised and contented. 'twas on saturday morning, near half past eleven, when a god, like a devil, came driving from heaven, and with postboys, and footmen, and liveries blazing, soon set half the country a gaping and gazing. when the carriage drove into the christopher yard, how the waiters all bustled, and garraway stared; and the hostlers and boot-catchers wonder'd, and swore "they'd ne'er seen such a start in their lifetime before!" i could tell how, as soon as his chariot drew nigh, every cloud disappear'd from the face of the sky; and the birds in the hedges more tunefully sung, and the bells in st. george's spontaneously rung; and the people, all seized with divine inspiration, couldn't talk without rhyming and versification. but such matters, though vastly important, i ween, are too long for the limits of your magazine. now it soon got abroad that apollo was come, and intended to be, for that evening, "at home;" and that cards would be issued, and tickets be given, to all scholars and wits, for a dinner at seven. so he'd scarcely sat clown, when a legion came pouring of would-be-thought scholars, his favor imploring. first, buller stept in, with a lengthy oration about "scandalous usage," and "hard situation:" and such treatment as never, since eton was started, ~ ~~ had been shown to a genius, like him, "broken-hearted." he'd " no doubt but his friends in parnassus must know how his fine declamation was laugh'd at below; and how keate, like a blockhead ungifted with brains, had neglected to grant him a prize for his pains. he was sure, if such conduct continued much longer, the school must grow weaker, and indolence stronger; that the rights of sixth form would be laid in the dust, and the school after that, he thought, tumble it must. but he knew that apollo was learned and wise, and he hoped that his godship would give him a prize; or, at least, to make up for his mortification, would invite him to dinner without hesitation." now apollo, it seems, had some little pretence to a trifling proportion of wisdom and sense: so without ever asking the spark to be seated, he thus cut short his hopes, and his projects defeated. "after all, mr. buller, you've deign'd to repeat, i'm afraid that you'll think me as stupid as keate: but to wave all disputes on your talents and knowledge, pray what have you done as the captain of college? have you patronized learning, or sapping commended? have you e'er to your fags, or their studies, attended? to the school have you given of merit a sample, and directed by precept, or led by example?" ***** what apollo said more i'm forbidden to say, but buller dined not at his table that day. next, a smart little gentleman march'd with a stare up, a smoothing his neckcloth, and patting his hair up; and with bows and grimaces quadrillers might follow, said, " he own'd that his face was unknown to apollo; ~ ~~ but he held in hand what must be his apology, a short treatise he'd written on _british geology_; and this journal, he hoped, of his studies last week, in philosophy, chemistry, logic, and greek, might appear on perusal: but not to go far in proclaiming his merits--his name was tom carr: and for proofs of his talents, deserts, and what not, he appeal'd to miss baillie, lord byron, and scott." here his speech was cut short by a hubbub below, and in walk'd messrs. maturin, cookesly, and co., and begg'd leave to present to his majesty's finger-- if he'd please to accept--no. of the linger.{ } mr. maturin "hoped he the columns would view with unprejudiced judgment, and give them their due, nor believe all the lies, which perhaps he had seen, in that vile publication, that base magazine,{ } which had dared to impeach his most chaste lucubrations, of obscenity, nonsense, and such accusations. nay, that impudent work had asserted downright, that chalk differ'd from cheese, and that black wasn't white; but he hoped he might meet with his majesty's favor;" and thus, hemming and hawing, he closed his palaver. now the god condescended to look at the papers, but the first word he found in them gave him the vapours: for the eyes of apollo, ye gods! 'twas a word quite unfit to be written, and more to be heard; 'twas a word which a bargeman would tremble to utter, and it put his poor majesty all in a flutter; but collecting his courage, his laurels he shook, and around on the company cast such a look, that e'en turin and dumpling slank off to the door, and the lion was far too much frighten'd to roar; an eton periodical of the time. the college magazine. ~ ~~ while poor carr was attack'd with such qualms at the breast, that he took up his journal, and fled with the rest. when the tumult subsided, and peace 'gan to follow, goddard enter'd the room, with three cards for apollo, and some papers which, hardly five minutes before, three respectable gownsmen had left at the door. with a smile of good humour the god look'd at each, for he found that they came from blunt, chapman, and neech.{ } blunt sent him a treatise of science profound, showing how rotten eggs were distinguish'd from sound; some "remarks on debates," and some long-winded stories, of society whigs, and society tories; and six sheets and a half of a sage dissertation, on the present most wicked and dull generation. from chapman came lectures on monk, and on piety; on simeon, and learning, and plays, and sobriety; with most clear illustrations, and critical notes, on his own right exclusive of canvassing votes. from neech came a medley of prose and of rhyme, satires, epigrams, sonnets, and sermons sublime; but he'd chosen all customs and rules to reverse, for his satires were prose, and las sermons were verse. phoebus look'd at the papers, commended all three, and sent word he'd be happy to see them to tea. the affairs of the morning thus happily o'er, phoebus pull'd from his pocket twelve tickets or more, which the waiters were ordered forthwith to disperse 'mongst the most approved scribblers in prose and in verse: 'mongst the gentlemen honor'd with cards, let me see, there was howard, and coleridge, and wood, and lavie, the society's props; curzon, major and minor, principal contributors to the etonian. ~ ~~ bowen, hennicker, webbe, were invited to dinner: the theologist buxton, and petit, were seen, and philosopher jenyns, and donald maclean; bulteel too, and dykes; but it happen'd (oh shame!) that, though many were ask'd, very few of them came. as for coleridge, he "knew not what right phobus had, d--n me, to set up for a judge in a christian academy; and he'd not condescend to submit his latinity, nor his verses, nor greek, to a heathen divinity. for his part, he should think his advice an affront, full as bad as the libels of chapman and blunt. he'd no doubt but his dinner might be very good, but he'd not go and taste it--be d--d if he would." dean fear'd that his pupils their minds should defile, and maclean was engaged to the duke of argyll; in a deep fit of lethargy petit had sunk, and theologist buxton with _bishop_ was drunk; bulteel too, and dykes, much against their own will, had been both pre-engaged to a party to mill; and philosopher jenyns was bent on his knees, to electrify spiders, and galvanize fleas. but the rest all accepted the god's invitation, and made haste to prepare for this jollification. now the dinner was handsome as dinner could be, but to tell every dish is too tedious for me; such a task, at the best, would be irksome and long, and, besides, i must haste to the end of my song. 'tis enough to relate that, the better to dine, jove sent them some nectar, and bacchus some wine. from minerva came olives to crown the dessert, and from helicon water was sent most alert, of which howard, 'tis said, drank so long and so deep, that he almost fell into poetical sleep.{ } when the cloth was removed, and the bottle went round, "nec fonte labra prolui c'aballino, nec in bicipiti sommasse parnasso." persius. ~ ~~ wit, glee, and good humour, began to abound, though lord chesterfield would not have call'd them polite, for they all often burst into laughter outright. ***** but swift flew the moments of rapture and glee, and too early, alas! they were summon'd to tea. with looks most demure, each prepared with a speech, at the table were seated blunt, chapman, and neech. phobus stopt their orations, with dignity free, and with easy politeness shook hands with all three; and the party proceeded, increased to a host, to discuss bread and butter, tea, coffee, and toast. as their numbers grew larger, more loud grew their mirth, and apollo from heav'n drew its raptures to earth: with divine inspiration he kindled each mind, till their wit, like their sugar, grew double refined; and an evening, enliven'd by conviviality, proved how much they were pleased by the god's hospitality. thalia.{ } this poem is attributed to j. moultrie, esq. of trinity college, cambridge. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] eton montem. stand by, old cant, while i admire the young and gay, with souls of fire, unloose the cheerful heart. hence with thy puritanic zeal; true virtue is to grant and feel-- a bliss thou'lt ne'er impart. i love thee, montem,--love thee, by all the brightest recollections of my youth, for the inspiring pleasures which thy triennial pageant revives in my heart: joined with thy merry throng, i can forget the cares and disappointments of the world; and, tripping gaily with the light-hearted, youthful band, cast off the gloom of envy and of worldly pursuit, reassociating myself with the joyous scenes of my boyhood. nay, more, i hold thee in higher veneration than ever did antiquarian worship the relics of _virtu_. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ destruction light upon the impious hand that would abridge thy ancient charter;--be all thy children, father etona, doubly-armed to defend thy ancient honors;--let no modern goth presume to violate thy sacred rights; but to the end of time may future generations retain the spirit of thy present race; and often as the happy period comes, new pleasures wait upon the eton montem.{ } the ancient custom, celebrated at eton every third year, on whit-tuesday, and which bears the title of the montem, appears to have defied antiquarian research, as far as relates to its original institution. it consiste of a procession to a small tumulus on the southern side of the bath road, which has given the name of salt-hill to the spot, now better known by the splendid inns that are established there. the chief object of this celebration, however, is to collect money for salt, according to the language of the day, from all persons who assemble to see the show, nor does it fail to be exacted from travellers on the road, and even at the private residences within a certain, but no inconsiderable, range of the spot. the scholars appointed to collect the money are called _salt- bearers_; they are arrayed in fancy dresses, and are attended by others called scouts, of a similar, but less showy appearance. tickets are given to such persons as have paid their contributions, to secure them from any further demand. this ceremony is always very numerously attended by etonians, and has frequently been honored with the presence of his late majesty, and the different branches of the royal family. the sum collected on the occasion has sometimes exceeded l., and is given to the senior scholar, who is called captain of the school. this procession appears to be coeval with the foundation; and it is the opinion of mr. lysons, that it was a ceremonial of the bairn, or boy- bishop. he states, that it originally took place on the th of december, the festival of st. nicholas, the patron of children; being the day on which it was customary at salisbury, and in other places where the ceremony was observed, to elect the boy-bishop from among the children belonging to the cathedral. this mock dignity lasted till innocents' day; and, during the intermediate time, the boy performed various episcopal functions. if it happened that he died before the allotted period of this extraordinary mummery had expired, he was buried with all the ceremonials which were used at the funerals of prelates. in the voluminous collections relating to antiquities, bequeathed by mr. cole, who was himself of eton and king's colleges, to the british museum, is a note which ~ ~~ mentions that the ceremony of the bairn or boy-bishop was to be observed by charter, and that geoffry blythe, bishop of lichfield, who died in , bequeathed several ornaments to those colleges, for the dress of the bairn-bishop. but on what authority this industrious antiquary gives the information, which, if correct, would put an end to all doubt on the subject, does not appear. but, after all, why may not this custom be supposed to have originated in a procession to perform an annual mass at the altar of some saint, to whom a small chapel might have been dedicated on the mount called salt-hill; a ceremony very common in catholic countries, as such an altar is a frequent appendage to their towns and populous villages? as for the selling of salt, it may be considered as a natural accompaniment, when its emblematical character, as to its use in the ceremonies of the roman church, is contemplated. till the time of doctor barnard, the procession of the montem was every two years, and on the first or second tuesday in february. it consisted of something of a military array. the boys in the remove, fourth, and inferior forms, marched in a long file of two and two, with white poles in their hands, while the sixth and fifth form boys walked on their flanks as officers, and habited in all the variety of dress, each of them having a boy of the inferior forms, smartly equipped, attending on him as a footman. the second boy in the school led the procession in a military dress, with a truncheon in his hand, and bore for the day the title of marshal: then followed the captain, supported by his chaplain, the head scholar of the fifth form, dressed in a suit of black, with a large bushy wig, and a broad beaver decorated with a twisted silk hatband and rose, the fashionable distinction of the dignified clergy of that day. it was his office to read certain latin prayers on the mount at salt-hill the third boy of the school brought up the rear as lieutenant. one of the higher classes, whose qualification was his activity, was chosen ensign, and carried the colours, which were emblazoned with the college arms, and the motto, _pro mort el monte_. this flag, before the procession left the college, he flourished in the school-yard with all the dexterity displayed at astley's and places of similar exhibition. the same ceremony was repeated after prayers, on the mount. the regiment dined in the inns at salt-hill, and then returned to the college; and its dismission in the school-yard was announced by the universal drawing of all the swords. those who bore the title of commissioned officers were exclusively on the foundation, and carried spontoons; the rest were considered as serjeants and corporals, and a most curious assemblage of figures they exhibited. the two principal salt-bearers consisted of an oppidan and a colleger: the former was generally some nobleman, whose figure and personal connexions might advance the interests of the collections. they were dressed like running footmen, and carried, each of them, a silk bag to receive the contributions, in which was a small quantity of salt. during doctor barnard's mastership, the ceremony was made triennial, the time changed from february to whit- tuesday, and several of its absurdities retrenched. an ancient and savage custom of hunting a ram by the foundation scholars, on saturday in the election week, was abolished in the earlier part of the last century. the curious twisted clubs with which these collegiate hunters were armed on the occasion are still to be seen in antiquarian collections. ~ ~~ what coronation, tournament, or courtly pageant, can outshine thy splendid innocence and delightful gaiety? what regal banquet yields half the pure enjoyment the sons of old etona experience, when, after months of busy preparation, the happy morn arrives ushered in with the inspiring notes of "_auld lang syne_" from the well-chosen band in the college breakfast-room? then, too, the crowds of admiring spectators, the angel host of captivating beauties with their starry orbs of light, and luxuriant tresses, curling in playful elegance around a face beaming with divinity, or falling in admired negligence over bosoms of alabastrine whiteness and unspotted purity within! grey-bearded wisdom and the peerless great, the stars of honor in the field and state, the pulpit and the bar, send forth their brightest ornaments to grace etona's holiday. oxford and cambridge, too, lend their classic aid, and many a grateful son of _alma mater_ returns to acknowledge his obligations to his early tutors and swell the number of the mirthful host. here may be seen, concentrated in the quadrangle, the costume of every nation, in all the gay variety that fancy can devise: the persian spangled robe, and the embroidered greek vest; the graceful spanish, and the picturesque italian, the roman toga and the tunic, and the rich old english suit. pages in red frocks, and marshals in their satin ~~ doublets; white wands and splendid turbans, plumes, and velvet hats, all hastening with a ready zeal to obey the call of the muster-roll. the captain with his retinue retires to pay his court to the provost; while, in the doctor's study, may be seen, gathered around the dignitary, a few of those great names who honor eton and owe their honor to her classic tutors. twelve o'clock strikes, and the procession is now marshalled in the quadrangle in sight of the privileged circle, princes, dukes, peers, and doctors with their ladies. here does the ensign first display his skill in public, and the montem banner is flourished in horizontal revolutions about the head and waist with every grace of elegance and ease which the result of three months' practice and no little strength can accomplish. twelve o'clock strikes, and the procession moves forward to the playing fields on its route to salt-hill. now look the venerable spires and antique towers of eton like to some chieftain's baronial castle in the feudal times, and the proud captain represents the hero marching forth at the head of his parti-coloured vassals! the gallant display of rank and fashion and beauty follow in their splendid equipages by slow progressive movement, like the delightful lingering, inch by inch approach to st. james's palace on a full court-day. the place itself is calculated to impress the mind with sentiments of veneration and of heart-moving reminiscences; seated in the bosom of one of the richest landscapes in the kingdom, where on the height majestic windsor lifts its royal brow; calmly magnificent, over-looking, from his round tower, the surrounding country, and waving his kingly banner in the air: 'tis the high court of english chivalry, the birth-place, the residence, and the mausoleum of her kings, and "i' the olden time," the prison of her captured monarchs. "at once, the sovereign's and ~ ~~ the muses' seat," rich beyond almost any other district in palaces, and fanes, and villas, in all the "pomp of patriarchal forests," and gently-swelling hills, and noble streams, and waving harvests; there denham wrote, and pope breathed the soft note of pastoral inspiration; and there too the immortal bard of avon chose the scene in which to wind the snares of love around his fat-encumbered knight. who can visit the spot without thinking of datchet mead and the buck-basket of sweet anne page and master slender, and mine host of the garter, and all the rest of that merry, intriguing crew? and now having reached the foot of the mount and old druidical barrow, the flag is again waved amid the cheers of the surrounding thousands who line its sides, and in their carriages environ its ancient base.{ } now the salt-bearers and the pages bank their collections in one common stock, and the juvenile band partake of the captain's banquet, and drink success to his future prospects in botham's port. then, too, old herbertus stockhore--he must not be forgotten; i have already introduced him to your notice in p. , and my friend bob transit has illustrated the sketch with his portrait; yet here he demands notice in his official character, and perhaps i cannot do better than quote the humorous account given of him by the elegant pen of an old etonian { } "who is that buffoon that travesties the travesty? who is that old cripple alighted from his donkey-cart, who dispenses doggrel and grimaces in all the glory of plush and printed calico?" "that, my most noble cynic, is a prodigious personage. shall birth-days and coronations be recorded in immortal odes, and montem not have its minstrel he, sir, is herbertus stockhore; who first called upon his muse in the good old days of paul whitehead,-- see plate of the montem, sketched on the spot. see knight's quarterly magazine, no. ii. ~ ~~ run a race with pye through all the sublimities of lyres and fires,--and is now hobbling to his grave, after having sung fourteen montems, the only existing example of a legitimate laureate. "he ascended his heaven of invention, before the vulgar arts of reading and writing, which are banishing all poetry from the world, could clip his wings. he was an adventurous soldier in his boyhood; but, having addicted himself to matrimony and the muses, settled as a bricklayer's labourer at windsor. his meditations on the house-tops soon grew into form and substance; and, about the year , he aspired, with all the impudence of shad well, and a little of the pride of petrarch, to the laurel-crown of eton. from that day he has worn his honors on his 'cibberian forehead' without a rival." "and what is his style of composition?" "vastly naïve and original;--though the character of the age is sometimes impressed upon his productions. for the first three odes, ere the school of pope was extinct, he was a compiler of regular couplets such as-- 'ye dames of honor and lords of high renown, who come to visit us at eton town.'" during the next nine years, when the remembrance of collins and gray was working a glorious change in the popular mind, he ascended to pindarics, and closed his lyrics with some such pious invocation as this:-- 'and now we'll sing god save the king, and send him long to reign, that he may come to have some fun at montem once again. ' during the first twelve years of the present century, the influence of the lake school was visible in his ~ ~~ productions. in my great work i shall give an elaborate dissertation on his imitations of the high-priests of that worship; but i must now content myself with a single illustration:-- 'there's ensign ronnell, tall and proud, doth stand upon the hill, and waves the flag to all the crowd, who much admire his skill. and here i sit upon my ass, who lops his shaggy ears; mild thing! he lets the gentry pass, nor heeds the carriages and peel's.' he was once infected (but it was a venial sin) by the heresies of the cockney school; and was betrayed, by the contagion of evil example, into the following conceits: 'behold admiral keato of the terrestrial crew, who teaches greek, latin, and likewise hebrew; he has taught captain dampier, the first in the race, swirling his hat with a feathery grace, cookson the marshal, and willoughby, of size, making minor serjeant-majors in looking-glass eyes.' but he at length returned to his own pure and original style; and, like the dying swan, he sings the sweeter as he is approaching the land where the voice of his minstrelsy shall no more be heard. there is a calm melancholy in the close of his present ode which is very pathetic, and almost shakspearian:-- 'farewell you gay and happy throng! farewell my muse! farewell my song! farewell salt-hill! farewell brave captain.' yet, may it be long before he goes hence and is no more seen! may he limp, like his rhymes, for at least a dozen years; for national schools have utterly annihilated our hopes of a successor!" "i will not attempt to reason with you," said the inquirer, "about the pleasures of montem;--but to an ~ ~~ etonian it is enough that it brings pure and ennobling recollections--calls up associations of hope and happiness--and makes even the wise feel that there is something better than wisdom, and the great that there is something nobler than greatness. and then the faces that come about us at such a time, with their tales of old friendships or generous rivalries. i have seen to-day fifty fellows of whom i remember only the nick-names;--they are now degenerated into scheming m.p.'s, or clever lawyers, or portly doctors; -but at montera they leave the plodding world of reality for one day, and regain the dignities of sixth-form etonians." { } to enumerate all the distinguished persons educated at eton would be no easy task; many of the greatest ornaments of our country have laid the foundation of all their literary and scientific wealth within the towers of this venerable edifice. bishops fleetwood and pearson, the learned john hales, dr. stanhope, sir robert walpole, the great earl camden, outred the mathematician, boyle the philosopher, waller the poet, the illustrious earl of chatham, lord lyttelton, gray the poet, and an endless list of shining characters have owned eton for their scholastic nursery: not to mention the various existing literati who have received their education at this celebrated college. the local situation of eton is romantic and pleasing; there is a monastic gloom about the building, finely contrasting with the beauty of the surrounding scenery, which irresistibly enchains the eye and heart. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ farewell to eton. horatio had just concluded the last sentence of the description of the eton montem, when my aunt, who had now exceeded her usual retiring time by at least half an hour, made a sudden start, upon hearing the chimes of the old castle clock proclaim a notice of the midnight hour. "heavens! boy," said lady mary oldstyle, "what rakes we are! i believe we must abandon all intention of inviting your friend bernard here; for should his conversation prove half as entertaining as these miscellaneous whims and scraps of his early years, we should, i fear, often encroach upon the midnight lamp." "you forget, aunt," replied horatio, "that the swallow has already commenced his spring habitation beneath the housings of our bed-room window, that the long summer evenings will soon be here, and then how delightful would be the society of an intelligent friend to accompany us in our evening perambulations through the park, to chat away half an hour with in the hermitage, or to hold converse on your favourite subject botany, and run through all the varieties of the _camelia japonica_, or the _magnolia fuscata_; then too, i will confess, my own selfishness in the proposition, the pleasure of my friend's company in my fishing excursions, would divest my favourite amusement of its solitary character." ~ ~~ my aunt nodded assent, drew the cowl of her ancient silk cloak over the back part of her head, and, with a half-closed eye, muttered out, in tones of sympathy, her fullest accordance in the proposed arrangement. "i have only one more trifle to read," said horatio, "before i conclude the history of our school-boy days." "we had better have the bed-candles," said my aunt. "you had better hear the conclusion, aunt," said horatio, "and then we can commence the english spy with the evening of to-morrow." my aunt wanted but little excitement to accede to the request, and that little was much exceeded in the promise of horatio's reading bernard's new work on the succeeding evening, when she had calculated on being left in solitary singleness by her nephew's visit to the county ball. "you must know, aunt," said horatio, "that it has been a custom, from time immemorial at eton, for every scholar to write a farewell ode on his leaving, which is presented to the head master, and is called a vale; in addition, some of the most distinguished characters employ first-rate artists to paint their portraits, which, as a tribute of respect, they present to the principal. dr. barnard had nearly a hundred of these grateful faces hanging in his sanctum sanctorum, and the present master bids fair to rival his learned and respected predecessor. ~ ~~ my friend's vale, like every other production of his pen, is marked by the distinguishing characteristic eccentricity of his mind. the idea, i suspect, was suggested by the earl of carlisle's elegant verses, to which he has previously alluded; you will perceive he has again touched upon the peculiarities of his associates, the _dramatis persono_ of 'the english spy,' and endeavoured, in prophetic verse, to unfold the secrets of futurity, as it relates to their dispositions, prospects, and pursuits in life." [illustration: page ] my vale. in infancy oft' by observance we trace what life's future page may unfold; who the senate, the bar, or the pulpit may grace, who'll obtain wreathe of fame or of gold. my vale, should my muse prove but willing and free, parting sorrows to chase from my brain, shall in metre prophetic, on some two or three, indulge in her whimsical vein. first keate let me give to thy talents and worth, a tribute that all will approve; when atropos shall sever thy life's thread on earth thou shalt fall rich in honor and love. revered as respected thy memory last, ~ ~~ long, long, as etona is known, engraved on the hearts of thy scholars, the blast of detraction ne'er sully thy stone. others too i could name and as worthy of note, but my vale 'twould too lengthy extend: sage _domine_ all,--all deserving my vote, who the tutor combine with the friend. but a truce with these ancients, the young i must seek, the juvenile friends of my heart, of secrets hid in futurity speak, and tell how they'll each play their part. first heartly, the warmth of thy generous heart shall expand with maturity's years; new joys to the ag'd and the poor thou'lt impart, and dry up pale misery's tears. next honest tom echo, the giddy and gay, in sports shall all others excel; and the sound of his horn, with "ho! boys, hark--away!" re-echo his worth through life's dell. ~ ~~ horace eglantine deep at pierian spring inspiration poetic shall quaff, in numbers majestic with shakespeare to sing, or in lyrics with pindar to laugh. little gradus, sage dick, you'll a senator see, but a lawyer in every sense, whose personal interest must paramount be, no matter whate'er his pretence. the exquisite lilyman lionise mark, of fashion the fool and the sport; with the gamesters a dupe, he shall drop like a spark, forgot by the blaze of the court. bob transit,--if prudent, respected and rich by his talent shall rise into note; and in fame's honor'd temple be sure of a niche, by each r.a.'s unanimous vote. bernard blackmantle's fortune alone is in doubt, for prophets ne'er tell of themselves; but one thing his heart has a long time found out, ~ ~~ 'tis his love for etonian elves. for the college, and dames, and the dear playing fields where science and friendship preside, for the spot which the balm of true happiness yields, as each day by its fellow doth glide. adieu, honor'd masters! kind dames, fare thee well! ye light-hearted spirits adieu! how feeble my vale--my griev'd feelings to tell as etona declines from my view. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ "men are my subject, and not fictions vain; oxford my chaunt, and satire is my strain." [illustration: page ] five characteristic orders of oxford. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ the freshman. reflections on leaving eton--a university whip--sketches on the road--the joneses of jesus--picturesque appearance of oxford from the distance--the arrival--welcome of an old etonian--visit to dr. dingyman--a university don-- presentation to the big wig--ceremony of matriculation. "yes; if there be one sacred scene of ease, where reason yet may dawn, and virtue please; where ancient science bursts again to view with mightier truths, which athens never knew, one spot to order, peace, religion dear; rise, honest pride, nor blush to claim it here." who shall attempt to describe the sensations of a young and ardent mind just bursting from the trammels of scholastic discipline to breathe the purer air of classic freedom--to leap at once from ~ ~~ boyhood and subjection into maturity and unrestricted liberty of conduct; or who can paint the heart's agitation, the conflicting passions which prevail when the important moment arrives that is to separate him from the associates of his infancy; from the endearing friendships of his earliest years; from his schoolboy sports and pastimes (often the most grateful recollections of a riper period); or from those ancient spires and familiar scenes to which his heart is wedded in its purest and earliest love. reader, if you have ever tasted of the delightful cup of youthful friendship, and pressed with all the glow of early and sincere attachment the venerable hand of a kind instructor, or met the wistful eye and hearty grasp of parting schoolfellows, and ancient dames, and obliging servants, you will easily discover how embarrassing a task it must be to depict in words the agitating sensations which at such a moment spread their varied influence over the mind. i had taken care to secure the box seat of the old oxford, that on my approach i might enjoy an uninterrupted view of the classic turrets and lofty spires of sacred {academus}. contemplation had fixed his seal upon my young lips for the first ten miles of my journey. abstracted and thoughtful, i had scarce turned my eye to admire the beauties of the surrounding scenery, or lent my ear to the busy hum of my fellow passengers' conversation, when a sudden action of the coach, which produced a sensation of alarm, first broke the gloomy mist that had encompassed me. after my fears had subsided, i inquired of the coachman what was the name of the place we had arrived at, and was answered henley.-"stony henley, sir," said our driver: "you might have discovered that by the _bit of a shake_ we just now experienced. i'll bet a _bullfinch_{ } that you know the place well enough, my young master, before you've been two terms at oxford." a sovereign. ~ ~~ this familiarity of style struck me as deserving reprehension; but i reflected this classic jehu was perhaps licensed by the light-hearted sons of _alma mater_ in these liberties of speech. suspending therefore my indignation, i proceeded,--"and why so?" said i inquisitively:--"why i know when i was an under graduate{ } of ----, where my father was principal, i used to keep a good _prad_ here for a bolt to the village,{ } and then i had a fresh hack always on the road to help me back to chapel prayers."{ } the nonchalance of the speaker, and the easy indifference with which he alluded to his former situation in life, struck me with astonishment, and created a curiosity to know more of his adventures; he had, i found, brought himself to his present degradation by a passion for gaming and driving, which had usurped every just and moral feeling. his father, i have since learned, felt his conduct deeply, and had been dead some time. his venerable mother having advanced him all her remaining property, was now reduced to a dependence upon the benevolence of a few liberal-minded oxford friends, and this son of the once celebrated head of--------college was now so lost to every sense of shame that he preferred the oxford road to exhibit himself on in his new character of a {university whip}. the circumstances here narrated are unfortunately too notorious to require further explanation: the character, drawn from the life, forms the vignette to this chapter. a cant phrase for a stolen run to the metropolis. no unusual circumstance with a gay oxonian, some of whom have been known to ride the same horse the whole distance and back again after prayers, and before daylight the next morning. when (to use the oxford phrase) a man is confined to chapel, or compelled to attend chapel prayers, it is a dangerous risk to be missing,--a severe imposition and sometimes rustication is sure to be the penalty. ~ ~~ immediately behind me on the roof of the vehicle sat a rosy-looking little gentleman, the rotundity of whose figure proclaimed him a man of some substance; he was habited in a suit of clerical mixture, with the true orthodox hat and rosette in front, the broadness of its brim serving to throw a fine mellow shadow over the upper part of a countenance, which would have formed a choice study for the luxuriant pencil of some modern rubens; the eyes were partially obscured in the deep recesses of an overhanging brow, and a high fat cheek, and the whole figure brought to my recollection a representation i had somewhere seen of silenus reproving his bacchanals: the picture was the more striking by the contrasted subjects it was opposed to: on one side was a spare-looking stripling, of about the age of eighteen, with lank hair brushed smoothly over his forehead, and a demure, half-idiot-looking countenance, that seemed to catch what little expression it had from the reflection of its sire, for such i discovered was the ancient's affinity to this cadaverous importation from north wales. the father, a welsh rector of at least one hundred and fifty pounds per annum, was conveying his eldest born to the care of the principal of jesus, of which college the family of the joneses{ } had been a leading name since the time of their great ancestor hugh ap price, son of rees ap rees, a wealthy burgess of brecknock, who founded this college for the sole use of the sons of cambria, in . david jones or, wine and worsted. hugh morgan, cousin of that hugh whose cousin was, the lord knows who, was likewise, as the story runs, tenth cousin of one david jones. david, well stored with classic knowledge, was sent betimes to jesus college; paternal bounty left him clear for life one hundred pounds a year; and jones was deem'd another croesus among the commoners of jesus. it boots not here to quote tradition, in proof of david's erudition;-- he could unfold the mystery high, of paulo-posts, and verbs in u; scan virgil, and, in mathematics, prove that straight lines were not quadratics. all oxford hail'd the youth's _ingressus_, and wond'ring welshmen cried "cot pless us!" it happen'd that his cousin hugh through oxford pass'd, to cambria due, and from his erudite relation receiv'd a written invitation. ~ ~~ hugh to the college gate repair'd, and ask'd for jones;--the porter stared! "jones! sir," quoth he, "discriminate: of mr. joneses there be eight." "ay, but 'tis david jones," quoth hugh; quoth porter, "we've six davids too." "cot's flesh!" cries morgan, "cease your mockings, my david jones wears worsted stockings!" quoth porter, "which it is, heaven knows, for all the eight wear worsted hose." "my cot!" says hugh, "i'm ask'd to dine with cousin jones, and quaff his wine." "that one word 'wine' is worth a dozen," quoth porter, "now i know your cousin; the wine has stood you, sir, in more stead than david, or the hose of worsted; you'll find your friend at number nine-- we've but one jones that quaffs his wine." all these particulars i gleaned from the rapid delivery of the welsh rector, who betrayed no little anxiety to discover if i was of the university; how long i had been matriculated; what was my opinion of the schools, and above all, if the same system of extravagance was pursued by the students, and under-graduates. too cautious to confess myself a freshman, i was therefore compelled to close the inquiry with a simple negative to his early questions, and an avowal of my ignorance in the last particular. the deficiency was, however, readily supplied by an old gentleman, who sat on the other side of the reverend mr. jones. i had taken ~ ~~ him, in the first instance, for a doctor of laws, physic, or divinity, by the studied neatness of his dress, the powdered head, and ancient appendage of a _queue_; with a measured manner of delivery, joined to an affected solemnity of carriage, and authoritative style. he knew every body, from the vice-chancellor to the scout; ran through a long tirade against driving and drinking, which he described as the capital sins of the sons of _alma mater_, complimented the old rector on his choice of a college for his son, and concluded with lamenting the great extravagance of the young men of the present day, whose affection for long credit compelled honest tradesmen to make out long bills to meet the loss of interest they sustain by dunning and delay. "observe, sir," said he, "the youth of england in our happy age! see, to their view what varied pleasure springs, cards, tennis, hilliards, and ten thousand things; 'tis theirs the coat with neater grace to wear, or tie the neckcloth with a royal air: the rapid race of wild expense to run; to drive the tandem or the chaise and one; to float along the isis, or to fly in haste to abingdon,--who knows not why? to gaze in shops, and saunter hours away in raising bills, they never think to pay: then deep carouse, and raise their glee the more, while angry duns assault th' unheeding door, and feed the best old man that ever trod, the merry poacher who defies his god." "you forget the long purses, sir e--," said our classical jehu, "which some of the oxford tradesmen have acquired by these long practices of the university, sir e--." the little welsh rector bowed with astonishment, while his rustic scion stared with wild alarm to find himself for the first time in his life in company with a man of title. a wink from coachee accompanied with an action of his _rein angle_ against my side, followed by a suppressed laugh, prepared me ~ ~~ for some important communications relative to my fellow traveller. "an old _snyder_,"{ } whispered jehu, "who was once mayor of oxford, and they do say was knighted by mistake,--' a thing of shreds and patches,' 'who, by short skirts and little capes, items for buckram, twist, and tapes, ' has, in his time, fine drawn half the university; but having retired from the seat of trade, now seeks the seat of the muses, and writes fustian rhymes and bell-men's odes at christmas time: a mere clod, but a great man with the corporation." we had now arrived on the heights within a short distance of the city of oxford, and i had the gratification for the first time to obtain a glance of sacred _academus_ peeping from between the elm groves in which she is embowered, to view those turrets which were to be the future scene of all my hopes and fears. never shall i forget the sensations, "----when first these glistening eyes survey'd majestic oxford's hundred towers display'd; and silver isis rolling at her feet adorn the sage's and the poet's seat: saw radcliffe's dome in classic beauty rear'd, and learning's stores in bodley's pile revered; first view'd, with humble awe, the steps that stray'd slow in the gloom of academic shade, or framed in thought, with fancy's magic wand, wise bacon's arch; thy bower, fair rosamond." in the bosom of a delightful valley, surrounded by the most luxuriant meadows, and environed by gently swelling hills, smiling in all the pride of cultivated beauty, on every side diversified by hanging wood, stands the fair city of learning and the arts. the two great roads from the capital converge upon the small church of st. clement, in the eastern suburb, from whence, advancing in a westerly direction, you ~ ~~ arrive at magdalen bridge, so named from the college adjoining, whose lofty graceful tower is considered a fine specimen of architecture. the prospect of the city from this point is singularly grand and captivating; on the left, the botanical garden, with its handsome portal; beyond, steeples and towers of every varied form shooting up in different degrees of elevation. the view of the high-street is magnificent, and must impress the youthful mind with sentiments of awe and veneration. its picturesque curve and expansive width, the noble assemblage of public and private edifices in all the pride of varied art, not rising in splendid uniformity, but producing an enchantingly varied whole, the entire perspective of which admits of no european rival-- "the awful tow'rs which seem for science made; the solemn chapels, which to prayer invite, whose storied windows shed a holy light--" the colleges of queen's and all souls', with the churches of st. mary and all saints' on the northern side of the street, and the venerable front of university college on the south, present at every step objects for contemplation and delight. whirling up this graceful curvature, we alighted at the mitre, an inn in the front of the high-street, inclining towards carfax. a number of under graduates in their academicals were posted round the door, or lounging on the opposite side, to watch the arrival of the coach, and amuse themselves with quizzing the passengers. among the foremost of the group, and not the least active, was my old schoolfellow and con, tom echo, now of christ church. the recognition was instantaneous; the welcome a hearty one, in the true etonian style; and the first connected sentence an invitation to dinner. "i shall make a party on purpose to introduce you, old chap," said tom, "that is, ~ ~~ as soon as you have made your bow to the _big wig_:{ } but i say, old fellow, where are you entered we are most of us overflowingly full here." i quickly satisfied his curiosity upon that point, by informing him i had been for some time enrolled upon the list of the foundation of brazennose, and had received orders to come up and enter myself. our conversation now turned upon the necessary ceremonies of matriculation. tom's face was enlivened to a degree when i showed him my letter of introduction to dr. dingyman, of l-n college. "what, the opposition member, the oxford palladio? why, you might just as well expect to move the temple of the winds from athens to oxford, without displacing a fragment, as to hope the doctor will present you to the vice-chancellor.--it won't do. we must find you some more tractable personage; some good-humoured nob that stands well with the principals, tells funny stories to their ladies, and drinks his three bottles like a true son of orthodoxy." "for heaven's sake! my dear fellow, if you do not wish to be pointed at, booked for an eccentric, or suspected of being profound, abandon all intention of being introduced through that medium. a first interview with that singular man will produce an examination that would far exceed the perils of the _great go_{ }-he will try your proficiency by the chart and scale of truth." "be that as it may, tom," said i, not a little alarmed by the account i had heard of the person to whom i was to owe my first introduction to alma mater, "i shall make the attempt; and should i fail, i shall yet hope to avail myself of your proffered kindness." a big wig. head of a college. a don. a learned man. a nob. a fellow of a college. the principal examining school. ~ ~~ after partaking of some refreshment, and adjusting my dress, we sallied forth to lionise, as tom called it, which is the oxford term for gazing about, usually applied to strangers. proceeding a little way along the high street from the mitre, and turning up the first opening on our left hand, we stood before the gateway of lincoln college. here tom shook hands, wished me a safe passport through what he was pleased to term the "_oxonia purgata_" and left me, after receiving my promise to join the dinner party at christ church. i had never felt so awkwardly in my life before: the apprehensions i was under of a severe examination; the difficulty of encountering a man whose superior learning and endowments of mind had rendered him the envy of the university, and above all, his reputed eccentricity of manners, created fears that almost palsied my tongue when i approached the hall to announce my arrival. if my ideas of the person had thus confounded me, my terrors were doubly increased upon entering his chamber: shelves groaning with ponderous folios and quartos of the most esteemed latin and greek authors, fragments of grecian and roman architecture, were disposed around the room; on the table lay a copy of stuart's athens, with a portfolio of drawings from palladio and vitruvius, and pozzo's perspective. in a moment the doctor entered, and, advancing towards me, seized my hand before i could scarcely articulate my respects. "i am glad to see you--be seated--you are of eton, i read, an ancient name and highly respected here--what works have you been lately reading?" i immediately ran through the list of our best school classics, at which i perceived the doctor smiled. "you have been treated, i perceive, like all who have preceded you: the bigotry of scholastic prejudices is intolerable. i have been for fifty years labouring to remove the veil, and have yet contrived ~ ~~ to raise only one corner of it. nothing," continued the doctor, "has stinted the growth and hindered the improvement of sound learning more than a superstitious reverence for the ancients; by which it is presumed that their works form the summit of all learning, and that nothing can be added to their discoveries. under this absurd and ridiculous prejudice, all the universities of europe have laboured for many years, and are only just beginning to see their error, by the encouragement of natural philosophy. experimental learning is the only mode by which the juvenile mind should be trained and exercised, in order to bring all its faculties to their proper action: instead of being involved in the mists of antiquity." can it be possible, thought i, this is the person of whom my friend tom gave such a curious account? can this be the man who is described as a being always buried in abstracted thoughtfulness on the architer cural remains of antiquity, whose opinions are said never to harmonize with those of other heads of colleges; who is described as eccentric, because he has a singular veneration for truth, and an utter abhorrence of the dogmas of scholastic prejudice there are some few characters in the most elevated situations of life, who possess the amiable secret of attaching every one to them who have the honour of being admitted into their presence, without losing one particle of dignity, by their courteous manner. this agreeable qualification the doctor appeared to possess in an eminent degree. i had not been five minutes in his company before i felt as perfectly unembarrassed as if i had known him intimately for twelve months. it could not be the result of confidence on my part, for no poor fellow ever felt more abashed upon a first entrance; and must therefore only be attributable to that indescribable condescension of easy intercourse which is the sure characteristic of a superior mind. ~ ~~ after inquiring who was to be my tutor, and finding i was not yet fixed in that particular, i was requested to construe one of the easiest passages in the Æneid; my next task was to read a few paragraphs of monkish latin from a little white book, which i found contained the university statutes: having acquitted myself in this to the apparent satisfaction of the doctor, he next proceeded to give me his advice upon my future conduct and pursuits in the university; remarked that his old friend, my father, could not have selected a more unfortunate person to usher me into notice: that his habits were those of a recluse, and his associations confined almost within the walls of his own college; but that his good wishes for the son of an old friend and schoolfellow would, on this occasion, induce him to present me, in person, to the principal of brazennose, of whom he took occasion to speak in the highest possible terms. having ordered me a sandwich and a glass of wine for my refreshment, he left me to adjust his dress, preparatory to our visit to the dignitary. during his absence i employed the interval in amusing myself with a small octavo volume, entitled the "oxford spy:" the singular coincidence of the following extract according so completely with the previous remarks of the doctor, induced me to believe it was his production; but in this suspicion, i have since been informed, i was in error, the work being written by shergold boone, esq. a young member of the university. "thus i remember, ere these scenes i saw, but hope had drawn them, such as hope will draw, a shrewd old man, on isis' margin bred, smiled at my warmth, and shook his wig, and said: 'youth will be sanguine, but before you go, learn these plain rules, and treasure, when you know. wisdom is innate in the gown and band; their wearers are the wisest of the land. ~ ~~ science, except in oxford, is a dream; in all things heads of houses are supreme { } proctors are perfect whosoe'er they be; logic is reason in epitome: examiners, like kings, can do no wrong; all modern learning is not worth a song: passive obedience is the rule of right; to argue or oppose is treason quite:{ } mere common sense would make the system fall: things are worth nothing; words are all in all." on his return, the ancient glanced at the work i had been reading, and observing the passage i have just quoted, continued his remarks upon the discipline of the schools.--"in the new formed system of which we boast," said the master, "the philosophy which has enlightened the world is omitted or passed over in a superficial way, and the student is exercised in narrow and contracted rounds of education, in which his whole labour is consumed, and his whole time employed, with little improvement or useful knowledge. he has neither time nor inclination to attend the public lectures in the several departments of philosophy; nor is he qualified for that attendance. all that he does, or is required to do, is to prepare himself to pass through these contracted rounds; to write a theme, or point an epigram; but when he enters upon life, action, or profession, both the little go, and the great go, he will find to be a by go; for he will find that he has gone by the best part of useful and substantial learning; know all men by these presents, that children in the uni- versities eat pap and go in leading strings till they are fourscore. --terro filius. in a work quaintly entitled "phantasm of an university," there occurs this sweeping paragraph, written in the true spirit of radical reform: "great advantages might be obtained by gradually transforming christ church into a college of civil polity and languages; magdalen, queen's, university, into colleges of moral philosophy; new and trinity into colleges of fine arts; and the five halls into colleges of agriculture and manufactures." ~~ or that it has gone by him: to recover which he must repair from this famous seat of learning to the institutions of the metropolis, or in the provincial towns. i have just given you these hints, that you may escape the errors of our system, and be enabled to avoid the pomp of learning which is without the power, and acquire the power of knowledge without the pomp." here ended the lecture, and my venerable conductor and myself made the best of our way to pay our respects to the principal of my future residence. arrived here--the principal, a man of great dignity, received us with all due form, and appeared exceedingly pleased with the visit of my conductor; my introduction was much improved by a letter from the head master of eton, who, i have no doubt, said more in my favour than i deserved. the appointment of a tutor was the next step, and for this purpose i was introduced to mr. jay, a smart-looking little man, very polite and very portly, with whom i retired to display my proficiency in classical knowledge, by a repetition of nearly the same passages in homer and virgil i had construed previously with the learned doctor; the next arrangement was the sending for a tailor, who quickly produced my academical robes and cap, in the which, i must confess, i at first felt rather awkward. i was now hurried to the vice-chancellor's house adjoining pembroke college, where i had the honour of a presentation to that dignitary; a mild-looking man of small stature, with the most affable and graceful manners, dignified, and yet free from the slightest tinge of _hauteur_. his reception of my tutor was friendly and unembarrassing; his inquiries relative to myself directed solely to my proficiency in the classics, of which i had again to give some specimens; i was then directed to subscribe my name in a large folio album, which proved to contain the thirty-nine articles, not one ~ ~~ sentence of which i had ever read; but it was too late for hesitation, and i remembered tom echo had informed me i should have to attest to a great deal of nonsense, which no one ever took the pains to understand. the remainder of this formal initiation was soon despatched: i separately abjured the damnable doctrines of the pope, swore allegiance to the king, and vowed to preserve the statutes and privileges of the society i was then admitted into; paid my appointed fees, made my bow to the vice-chancellor, and now concluded that the ceremony of the _togati_ was all over: in this, however, i was mistaken; my tutor requesting some conference with me at his rooms, thither we proceeded, and arranged the plan of my future studies; then followed a few general hints relative to conduct, the most important of which was my obeisance to the dignitaries, by capping{ } whenever i met them; the importance of a strict attendance to the lectures of logic, mathematics, and divinity, to the certain number of twenty in each term; a regular list of the tradesmen whom i was requested to patronize; and, lastly, the entry of my name upon the college books and payment of the necessary _caution money_.{ } _entering_ keeps one term; but as rooms were vacant, i was fortunate in obtaining an immediate appointment. as the day was now far advanced, i deemed it better to return to my inn and dress for the dinner party at christ church. capping--by the students and under graduates is touching the cap to the vice-chancollor, proctors, fellows, &c. when passing. at christ church tradesmen and servants must walk bareheaded through the quadrangle when the dean, canons, censors, or tutors are present. at pembroke this order is rigidly enforced, even in wet weather. at brazennose neither servants nor tradesmen connected with the college are allowed to enter it otherwise. it is not long since a certain bookseller was discommoned for wearing his hat in b- n-e quadrangle, and literally ruined in consequence. caution money--a sum of money deposited in the hands of the treasurer or bursar by every member on his name being entered upon the college books, as a security for the payment of all bills and expenses contracted by him within the walls of the college. this money is returned when the party takes his degree or name off the books; and no man can do either of these without receipts in full from the butler, manciple, and cook of their respective colleges. ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ architectural reminiscences--descriptive remarks--similitude between the characters of cardinal wolsey and napoleon. it was past five o'clock when i arrived before the majestic towers of christ church.--the retiring sun brightening the horizon with streaks of gold at parting, shed a rich glow over the scene that could not fail to rivet my attention to the spot. not all the fatigues of the day, nor the peculiarities of my new situation, had, in the least, abated my admiration of architectural beauties. the noble octagonal tower in the enriched gothic style, rising like a colossal ~ ~~ monument of art among the varied groups of spires, domes, and turrets, which from a distance impress the traveller with favourable ideas of the magnificence of oxford, first attracted my notice, and recalled to my memory two names that to me appear to be nearly associated (by comparison) with each other, wolsey and napoleon; both gifted by nature with almost all the brightest qualifications of great minds; both arriving at the highest point of human grandeur from the most humble situations; equally the patrons of learning, science, and the arts; and both equally unfortunate, the victims of ambition: both persecuted exiles; yet, further i may add, that both have left behind them a fame which brightens with increasing years, and must continue to do as every passing day removes the mist of prejudice from the eyes of man. such were the thoughts that rushed upon my mind as i stood gazing on the splendid fabric before me, from the western side of st. aidates, unheedful of the merry laughter-loving group of students and under-graduates, who, lounging under the vaulted gateway, were amusing themselves at my expense in quizzing a freshman in the act of lionising. the tower contains the celebrated _magnus thomas_, recast from the great bell of osney abbey, by whose deep note at the hour of nine in the evening the students are summoned to their respective colleges. the upper part of the tower displays in the bracketed canopies and carved enrichments the skilful hand of sir christopher wren, whose fame was much enhanced by the erection of the gorgeous turrets which project on each side of the gateway.{ } not caring to endure a closer attack of the _togati_, who had now approached me, i crossed and entered the great quadrangle, or, according to oxford phraseology, _tom quad_. the irregular nature of the buildings here by no means assimilate with the elegance of the exterior entrance. it was here, in lord orford's opinion, that he "caught the graces of the true gothic taste." [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ the eastern, northern, and part of the southern sides of the quadrangle are, i have been since informed, inhabited by the dean and canons; the western by students. the broad terrace in front of the buildings, the extent of the arena, and the circular basin of water in the centre, render this an agreeable promenade.--i had almost forgotten the deity of the place (i hope not symbolical), a leaden mercury{ }; the gift of dr. john radcliffe, which rises from the centre of the basin, on the spot where once stood the sacred cross of st. frideswide, and the pulpit of the reformer, wickliffe. since pulled down and destroyed. the dinner party. bernard blackmantles visit to tom echo---oxford phraseology- smuggled dinners--a college party described--topography of a man's boom--portrait of a bachelor of arts--hints to freshmen--customs of the university. ~ ~~ "when first the freshman, bashful, blooming, young, blessings which here attend not handmaids long, assumes that cap, which franchises the man, and feels beneath the gown dilate his span; when he has stood with modest glance, shy fear, and stiff-starch'd band before our prime vizier, and sworn to articles he scarcely knew, and forsworn doctrines to his creed all new: through fancy's painted glass he fondly sees monastic turrets, patriarchal trees, the cloist'ral arches' awe-inspiring shade, the high-street sonnetized by wordsworth's jade, his raptured view a paradise regards, nurseling of hope! he builds on paper cards." on the western side of tom quad, up one flight of stairs, by the porter's aid i discovered the battered oaken door which led to the _larium_ of my friend echo: that this venerable bulwark had sustained many a brave attack from besiegers was visible in the numerous bruises and imprints of hammers, crowbars, and other weapons, which had covered its surface with many an indented scar. the utmost caution was apparent in the wary scout,{ } a scout, at christ church, performs the same duties for ten or twelve students as a butler and valet in a gentleman's family. there are no women bedmakers at any college except christ church, that duty being performed by the scout. ~ ~~ who admitted me; a necessary precaution, as i afterwards found, to prevent the prying eye of some inquisitive domine, whose nose has a sort of instinctive attraction in the discovery of smuggled dinners.{ } within i found assembled half a dozen good-humoured faces, all young, and all evidently partaking of the high flow of spirits and animated vivacity of the generous hearted tom echo. a college introduction is one of little ceremony, the surname alone being used,--a practice, which, to escape quizzing, must also be followed on your card. "here, old fellows," said tom, taking me by the hand, and leading me forwards to his companions, "allow me to introduce an ex{ }-college man,--blackmantle of brazennose, a freshman{ } and an etonian: so, lay to him, boys; he's just broke loose from the land of sheepishness,{ } passed pupils straits{ } and the isle of matriculation{ } to follow dads will,{ } in the port of stuffs{ }; from which, if he can steer clear of the fields of temptation{ } smuggled dinners are private parties in a student's room, when the dinner is brought into college from a tavern: various are the ingenious stratagems of the togati to elude the vigilance of the authorities: trunks, packing-boxes, violoncello-cases, and hampers are not unfrequently directed as if from a waggon or coach-office, and brought into college on the shoulders of some porter. tin cans of soup are drawn up by means of a string from the back windows in the adjoining street. it is not long since mr. c- of christ church was expelled for having a dinner smuggled into college precisely in the manner adopted by tom echo. a university man who is visiting in a college of which he is not a member. the usual phrase for initiating a freshman on his first appearance in a party or frisk. land of sheepishness--school-boy's bondage. pupil's straits--interval between restraint and liberty. isle of matriculation--first entrance into the university. dad's will--parental authority. port for stay's--assumption of commoner's gown. fields of temptation--the attractions held out to him. ~ ~~ he hopes to make the _land of promise_,{ } anchor his bark in the _isthmus of grace_,{ } and lay up snugly for life on the _land of incumbents_."{ } "for heaven's sake, tom," said i," speak in some intelligible language; it's hardly fair to fire off your battery of oxonian wit upon a poor freshman at first sight." at this moment a rap at the _oak_ announced an addition to our party, and in bounded that light-hearted child of whim, horace eglantine:--"what, blackmantle here? why then, tom, we can form as complete a trio as ever got _bosky_{ } with _bishop_{ } in _the province of bacchus_,{ }! why, what a plague, my old fellow, has given you that rueful-looking countenance? i am sure you was not plucked upon _maro common_ or _homer downs_{ } in passing examination with the big wig this morning; or has tom been frisking{ } you already with some of his jokes about the _straits of independency_{ }; the _waste of ready_{ }; the dynasty of venus,{ } or the quicksands of rustication{ }. land of promise--the fair expectations of a steady novice in oxford. isthmus of grace--obtainment of the grace of one's college. land of incumbents--good livings. bosky is the term used in oxford to express the style of being "half seas over." bishop--a good orthodox mead composed of port wine and roasted oranges or lemons. province of bacchus--inebriety. maro common and homer downs allude to the Æneid of virgil and the iliad of homer--two books chiefly studied for the little-go or responsions. frisking--hoaxing. straits of independency--frontiers of extravagance. waste of ready, including in it hoyle's dominions-- course of gambling, including loo tables. dynasty of venus--indiscriminate love and misguided affections. quicksands of rustication--on which our hero may at any time run foul when inclined to visit a new county. ~ ~~ cheer up, old fellow! you are not half way through the ceremony of initiation yet. we must brighten up that solemn phiz of yours, and give you a lesson or two on college principles? if i had been thrown upon some newly-discovered country, among a race of wild indians, i could not have been more perplexed and confounded than i now felt in endeavouring to rally, and appear to comprehend this peculiar phraseology. a conversation now ensuing between a gentleman commoner, whom the party designated pontius pilate{ } and tom echo, relative to the comparative merits of their hunters, afforded me an opportunity of surveying the _larium_ of my friend; the entrance to which was through a short passage, that served the varied purposes of an ante-room or vestibule, and a scout's pantry and boot-closet. on the right was the sleeping-room, and at the foot of a neat french bed i could perceive the wine bin, surrounded by a regiment of _dead men_{ } who had, no doubt, departed this life like heroes in some battle of bacchanalian sculls. the principal chamber, the very _penetrale_ of the muses, was about six yards square, and low, with a rich carved oaken wainscoting, reaching to the ceiling; the monastic gloom being materially increased by two narrow loopholes, intended for windows, but scarcely yielding sufficient light to enable the student to read his _scapula or lexicon_{ } with the advantage of a meridian sun: the fire-place was immensely wide, emblematical, no doubt, of the capacious stomachs of the good fathers and fellows, the ancient inhabitants of this _sanctum_; but the most singularly-striking characteristic was the modern decorations, introduced by the present occupant. a quaint cognomen applied to him from the rapidity with which he boasted of repeating the nicene creed,--i.e. offering a bet that no would give any man as far as "pontius pilate," and beat him before he got to the "resurrection of the dead." dead men--empty bottles. scapula, hederic, and lexicon, the principal dictionaries in use for studying greek. ~ ~~ over the fire-place hung a caricature portrait of a well-known bachelor of arts, drinking at the _pierian spring, versus_ gulping down the contents of a pembroke _overman_,{ } sketched by the facetious pencil of the humorist, rowlandson. [illustration: page ] eccÈ signum. i could not help laughing to observe on the one side of this jolly personage a portrait of the little female giovanni vestris, under which some wag had inscribed, "_a mistress of hearts_," and on the other a full-length of jackson the pugilist, with this motto--"a striking likeness of a fancy lecturer." an herman--at pembroke, a large silver tankard, holding two quarts and half a pint, so called from the donor, mr. george overman. the late john hudson, the college tonsor and _common room man_,{*} was famous for having several times, for trifling wagers, drank a full overman of strong beer off at a draught. a tun, another vessel in use at pembroke, is a half pint silver cup. a whistler, a silver pint tankard also in use there, was the gift of mr. anthony whistler, a cotemporary with shenstone. * common room man, a servant who is entirely employed in attending upon the members of the common room. junior common room, a room in every college, except christ church, set apart for the junior members to drink wine in and read the newspapers. n.b. there is but one common room at christ church; none but masters of arts and noblemen can be members of it,--the latter but seldom attend. the last who attended was the late duke of dorset. all common rooms are regularly furnished with newspapers and magazines. _curator of the common rooms_.-a senior master of arts, who buys the wine and inspects the accounts. ~ ~~ in the centre of the opposite side hung the portrait of an old _scout_, formerly of brazennose, whose head now forms the admission ticket to the college club. right and left were disposed the plaster busts of aristotle and cicero; the former noseless, and the latter with his eyes painted black, and a huge pair of mustachios annexed. a few volumes of the latin and greek classics were thrown into a heap in one corner of the room, while numerous modern sporting publications usurped their places on the book shelves, richly gilt and bound in calf, but not lettered. the hunting cap, whip, and red coat were hung up like a trophy between two foxes' tails, which served the purpose of bell pulls. at this moment, my topographical observations were disturbed by the arrival of the scout with candles, and two strange-looking fellows in smock frocks, bringing in, as i supposed, a piano forte, but which, upon being placed on the table, proved to be a mere case: the top being taken off, the sides and ends let down in opposite directions, and the cloth pulled out straight, displayed an elegant dinner, smoking hot, and arranged in as much form as if the college butler had superintended the feast. "come, old fellow," said tom, "turn to--no ceremony. i hope, jem," addressing his scout, "you took care that no ~ ~~ college telegraph{ } was at work while you were smuggling the dinner in." "i made certain sure of that, sir," said jem; "for i placed captain cook{ } sentinel at one corner of the quadrangle, and old brady at the other, with directions to whistle, as a signal, if they saw any of the _dons_ upon the look out." finding we were not likely to be interrupted by the _domine_, tom took the chair. the fellows in the smock frocks threw off their disguises, and proved to be two genteelly dressed waiters from one of the inns. "close the oak, jem," said horace eglantine, "and take care no one knocks in{ } before we have knocked down the contents of your master's musical melange." "_punning_ as usual, eglantine," said the honourable mr. sparkle, a gentleman commoner. "yes; and _pun_-ishing too, old fellow!" said horace. "where's the _cold tankard_,{ } echo? a college telegraph--a servant of a college, who carries an account of every trifling offence committed, either by gentlemen or servants, to the college officers. well-known characters in christ church. knocking in--going into college after half-past ten at night. the names of the gentlemen who knock in are entered by the porter in a book kept for that purpose, and the next morning it is carried to the dean and censors, who generally call upon the parties so offending to account for being out of college at so late an hour. a frequent recurrence of this practice will sometimes draw from the dean a very severe reprimand. knocking in money--fines levied for knocking into college at improper hours: the first fine is fixed at half-past ten, and increased every half hour afterwards. these fines are entered on the batter book, and charged among the battels and decrements,* a portion of which is paid to the porter quarterly, for being knocked up. cold tankard--a summer beverage, used at dinner, made of brandy, cider, or perry, lemons cut in slices, cold water, sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and the herbs balm and burridge. sometimes sherry or port wine is substituted for cider. the tankard is put into a pitcher, which is iced in a tub, procured from the confectioners. * decrements.--the use of knives, folks, spoons, and other necessaries, with the firing, &c. for the hall and chapel. ~ ~~ we must give our old _con_, blackmantle, a warm reception." "sure, that's a paddyism"{ } said a young irish student. "nothing of the sort," replied horace: "are we not all here the sons of isis (ices)? and tell me where will you find a group of warmer hearted souls?" "bravo! bravo!" shouted the party. "that fellow eglantine will create another _pun_-ic war," said sparkle. "i move that we have him crossed in the buttery{ } for making us laugh during dinner, to the great injury of our digestive organs, and the danger of suffocation." "what! deprive an englishman of his right to battel{ }" said echo: "no; i would sooner inflict the orthodox fine of a double bumper of _bishop_." "bravo!" said horace: "then i plead guilty, and swallow the imposition." "i'll thank you for a cut out of the back of that _lion_,"{ } tittered a man opposite. with all the natural timidity of the hare whom he thus particularised, i was proceeding to help him, when echo inquired if he should send me the breast of a swiss { } and the facetious eglantine, to increase my confusion, requested to be allowed to cut me a slice off the wing of a wool bird.{ } a paddyism is called in this university a "thorpism" from mr. thorp, formerly a hosier of some note in the city. he was famous for making blunders and coining new words, was very fond of making long speeches, and when upon _the toe_, never failed to convulse his hearers with laughter. crossed in the buttery--not allowed to battel, a punishment for missing lecture. by being frequently crossed, a man will lose his term. battels--bread, butter, cheese, salt, eggs, &c. a lion--a hare. siciss--a pheasant. wing of a wool bird--shoulder of lamb. ~ ~~ to have remonstrated against this species of persecution would, i knew, only increase my difficulties; summoning, therefore, all the gaiety i was master of to my aid, i appeared to participate in the joke, like many a modern _roué_, laughing in unison without comprehending the essence of the whim, merely because it was the fashion. what a helpless race, old father etona, are thine (thought i), when first they assume the oxford man; spite of thy fostering care and classic skill, thy offspring are here little better than cawkers{ } or wild indians. "is there no glossary of university wit," said i, "to be purchased here, by which the fresh may be instructed in the art of conversation; no _lexicon balatronicum_ of college eloquence, by which the ignorant may be enlightened?" "plenty, old fellow," said echo: "old grose is exploded; but, never fear, i will introduce you to the _dictionnaire universel_,{ } which may always be consulted, at our _old grandmammas_' in st. clement's, or eglantine can introduce you at vincent's,{ } where better known as the poor curate of h----, crossed the channel. cawker--an eton phrase for a stranger or novice. dictionnaire universel--a standing toast in the common room at-----college. the origin of the toast is as follows: when buonaparte was at elba, dr. e-, one of the wealthy senior fellows of ---- college. soon after his arrival at paris, as he was walking through the streets of that city, he was accosted by an elegantly dressed cyprian, to whom he made a profound bow, and told her (in english), that he was not sufficiently acquainted with the french language to comprehend what she had said to him, expressing his regret that he had not his french and english dictionary with him. scarcely had he pronounced the word dictionary, when the lady, by a most astonishing display, which in england would have disgraced the lowest of the frail sisterhood, exclaimed, "behold the dictionnaire universel, which has been opened by the learned of all nations."{ } dr. e--, on his return from france, related this anecdote in the common room at ---------, and the dictionnaire universel has ever since been a standing toast there. a well known respectable bookseller near brazennose, who has published a whimsical trifle under the title of "oxford in epitome" very serviceable to freshmen. you may purchase "oxford in epitome," with a key accompaniment explaining the whole art and mystery of the _finished style_. ~ ~~ after a dissertation upon _new college puddings_,{ } rather a choice dish, an elegant dessert and ices was introduced from jubbers.{ } the glass now circulated freely, and the open-hearted mirth of my companions gave me a tolerable idea of many of the leading eccentricities of a collegian's life. the oxford toast, the college divinity, was, i found, a miss w-, whose father is a wealthy horse-dealer, and whom all agreed was a very amiable and beautiful girl. i discovered that sadler, randal, and crabbe were rum ones for prime hacks--that the _esculapii dii_ of the university, the demi-gods of medicine and surgery, were messrs. wall and tuckwell--that all proctors were tyrants, and their men savage bull dogs--that good wine was seldom to be bought in oxford by students--and pretty girls were always to be met at bagley wood--that rowing a fellow{ } was considered good sport, and an idle master{ } a jolly dog--that all tradesmen were duns, and all gownsmen suffering innocents--and lastly. new college puddings--a favourite dish with freshmen, made of grated biscuit, eggs, suet, moist sugar, currants and lemon-peel, rolled into balls of an oblong shape, fried in boiling fat, and moistened with brandy. a celebrated oxford pastry-cook. rowing a fellow--going with a party in the dead of the night to a man's room, nailing or screwing his oak up, so as it cannot be opened on the inside, knocking at his door, calling out fire, and when he comes to the door, burning a quantity of shavings, taken from halfpenny faggots dipped in oil from the staircase lamps, so as to impress him with an idea that the staircase, in which his rooms are, is on fire. and when he is frightened almost out of his senses, setting up a most hideous horse-laugh and running away. this joke is practised chiefly upon quiet timid men. an idle master--a master of arts on the foundation, who does not take pupils. ~ ~~ i was informed that a freshman was a scamp without seasoning--and a fellow of no spirit till he had been pulled up before the big wig and suffered imposition{ } fine, and rustication.{ } it was now half an hour since old _magnus thomas_ had tolled his heavy note, most of the party were a little cut,{ } and the salt pits of attic wit had long since been drained to the very bottom--sparkle proposed an adjournment to the temple of bacchus,{ } while echo and a man of trinity set forth for the plains of betteris.{ } pleading the fatigues of the day, and promising to attend a spread{ } on the morrow to be given by horace eglantine, i was permitted to depart to my inn, having first received a caution from echo to steer clear of the don peninsula{ } and the seat of magistracy.{ } on regaining my inn, i was not a little surprised to hear the smirking barmaid announce me by my christian and surname, directing the waiter to place candles for mr. bernard blackmantle in the _sanctum_. how the deuce, thought i, have these people discovered my family nomenclature, or are we here under the same system of _espionage_ as the puerile inhabitants of france, where every hotel-keeper, waiter, and servant, down to the very shoe-black, is a spy upon your actions, and a creature in the pay of the police{ } "pray, waiter," said i, "why is this snug little _larium__ designated the sanctum_?" imposition--translations set by the principal for absence and other errors. rustication is the term applied to temporary dismissal for non-observance of college discipline. a little cut--half seas over. temple of bacchus--some favourite inn. plains of betteris--the diversion of billiards. a spread--a wine party. the don peninsula--the range of all who wear long black hanging sleeves, and bear the name of domini. seat of magistracy--proctor's authority. the tact of the oxford tradesmen in this particular is very ingenious.--the strength of a man's account is always regulated by the report they receive on his entering, from some college friend, respecting the wealth of his relations, or the weight of his expectancies. ~ ~~ "because it's extra-proctorial, sir: none of the town _raff_ are ever admitted into it, and the marshal and his bull dogs never think of intruding here. with your leave, sir, i'll send in master--he will explain things better; and mayhap, sir, as you are fresh, he may give you a little useful information." "do so,--send me in a bottle of old madeira and two glasses, and tell your master i shall be happy to see him." in a few moments i was honoured with the company of mine host of the mitre, who, to do him justice, was a more humorous fellow than i had anticipated. not quite so ceremonious as he of the christopher at eton, or the superlative of a bond-street _restaurateur_; but with an unembarrassed roughness, yet respectful demeanour, that partook more of the sturdy english farmer, or an old weather-beaten sportsman, than the picture i had figured to myself of the polished landlord of the principal inn in the sacred city of learning. we are too much the creatures of prejudice in this life, and first impressions are not unfrequently the first faults which we unthinkingly commit against the reputation of a new acquaintance. master peake was, i discovered, a fellow of infinite jest, an old fox-hunter, and a true sportsman; and supposing me, from my introduction by tom echo to his house, to be as fond of a good horse, a hard run, and a black bottle, as my friend, he had eagerly sought an opportunity for this early introduction. "no man in the country, sir," said peake, "can boast of a better horse or a better wife: i always leave the management of the bishop's cap to the petticoat; for look ye, sir, gown against gown is the true orthodox system, i believe.--when i kept the blue pig{ } by the town hall, the big wigs used to grunt a little now and then about the gemmen of the university getting _bosky_ in a _pig-sty_; so, egad, i thought i would fix them at last, and removed here; for i knew it would be deemed sacrilegious to attack the mitre, or hazard a pun upon the head of the church. the blue boar, since shut up. ~ ~~ if ever you should be _tiled_ up in _eager heaven_,{ } there's not a kinder hearted soul in christendom than mrs. peake: dr. wall says that he thinks she has saved more gentlemen's lives in this university by good nursing and sending them niceties, than all the material medicals put together. you'll excuse me, sir, but as you are fresh, take care to avoid the _gulls_{ }; they fly about here in large flocks, i assure you, and do no little mischief at times." "i never understood that gulls were birds of prey," said i.--"only in oxford, sir; and here, i assure you, they bite like hawks, and pick many a poor young gentleman as bare before his three years are expired, as the crows would a dead sheep upon a common. every thing depends upon your obtaining an honest scout, and that's a sort of _haro ravis_ (i think they call the bird) here." suppressing my laughter at my host's latinity, i thought this a fair opportunity to make some inquiries relative to this important officer in a college establishment. "i suppose you know most of these ambassadors of the togati belonging to the different colleges'?" "i think i do, sir," said peake, "if you mean the scouts; but i never heard them called by that name before. if you are of christ church, i should recommend dick cook, or, as he is generally called, gentleman cook, as the most finished, spritely, honest fellow of the whole. dick's a trump, and no telegraph,--up to every frisk, and down to every move of the domini, thorough bred, and no want of courage?" Æager haven--laid up in the depot of invalids. gulls--knowing ones who are always on the look out for freshmen. ~ ~~ "but not having the honour of being entered there, i cannot avail myself of dick's services: pray tell me, who is there at brazennose that a young fellow can make a confidant of?" "why, the very best old fellow in the world,--nothing like him in oxford,--rather aged, to be sure, but a good one to go, and a rum one to look at;--i have known mark supple these fifty years, and never heard a gentleman give him a bad word: shall i send for him, sir? he's the very man to put you _up to a thing or two_, and finish you off in prime style." "in the morning, i'll see him, and if he answers your recommendation, engage with him: "for, thought i, such a man will be very essential, if it is only to act as interpreter to a young novice like myself. the conversation now turned to sporting varieties, by which i discovered mine host was a leading character in the neighbouring hunts; knew every sportsman in the field, and in the course of half an hour, carried me over godrington's manors, moystoris district, and somerset range,{ } taking many a bold leap in his progress, and never losing _sight of the dogs_. "we shall try your mettle, sir," said he, "if we catch you out for a day's sport; and if you are not quite mounted at present to your mind, i have always a spare nag in the stable for the use of a freshman." the three packs of hounds contiguous to oxford. though i did not relish the concluding appellation, coming from a tavern-keeper, i could not help thanking peake for his liberal offer; yet without any intention of risking my neck in a steeple chase. the interview had, however, been productive of some amusement and considerable information. the bottle was now nearly finished; filling my last glass, i drank success to the mitre, promised to patronise the landlord, praise the hostess, coquet with the little cherry-cheek, chirping lass in the bar, and kiss as many of the chamber-maids as i could persuade to let me. wishing mine host a good night, and ringing for my bed-candle, i proceeded to put the last part of my promise into immediate execution. college servants. descriptive sketch of a college scout--biography of mark supple--singular invitation to a spread. the next morning, early, while at breakfast, i received a visit from mr. mark supple, the _scout_, of whom mine host of the mitre had on the preceding night spoken so highly. there was nothing certainly very prepossessing in his exterior appearance; and if he had not previously been eulogised as the most estimable of college servants, i should not have caught the impression from a first glance. he was somewhere about sixty years of age, of diminutive stature and spare habit, a lean brother with a scarlet countenance, impregnated with tints of many a varied hue, in which however the richness of the ruby and the soft purple of the ultramarine evidently predominated. his forehead was nearly flat; upon his eyebrows and over his _os frontis_ and scalp, a few straggling straight hairs were extended as an apology for a wig, but which was much more like a discarded crow's nest turned upside down. immense black bushy eyebrows overhung a pair of the queerest looking oculars i had ever seen; below which sprung forth what had once been, no doubt, a nose, and perhaps in youth an elegant feature; but, heaven help the wearer! it was now grown into such a strange form, and presented so many choice exuberances, that one might have supposed it was the original bardolph's, and charged with the additional sins of every succeeding generation. the loss of his ~ ~~ teeth had caused the other lip to retire inwards, and consequently the lower one projected forth, supported by a huge chin, like the basin or receiver round the crater of a volcano. his costume was of a fashion admirably corresponding with his person. it might once have graced a dean, or, perhaps, a bishop, but it was evident the present wearer was not by when the _artiste_ of the needle took his measure or instructions. three men of mark's bulk might very well have been buttoned up in the upper habiliment; and as for the _inexpressibles_, they hung round his _ultimatum_ like the petticoat trowsers of a dutch smuggler: then for the colour, it might once have been sable or a clerical mixture; but what with the powder which the collar bore evidence it had once been accustomed to, and the weather-beaten trials it had since undergone, it was quite impossible to specify. the _beaver_ was in excellent keeping, _en suite_, except, perhaps, from the constant application of the hand to pay due respect to the dignitaries, it was here and there enriched with some more shining qualities. i at first suspected this ancient visitor was a hoax of my friend tom echo's, who had concerted the scheme with the landlord; but a little conversation with the object of my surprise soon convinced me it was the genuine mark supple, the true college _scout_, and no counterfeit. "the welcome of isis to you, sir," said the old man. "the domini of the bishops cap here gave me a hint you wished to see me.--i have the honour to be mark supple, sir, senior scout of brazennose, and as well known to all the members of the university for the last fifty years, as magdalen bridge, or old magnus thomas. the first of your name, sir, i think, who have been of oxford--don't trace any of the blackmantles here antecedent--turned over my list this morning before i came--got them all arranged, sir, take notice, in chronological order, from the friars of ~ ~~ oseny abbey down to the university of bucks of --very entertaining, sir, take notice--many a glorious name peeping out here and there--very happy to enrol the first of the blackmantles in my remembrancer, and hope to add m. a. and m. s. s. which signifies honour to you, as master of arts, and glory to your humble servant, mark supple scout--always put my own initials against the gentleman's names whom i have attended, take notice." the singularity of the ancient's climax amused me exceedingly--there was something truly original in the phrase: the person and manners of the man were in perfect keeping. "you must have seen great changes here, mark," said i; "were you always of brazennose?" "i was born of christ church, sir, take notice, where my father was college barber, and my mother a bed-maker; but the students of that period insisted upon it that i was so like to a certain old big wig, whose christian name was mark, that i most censoriously obtained the appellation from at least a hundred godfathers, to the no small annoyance of the dignitary, take notice. my first occupation, when a child, was carrying billet doux from the students of christ church to the tradesmen's daughters of oxford, or the nuns of st. clement's, where a less important personage might have excited suspicion and lost his situation. from a college mercury, i became a college devil, and was promoted to the chief situation in _glorio_,{ } alias _hell_, where i continued for some time a shining character, and sharpened the edge of many a cutting thing, take notice. here, some wag having a design upon my reputation, put a large piece of cobbler's wax into the dean's boots one morning, which so irritated the _big wig_ that i was instantly expelled college, discommoned, and blown up at point non plus, take notice. glorio.--a place in christ church called the scout's pantry, where the boots and shoes and knives are cleaned, and a small quantity of geneva, or bill holland's double, is daily consumed during term time. ~ ~~ having saved a trifle, i now commenced stable-keeper, bought a few prime hacks, and mounted some of the best tandem turn outs in oxford, take notice: but not having wherewithal to stand tick, and being much averse to dunning, i was soon sold up, and got a birth in brazennose as college scout, where i have now been upwards of forty years, take notice. no gentleman could ever say old mark supple deceived him. i have run many risks for the gown; never cared for the town; always stuck up for my college, and never telegraphed the big wigs in my life, take notice."--"is your name blackmantle?" said a sharp-looking little fellow, in a grey frock livery, advancing up to me with as much _sang froid_ as if i had been one of the honest fraternity of college servants. being answered in the affirmative, and receiving at the same time a look that convinced him i was not pleased with his boldness, he placed the following note in my hand and retired.{ } the usual style of invitation to a college wine party or spread. [illustration: page ] the above is an exact copy of a note received from a man of brazennose. ~ ~~ handing the note to old mark--"pray," said i, not a little confused by the elegance of the composition, "is this the usual style of college invitations?" mark mounted his spectacles, and having deciphered the contents, assured me with great gravity that it was very polite indeed, and considering where it came from, unusually civil. another specimen of college ceremony, thought i;--"but come, mark, let us forth and survey my rooms." we were soon within-side the gates of brazennose; and mark having obtained the key, we proceeded to explore the forsaken chamber of the muses. [illustration: page ] taking possession of your rooms. topography of a vacant college larium--anecdotes and propensities of predecessors--a long shot--scout's list of necessaries--condolence of university friends. ascending a dark stone staircase till the oaken beams of the roof proclaimed we had reached the domiciliary abode of genius, i found myself in the centre of my future habitation, an attic on the third floor: i much doubt if poor belzoni, when he discovered the egyptian sepulchre, could have exhibited more astonishment. the old bed-maker, and the scout of my predecessor, had prepared the apartment for my reception by gutting it of every thing useful to the value of a cloak pin: the former was engaged in sweeping up the dust, which, from the clouds that surrounded us, would not appear to have been disturbed for six months before at least. i had nearly broken my shins, on my first entrance, over the fire-shovel and bucket, and i was now in more danger of being choked with filth. "who inhabited this delightful place before, mark?" "a mad wag, but a generous gentleman, sir, take notice, one charles rattle, esq., who was expelled college for smuggling, take notice: the proctor, with the town marshal and his bull dogs, detected him and two others one night drawing up some fresh provision in the college plate-basket. mr. rattle, in his fright, dropped the fair nun of st. clement's plump upon the proctor, who could not understand the joke; but, having recovered ~ ~~ his legs, entered the college, and found one of the fair sisters concealed in mr. rattle's room, take notice. in consequence he was next day pulled up before the big wigs, when, refusing to make a suitable apology, he received sentence of expulsion, take notice." "he must have been a genius," quoth i, "and a very eccentric one too, from the relics he has left behind of his favourite propensities." in one corner of the room lay deposited a heap of lumber, thrown together, as a printer would say, in _pie_, composed of broken tables, broken bottles, trunks, noseless bellows, books of all descriptions, a pair of _muffles_, and the cap of sacred academus with a hole through the crown (emblematical, i should think, of the pericranium it had once covered), and stuck upon the leg of a broken chair. the rats, those very agreeable visitors of ancient habitations, were seen scampering away upon our entrance, and the ceiling was elegantly decorated with the smoke of a candle in a great variety of ornamented designs, consisting of caricatures of dignitaries and the christian names of favourite damsels. there was poor cicero, with a smashed crown, turned upside down in the fire-place, and a map of oxford hanging in tatters above it; a portrait of tom crib was in the space adjoining the window, not one whole pane of which had survived the general wreck; but what most puzzled me was the appearance of the cupboard door: the bottom hinge had given way, and it hung suspended by one joint in an oblique direction, exhibiting, on an inside face, a circle chalked for a target and perforated with numerous holes this door was in a right line with the bedroom, and, when thrown open, covered a loop-hole of a window that looked across the quadrangle directly into the principal's apartments.{ } [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ it was in this way (as mark informed me) my predecessor amused himself in a morning by lying in bed and firing at the target, till, unhappily, on one occasion the ball passed through a hole in the door, the loop-hole window, and, crossing the quadrangle, entered whizzing past the dignitary's ear and that of his family who were at breakfast with him into the back of the chair he had but a moment before providentially quitted to take a book from his library shelves. the affair occasioned a strict search, and the door in question bore too strong an evidence to escape detection; rattle was rusticated for a term, but, returning the same singular character, was always in some scrape or other till his final expulsion. having given the necessary orders for repairs, mark made one of his best bows, and produced a long scroll of paper, on which was written a list of necessaries?{ } "which," said the ancient, "take notice, every gentleman provides on his taking possession of his rooms." "and every gentleman's scout claims upon his leaving, take notice" said i. mark bowed assent. i had now both seen and heard enough of college comforts to wish myself safe back again at eton in the snug, clean, sanded dormitory of my old dame. looking first at my purse and then at the list of necessaries, i could not resist a sigh on perceiving my _new guinea_{ } to be already in danger, that it would require some caution to steer clear of the forest of debt,{ } and keep out of _south jeopardy_,{ } and some talent to gain the _new settlements_{ } or prevent my being ultimately laid up in the _river tick_{ } condemned in the _vice-chancellor's court_,{ } and consigned, for the benefit of the captors, to _fort marshal_.{ } the circumstance here alluded to actually occurred some time since, when g- c-n and lord c-e nearly shot dr. capplestone of oriel and his predecessor, dr. eveleigh: the former was expelled in consequence. a list of necessaries consists of all the necessary culinary articles, tea equipage, brooms, brushes, pails, &c. &c. &c. new guinea--first possession of income. forest of debt--payment of debts. south jeopardy--terrors of insolvency. next settlements--final reckoning. river tick--springing out of standing debts, which only==> vice-chancellor's court--creditor's last shift. fort marshal--university marshal's post, charge themselves at the expiration of three years by leaving the lake of credit, and meandering through the haunts of a hundred creditors. ~ ~~ "rather romantic, but not elegant," said some voices at the door, which, on turning my head, i discovered to be my two friends, echo and eglantine, who, suspecting the state of the rooms, from the known character of the previous occupier, had followed me up stairs to enjoy the pleasure of quizzing a novice. "a snug appointment this, old fellow," said echo. "very airy and contemplative" rejoined eglantine, pointing first to the broken window, and after to the mutilated remains of books and furniture. "quite the larium of a man of genius," continued the former, "and very fine scope for the exhibition of improved taste." "and an excellent opportunity for raillery," quoth i. "well, old fellow," said tom, "i wish you safe through _dun territory_{ } and the _preserve of long bills_{ }: if you are not pretty well _blunted_,{ } the first start will try _your wind._" "courage, blackmantle," said eglantine, "we must not have you laid up here in the _marshes of impediment_{ } with all the horrors of _east jeopardy_,{ } as if you was lost in the _cave of antiquity_{ }: rally, my old fellow, for _the long hope_,{ }shoot past _mounts_ dun territory--circle of creditors to be paid. preserve of long bills--stock of debts to be discharged. blunted--london slang for plenty of money. marshes of impediment--troublesome preparation for the schools. east jeopardy--terrors of anticipation. cave of antiquity--depot of old authors. the long hope--johnson defines "a hope" to be any sloping plain between two ridges of mountains. here it is the symbol of long expectations in studying for a degree. ~ ~~ _aldrich and euclid_,{ } the _roman tumuli_{ } and _point failure_{ } and then, having gained _fount stagira_{ } pass easily through _littlego vale_,{ } reach the summit of the _pindaric heights_{ } and set yourself down easy in the _temple of bacchus_{ } and the _region of rejoicing"{ } "or if you should fall a sacrifice in the district of {sappers_,{ } old fellow!" said echo, "or founder in _dodd's sound_,{ } why, you can retreat to _cam roads_,{ } or lay up for life in the _bay of condolence_."{ } "for heaven's sake, let us leave the _gulf of misery_," said i, alluding to the state of my rooms, "and bend our course where some more amusing novelty presents itself." "to bagley wood," said echo, "to break cover and introduce you to the egyptians; only i must give my scout directions first to see the old bookseller{ } and have my _imposition_{ } ready for being absent from chapel this morning, or else i shall be favoured with another mount aldrich, mount euclid--logic and mathematics. tumuli raised by the romans--difficulties offered by livy and tacitus in the studies for first class honours. point failure--catastrophe of plucking. fount stagira--fount named after the birth-place of aris- totle. littlego vale--orderly step to the first examination. pindaric heights--study of pindar's odes. temple of bacchus--merry-making after getting a liceat. region of rejoicing--joy attendant on success in the schools. district of sabers--track of those who sap at their quarto and folio volumes. dodd's sound--where the candidate will have to acknowledge the receipt of a certificate empowering him to float down bachelor creek. cam roads--retreat to cambridge by way of a change. bay of condolence--where we console our friends, if plucked, and left at a nonplus. a well-known bookseller in oxford generally called imposition g-, from his preparing translations for the members of the university. imposition--see prick bill. ~ ~~ visit from the _prick bill_."{ } "agreed," said eglantine, "and blackmantle and myself will, in the meantime, visit sadler, and engage a couple of his prime hacks to accompany you." prick bills--at christ church, junior students who prick with a pin the names of those gentlemen who are at chapel. immediately after the service, the bills, with the noblemen and gentlemen commoners' names, are taken to the dean; those with the students and commoners' names, to the acting censor for the week; and the bachelors' bills to the sub-dean, who generally inform the prick bills what impositions shall be set those gentlemen who absented themselves from chapel: these are written upon strips of paper and carried to the gentlemen by the prick bill's scouts. copy of an original imposition. "sp particular m m c. p. b."--signifies translate no. spectator to the word "particular" by monday morning at chapel time.--prick bill. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] the excursion to bagley wood. oxford scholars and oxford livery men--how to insure a good horse and prevent accidents--description of bagley wood--a freshman breaking cover--interview with the egyptian-- secrets of futurity unveiled--abingdon beauties--singular anecdote and history of mother goose. ~ ~~ the ride to bagley wood introduced me to some new features of a college life, not the least entertaining of which was the dialogue before starting between my friend eglantine, the livery-stable keeper, and his man, where we went to engage the horses. eglan. (to the ostler) well, dick, what sort of a stud, hey? any thing rum, a ginger or a miller, three legs or five, got by whirlwind out of skyscraper? come, fig out two lively ones. dick. i mun see measter first, zur, before i lets any gentleman take a nag out o' yard. it's more as my place is worth to act otherwise. eglan. what coming tip-street over us, hey, dick? ~ ~~ _frisking the freshman_ here, old fellow? (pointing to me). it won't do--no go, dick--he's my friend, a _cawker_ to be sure, but must not _stand sam_ to an _oxford raff_, or a yorkshire _johnny raw_. dick. i axes pardon, zur. i didna mean any such thing, but ever since you rode the grey tit last, she's never been out o' stall. eglan. not surprised at that, dick. never crossed a greater slug in my life--she's only fit to carry a dean or a bishop--no go in her. dick. no, zur, measter zays as how you took it all out on her. eglan. why, i did give her a winder, dick, to be sure, only one day's hunting, though, a good hard run over somerset range, not above sixty miles out and home. dick. ay, i thought as how you'd been in some break-neck tumble-down country, zur, for tit's knuckels showed she'd had a somerset or two. eglan. well, blister the mare, dick! there's _half a bull_ for your trouble: now put us on the right scent for a good one: any thing young and fresh, sprightly and shewy? dick. why, there be such a one to be zure, zur, but you munna split on me, or i shall get the zack for telling on ye. if you'll sken yon stable at end o' the yard, there be two prime tits just com'd in from abingdon fair, thorough-bred and devils to go, but measter won't let 'em out. eglan. won't he? here he comes, and we'll try what a little persuasion will do. (enter livery man.) well, old fellow, i've brought you a new friend, blackmantle of brazennose: what sort of _praxis_ can you give us for a trot to bagley wood, a short ride for something shewy to _lionise_ a bit? livery m. nothing new, sir, and you know all the stud pretty well (knowingly). suppose you try the grey mare you rode t'other day, and i'll find a quiet one for your friend. ~ ~~ eglan. if i do, i am a _black horse_. she's no paces, nothing _but a shuffle_, not a _leg to stand on_. livery m. every one as good as the principal of all-souls. not a better bred thing in oxford, and all horses here gallop by instinct, as every body knows, but they can't go for ever, and when gentlemen ride steeple chases of sixty miles or more right a-head, they ought to find their own horse-flesh. eglan. what coming _crabb_ over us, old fellow, hey very well, i shall bolt and try randall, and that's all about it. come along, blackmantle. my friend's threat of withdrawing his patronage had immediately the desired effect. horace's judgment in horse-flesh was universally admitted, and the knowing dealer, although he had suffered in one instance by hard riding, yet deeply calculated on retrieving his loss by some unsuspecting freshman, or other university nimrod in the circle of eglantine's acquaintance. by this time echo had arrived, and we were soon mounted on the two fresh purchases which the honest yorkshireman had so disinterestedly pointed out; and which, to do him justice, deserved the eulogium he had given us on their merits. one circumstance must not however be forgotten, which was the following notice posted at the end of the yard. "to prevent accidents, gentlemen pay _before mounting_." "how the deuce can this practice of paying beforehand prevent accidents?" said i. "you're fresh, old fellow," said echo, "or you'd understand after a man breaks his neck he fears no duns. now you know by accident what old humanity there means." bagley is about two miles and a half from oxford on the abingdon road, an exceedingly pleasant ride, leaving the sacred city and passing over the old bridge where formerly was situated the study or observatory of the celebrated friar bacon. not an object in the shape of a petticoat escaped some raillery, and scarcely ~~ a town _raff_ but what met with a corresponding display of university wit, and called forth many a cutting joke: the place itself is an extensive wood on the summit of a hill, which commands a glorious panoramic view of oxford and the surrounding country richly diversified in hill and dale, and sacred spires shooting their varied forms on high above the domes, and minarets, and towers of rhedycina. this spot, the favourite haunt of the oxonians, is covered for many miles with the most luxuriant foliage, affording the cool retreat, the love embowered shades, over which prudence spreads the friendly veil. here many an amorous couple have in softest dalliance met, and sighed, and frolicked, free from suspicion's eye beneath the broad umbrageous canopy of nature; here too is the favourite retreat of the devotees of cypriani, the spicy grove of assignations where the velvet sleeves of the proctor never shake with terror in the wind, and the savage form of the university _bull dog_ is unknown. a party of wandering english arabs had pitched their tents on the brow of the hill just under the first cluster of trees, and materially increased the romantic appearance of the scene. the group consisted of men, women, and children, a tilted cart with two or three asses, and a lurcher who announced our approach. my companions were, i soon found, well known to the females, who familiarly approached our party, while the male animals as condescendingly betook themselves into the recesses of the wood. "black nan," said echo, "and her daughter, the gypsy beauty, the bagley brunette."--"shall i tell your honour's fortune?" said the elder of the two, approaching me; while eglantine, who had already dismounted and given his horse to one of the brown urchins of the party, had encircled the waist of the younger sibyl, and was tickling her into a trot in an opposite direction. "ay do, nan," ~ ~~ said echo, "cast his nativity, open the book of fate, and tell the boy his future destiny." it would be the height of absurdity to repeat half the nonsense this oracle of bagley uttered relative to my future fortunes; but with the cunning peculiar to her cast, she discovered i was fresh, and what tormented me more, (although on her part it was no doubt accidental) alluded to an amour in which my heart was much interested with a little divinity in the neighbourhood of eton. this hint was sufficient to give tom his cue, and i was doomed to be pestered for the remainder of the day with questions and raillery on my progress in the court of love. on our quitting the old gypsy woman, a pair of buxom damsels came in sight, advancing from the abingdon road; they were no doubt like ourselves, i thought, come to consult the oracle of bagley, or, perhaps, were the daughters of some respectable farmer who owned the adjoining land. all these doubts were, however, of short duration; for tom echo no sooner caught sight of their faces, than away he bounded towards them like a young colt in all the frolic of untamed playfulness, and before i could reach him, one of the ladies was rolling on the green carpet of luxuriant nature. in the deep bosom of bagley wood, impervious to the eye of authority, many a sportive scene occurs which would alarm the ethics of the solemn sages of the cloistered college. they were, i discovered, sisters, too early abandoned by an unfeeling parent to poverty, and thus became an easy prey to the licentious and the giddy, who, in the pursuit of pleasure, never contemplate the attendant misery which is sure to follow the victim of seduction. there was something romantic in their story: they were daughters of the celebrated mother goose, whose person must have been familiar to every oxonian for the last sixty years prior to her decease, which occurred but a short time since of ~ ~~ this woman's history i have since gleaned some curious particulars, the most remarkable of which (contained in the annexed note) have been authenticated by living witnesses.{ } her portrait, by a member of all souls, is admirable, and is here faithfully copied. [illustration: page ] "_mother goose_," formerly a procuress, and one of the most abandoned of her profession. when from her advanced age, and the loss of her eye-sight, she could no longer obtain money by seducing females from the path of virtue, she married a man of the name of h., (commonly called gentleman h.) and for years was led by him to the students' apartments in the different colleges with baskets of the choicest flowers. her ancient, clean, and neat appearance, her singular address, and, above all, the circumstance of her being blind, never failed of procuring her at least ten times the price of her posy, and which was frequently doubled when she informed the young gentlemen of the generosity, benevolence, and charity of their grandfathers, fathers, or uncles whom she knew when they were at college. she had several illegitimate children, all females, and all were sacrificed by their unnatural mother, except one, who was taken away from her at a very tender age by the child's father's parents. when of age, this child inherited her father's property, and is now (i believe) the wife of an irish nobleman, and to this time is unconscious that mother goose, of oxford, gave her birth. the person who was instrumental in removing the child is still living in oxford, and will testify to the authenticity of the fact here related. his present majesty never passed through oxford without presenting mother goose with a donation, but of course without knowing her early history. ~ ~~ having, as echo expressed it, now broke cover, and being advanced one step in the study of the fathers, we prepared to quit the abingdon fair and rural shades of bagley on our return to oxford, something lighter in pocket, and a little too in morality. we raced the whole of the distance home, to the great peril of several groups of town raff whom we passed in our way. on our arrival my friends had each certain lectures to attend, or college duties to perform. an idle freshman, there was yet three hours good before the invitation to the spread, and as kind fortune willed it to amuse the time, a packet arrived from horatio heartley. he had been spending the winter in town with his aunt, lady mary oldstyle, and had, with his usual tact, been sketching the varied groups which form the circle of fashionable life. it was part of the agreement between us, when leaving each other at eton, that we should thus communicate the characteristic traits of the society we were about to amalgamate with. he has, in the phraseology of the day, just come out, and certainly appears to have made the best use of his time. kensington gardens--sunday evening. singularities of . [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ western entrance into the metropolis; a descriptive sketch. general views of the author relative to subject and style-- time and place--perspective glimpse of the great city--the approach--cockney salutations--the toll house--western entrance to cockney land--hyde park--sunday noon-- sketches of character, costume, and scenery--the ride and drive--kensington gardens--belles and beaux--stars and fallen stars--singularities of --tales of ton--on dits and anecdotes--sunday evening--high life and low life, the contrast--cockney goths--notes, biographical, amorous, and exquisite. [illustration: page ] its wealth and fashion, wit and folly, pleasures, whims, and melancholy: of all the charming belles and beaux who line the parks, in double rows; of princes, peers, their equipage, the splendour of the present age; of west-end fops, and crusty cits, who drive their gigs, or sport their tits; with all the groups we mean to dash on who form the busy world of fashion: proceeding onwards to the city, with sketches, humorous and witty. the man of business, and the change, will come within our satire's range: nor rank, nor order, nor condition, imperial, lowly, or patrician, shall, when they see this volume, cry-- "the satirist has pass'd us by," but with good humour view our page depict the manners of the age. our style shall, like our subject, be distinguished by variety; familiar, brief we could say too-- (it shall be whimsical and new), but reader that we leave to you. 'twas morn, the genial sun of may o'er nature spread a cheerful ray, when cockney land, clothed in her best, we saw, approaching from the west, and 'mid her steeples straight and tall espied the dome of famed st. paul, surrounded with a cloud of smoke from many a kitchen chimney broke; a nuisance since consumed below by bill of michael angelo.{ } the coach o'er stones was heard to rattle, m. a. taylor's act for compelling all large factories, which have steam and other apparatus, to consume their own smoke. ~ ~~ the guard his bugle tuned for battle, the horses snorted with delight, as piccadilly came in sight. on either side the road was lined with vehicles of ev'ry kind, and as the rapid wheel went round, there seem'd scarce room to clear the ground. "gate-gate-push on--how do--well met-- pull up--my tits are on the fret-- the number--lost it--tip then straight, that covey vants to bilk the gate." the toll-house welcome this to town. your prime, flash, bang up, fly, or down, a tidy team of prads,--your castor's quite a joliffe tile,--my master. thus buck and coachee greet each other, and seem familiar as a brother. no chinese wall, or rude barrier, obstructs the view, or entrance here; nor fee or passport,--save the warder, who draws to keep the roads in order; no questions ask'd, but all that please may pass and repass at their ease. in cockney land, the seventh day is famous for a grand display of modes, of finery, and dress, of cit, west-ender, and noblesse, who in hyde park crowd like a fair to stare, and lounge, and take the air, or ride or drive, or walk, and chat on fashions, scandal, and all that.-- here, reader, with your leave, will we commence our london history. 'twas sunday, and the park was full with mistress, john, and master bull, and all their little fry. the crowd pour in from all approaches, tilb'ries, dennets, gigs, and coaches; ~ ~~ the bells rung merrily. old dowagers, their fubsy faces{ } painted to eclipse the graces, pop their noddles out of some old family affair that's neither chariot, coach, or chair, well known at ev'ry rout. but bless me, who's that coach and six? "that, sir, is mister billy wicks, a great light o' the city, tallow-chandler, and lord mayor{ }; miss flambeau wicks's are the fair, who're drest so very pretty. it's only for a year you know he keeps up such a flashy show; and then he's melted down. the man upon that half-starved nag{ } is an ex-s------ff, a strange wag, half flash, and half a clown. but see with artful lures and wiles the paphian goddess, mrs. g***s,{ } there are from twenty to thirty of these well known relics of antiquity who regularly frequent the park, and attend all the fashionable routs,--perfumed and painted with the utmost extravagance: if the wind sets in your face, they may be scented at least a dozen carriages off. it is really ludicrous to observe the ridiculous pride of some of these ephemeral things;--during their mayoralty, the gaudy city vehicle with four richly caparisoned horses is constantly in the drive, with six or eight persons crammed into it like a family waggon, and bedizened out in all the colours of the rainbow;--ask for them six months after, and you shall find them more suitably employed, packing rags, oranges, or red herrings. this man is such a strange compound of folly and eccentricity, that he is eternally in hot water with some one or other. mrs. fanny g- -s, the ci-devant wife of a corn merchant, a celebrated courtezan, who sports a splendid equipage, and has long figured upon town as a star of the first order in the cyprian hemisphere. she has some excellent qualities, as poor m---------n can vouch; for when the fickle goddess fortune left him in the lurch, she has a handsome annuity from a sporting peer, who was once the favoured swain. ~ ~~ from out her carriage peeps; she nods to am'rous mrs. d-----,{ } who bends with most sublime congee, while ruin'd-----------sleeps. who follows 'tis the hopeful son of the proud earl of h-----------n, who stole the parson's wife.{ } the earl of h-----------and flame, for cabriolets she's the dame,{ } a dasher, on my life. jack t----- shows his pleasant face{ }; a royal likeness here you'll trace, you'd swear he was a guelph. see lady mary's u------walk,{ } and though but aide-de-camp to york, an adonis with himself, mrs. d---------, alias mrs. b-k-y, alias miss montague, the wife of poor jem b-k-y, the greater his misfortune,--a well known paphian queen, one of five sisters, who are all equally notorious, and whose history is well known. she is now the favoured sultana of a ci-devant banker, whose name she assumes, to the disgrace of himself and family. the clerical cornuto recovered, in a crim. con. action, four thousand pounds for the loss of his frail rib, from this hopeful sprig of nobility. mrs. s------, a most voluptuous lady, the discarded chère amie of the late lord f- -d, said to be the best carriage woman in the park: she lies in the earl of h------- --'s cabriolet most delightfully stretched out at full length, and in this elegant posture is driven through the park. captain t------l of the guards, whose powerful similitude to the reigning family of england is not more generally admitted than his good-humoured qualities are universally admired. the hon. general u---------, aide-de-camp to the duke of york, whose intrigue with lady mary------------was, we have heard, a planned affair to entrap a very different person. be that as it may, it answered the purpose, and did not disturb the friendship of the parties. the honourable general has obtained the appellation of the park adonis, from his attractive figure and known gallantries. ~ ~~ a-----------y mark, a batter'd beau,{ } who'll still the fatal dice-box throw till not a guinea's left. beyond's the brothers b-----e,{ } of gold and acres quite as free, by gaming too bereft. here trips commercial dandy ra-k-s,{ } lord a------y, the babe of honour--once the gayest of the gay, where fashion holds her bright enchanting court; now wrinkled and depressed, and plucked of every feather, by merciless greek banditti. such is the infatuation of play, that he still continues to linger round the fatal table, and finds a pleasure in recounting his enormous losses. a---y, who is certainly one of the most polished men in the world, was the leader of the dandy club, or the unique four, composed of beau brummell, sir henry mildmay, and henry pierrepoint, the ambassador, as he is generally termed. when the celebrated dandy ball was given to his majesty (then prince of wales), on that occasion the prince seemed disposed to cut brummell, who, in revenge, coolly observed to a------y, when he was gone,--"big ben was vulgar as usual." this was reported at carlton house, and led to the disgrace of the exquisite.--shortly afterwards he met the prince and a------y in public, arm in arm, when the former, desirous of avoiding him, quitted the baron: brummell, who observed his motive, said loud enough to be heard by the prince,--"who is that fat friend of yours?" this expression sealed his doom; he was never afterwards permitted the honour of meeting the parties at the palace. the story of "george, ring the bell," and the reported conduct of the prince, who is said to have obeyed the request and ordered mr. brummell's carriage, is, we have strong reasons for thinking, altogether a fiction: brummell knew the dignity of his host too well to have dared such an insult. the king since generously sent him l. when he heard of his distress at calais. brummell was the son of a tavern-keeper in st. james's, and is still living at calais. the brothers are part of a flock of r------r geese, who have afforded fine plucking for the greeks. parson ambrose, the high priest of pandemonium, had a leg of one and a wing of the other devilled for supper one night at the gothic hall. they have cut but a lame figure ever since. a quaint cognomen given to the city banker by the west- end beaux;--he is a very amiable man. ~ ~~ who never plays for heavy stakes, but looks to the main chance. there's georgy w-b-ll, all the go,{ } the mould of fashion,--the court beau, since brummell fled to france: his bright brass harness, and the gray, the well known black cabriolet, is always latest there; the reason,--george, with captain p------ the lady-killing coterie, come late--to catch the fair. see w-s-r, who with pious love,{ } for her, who's sainted now above, a sister kindly takes; so, as the ancient proverb tells, "the best of husbands, modern belles, are your reformed rakes." in splendid mis'ry down the ride alone,--see ****** lady glide,{ } neglected for a--------. what's fame, or titles, wealth's increase, compared unto the bosom's peace? they're bubbles,--nothing more. george, although a _roué_ of the most superlative order, is not deficient in good sense and agreeable qualifications. since poor beau brummell's removal from the hemisphere of fashion, george has certainly shone a planet of the first magnitude: among the fair he is also considered like his friend, captain p-r-y, a perfect lady-killer:--many a little milliner's girl has had cause to regret the seductive notes of a.z.b. limmer's hotel. the marquis of w-c-t-r has, since his first wife's death, married her sister.--reformation, we are happy to perceive, is the order of the day. the failure of howard and gibbs involved more than one noble family in embarrassments. the amours of this child of fortune are notorious both on the continent and in this country. it is very often the misfortune of great men to be degraded by great profligacy of conduct: the poor lady is a suffering angel. ~ ~~ observe yon graceful modest group{ } who look like chaste diana's troop, the ladies molineaux; with sefton, the nimrod of peers, as old in honesty,--as years, a stanch true buff' and blue. "what portly looking man is that in plain blue coat,--to whom each hat is moved in ride and walk!" that pleasant fellow, be it known, is heir presumptive to the throne, 'tis frederick of york.{ } a better, kinder hearted soul you will not and, upon the whole, within the british isle. but see where p-t's wife appears,{ } who changed, though rather late in years, for honest george ar-le. now by my faith it gives me pain the female branches of the sefton family are superior to the slightest breath of calumny, and present an example to the peerage worthy of more general imitation. no member of the present royal family displays more agreeable qualifications in society than the heir presumptive.--un-affected, affable, and free, the duke may be seen daily pacing st. james's-street, pall-mall, or the park, very often wholly un-attended: as his person is familiar to the public, he never experiences the slightest inconvenience from curiosity, and he is so generally beloved, that none pass him who know him without paying their tribute of respect. in all the private relations of life he is a most estimable man,--in his public situation indefatigable, prompt, and attentive to the meanest applica- tion. a more lamentable instance of the profligacy of the age cannot be found than in the history of the transaction which produced this exchange of wives and persons. a wag of the day published a new list of promotions headed as follows,-- lady b------n to be lady a------r p-t,--by exchange--lady p-t to be duchess of a------e,--by promotion--lady charlotte w--y to be lady p-t, vice lady p-t, promoted. ~ ~~ to see thee, cruel lady j-,{ } regret the golden ball. tis useless now:--"the fox and grapes" remember, and avoid the apes which wait an old maid's fall. gay lady h-----e's twinkling star{ } it is not long since that, inspired by love or ambition, a wealthy commoner sought the promise of the fair hand of lady j-, nor was the consent of her noble father (influenced by certain weighty reasons*) wanting to complete the anticipated happiness of the suitor.--all the preliminary forms were arranged,--jointure and pin money liberally fixed,--some legal objections as to a covenant of forfeiture overcame, a suitable establishment provided. the happy day was fixed, when--"mark inconstant fickle woman"--the evening previous to completion (to the surprise of all the town), she changed her mind; she had reconsidered the subject!--the man was wealthy, and attractive in person; but then-- insupportable objection--he was a mere plebeian, a common esquire, and his name was odious,--lady j- b- ,--she could never endure it: the degrading thought produced a fainting fit,--the recovery a positive refusal,--the circumstance a week's amusement to the fashionable world. reflection and disappointment succeeded, and a revival was more than once spoken of; but the recent marriage of the bachelor put an end to all conjecture, and the poor lady was for some time left to bewail in secret her single destiny. who can say, when a lady has the golden ball at her foot, where she may kick it? circumstances which have occurred since the above was written prove that the lady has anticipated our advice. her ladyship's crimson vis-à-vis and her tall footman are both highly attractive--there are no seats in the vehicle--the fair owner reclines on a splendid crimson velvet divan or cushion. she must now be considered a beauty of the last century, being already turned of fifty: still she continued to flourish in the annals of--fashion, until within the last few years; when she ceased to go abroad for amusement, finding it more convenient to purchase it at home. as her parties in grosvenor-square are of the most splendid description, and her dinners (where she is the presiding deity, and the only one) are frequent, and unrivalled for a display of the "savoir vivre," her ladyship can always draw on the gratitude of her guests for that homage to hospitality which she must cease to expect to her charms, "now in the sear and yellow leaf:"--she is a m-nn- rs-"verbum sal." speaking of m-nn-ra, where is the portly john (the regent's double, as he was called some few years since), and the amiable duchess, who bestowed her hand and fortune upon him?--but, n'importe. * the marquis is said to have shown some aversion in the first instance, till h-s b- sent his rent roll for his inspection: this was immediately returned with a very satisfactory reply, but accompanied with a more embarrassing request, namely, a sight of his pedigree. ~ ~~ glimmers in eclipse,--afar's the light of former time. in gorgeous pride and vis-à-vis,{ } a-b-y's orange livry see, the gayest in the clime. camac and wife, in chariot green, constant as turtle-doves are seen, with two bronze slaves behind; next h-tf-d's comely, widow'd dame,{ } with am'rous g------, a favourite name, when g------was true and kind. "the gorgeous a-b-y in the sun-flower's pride." this lady's vis-à-vis by far the most splendidly rich on town. her footmen (of which there are four on drawing-room days) are a proper emblem of that gaudy flower--bright yellow liveries, black lower garments, spangled and studded. there is a general keeping in this gorgeous equipage, which is highly creditable to the taste of the marchioness, for the marquis, "good easy man," (though a bruce), he is too much engaged preserving his game at ro-er-n park, and keeping up the game in st. stephen's (where his influence is represented by no less than eight "sound men and true"), to attend to these trifling circumstances. this, with a well paid rental of upwards of £ , per annum, makes the life of this happy pair pass in an uninterrupted stream of fashionable felicity. the marchioness is said to bear the neglect of a certain capricious friend with much cool philosophy. soon after the intimacy had ceased, they met by accident. on the sofa, by the side of the inconstant, sat the reigning favourite; the marchioness placed herself (uninvited) on the opposite side: astonishment seized the ****; he rose, made a very graceful bow to one of the ladies, and coolly observed to the marchesa--"if this conduct is repeated, i must decline meeting you in public." this was the cut royal. ~ ~~ see s-b-y's peeress, whom each fool of fashion meets in sunday school,{ } to chat in learned lore; where rhyming peers, and letter'd beaus, blue stocking belles to love dispose, and wit is deem'd a bore. with brave sir ronald, toe to toe, see mrs. m-h-l a-g-lo,{ } superb equestriana. next--that voluptuous little dame,{ } who sets the dandy world in flame, the female giovanni. erin's sprightly beauteous belle, gay lady g-t-m, and her swell the yorkshire whiskerandoes.{ } the dulness of the marchioness's sunday evening conver- saziones have obtained them the fashionable appellation of the sunday-school. lord byron thought it highly dangerous for any wit to accept a second invitation, lest he should be inoculated with ennui. mrs. m- a-g-e, a very amiable and accomplished woman, sister to sir h-y v-ne t-p-t. she is considered the best female equestrian in the ride. a consideration for the delicacy of our fair readers will not allow us to enter upon the numerous amours of this favourite of apollo and the muses, and not less celebrated intriguant. she may, however, have ample justice entailed upon her under another head. latterly, since the police have been so active in suppressing the gaming houses, a small party have met with security and profit for a little chicken hazard in curzon-street, at which mr. c-t has occasionally acted as croupier and banker. elliston used to say, when informed of the sudden indisposition or absence of a certain little actress and singer-"ay, i understand; she has a more profitable engagement than mine this evening." the amorous trio, cl-g-t, charles h-r-s, and the exquisite master g-e, may not have cause to complain of neglect. the first of these gentlemen has lately, we understand, been very successful at play; we trust experience will teach him prudence. his lordship commands the york hussars, in defence of whose whiskers he sometime since made a quixotic attack upon a public writer. as he is full six feet high, and we are not quite five, prudence bids us place our finger on our lip. ~ ~~ pale lambton, he who loves and hates by turns, what pitts, or pit, creates, led by the whig fandangoes. sound folly's trumpet, fashion's drums,-- here great a------y w------ce comes,{ } 'mong tailors, a red button. with luminarious nose and cheeks, which love of much good living speaks, observe the city glutton: sir w-m, admiral of yachts, of turtles, capons, port, and pots, in curricle so big. jack f-r follows;--jack's a wag,{ } a------y w------o, esq. otherwise the renowned billy button, the son and heir to the honours, fortune, and shopboard of the late billy button of bedford-street, covent garden. the latter property he appears to have transferred to the front of the old brown landau, where the aged coachman, with nose as flat as the ace of clubs, sits, transfixed and rigid as the curls of his caxon, from three till six every sunday evening, urging on a cabbage-fed pair of ancient prods, which no exertion of the venerable jehu has been able for the last seven years to provoke into a trot from hyde park gate to that of cumberland and back again. the contents of the vehicle are equally an exhibition. billy, with two watches hung by one chain, undergoing the revolutionary movements of buckets in a well, and his eye-glass set round with false pearls, are admirably "en suite" with his bugle optics. the frowsy madam in faded finery, with all the little buttons, attended by a red-haired poor relation from inverness (who is at once their governess and their victim), form the happy tenantry of this moving closet. no less than three, crests surmount the arms of this descendant of wallace the great. a waggish hibernian, some few months since, added a fourth, by chalking a goose proper, crested with a cabbage, which was observed and laughed at by every one in the park except the purblind possessor of the vehicle, who was too busy in looking at himself. honest jack is no longer an m.p., to the great regret of the admirers of senatorial humours. some few years since, being btuehi plenus, he reeled into st. stephen's chapel a little out of a perpendicular; when the then dignified abbot having called him to order, he boldly and vociferously asserted that "jack f-r of rose-hill was not to be set down by any little fellow in a wig. "this offence against the person and high office of the abbot of st. stephen's brought honest jack upon his knees, to get relieved from a troublesome serjeant attendant of the chapel. knowing his own infirmities, and fearing perhaps that he might be com- pelled to make another compulsory prayer, jack resigned his pretensions to senatorial honors at the last general election. his chief amusement, when in town, is the watching and tormenting the little marchandes des modes who cross over or pass in the neighbourhood of regent-street--he is, however, perfectly harmless. an unlucky accident, occasioned by little th-d the wine merchant overturning f-z-y in his tandem, compelled the latter to sell out of the army, but not without having lost a leg in the service. a determined patriot, he was still resolved to serve his country. a barrister on one leg might be thought ominous of his client's cause, or afford food for the raillery of his opponent. the bar was therefore rejected. but the church opened her arms to receive the dismembered son of mars (a parson with a cork leg, or two wooden ones, or indeed without a leg to stand on, was not un-orthodox), and f-z-y was soon inducted to a valuable benefice. he is now, we believe, a pluralist, and, if report be true, has shown something of the old soldier in his method of retaining them. f-y married miss wy-d-m, the daughter of mrs. h-s, who was the admired of his brother, l-d p-. he is generally termed the fighting parson, and considered one of the best judges of a horse in town: he sometimes does a little business in that way among the young ones. ~ ~~ a jolly dog, who sports his nag, or queers the speaker's wig: to venus, jack is stanch and true; to bacchus pays devotion too, but likes not bully mars. next him, some guardsmen, exquisite,- a well-dress'd troop;--but as to fight, it may leave ugly scars. here a church militant is seen,{ } who'd rather fight than preach i ween, once major, now a parson; with one leg in the grave, he'll laugh, chant up a pard, or quaintly chaff, to keep life's pleasant farce on. ~ ~~ lord arthur hill his arab sports, and gentle-usher to the courts: see horace and kang c-k,{ } who, with the modern mokamna c-m-e, must ever bear the sway for ugliness of look. a pair of ancients you may spy,{ } sir edward and sir carnaby, from brighton just set free; the jesters of our lord the king, who loves a joke, and aids the thing in many a sportive way. a motley group come rattling on,{ } horace s-y-r, gentleman usher to the king, and k-g c-k, said to be the ugliest man in the british army: in the park he is rivalled only by c-c. for the benefit of all the married ladies, we would recommend both of these singularities to wear the veil in public. sir ed-d n-g-e. his present majesty is not less fond of a pleasant joke than his laughter-loving predecessor, charles ii. the puke of clarence, while at the pavilion (a short time since), admired a favourite grey pony of sir e-d n-e's; in praise of whose qualities the baronet was justly liberal. after the party had returned to the palace, the duke, in concert with the k-g, slily gave directions to have the pony painted and disfigured (by spotting him with water colour and attaching a long tail), and then brought on the lawn. in this state he was shown to sir e--, as one every way superior to his own. after examining him minutely, the old baronet found great fault with the pony; and being, at the duke's request, induced to mount him, objected to all his paces, observing that he was not half equal to his grey. the king was amazingly amused with the sagacity of the good- humoured baronet, and laughed heartily at the astonishment he expressed when convinced of the deception practised upon him. sir c-n-y h-s-ne, although a constant visitor at the pavilion, is not particularly celebrated for any attractive qualification, unless it be his unlimited love of little ladies. he is known to all the horse dealers round london, from his constant inquiries for a "nice quiet little horse to carry a lady;" but we never heard of his making a purchase. the middle order of society was formerly in england the most virtuous of the three--folly and vice reared their standard and recruited their ranks in the highest and the lowest; but the medium being now lost, all is in the extreme. the superlative dandy inhabitant of a first floor from the ground in bond-street, and the finished inhabitant of a first floor from heaven (who lives by diving) in fleet- street, are in kindness and habits precisely the same. ~ ~~ who ape the style and dress of ton, and scarce are worth review; yet forced to note the silly elves, who take such pains to note themselves, we'll take a name or two. h-s-ly, a thing of shreds and patches,{ } whose manners with his calling matches, that is, he's a mere goose. old st-z of france, a worthy peer, from shopboard rais'd him to a sphere of ornament and use. the double dandy, fashion's fool, the lubin log of liverpool, fat mister a-p-ll, upon his cob, just twelve hands high, a mountain on a mouse you'll spy trotting towards the mall. sir *-----*-, the chicken man,{ } young priment, as he is generally termed, the once dashing foreman and cutter out, now co-partner of the renowned baron st-z, recently made a peer of france. who would not be a tailor (st-z has retired with a fortune of £ , . )! lord de c-ff-d, some time since objecting to certain items in his son's bill from st-z, as being too highly charged, said, "tell mr. s- i will not pay him, if it costs me a thousand pounds to resist it. " st-z, on hearing this, said, "tell his lordship that he shall pay the charge, if it costs me ten thousand to make him." h-s-ly with some little satisfaction was displaying to a customer the prince of c-b-g's bill for three months (on the occasion of his highness's new field-marshal's suit, we suppose): "here," said he, "see what we have done for him: his quarter's tailor's bill now comes to more than his annual income formerly amounted to." mr. h-s-ly sports a bit of blood, a dennet, and a filly; and, for a tailor, is a superfine sort of dandy, but with a strong scent of the shop about him. the redoubtable general's penchant for little girls has obtained him the tender appellation of the chicken man. many of these _petits amours_ are carried on in the assumed name of sir lewis n-t-n, aided by the skill and ingenuity of captain *-. youth may plead whim and novelty for low intrigue; but the aged beau can only resort to it from vitiated habit. ~ ~~ with pimp *-a-t in the van, the spy of an old spy; who beat up for recruits in town, mong little girls, in chequer'd gown, of ages rather shy. that mild, complacent-looking face,{ } who sits his bit of blood with grace, is tragic charley young: with dowager savant a beau, who'll spout, or tales relate, you know, nobility among. "sure such a pair was never seen" by nature form'd so sharp and keen as h-ds-n and jack l-g; or two who've play'd their cards so well, as many a pluck'd roué can tell, whose purses once were strong: both deal in pipes--and by the nose have led to many a green horn's woes a few gay bucks to surrey, where marshal jones commands in chief a squadron, who to find relief are always in a hurry. they're folloiv'd by a merry set-- cl-m-ris, l-n-x, young b-d-t, whom they may shortly follow. that tall dismember'd dandy mark, who strolls dejected through the park, with cheeks so lank and hollow; that's badger b-t-e, poet a-- the mighty author of "to-day," this truly respectable actor is highly estimated among a large circle of polished society; where his amusing talents and gentlemanly demeanour render him a most entertaining and agreeable companion. ~ ~~ forgotten of "to-morrow;" a superficial wit, who 'll write for shandy little books of spite, when cash he wants to borrow. the pious soul who 's driving by, and at the poet looks so shy, is parson a- the gambler;{ } his deaf-lugg'd daddy a known blade in pandemonium's fruitful trade, 'mong paphians a rambler. augusta h-ke (or c-i) moves along the path--her little doves-- decoys, upon each arm. where 's jehu martin, four-in-hand, an exile in a foreign land from fear of legal charm. a pensioner of cyprian queen, the bond-street tailor here is seen, the tally-ho so gay. next p------s,{ } who by little goes, the parson is so well known, and has been so plentifully be-spattered on all sides, that we shall, with true orthodox charity, leave him with a strong recommendation to the notice of the society for the suppression of vice, with this trite remark, "_vide hic et ubique_." this man, who is now reported to be worth three hundred thousand pounds, was originally a piece-broker in bedford- bury, and afterwards kept a low public house in vinegar- yard, drury-lane; from whence he merged into an illegal lottery speculation in northumberland-street, strand, where he realized a considerable sum by insurances and little goes; from this spot he was transplanted to norris-street, in the haymarket, managing partner in a gaming-house, when, after a run of ill luck, an affair occurred that would have occasioned some legal difficulty but for the oath of a pastry-cook's wife, who proved an alibi, in return for which act of kindness he afterwards made her his wife. obtaining possession of the rooms in pall-mall (then the celebrated e. o. tables, and the property of w-, the husband, by a sham warrant), the latter became extremely jealous; and, to make all comfortable, our hero, to use his own phrase, generously bought the mure and coll.--mrs. w--and her son--both since dead: the latter rose to very high rank in an honourable profession. the old campaigner has now turned pious, and recently erected and endowed a chapel. he used to boast he had more promissory notes of gambling dupes than would be sufficient to cover the whole of pall-mall; he may with justice add, that he can command bank notes enough to cover cavendish-square. ~ ~~ and west-end hells, to fortune rose by many a subtle way. patron of bull-baits, racings, fights, a chief of black-legg'd low delights-- 'tis the new m------s, f-k; time was, his heavy vulgar gait, with one of highest regal state took precedence of rank: but now, a little in disgrace since j-e usurp'd his m------'s place, a stranger he's at court; unlike the greatest and the best who went before, his feather'd nest is well enrich'd by sport. f- -y disastrous, honour's child; l-t-he the giddy, gay, and wild, and sportive little jack; the prince of dandies join the throng, where gwydir spanks his fours along, the silvery grays or black. the charming f-te, and colonel b-,{ } snugly in close carriage see with crimson coats behind: and mrs. c--, the christmas belle, we shall not follow the colonel's example, or we could give some extracts from the letters of a. female corespondent of his that would be both curious and interesting; but _n'importe_, consideration for the lady alone prevents the publication. in town he is always discovered by a group of would-be exquisites, the satellites of the jupiter of b-k-y c-t-e at gl-r; or at ch---------m they have some name; but here they are more fortunate, for o'er them oblivion throws the friendly veil. ~ ~~ with banker's clerk, a tale must tell to all who are not blind. ah! poodle byng appears in view,{ } who gives at whist a point or two to dowagers in years. and see where ev'ry body notes the star of fashion, romeo coates{ } the amateur appears: but where! ah! where, say, shall i tell are the brass cocks and cockle shell? ill hazard, rouge et noir if it but speak, can tales relate of many an equipage's fate, and may of many more. ye rude canaille, make way, make way, the countess and the count--------,{ } this gentleman is generally designated by the name of "the whist man:" he holds a situation in the secretary of state's office, and is in particular favour with all the old dowagers, at whose card parties it is said he is generally fortunate. he has recently been honoured with the situation of grand chamberlain to their black majesties of the sandwich isles. poor borneo's brilliancy is somewhat in eclipse, and though not quite a fallen star, he must not run on black too long,--lest his diamond-hilted sword should be the price of his folly. the countess of ---------------is the daughter of governor j-----------; her mother's name was patty f-d, the daughter of an auctioneer who was the predecessor of the present mr. christie's father. patty, then a very beautiful woman, went with him to india, and was a most faithfull and attentive companion.--on the voyage home with j------- -----and her three children, by him, the present countess, and her brothers james and george, they touched at the cape, where the old governor most ungratefully fell in love with a young portuguese lady, whom he married and brought to england in the same ship with his former associate, whom he soon after completely abandoned, settling l. a year upon her for the support of herself and daughter; his two sons, james and george, he provided with writerships in the company's service, and sent to india. james died young, and george returned to england in a few years, worth , pounds.--he lingered in a very infirm state of health, the effects of the climate and mrs. m-, alias madame haut gout; and at his death, being a bachelor, he left the present countess, his sister who lived with him, the whole of his property. there are various tales circulated in the fashionable world relative to the origin and family of the count, who has certainly been a most fortunate man: he is chiefly indebted for success with the countess to his skill as an amateur on the flute, rather than to his paternal estates. the patron of foreigners, he takes an active part in the affairs of the opera-house.--poor tori having given some offence in this quarter, was by his influence kept out of an engagement; but it would appear he received some amends, by the following extract from a fashionable paper of the day. a certain fashionable------l, who was thought to be _au comble de bonheur_, has lately been much tormented with that green-eyed monster, jealousy, in the shape of an opera singer. _plutôt mourir que changer_, was thought to be the motto of the pretty round-faced english------------s; but, alas! like the original, it was written on the sands of disappointment, and was scarcely read by the admiring husband, before his joy was dashed by the prophetic wave, and the inscription erased by a favoured son of apollo. _l'oreille est le chemin du cour_: so thought the ------l, and forbade the ----------s to hold converse with monsieur t.; but _les femmes peuvent tout, parce-qu'elles gouvernent ceux qui gouvernent tous_. a meeting took place in grosvenor-square, and, amid the interchange of doux yeux, the ---------l arrived: a desperate scuffle ensued; the intruder was banished the house, and, as he left the door, is said to have whistled the old french proverb of _le bon temps viendra_. this affair has created no little amusement among the _beau monde_. all the dowagers are fully agreed on one point, that _l'amour est une passion qui vient souvent sans qu'on s'en apperçoîve, et, qui s'en va aussi de même_. ~ ~~ who play _de prettee_ flute, who charm _une petit_ english ninnie, till all the joueur j------'s guinea him _pochée en culotte_. who follows? 'tis the signor tori, 'bout whom the gossips tell a story, with some who've gone before: "the bird in yonder cage confined can sing of lovers young and kind," but there, he'll sing no more. ~ ~~ lord l------looks disconsolate,{} no news from spain i think of late, per favour m--------i. ne'er heed, my lord, you still may find some opera damsel true and kind, who'll prove less coy and naughty. "now by the pricking of my thumbs, there's something wicked this way comes," 'tis a-'s false dame,{ } who at almack's, or in the park, with whispers charms a clucal spark, to blight his wreath of fame. observe, where princely devonshire,{ } his lordship, though not quite so deeply smitten as the now happy swain, had, we believe, a little __penchant for the charming little daughter of terpsichore. "what news from spain, my lord, this morning?" said sir c. a. to lord l------"i have no connexion with the foreign office," replied his lordship.--"i beg pardon, my lord, but i am sure i met a spanish messenger quitting your house as i entered it." on the turf, his lordship's four year old (versus five) speculations with cove b-n have given him a notoriety that will, we think, prevent his ruining himself at newmarket. like the immortal f-e, he is one of the opera directors, and has a great inclination for foreign curiosities. vide the following extract.-- "the new corps de ballot at the opera this season, , is entirely composed of parisian elegantes, selected with great taste by lord l---------, whose judgment in these matters is perfectly con amore. in a letter to a noble friend on this subject, lord l--------says that he has seen, felt, and (ap-) proved them all------to be excellent artistes with very finished movements." certain ridiculous reports have long been current in the fashionable world, relative to a mysterious family affair, which would preclude the noble duke's entering into the state of matrimony: it is hardly necessary to say they have no foundation in truth. the duke was certainly born in the same house and at nearly the same time (in florence) when lady e. f-st-r, since duchess of d-, was delivered of a child--but that offspring is living, and, much to the present duke's honour, affectionately regarded by him. the duke was for some years abroad after coming to his title, owing, it is said, to an unpleasant affair arising out of a whist party at a great house, which was composed of a prince, lords l------and y------th, another foreign prince, and a colonel b-, of whom no one has heard much since.--a noble mansion in piccadilly was there and then assigned to the colonel, who at the request of the -e, who had long wished to possess it as a temporary residence, during some intended repairs at the great house, re-conveyed it to the------. on the receipt of a note from y- the next morning, claiming the amount of the duke's losses, he started with surprise at the immense sums, and being now perfectly recovered from the overpowering effects of the bottle, hastened with all speed to take the opinions of two well-known sporting peers, whose honour has never been questioned, lords f-y and s-n; they, upon a review of the circumstances, advised that the money should not be paid, but that all matters in dispute should be referred to a third peer, earl g-y, who was not a sporting man: to this effect a note was written to the applicant, but not before some communication had taken place with a very high personage; the consequence was that no demand was ever afterwards made to the referee. lord g- c- afterwards re- purchased the great house with the consent of the duke from the fortunate holder, as he did not like it to be dismembered from the family. we believe this circumstance had a most salutary effect in preventing any return of a propensity for play. charley loves good place and wine, and charley loves good brandy, and charley's wife is thought divine, by many a jack a dandy. parody on an old nursery rhyme. { } a character of devonshire. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ in action, heart, and mind, a peer, avoids the public gaze; graceful, yet simple in attire, you'd take him for a plain esquire; "his acts best speak his praise." that queer, plain, yellow chariot, mark, which drives so rapid through the park, the servants clothed in gray-- that's george, incog.--george who? george-king,{ } of whom near treason 'tis to sing, in this our sportive lay. kings like their subjects should have air and exercise, without the stare which the state show attends; i love to see in public place the monarch, who'll his people face, and meet like private friends. so may the crown of this our isle re ever welcomed with a smile, and, george, that smile be thine! then when the time,--and come it must, that crowns and sceptres shall be dust, thou shalt thy race outshine, shalt live in good men's hearts, and tears, from age to age, while mem'ry rears the proud historic shrine. from the diary of a politician. "through manchester-square took a canter just now, met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow; this did of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil, but got such a look,--oh! 'twas black as the devil. how unlucky!--incog, he was traveling about, and i like a noodle must go find him out! mem. when next by the old yellow chariot i ride, to remember there is nothing princely inside." tom moore, ~ ~~ what rueful-looking knight is that,{ } with sunken eye and silken hat, lord p-r-m, the delicate dandy. laced up in stays to show his waist, and highly rouged to show his taste, his whiskers meeting 'neath his chin, with gooseberry eye and ghastly grin, with mincing steps, conceited phrase, such as insipid p- displays: these are the requisites to shine a dandy, exquisite, divine. ancient dandies.--a confession. the doctor{*}, as we learn, once said, to mistress thrale-- howe'er a man be stoutly made, and free from ail, in flesh and bone, and colour thrive, "he's going down at ." yet horace could his vigour muster and would not till a later lustre f one single inch of ground surrender to any swain in cupid's calendar. but one i think a jot too low, and t'other is too high, i know. yet, what i've found, i'll freely state-- the thing may do till.-- but that's a job--for then, in truth, one's but a clumsy sort of youth: and maugre looks, some evil tongue will say the dandy is not young:-- for 'mid the yellow and the sear, {**} though here and there a leaf be green no more the summer of the year it is, than when one swallow's seen. * johnson. t---------------------fuge suspicari cujus octavum trepidavit otas claudere lustrum.--od. . . ii. now tottering on to forty years, my age forbids all jealous fears. ** "my may of life is fallen into the sear and yellow leaf."--macbeth. ~ ~~ pinch'd in behind and 'fore? whose visage, like la mancha's chief, seems the pale frontispiece to grief, as if 'twould ne'er laugh more: whose dress and person both defy the poet's pen, the painter's eye, 'tis _outre tout nature_. his arab charger swings his tail, curvets and prances to the gale like death's pale horse,-- and neighing proudly seems to say, here fashion's vot'ries must pay homage of course: tis p-h-m, whom mrs. h-g-s at opera and play-house dodges since he gain'd josephine; tailors adorn a thousand ways, and (though time won't) men may make slays; the dentist, barber, make repairs, new teeth supply, and colour hairs; but art can ne'er return the spring-- and spite of all that she can do, _a beau's_ a very wretched thing at ! the late princess charlotte issued an order, interdicting any one of her household appearing before her with frightful fringes to their leaden heads. in consequence of this cruel command, p-r-m, being one of the lords of the bed-chamber, was compelled to curtail his immense whiskers. a very feeling ode appeared upon the occasion, entitled my whiskers, dedicated to the princess; it was never printed, but attributed to thomas moore. the kiss, or lady francis w- w-'s frolic, had nearly produced a fatal catastrophe. how would poor lady anne w-m have borne such a misfortune? or what purling stream would have received the divine form of the charming mrs. h-d-s? but alas! he escaped little w-'s ball, only to prove man's base ingratitude, for he has since cut with both these beauties for the interesting little josephine, the protégée of t------y b-t, and the sister of the female giovanni. ~ ~~ ye madly vicious, can it be! a mother sunk in infamy, to sell her child is seen. let bow-street annals, and tom b-t,{ } who paid the mill'ner, tell the rest, it suits not with our page; just satire while she censures,--feels,-- verse spreads the vice when it reveals the foulness of the age. 'tis half-past five, and fashion's train no longer in hyde park remain, bon ton cries hence, away; the low-bred, vulgar, sunday throng, who dine at two, are ranged along on both sides of the way; with various views, these honest folk descant on fashions, quiz and joke, or mark a shy cock down{ }; for many a star in fashion's sphere can only once a week appear in public haunts of town, lest those two ever watchful friends, the step-brothers, whom sheriff sends, john doe and richard roe, a taking pair should deign to borrow, to wit, until all souls, the morrow, the body of a beau; poor tom b-t has paid dear for his protection of the josephine: fifteen hundred pounds for millinery in twelve months is a very moderate expenditure for so young a lady of fashion. it is, to be sure, rather provoking that such an ape as lord ------should take command of the frigate, and sail away in defiance of the chartered party, the moment she was well found and rigged for a cruize. see common plea reports, the sunday men, as they are facetiously called in the fashionable world, are not now so numerous as formerly: the facility of a trip across the channel enables many a shy cock to evade the scrutinizing eye and affectionate attachment of the law. but sunday sets the pris'ner free, he shows in park, and laughs with glee at creditors and bum. then who of any taste can bear the coarse, low jest and vulgar stare of all the city scum, of fat sir gobble, mistress fig, in buggy, sulky, coach, or gig, with dobbin in the shay? at ev'ry step some odious face, of true mechanic cut, will place themselves plump in your way. now onward to the serpentine, a river straight as any line, near kensington, let's walk; or through her palace gardens stray, where elegantes of the day ogle, congee, and talk. here imperial fashion reigns, here high bred belles meet courtly swains by assignation. made at almack's, argyle, or rout, while lady mother walks about in perturbation, watching her false peer, or to make a benedict of some high rake, to miss a titled prize. here, cameleon-colour'd, see beauty in bright variety, such as a god might prize. here, too, like the bird of juno, fancy's a gaudy group, that you know, of gay _marchands des modes_. haberdashers, milliners, fops from city desks, or bond-street shops, and belles from oxford-road, crowds here, commingled, pass and gaze, and please themselves a thousand ways; ~ ~~ some read the naughty rhymes which are on ev'ry alcove writ, immodest, lewd attempt at wit, disgraceful to the times. here scotland's dandy irish earl,{ } with noblet on his arm would whirl, and frolic in this sphere; with mulberry coat, and pink cossacks, the red-hair'd thane the fair attacks, f-'s ever on the leer; and when alone, to every belle the am'rous beau love's tale will tell, intent upon their ruin. beware, macduff, the fallen stars! venus aggrieved will fly to mars; there's mischief brewing. what mountain of a fair is that, whose jewels, lace, and spanish hat, proclaim her high degree, with a tall, meagre-looking man, who bears her reticule and fan? that was maria d-, now the first favourite at court, his lordship is equally celebrated in the wars of mars and venus, as a general in the service of spain. when lord m-d-ff, in the desperate bombardment of matagorda (an old fort in the bay of cadiz), the falling of a fragment of the rock, struck by a shell, broke, his great toe; in this wounded state he was carried about the alameda in a cherubim chair by two bare-legged gallegos, to receive the condolations of the grandees, and, we regret to add, the unfeeling jeers of the british, who made no scruple to assert that his lordship had, as usual, "put his foot in it." the noble general would no doubt have added another leaf to bis laurel under the auspices of the ex-smuggler, late illustrissimo general ballasteros, had not he suddenly become a willing captive to the soul-subduing charms of the beauteous antonia of terrifa, of whose history and melancholy death we may speak hereafter. on a late occasion, he has been honoured with the star of the guelphic order (when, for the first time in his life, he went on his knees), as some amends for his sudden dismissal from the bed-chamber. noblet, who has long since been placed upon the pension list, has recently retired, and is succeeded by a charming little parisian actress who lives in the new road, and plays with the french company now at tottenham-street theatre. lord l---------has also a little interest in the same concern. his lordship's _affaires des cour_ with antonia, noblet, and m---------, though perfectly platonic, have proved more expensive than the most determined votary to female attractions ever endured: for the gratification of this innocent passion, marr's{*} mighty pines have bit the dust, and friendly purses bled. ~ ~~ and, if we may believe report, she holds the golden key of the backstairs, and can command a potent influence in the land, but k------n best can tell; tis most clear, no ill betide us, near the georgium sidus this planet likes to dwell. lovely as light, when morning breaks{ } above the hills in golden streaks, observe yon blushing rose, uxbridge, the theme of ev'ry tongue, the sylph that charms the ag'd and young, where grace and virtue glows. gay lady h-e her lounge may take,{ } reclining near the indian lake., and think she's quite secure; the beautiful little countess, the charming goddess of the golden locks, was a miss campbell, a near relation of the duke of argyll. she is a most amiable and interesting elegante. although lord l-e is the constant attendant of lady h-, report says the attachment is merely platonic. his lordship was once smitten with her sister; and having thero suffered the most cruel disappointment, consoles himself for his loss in the sympathizing society of lady h------. * marr forest, belonging to his lordship, producing the finest mast pines in the empire; the noble earl has lately cut many scores of them ami some old friends, rather than balk his fancy. ~ ~~ as well might c- -ft hope to pass upon the town his c-----r lass for genuine and pure. see warwick's charming countess glide,{ } with constant harry by her side, along the gay _parterre_; and look where the loud laugh proclaims the cits and their cameleon dames, the gaudy cheapside fair, drest in all colours o' the shop, fashion'd for the easter hop, to grace the civic feast, where the great lord mayor presides o'er tallow, ribands, rags, and hides, the sultan o' the east. the would-be poet, ch-s l-h,{ } comes saunt'ring with his graces three, the little gay coquettes. after, view the cyprian corps of well-known traders, many score, from bang to angel m-tz, a heedless, giddy, laughing crew, who'd seem as if they never knew of want or fell despair; yet if unveil'd the heart might be, you'd find the demon, misery, had ta'en possession there. think not that satire will excuse, ye frail, though fair; or that the muse will silent pass ye by: to you a chapter she'll devote, where all of fashionable note lady sarah saville, afterwards lady monson, now countess of warwick, a most beautiful, amiable, and accomplished woman. by constant "harry" is meant her present earl. see amatory poems by ch-os l-h. we could indulge our readers with a curious account of the demolition of the paphian car at covent garden theatre, but the story is somewhat musty. ~ ~~ shall find their history. "vice to be hated, needs but be seen;" and thus shall ev'ry paphian queen be held to public view; and though protected by a throne, the gallant and his miss be shown in colours just and true. the countess of ten thousand see,{ } the dear delightful savante b-, who once was sold and bought: the magic-lantern well displays the scenes of long forgotten days, and gives new birth to thought. nay, start not, here we'll not relate the break-neck story gossips prate within the em'rald isle: no spirit gray, or black, or brown, we'll conjure up, with hideous frown, to chase the dimpled smile. in fleeting numbers, as we pass, we find these shadows in our glass, we move, and they're no more. but see where chief of folly's train, the beautiful and accomplished countess is a lovely daughter of hibernia; her maiden name was p-r, and her father an irish magistrate of high respectability. her first matrimonial alliance with captain f-r proved unfortunate; an early separation was the consequence, which was effected through the intervention of a kind friend, captain j-s of the th. shortly afterwards her fine person and superior endowments of mind made an impression upon the earl that nothing but the entire possession of the lady could allay. the affair of lord a- and mrs. b- is too well known to need repetition--it could not succeed a second time. abelard f- having paid the debt of nature, there was no impediment but a visit to the temple of hymen, on which point the lady was determined; and the yielding suitor, wounded to the vital part, most readily complied. it is due to the countess to admit, that since her present elevation, her conduct has been exemplary and highly praiseworthy. ~ ~~ conceited, simple, rash, and vain, comes lib'ral master g-e,{ } a dandy, half-fledged exquisite, who paid nine thousand pounds a night to female giovanni. reader, i think i hear you say, "what pleasure had he for his pay?" upon my word, not any; for soon as v-t-s got the cash, she set off with a splendid dash from op'ra to paris; left cl-t and this simple fool,{ } who no doubt's been an easy tool, to spend it with charles h-s. see, carolina comes in view, a lamb, from merry melbourne's ewe, who scaped the fatal knife. h-ll-d's blue stocking rib appears, who makes amends in latter years for early cause of strife. catullus george, the red-hair'd bard, whose rhymes, pedantic, crude, and hard, he calls translations, follows the fair; a nibbling mouse from westminster, by cam hobhouse expell'd his station. now twilight, with his veil of gray, the stars of fashion frights away the carriage homeward rolls along to music-party, cards and song, a very singular adventure, which occurred in . the enamoured swain, after settling an annuity of seven hundred pounds per annum upon the fair inconstant, had the mortification to find himself abandoned on the very night the deeds were completed, the lady having made a precipitate retreat, with a more favoured lover, to paris. the affair soon became known, and some friends interfered, when the deeds were cancelled. captain citizen cl-t, an exquisite of the first order, for a long time the favourite of the reigning sultana. ~ ~~ and many a gay delight. the goths of essex-street may groan,{ } turn up their eyes, and inward moan, they dare not here intrude; dare not attack the rich and great, the titled vicious of the state, the dissolute and lewd. vice only is, in some folks' eyes, immoral, when in rags she lies, by poverty subdued; but deck her forth in gaudy vest, with courtly state and titled crest, she's every thing that's good. "doth kalpho break the sabbath-day? why, kalpho hath no funds to pay; how dare he trespass then? how dare he eat, or drink, or sleep, or shave, or wash, or laugh, or weep, or look like other men?" my lord his concerts gives, 'tis true, the speaker holds his levee too, and fashion cards and dices; but these are trifles to the sin of selling apples, joints, or gin-- the present times have very properly been stigmatized as the age of cant. the increase of the puritans, the smooth-faced evangelical, and the lank-haired sectarian, with their pious love-meetings and bible associations, have at last roused the slumbering spirit of the constituted authorities, who are now making the most vigorous efforts to impede the progress of these anti-national and hypocritical fanatics, who, mistaking the true dictates of religion and benevolence, have, in their inflamed zeal, endeavoured to extirpate every species of innocent recreation, and have laid formidable siege to honest-hearted mirth and rustic revelry. "i am no prophet, nor the son of one; "but if ever the noble institutions of my country suffer any revolutionary change, it is my humble opinion it will result from these sainted associations, from these pious opposers of our national characteristics, and the noblest institution of our country, the foundation stone of our honour and glory, the established church of england. there is (in my opinion) more mischief to be apprehended to the state from the humbug of piety than from all the violence of froth, political demagogues, or the open-mouthed howl of the most hungry radicals. let it be understood i speak not against toleration in its most extended sense, but war only with hypocrisy and fanaticism, with those of whom juvenal has written--"_qui aurios simulant el baechemalia vivinit_." ~ ~~ low, execrable vices. cease, persecutors, mock reclaimers, ye jaundiced few, ye legal maimers of the lone, poor, and meek; ye moral fishers for stray gudgeons, ye sainted host of old curmudgeons, who ne'er the wealthy seek! if moralists ye would appear, attack vice in its highest sphere, the cause of all the strife; the spring and source from whence does flow pollution o'er the plains below, through all degrees of life. [illustration: page ] the opera. the man of fashion--fop's alley--modern roué and frequenters--characteristic sketches in high life--blue stocking illuminati--motives and mariners--meeting with the honourable lillyman lionise--dinner at long's--visit to the opera--joined by bob transit--a peep into the green room-- secrets behind the curtain--noble amateurs and foreign curiosities--notes and anecdotes by horatio heartly. ~ ~~ the opera, to the man of fashion, is the only tolerable place of public amusement in which the varied orders of society are permitted to participate. here, lolling at his ease, in a snug box on the first circle, in dignified security from the vulgar gaze, he surveys the congregated mass who fill the arena of the house, deigns occasionally a condescending nod of recognition to some less fortunate _roué_, or younger brother of a titled family, who is forcing his way through the well-united phalanx of vulgar faces that guard the entrance to _fop's alley_; or, if he should be in a state of single blessedness, inclines his head a little forward to cast round an inquiring glance, a sort of preliminary overture, to some fascinating daughter of fashion, whose attention he wishes to engage for an amorous interchange of significant looks and melting expressions during the last act of the opera. for the first, he would not be thought so _outré_ as to witness it--the attempt would require a sacrifice of the dessert and madeira, and completely revolutionize ~ ~~ the regularity of his dinner arrangement. the divertissement he surveys from the side wings of the stage, to which privilege he is entitled as an annual subscriber; trifles a little badinage with some well-known operatic intriguant, or favourite danseusej approves the finished movements of the male artistes, inquires of the manager or committee the forthcoming novelties, strolls into the green room to make his selection of a well-turned ankle or a graceful shape, and, having made an appointment for some non play night, makes one of the distinguished group of operatic cognoscenti who form the circle of taste in the centre of the stage on the fall of the curtain. this is one, and, perhaps, the most conspicuous portrait of an opera frequenter; but there are a variety of characters in the same school all equally worthy of a descriptive notice, and each differing in contour and force of chiaroscuro as much as the one thousand and one family maps which annually cover the walls of the royal academy, to the exclusion of meritorious performances in a more elevated branch of art. the dowager duchess of a------ retains her box to dispose of her unmarried daughters, and enjoy the gratification of meeting in public the once flattering groups of noble expectants who formerly paid their ready homage to her charms and courted her approving smile; but then her ducal spouse was high in favour, and in office, and now these "summer flies o' the court" are equally steady in their devotion to his successor, and can scarcely find memory or opportunity to recognise the relict of their late ministerial patron. lord e------ and the marchioness of r.------ subscribe for a box between them, enjoying the proprietorship in alternate weeks. during the marchesa's periods of occupation you will perceive lady h., and the whole of the blue stocking illuminati, irradiating from this point, like the tributary stars round some major planet, forming ~ ~~ a grand constellation of attraction. here new novels, juvenile poets, and romantic tourists receive their fiat, and here too the characters of one half the fashionable world undergo the fiery ordeal of scrutinization, and are censured or applauded more in accordance with the prevailing on dits of the day, or the fabrications of the club, than with any regard to feeling, truth, or decorum. the following week-, how changed the scene!--the venerable head of the highly-respected lord e------ graces the corner, like a corinthian capital finely chiseled by the divine hand of praxiteles; the busy tongue of scandal is dormant for a term, and in her place the solons of the land, in solemn thoughtfulness, attend the sage injunctions of their learned chief. too enfeebled by age and previous exertion to undergo the fatigues of parliamentary duty, the baron here receives the visits of his former colleagues, and snatching half an hour from his favourite recreation, gives a decided turn to the politics of a party by the cogency of his reasoning and the brilliancy of his arguments. the earl of f------has a grand box on the ground tier, for the double purpose of admiring the chaste evolutions of the sylphic daughters of terpsichore, and of being observed himself by all the followers of the cameleon-like, capricious goddess, fashion. the g------b-----, the wealthy commoner, fortune's favoured child, retains a box in the best situation, if not on purpose, yet in fact, to annoy all those within hearing, by the noisy humour of his bacchanalian friends, who reel in at the end of the first act of the opera, full primed with the choicest treasures of his well stocked bins, to quiz the young and modest, insult the aged and respectable, and annihilate the anticipated pleasures of the scientific and devotees of harmony, by the coarseness of their attempts at wit, the overpowering clamour of their conversation, and ~ ~~ the loud laugh and vain pretence to taste and critic skill. the ministerialists may be easily traced by their affectation of consequence, and a certain air of authority joined to a demi-official royal livery, which always distinguishes the corps politique, and is equally shared by their highly plumed female partners. the opposition are equally discernible by outward and visible signs, such as an assumed nonchalance, or apparent independence of carriage, that but ill suits the ambitious views of the wearer, and sits as uneasily upon them as their measures would do upon the shoulders of the nation. added to which, you will never see them alone; never view them enjoying the passing scene, happy in the society of their accomplished wives and daughters, but always, like restless and perturbed spirits, congregating together in conclave, upon some new measure wherewith to sow division in the nation, and shake the council of the state. and yet to both these parties a box at the opera is as indispensable as to the finished courtezan, who here spreads her seductive lures to catch the eye, and inveigle the heart of the inexperienced and unwary. but what has all this to do with the opera? or where will this romantic correspondent of mine terminate his satirical sketch? i think i hear you exclaim. a great deal more, mr. collegian, than your philosophy can imagine: you know, i am nothing if not characteristic; and this, i assure you, is a true portrait of the place and its frequenters. i dare say, you would have expected my young imagination to have been encompassed with delight, amid the mirth-inspiring compositions of corelli, mozart, or rossini, warbled forth by that enchanting siren, de begnis, the scientific pasta, the modest caradori, or the astonishing catalani:--heaven enlighten your unsuspicious mind! attention to the merits of the ~ ~~ performance is the last thing any fashionable of the present day would think of devoting his time to. no, no, my dear bernard, the opera is a sort of high 'change, where the court circle and people of ton meet to speculate in various ways, and often drive as hard a bargain for some purpose of interest or aggrandisement, as the plebeian host of all nations, who form the busy group in the grand civic temple of commerce on cornbill. you know, i have (as the phrase is), just come out, and of course am led about like a university lion, by the more experienced votaries of ton. an accident threw the honourable lillyman lionise into my way the other morning; it was the first time we had met since we were at eton: he was sauntering away the tedious hour in the arcade, in search of a specific for ennui, was pleased to compliment me on possessing the universal panacea, linked arms immediately, complained of being devilishly cut over night, proposed an adjournment to long's--a light dinner--maintenon cutlets--some of the queensberry hock{ } (a century and a half old)--ice-punch-six whin's from an odoriferous hookah--one cup of renovating fluid (impregnated with the parisian aromatic { }); and then, having reembellished our persons, sported{ } a figure at the opera. in the grand entrance, we enlisted bob transit, between whom and the honourable, i congratulated myself on being in a fair way to be enlightened. bob knows every body--the exquisite was not so general in his information; but then he occasionally furnished some little anecdote of the surrounding elegantes, relative to affairs de l'amour, or pointed out the superlative of the haut class, without which much of the interesting would have escaped my notice. the late duke of queensberry's famous old hock, which since his decease was sold by auction. a parisian preparation, which gives a peculiar high flavour and sparkling effect to coffee. an oxford phrase. ~ ~~ in this society, i made my first appearance in the green room; a little, narrow, pink saloon at the back of the stage, where the dancers congregate and practise before an immense looking-glass previous to their appearance in public. to a fellow of warm imagination and vigorous constitution, such a scene is calculated to create sensations that must send the circling current into rapid motion, and animate the heart with thrilling raptures of delight. before the mirror, in all the grace of youthful loveliness and perfect symmetry of form, the divine little fairy sprite, the all-conquering andalusian venus, mercandotti, was exhibiting her soft, plump, love-inspiring person in pirouétte: before her stood the now happy swain, the elegant h------ b-, on whose shoulder rested the earl of fe-, admiring with equal ecstasy the finished movements of his accomplished protégée{ }; on the right hand of the earl stood the single duke of d--------------e, quizzing the little daughter of terpsichore through his eye-glass; on the opposite of the circle was seen the noble it was very generally circulated, and for some time believed, that the charming little andalusian venus was the natural daughter of the earl of f-e: a report which had not a shadow of truth in its foundation, but arose entirely out of the continued interest the earl took in the welfare of the lady from the time of her infancy, at which early period she was exhibited on the stage of the principal theatre in cadiz as an infant prodigy; and being afterwards carried round (as is the custom in spain) to receive the personal approval and trifling presents of the grandees, excited such general admiration as a beautiful child, that the earl of f- e, then lord m- and a general officer in the service of spain, adopted the child, and liberally advanced funds for her future maintenance and instruction, extending his bounty and protection up to the moment of her fortunate marriage with her present husband. it is due to the lady to add, that in every instance her conduct has been marked by the strictest sense of propriety, and that too in situations where, it is said, every attraction was offered to have induced a very opposite course. ~ ~~ musical amateur b-----h, supported by the director de r-s on one hand, and the communicative manager, john ebers, of bond-street, on the other; in a snug corner on the right hand of the mirror was seated one of his majesty's most honourable privy council, the earl of w-----d, with a double dollond's operatic magnifier in his hand, studying nature from this most delightful of all miniature models. "a most perfect divinity," whispered the exquisite. "a glorious fine study," said transit,--and, pulling out his card-case and pencil, retired to one corner of the room, to make a mem., as he called it, of the scene. (see plate.) "who the deuce is that eccentric-looking creature with the marquis of hertford?" said i. "hush," replied the exquisite, "for heaven's sake, don't expose yourself! not to know the superlative roué of the age, the all-accomplished petersham, would set you down for a barbarian at once." "and who," said i, "is the amiable fair bending before the admiring worter?" "an old and very dear acquaintance of the earl of f-e, mademoiselle noblet, who, it is said, displays much cool philosophy at the inconstancy of her once enamoured swain, consoling herself for his loss, in the enjoyment of a splendid annuity." a host of other bewitching forms led my young fancy captive by turns, as my eye travelled round the magic circle of delight: some were, i found, of that yielding spirit, which can pity the young heart's fond desire; with others had secured honourable protection: and if his companion's report was to be credited, there were very few among the enchanting spirits before yet with whom that happiness which springs from virtuous pure affection was to be anticipated. if was no place to moralize, but, to you who know my buoyancy of spirit, and susceptibility of mind, i must confess, the reflection produced a momentary pang of the keenest misery. [illustration: page ] the royal saloon. visit of heartly, lionise, and transit--description of the place--sketches of character--the gambling parsons--horse chaunting, a true anecdote--bang and her friends--moll raffle and the marquis w.--the play man--the touter--the half-pay officer--charles rattle, esq.--life of a modern roué-b------ the tailor--the subject--jarvey and brooks the dissector-- "kill him when you want him" ~ ~~ after the opera, bob transit proposed an adjournment to the royal saloon, in piccadilly, a place of fashionable resort (said bob) for shell-fish and sharks, greeks and pigeons, cyprians and citizens, noble and ignoble--in short, a mighty rendezvous, where every variety of character is to be found, from the finished sharper to the finished gentleman; a scene pregnant with subject for the pencil of the humorist, and full of the richest materials for the close observer of men and manners. hither we retired to make a night of it, or rather to consume the hours between midnight and morning's dawn. the place itself is fitted up in a very novel and attractive style of decoration, admirably calculated for a saloon of pleasure and refreshment; but more resembling a turkish kiosk than an english tavern. on the ground floor, which is of an oblong form and very spacious, are a number of divisions enclosed on each side with rich damask curtains, having each a table and seats for the reception of supper or drinking parties; at the extreme end, and ~ ~~ on each side, mirrors of unusual large dimensions give an infinity of perspective, which greatly increases the magnificence of the place. in the centre of the room are pedestals supporting elegant vases filled with choice exotics. a light and tasteful trellis-work surrounds a gallery above, which forms a promenade round the room, the walls being painted to resemble a conservatory, in which the most luxuriant shrubs are seen spreading their delightful foliage over a spacious dome, from the centre of which is suspended a magnificent chandelier. here are placed, at stated distances, rustic tables, for the accommodation of those who choose coffee and tea; and leading from this, on each side, are several little snug private boudoirs for select parties, perfectly secure from the prying eye of vulgar curiosity, and where only the privileged few are ever permitted to enter. it was in this place, surrounded by well-known greeks, with whom he appeared to be on the most intimate terms, that transit pointed out to my notice the eccentric vicar of k**, the now invisible author of l****, whose aphorisms and conduct bear not the slightest affinity to each other--nor was he the only clerical present; at the head of a jolly party, at an adjoining table, sat the ruby-faced parson john a-----e, late proprietor of the notorious gothic hall, in pall mall, a man of first rate wit and talent, but of the lowest and most depraved habits. "the divine is a character" said bob, "who, according to the phraseology of the ring, is 'good at every thing:' as he came into the world without being duly licensed, so he thinks himself privileged to pursue the most unlicensed conduct in his passage through it. as a specimen of his ingenuity in horse-dealing, i'll give you an anecdote.--it is not long since that the parson invited a party of bucks to dinner, at his snug little villa on the banks of the thames, near richmond, in surrey. previous to the repast, the reverend ~ ~~ led his visitors forth to admire the gardens and surrounding scenery, when just at the moment they had reached the outer gate, a fine noble-looking horse was driven past in a tilbury by a servant in a smart livery.--'what a magnificent animal!' said the parson; 'the finest action i ever beheld in my life: there's a horse to make a man's fortune in the park, and excite the envy and notice of all the town.' 'who does he belong to?' said a young baronet of the party, who had just come out. 'i'll inquire,' said the parson: 'the very thing for you, sir john.' away posts the reverend, bawling after the servant, 'will your master sell that horse, my man?' 'i can't say, sir,' said the fellow, 'but i can inquire, and let you know.' 'do, my lad, and tell him a gentleman here will give a handsome price for him.' away trots the servant, and the party proceed to dinner. as soon as the dessert is brought in, and the third glass circulated, the conversation is renewed relative to the horse--the whole party agree in extolling his qualities; when, just in the nick of time, the servant arrives to say his master being aged and infirm, the animal is somewhat too spirited for him, and if the gentleman likes, he may have him for one hundred guineas. 'a mere trifle,' vociferates the company. 'cheap as rivington's second-hand sermons,' said the parson. the baronet writes a check for the money, and generously gives the groom a guinea for his trouble--drives home in high glee--and sends his servant down next morning to the parson's for his new purchase--orders the horse to be put into his splendid new tilbury, built under the direction of sir john lade--just reaches grosvenor-gate from hamilton-place in safety, when the horse shows symptoms of being a miller. baronet, nothing daunted, touches him smartly under the flank, when up he goes on his fore-quarters, smashes the tilbury into ten thousand pieces, bolts away with the traces and shafts, and leaves the baronet with a broken head ~ ~~ on one side of the road, and his servant with a broken arm on the other. 'where the devil did you get that quiet one from, sir john!' said the honourable fitzroy st-----e, whom the accident had brought to the spot. 'the parson bought him of an old gentleman at richmond yesterday for me.' 'done, brown as a berry,' said fitzroy: 'i sold him only on saturday last to the reverend myself for twenty pounds as an incurable miller. why the old clerical's turned coper{ }--;a new way of raising the wind--letting his friends down easy--gave you a good dinner, i suppose, sir john, and took this method of drawing the bustle{ } for it: an old trick of the reverend's.' after this it is hardly necessary to say, the servant was a confederate, and the whole affair nothing more or less than a true orthodox farce of horse chaunting,{ } got up for the express purpose of raising a temporary supply."{ } a horse-dealer. money. tricking persons into the purchase of unsound or vicious horses. a practice by no means uncommon among a certain description of dashing characters, who find chaunting a horse to a green one, a snug accidental party at chicken hazard, or a confederacy to entrap some inexperienced bird of fashion, where he may be plucked by greek banditti, pay exceedingly well for these occasional dinner parties. at this moment our attention was engaged by the entrance of a party of exquisites and elegantes, dressed in the very extreme of opera costume, who directed their steps to the regions above us. "i'll bet a hundred," said the honourable, "i know that leg," eyeing a divine little foot and a finely turned ankle that was just then discernible from beneath a rich pink drapery, as the possessor ascended the gallery of the conservatory, lounging on the arm of the irish earl of c------; " the best leg in england, and not a bad figure for an ancient," continued lionise: "that is the celebrated mrs. bertram, alias bang--everybody ~ ~~ knows bang; that is, every body in the fashionable world. she must have been a most delightful creature when she first came out, and has continued longer in bloom than any of the present houris of the west; but i forgot you were fresh, and only in training, heartly--i must introduce you to bang: you will never arrive at any eminence among the haut classe unless you can call these beauties by name." "and who the deuce is bang?" said i: "not that elegantly-dressed female whom i see tripping up the gallery stairs yonder, preceded by several other delightful faces." "the same, my dear fellow: a fallen star, to be sure, but yet a planet round whose orbit move certain other little twinkling luminaries whose attractive glimmerings are very likely to enlighten your obscure sentimentality. bang was the daughter of a bathing-woman at brighton, from whence she eloped early in life with a navy lieutenant-has since been well known as a dasher of the first water upon the pave--regularly sports her carriage in the drive--and has numbered among her protectors, at various times, the marquis w------, lord a------, colonel c------, and, lastly, a descendant of the mighty wallace, who, in an auto-biographical sketch, boasts of his intimacy with this fascinating cyprian. she has, however, one qualification, which is not usually found among those of her class--she has had the prudence to preserve a great portion of her liberal allowances, and is now perfectly independent of the world. we must visit one of her evening parties in the neighbourhood of euston-square, when she invites a select circle of her professional sisters to a ball and supper, to which entertainment her male visitors are expected to contribute liberally. she has fixed upon the earl, i should think, more for the honour of the title than with any pecuniary hopes, his dissipation having left him scarce enough to keep up appearances." "the amiable who precedes her," said i, "is of the same class, i ~ ~~ presume--precisely, and equally notorious." "that is the celebrated mrs. l------, better known as moll raffle, from the circumstance of her being actually raffled for, some years since, by the officers of the seventh dragoons, when they were quartered at rochester: like her female friend, she is a woman of fortune, said to be worth eighteen hundred per annum, with which she has recently purchased herself a spanish cavalier for a husband. a curious anecdote is related of moll and her once kind friend, the marquis of w--------, who is said to have given her a bond for seven thousand pounds, on a certain great house, not a mile from hyde-park corner, which he has since assigned to a fortunate general, the present possessor; who, thinking his title complete, proceeded to take possession, but found his entry disputed by the lady, to whom he was eventually compelled to pay the forfeiture of the bond. come along, my boy," said lionise; "i'll introduce you at once to the whole party, and then you can make your own selection." "not at present: i came here for general observation, not private intrigue, and must confess i have seldom found a more diversified scene." "i beg pardon, gentlemen," said an easy good-looking fellow, with something rather imposing in his manner--"shall i intrude here?--will 'you permit me to take a seat in your box?" "by all means," replied i; bob, at the same moment, pressing his elbow into my side, and the exquisite raising his glass very significantly to his eye, the stranger continued--"a very charming saloon this, gentlemen, and the company very superior to the general assemblage at such places: my friend, the earl of c------, yonder, i perceive, amorously engaged; lord p------, too, graces the upper regions with the delightful josephine: really this is quite the café royal of london; the accommodation, too, admirable--not merely confined to refreshments; i am told there are excellent billiard ~ ~~ tables, and snug little private rooms for a quiet rubber, or a little chicken hazard. do you play, gentlemen? very happy to set you for a main or two, by way of killing time." that one word, play, let me at once into the secret of our new acquaintance's character, and fully explained the distant reception and cautious bearing of my associates. my positive refusal to accommodate produced a very polite bow, and the party immediately retired to reconnoitre among some less suspicious visitants. "a nibble," said transit, "from an ivory turner."{ } "by the honour of my ancestry," said lionise, "a very finished sharper; i remember lord f------ pointing him out to me at the last newmarket spring meeting, when we met him, arm in arm, with a sporting baronet. what the fellow was, nobody knows; but he claims a military title--captain, of course--perhaps has formerly held a lieutenancy in a militia regiment: he now commands a corps of sappers on the greek staff, and when he honoured us with a call just now was on the recruiting service, i should think; but our friend, heartly, here, would not stand drill, so he has marched off on the forlorn hope, and is now, you may perceive, concerting some new scheme with a worthy brother touter,{ } who is on the half pay of the british army, and receives full pay in the service of the greeks. we must make a descent into hell some night," said transit, "and sport a few crowns at roulette or rouge et noir, to give heartly his degree. we shall proceed regularly upon college principles, old fellow: first, we will visit the little go in king-street, and then drop into the great go, alias watiers, in piccadilly; after which we can sup in crockford's pandemonium among parliamentary pigeons, unfledged a tats man, a proficient with the bones, one who knows every chance upon the dice. a decoy, who seduces the young or inexperienced to the gaming table, and receives a per centage upon their losses. ~ ~~ ensigns of the guards, broken down titled legs, and ci-devant bankers, fishmongers, and lightermen; and here comes the very fellow to introduce us--an old college chum, charles rattle, who was expelled brazennose for smuggling, and who has since been pretty well plucked by merciless greek banditti and newmarket jockeys, but who bears his losses with the temper of a philosopher, and still pursues the destructive vice with all the infatuation of the most ardent devotee." "how d'ye do, old fellows?--how d'ye do? who would have thought to have met the philosopher (pointing to me) at such a place as this, among the impures of both sexes, legs and leg-ees? come to sport a little blunt with the table or the traders, hey! heartly? always suspected you was no puritan, although you wear such a sentimental visage. well, old fellows, i am glad to see you, however,--come, a bottle of champagne, for i have just cast off all my real troubles--had a fine run of luck to-night--broke the bank, and bolted with all the cash. just in the nick of time-off for epsom to-morrow--double my bets upon the derby, and if the thing comes off right, i'll give somebody a thousand or two to tie me up from playing again above five pounds stakes as long as i live. the best thing you ever heard in your life--a double to do. ned c-----d having heard i had just received a few thousands, by the sale of the yorkshire acres, planned it with colonel t----- to introduce me to the new club, where a regular plant was to be made, by some of his myrmidons, to clear me out, by first letting me win a few thousands, when they were to pounce upon me, double the stakes, and finish me off in prime style, fleecing me out of every guinea--very good-trick and tie, you know, is fair play--and for this very honest service, my friend, the colonel, was to receive a commission, or per centage, in proportion to my losses: the very last man in the world that the old pike could ~ ~~ have baited for in that way--the colonel's down a little, to be sure, but not so low as to turn confederate to a leg--so suppressed his indignation at the proposition, and lent himself to the scheme, informing me of the whole circumstances--well, all right--we determined to give the old one a benefit--dined with him to-day--a very snug party--devilish good dinner--superb wines--drank freely--punished his claret--and having knocked about saint hugh's bones{ } until i was five thousand in pocket, politely took my leave, without giving the parties their revenge. never saw a finer scene in the course of my life-such queer looks, and long faces, and smothered wailings when they found themselves done by a brace of gudgeons, whom they had calculated upon picking to the very bones! come, old fellows, a toast: here's fishmonger's hall, and may every suspected gudgeon prove a shark." the bottle now circulated freely, and the open-hearted rattle delighted us with the relation of some college anecdotes, which i shall reserve for a hearty laugh when we meet. the company continued to increase with the appearance of morning; and here might be seen the abandoned profligate, with his licentious female companion, completing the night's debauch by the free use of intoxicating liquors--the ruined spendthrift, fresh from the gaming-table, loudly calling for wine, to drown the remembrance of his folly, and abusing the drowsy waiter only to give utterance to his irritated feelings. in a snug corner might be seen a party of sober, quiet-looking gentlemen, taking their lobster and bucellas, whose first appearance would impress you with the belief of their respectability, but whom, upon inquiry, you would discover to be greek banditti, retired hither to divide their ill gotten spoils. it was among a party of this description that rattle pointed out a celebrated writer, whose lively style and accurate description of saint hugh's bones, a cant phrase for dice. ~ ~~ men and manners display no common mind. yet here he was seen associated with the most depraved of the human species--the gambler by profession, the common cheat! what wonder that such connexions should have compelled him for a time to become an exile to his country, and on his return involved him in a transaction that has ended in irretrievable ruin and disgrace? "by the honour of my ancestry," said lionise, "yonder is that delectable creature, old crony, the dinner many that is the most surprising animal we have yet found among the modern discoveries--polite to and point--always well dressed--keeps the best society--or, i should say, the best society keeps him: to an amazing fund of the newest on dits and anecdotes of ton, always ready cut and dried, he joins a smattering of the classics, and chops logic with the learned that he may carve their more substantial fare gratis; has a memory tenacious as a chief judge on matter of invitation, and a stomach capacious as a city alderman in doing honour to the feast; pretends to be a connoisseur in wines, although he never possessed above one bottle at a time in his cellaret, i should think, in the whole course of his life; talks about works of art and virtu as if sir joshua reynolds had been his nurse--claude his intimate acquaintance--or praxiteles his great great grandfather. the fellow affects a most dignified contempt for the canaille, because, in truth, they never invite him to dinner--is on the free list of all the theatres, from having formerly been freely hiss'd upon their boards--a retired tragedy king on a small pension, with a republican stomach, who still enacts the starved apothecary at home, from penury, and liberally crams his voracious paunch, stuffing like father paul, when at the table of others. with these habits, he has just managed to scrape together some sixty pounds per annum, upon which, by good management, he contrives to live like an emperor; for instance, he keeps a regular book of ~ invitations, numbers his friends according to the days of the year, and divides and subdivides them in accordance with their habits and pursuits, so that an unexpected invitation requires a reference to his journal: if you invite him for saturday next, he will turn to his tablets, apologise for a previous engagement, run his eye eagerly down the column for an occasional absentee, and then invite himself for some day in the ensuing week, to which your politeness cannot fail to accede. you will meet him in london, brighton, bath, cheltenham, and margate during the fashionable periods; at all of which places he has his stated number of dinner friends, where his presence is as regularly looked for as the appearance of the swallow. among the play men he is useful as a looker on, to make one at the table when they are thin of customers, or to drink a young one into a proper state for plucking: in other society he coins compliments for the fair lady of the mansion, extols his host's taste and good fellowship at table, tells a smutty story to amuse the _bon vivants_ in their cups, or recites a nursery rhyme to send the children quietly to bed; and in this manner crony manages to come in for a good dinner every day of his life. call on him for a song, and he'll give you, what he calls, a free translation of a latin ode, by old walter de mapes, archdeacon of oxford in the eleventh century, a true _gourmands_ prayer-- mihi est propositum in tabernâ mon.' i'll try and hum you crony's english version of the cantilena. 'i'll in a tavern end my days, midst boon companions merry, place at my lips a lusty flask replete with sparkling sherry, that angels, hov'ring round, may cry, when i lie dead as door-nail, 'rise, genial deacon, rise, and drink of the well of life eternal.' ***** ~ ~~ 'various implements belong to ev'ry occupation; give me an haunch of venison--and a fig for inspiration! verses and odes without good cheer, i never could indite 'em; sure he who meagre, days devised is d-----d ad infinitum! ***** 'mysteries and prophetic truths, i never could unfold 'em without a flagon of good wine and a slice of cold ham; but when i've drained my liquor out, and eat what's in the dish up, though i am but an arch-deacon, i can preach like an arch- bishop.'" "a good orthodox ode," said transit, "and admirably suited to the performer, who, after all, it must be allowed, is a very entertaining fellow, and well worthy of his dinner, from the additional amusement he affords. i remember meeting him in company with the late lord coleraine, the once celebrated colonel george hanger, when he related an anecdote of the humorist, which his lordship freely admitted to be founded on fact. as i have never seen it in print, or heard it related by any one since, you shall have it instanter: it is well known that our present laughter-loving monarch was, in earlier years, often surrounded, when in private, by a coruscation of wit and talent, which included not only the most distinguished persons in the state, but also some celebrated bon vivants and amateur vocalists, among whom the names of the duke of orleans, earl of derby, charles james fox, richard brinsley sheridan, the facetious poet lauréat to the celebrated beefsteak club, tom hewardine, sir john moore, mr brownlow, captain thompson, bate dudley, captain morris, and colonel george hanger, formed the most conspicuous characters at the princely anacreontic board. but 'who would be grave--when wine can save the heaviest soul from thinking, and magic grapes give angel's shapes to every girl we're drinking!' ~ ~~ it was on one of these festive occasions, when whim, and wit, and sparkling wine combined to render the festive scene the 'feast of reason and the flow of soul,' that the prince of wales invited himself and his brother, the duke of york, to dine with george hanger. an honour so unlooked for, and one for which george was so little prepared (as he then resided in obscure lodgings near soho-square), quite overpowered the colonel, who, however, quickly recovering his surprise, assured his royal highness of the very high sense he entertained of the honour intended him, but lamented it was not in his power to receive him, and his illustrious brother, in a manner suitable to their royal dignity. 'you only wish to save your viands, george,' said the prince: 'we shall certainly dine with you on the day appointed; and whether you reside on the first floor or the third, never mind--the feast will not be the less agreeable from the altitude of the apartment, or the plainness of the repast.' thus encouraged, george was determined to indulge in a joke with his royal visitors. on the appointed day, the prince and duke arrived, and were shown up stairs to george's apartments, on the second floor, where a very tasteful banquet was set out, but more distinguished by neatness than splendour: after keeping his illustrious guests waiting a considerable period beyond the time agreed on, by way of sharpening their appetites, the prince good-humouredly inquired what he meant to give them for dinner?' only one dish,' said george; 'but that one will, i flatter myself, be a novelty to my royal guests, and prove highly palatable.' 'and what may that be?' said the prince. 'the wing of a wool-bird,' replied the facetious colonel. it was in vain the prince and duke conjectured what this strange title could import, when george appeared before them with a tremendous large red baking dish, ~ ~~ smoking hot, in which was supported a fine well-browned shoulder of mutton, dropping its rich gravy over some crisp potatoes. the prince and his brother enjoyed the joke amazingly, and they have since been heard to declare, they never ate a heartier meal in their life, or one (from its novelty to them in the state in which it was served up), which they have relished more. george had, however, reserved a _bonne bouche_, in a superb dessert and most exquisite wines, for which the prince had heard he was famous, and which was, perhaps, the principal incitement to the honour conferred." after a night spent in the utmost hilarity, heightened by the vivacity and good-humour of my associates, to which might be added, the full gratification of my prevailing _penchant_ for the observance of character, we were on the point of departing, when transit, ever on the alert in search of variety, observed a figure whom (in his phrase) he had long wished to book; in a few moments a sketch of this eccentric personage was before us. "that is the greatest original we have yet seen," said our friend bob: "he is now in the honourable situation of croupier to one of the most notorious hells in the metropolis. this poor devil was once a master tailor of some respectability, until getting connected with a gang of sharpers, he was eventually fleeced of all his little property: his good-natured qualifications, and the harmless pleasantries with which he abounds, pointed him out as a very proper person to act as a confederate to the more wealthy legs; from a pigeon he became a bird of prey, was enlisted into the corps, and regularly initiated into all the diabolical mysteries of the black art. for some time he figured as a decoy upon the town, dressed in the first style of fashion, and driving an unusually fine horse and elegant stanhope, until a circumstance, arising out of a ~ ~~ joke played off upon him by his companions, when in a state of intoxication, made him so notorious, that his usefulness in that situation was entirely frustrated, and, consequently, he has since been employed within doors, in the more sacred mysteries of the greek temple. the gentleman i mean is yonder, with the joliffe tile and sharp indented countenance: his real name is b------; but he has now obtained the humorous cognomen of 'the subject' from having been, while in a state of inebriety, half stripped, put into a sack, and in this manner conveyed to the door of mr. brooks, the celebrated anatomist in blenheim-street, by a hackney night-coachman, who was known to the party as the resurrection jarvey. on his being deposited in this state at the lecturer's door, by honest jehu, who offered him for sale, the surgeon proceeded to examine his subject, when, untying the sack, he discovered the man was breathing: 'why, you scoundrel,' said the irritable anatomist, 'the man's not dead.' 'not dead!' re-echoed coachee, laughing at the joke, 'why, then, kill him when you want him!' the consequence of this frolic had, however, nearly proved more serious than the projectors anticipated: the anatomist, suspecting it was some trick to enter his house for burglarious purposes, gave the alarm, when jarvey made his escape; but poor b------was secured, and conveyed the next morning to marlborough-street, where it required all the ingenuity of a celebrated old bailey solicitor to prevent his being committed for the attempt to rob a bonehouse." after this anecdote, we all agreed to separate. transit would fain have led us to the covent-garden finish, which he describes as being unusually rich in character; but this was deferred until another night, when i shall introduce you to some new acquaintances.--adieu. lady mary oldstyle and the d'almaine family are off to-morrow for brighton, from which place expect some few descriptive sketches. horatio heartly. [illustration: page ] the spread,{ } or wine party at brazen-nose. ~ ~~ "hear, momus, hoar! blithe sprite, whose dimpling cheek of quips, and cranks ironic, seems to speak, who lovest learned victims, and whose shrine groans with the weight of victims asinine. nod with assent! thy lemon juice infuse! though of male sex, i woo thee for a muse." _a college wine party described--singular whim of horace eglantine--meeting of the oxford crackademonians--sketches of eccentric characters, drawn from the life--the doctor's daughter--an old song--a round of sculls--epitaphs on the living and the dead--tom tick, a college tale--the voyagers --notes and anecdotes._ a college wine party i could very well conceive from the specimen i had already of my companion's frolicsome humours, was not unlikely to produce some departure from college rules which might eventually involve me in _rustication, fine_, or _imposition_. to avoid it was impossible; it was the first invitation of an early friend, and must be obeyed. the anticipation of a bilious head-ache on the morrow, or perhaps a first appearance before, or lecture from, the vice-chancellor, principal, or proctor, made me somewhat tardy in my appearance at the _spread_. the butler was just marching a second a spread. a wine party of from thirty to one hundred and twenty persons. the party who gives the spread generally invites all the under-graduates he is acquainted with; a dessert is ordered either from jubber's, or sadler's, for the number invited, for which he is charged at per head. ~ ~~ reinforcement of _black men, or heavy artillery_ from the college magazine, across the quadrangle, for the use of the dignitaries' table; when i, a poor solitary _freshman_, advanced with sentimental awe and fearful stride beneath the arched entrance of brazen-nose. where eglantine's rooms were situated i had no means of knowing, his card supplying only the name of his college; to make some inquiry would be necessary, but of whom, not a creature but what appeared much too busily employed, as they ran to and fro laden with wine and viands, to answer the interrogatories of a stranger. i was on the point of retreating to obtain the requisite information from the waiter at the mitre, when old mark supple made his appearance, with "your servant, sir: i have been in search of you at your inn, by command of mr. eglantine, _take notice_--who with a large party of friends are waiting your company to a _spread_." "a large party, mark?" said i, suspecting there was some secret drama in rehearsal, in which i was to play a principal part. "a very large party, sir, and a very extraordinary one too, _take notice_--such a collection as i never saw before within the walls of a college--living curiosities, _take notice_--all the _comicals_ of oxford brought together,{ } and this this adventure, strange as it may appear, actually occurred a short time since, when mr. j*****n of brazen-nose invited the characters here named to an entertainment in the college. sir richard steele, when on a visit to edinburgh, indulged in a similar freak: he made a splendid feast, and whilst the servants were wondering for what great personages it was intended, he sent them into the streets, to collect all the eccentrics, beggars, and poor people, that chance might throw in their way, and invite them to his house. a pretty large party being mustered, they were well plied with whiskey-punch and wine; when, forgetting their cares, and free from all restraint, they gave loose to every peculiarity of their respective characters. when the entertainment was over, sir richard declared, that besides the pleasure of filling so many hungry bellies, and enjoying an hour of rich amusement, he had gleaned from them humour enough to form a good comedy, or at least a farce. the spread, or wine party at brazen-nose is what mr. eglantine calls his _museum of character_, but which i should call a _regiment of caricatures, take notice_--but i heard him say, that he had invited them on purpose to surprise you; that he knew you was fond of eccentricity, and that he thought he had prepared a great treat. i only wish he may get rid of them as easily as he brought them there, for if the bull-dogs should gain scent of them there would be a pretty row, _take notice_." mark's information, instead of producing the alarm he evidently anticipated, had completely dispelled all previous fears, and operated like the prologue to a rich comedy, from which i expected to derive considerable merriment: following, therefore, my conductor up one flight of stairs on the opposite side of the space from which i had entered, i found myself at the closed _oak_ of my friend. "mr. eglantine is giving them a _chaunt_" said mark, who had applied his ear to the key-hole of the door: "we must wait till the song is over, or you will be fined in a double bumper of _bishop_, for interrupting the _stave, take notice_." curiosity prompted me to follow mark's example, when i overheard horace chanting part of an old satirical ballad on john wilkes, to the tune of the dragon of wantley; commencing with-- and ballads i have heard rehearsed by harmonists itinerant, who modern worthies celebrate, yet scarcely make a dinner on't. some of whom sprang from noble race, and some were in a pig-sty born, dependent upon royal grace or triple tree of tyburn. chorus. john wilkes he was for middlesex, they chose him knight of the shire: he made a fool of alderman bull, and call'd parson home a liar. ~ ~~ the moment silence was obtained, old mark gave three distinct knocks at the door, when horace himself appeared, and we were immediately admitted to the temple of the muses; where, seated round a long table, appeared a variety of characters that would have rivalled (from description) the beggars' club in st. giles's--the covent-garden finish--or the once celebrated peep o' day boys in fleet-lane. at the upper end of the table were tom echo and bob transit, the first smoking his cigar, the second sketching the portraits of the motley group around him on the back of his address cards; at the lower end of the room, on each side of the chair from which eglantine had just risen to welcome me, sat little dick gradus, looking as knowing as an old bailey counsel dissecting a burglary case, and the honourable lillyman lionise, the eton _exquisite_, looking as delicate and frightened as if his whole system of ethics was likely to be revolutionized by this night's entertainment. to such a society a formal introduction was of course deemed essential; and this favour horace undertook by recommending me to the particular notice of the _crackademonians_ (as he was pleased to designate the elegant assemblage by whom we were then surrounded), in the following oration: "most noble _cracks_, and worthy cousin _trumps_--permit me to introduce a brother of the _togati, fresh_ as a new-blown rose, and innocent as the lilies of st. clement's. be unto him, as ye have been to all gownsmen from the beginning, ever ready to promote his wishes, whether for spree or sport, in term or out of term--against the _inquisition_ and their _bull-dogs_--the town _raff_ and the _bargees_--well _blunted or stiver cramped_--against _dun or don--nob or big wig_--so may you never want a bumper of _bishop_: and thus do i commend him to your merry keeping." "full charges, boys," said echo, "fill up their glasses, count dennett{ }; count dennett, hair-dresser at corpus and oriel colleges, a very eccentric man, who has saved considerable property; celebrated for making bishops' wigs, playing at cribbage, and psalm-singing. ~ ~~here's brother blackmantle of brazen-nose." "a speech, a speech!" vociferated all the party. "yes, worthy brother _cracks_," replied i, "you shall have a speech, the very acme of oratory; a brief speech, composed by no less a personage than the great lexicographer himself, and always used by him on such occasions at the club in ivy-lane. here's all your healths, and _esto perpétua_." "bravo!" said eglantine;" the boy improves. now a toast, a university lass--come, boys, the doctor's daughter; and then a song from crotchet c--ss."{ } burton ale. an ancient oxford ditty. of all the belles who christ church bless, none's like the doctor's daughter{ }; who hates affected squeamishness almost as much as water. unlike your modern dames, afraid of bacchus's caresses; she far exceeds the stoutest maid of excellent queen bess's. hers were the days, says she, good lack, the days to drink and munch in; when butts of burton, tuns of sack, wash'd down an ox for luncheon. confound your _nimpy-pimpy_ lass, who faints and fumes at liquor; give me the girl that takes her glass like moses and the vicar. mr. c--ss, otherwise crotchet c--ss, bachelor of music, and organist of christ church college, st. john's college, and st. mary's church. an excellent musician, and a jolly companion: he published, some time since, a volume of chants. a once celebrated university toast, with whose eccentricities we could fill a volume; but having received an intimation that it would be unpleasant to the lady's feelings, we gallantly forbear. ~ ~~ true emblem of immortal ale, so famed in british lingo; stout, beady, and a little _stale_-- long live the burton stingo! "a vulgar ditty, by my faith," said the exquisite, "in the true english style, all _fol de rol_, and a vile chorus to split the tympanum of one's auricular organs: do, for heaven's sake, echo, let us have some _divertissement_ of a less boisterous character." "agreed," said eglantine, winking at echo; "we'll have a _round of sculls_. every man shall sing a song, write a poetical epitaph on his right hand companion, or drink off a double dose of rum booze."{ } "then i shall be confoundedly _cut_," said dick gradus, "for i never yet could chant a stave or make a couplet in my life." "and i protest against a practice," said lionise, "that has a tendency to trifle with one's _transitory tortures_." "no appeal from the chair," said eglantine: "another bumper, boys; here's the fair _nuns of st. clement's_." "to which i beg leave to add," said echo, "by way of rider, their favourite pursuit, _the study of the fathers_." by the time these toasts had been duly honoured, some of the party displayed symptoms of being _moderately cut_, when echo commenced by reciting his epitaph on his next friend, bob transit:-- here rests a wag, whose pencil drew life's characters of varied hue, bob transit--famed in humour's sphere for many a transitory year. though dead, still in the "english spy" he'll live for ever to the eye. here uncle white{ } reclines in peace, secure from nephew and from niece. rum booze--flip made of white or port wine, the yolks of eggs, sugar and nutmeg. uncle white, a venerable bed-maker of all souls' college, eighty-three years of age; has been in the service of the college nearly seventy years: is always dressed in black, and wears very largo silver knee and shoe-buckles; his hair, which is milk-white, is in general tastefully curled: he is known "to, and called uncle by, every inhabitant of the university, and obtained the cog-nomen from his having an incredible number of nephews and nieces in oxford. in appearance he somewhat resembles a clergyman of the old school. ~ ~~ of all-souls' he, alive or dead; of milk-white name, the milk-white head. by uncle white. here lies billy chadwell,{ } who perform'd the duties of a dad well. by billy chadwell. ye maggots, now's your time to crow: old boggy hastings{ } rests below. by boggy hastings. a grosser man ne'er mix'd with stones than lies beneath--'tis figgy jones.{ } by figgy jones. here marquis wickens{ } lies incrust, in clay-cold consecrated dust: no more he'll brew, or pastry bake; his sun is set--himself a cake. billy chadwell, of psalm-singing notoriety, since dead; would imitate syncope so admirably, as to deceive a whole room full of company--in an instant he would become pale, motionless, and ghastly as death; the action of his heart has even appeared to be diminished: his sham fits, if possible, exceeded his fainting. he was very quarrelsome when in his cups; and when he had aggravated any one to the utmost, to save himself from a severe beating would apparently fall into a most dreadful fit, which never failed to disarm his adversary of his rage, and to excite the compassion of every by-stander. old boggy hastings supplies members of the university and college servants who are anglers with worms and maggots. tommy j***s, alias figgy jones, an opulent grocer in the high-street, and a common-councilman in high favour with the lower orders of the freemen; a sporting character. marquis wickens formerly a confectioner, and now a common brewer. he accumulated considerable property as a confectioner, from placing his daughters, who were pretty genteel girls, behind his counter, where they attracted a great many gownsmen to the shop. no tradesman ever gained a fortune more rapidly than this man: as soon as he found himself inde-pendent of the university, he gave up his shop, bought the sun inn, built a brewhouse, and is now gaining as much money by selling beer as he formerly did by confectionery. ~ ~~ by marquis wickens. ye _roués_ all, be sad and mute; who now shall cut the stylish suit? _buck_ sheffield's{ }gone--ye oxford men, where shall ye meet his like again? by buck sheffield. maclean{ } or _tackle_, which you will, in quiet sleeps beneath this hill. ye anglers, bend with one accord; the stranger is no more abroad. by maclean. here rests a punster, jemmy wheeler{ } in wit and whim a wholesale dealer; unbound by care, he others bound, and now lies gathered underground. sheffield, better known by the name of buck sheffield, a master tailor and a member of the common council. maclean, an old bacchanalian scotchman, better known by the name of tackle: a tall thin man, who speaks the broad scotch dialect; makes and mends fishing-tackle for members of the university; makes bows and arrows for those who belong to the archery society; is an indifferent musician, occasionally amuses under-graduates in their apartments by playing to them country dances and marches on the flute or violin. he published his life a short time since, in a thin octavo pamphlet, entitled "the stranger abroad, or the history of myself," by maclean. jemmy wheeler of magpie-lane, a bookbinder, of punning celebrity; has published two or three excellent versified puns in the oxford herald. he is a young man of good natural abilities, but unfortunately applies them occasionally to a loose purpose. ~ ~~ by jemmy wheeler. a speedy-man, by nimble foe, lies buried in the earth below: the baron perkins,{ } mercury to all the university. men of new college, mourn his fate, who _early_ died by drinking _late_. by baron perkins. ye oxford _duns_, you're done at last; here smiler w----d{ } is laid fast. no more his _oak_ ye need assail; he's book'd inside a wooden jail. by smiler w---- of c---- college. a thing called exquisite rests here: for human nature's sake i hope, without uncharitable trope, 'twill ne'er among us more appear. william perkins, alias baron perkins, alias the baron, a very jovial watchman of holywell, the new college speedy- man,{*} and factotum to new college. mr. w----d, alias smiler w----d, a commoner of ----. this gentleman is always laughing or smiling; is long-winded, and consequently pestered with _duns_, who are sometimes much chagrined by repeated disappointments; but let them be ever so crusty, he never fails in laughing them into a good humour before they leave his room. it was over smiler's oak in----, that some wag had printed and stuck up the following notice: men traps and spring guns set here to catch _duns_. * a _speedy-man_ at new college is a person employed to take a letter to the master of winchester school from the warden of new college, acquaint-ing him that a fellowship or scholarship is become vacant in the college, and requiring him to send forthwith the next senior boy. the speedy-man always performs his journey on foot, and within a given time. ~ ~~ by lillyman lionise. here rests a poet--heaven keep him quiet, for when above he lived a life of riot; enjoy'd his joke, and drank his share of wine-- a mad wag he, one horace eglantine.{ } the good old orthodox beverage now began to display its potent effects upon the heads and understandings of the party. all restraint being completely banished by the effect of the liquor, every one indulged in their characteristic eccentricities. dick gradus pleaded his utter incapability to sing or produce an impromptu rhyme, but was allowed to substitute a prose epitaph on the renowned school-master of magdalen parish, fatty t--b,{ } who lay snoring under the table. "it shall be read over him in lieu of burial service," said echo. "agreed, agreed," vociferated all the party; and jemmy this whim of tagging rhymes and epitaphs, adopted by horace eglantine, is of no mean authority. during the convivial administration of lord north, when the ministerial dinners were composed of such men as the lords sandwich, weymouth, thurlow, richard rigby, &c, various pleasantries passed current for which the present time would be deemed too refined. among others, it was the whim of the day to call upon each member, after the cloth was drawn, to tag a rhyme to the name of his left hand neighbour. it was first proposed by lord sandwich, to raise a laugh against the facetious lord north, who happened to sit next to a mr. mellagen, a name deemed incapable of a rhyme. luckily, however, for lord north, that gentleman had just informed him of an accident that had befallen him near the pump in pall mall; when, therefore, it came to his turn, he wrote the following distich:-- oh! pity poor mr. mellagen, who walking along pall mall, hurt his foot when down he fell, and fears he won't get well again. fatty t----, better known as the sixpenny schoolmaster: a little fat man, remarkable for his love of good living. ~ ~~ jumps,{ } the parish clerk of saint peter's, was instantly mounted on a chair, at the head of the defunct schoolmaster, to recite the following whim:-- epitaph on a glutton. beneath this table lie the remains of fatty t***; who more than performed the duties of an excellent eater, an unparalleled drinker, and a truly admirable sleeper. his stomach was as disinterested as his appetite was good; so that his impartial tooth alike chewed the mutton of the poor,and the turtle of the rich. james james, alias jemmy jumps, alias the oxford caleb quotum, a stay-maker, and parish-clerk of saint peter le bailey--plays the violin to parties on water excursions, attends public-house balls--is bellows-blower and factotum at the music-room--attends as porter to the philharmonic and oxford choral societies--is constable of the race-course and race balls--a bill distributor and a deputy collector of poor rates--calls his wife his _solio_. he often amuses his companions at public-houses by reciting comic tales in verse. a woman who had lost a relative desired jemmy jumps to get a brick grave built. on digging up a piece of ground which had not been opened for many years, he discovered a very good brick grave, and, to his great joy, also discovered that its occupant had long since mouldered into dust. he cleaned the grave out, procured some reddle and water, brushed the bricks over with it, and informed the person that he had a most excellent _second-hand grave to sell as good as new_, and if she thought it would suit her poor departed friend, would let her have it at half the price of a new one: this was too good an offer to be rejected; but jemmy found, on measuring the coffin, that his second-hand grave was too short, and consequently was obliged to dig the earth away from the end of the grave and beat the bricks in with a beetle, before it would admit its new tenant. ~ ~~ he was a zealous opposer of the aqua-_arian_ heresy, a steady devourer of beef-steaks, a stanch and devout advocate for _spiced bishop_, a firm friend to bill holland's _double x_, and an active disseminator of the bottle, he was ever uneasy unless employed upon the good things of this world; and the interment of a _swiss_ or lion, or the dissolution of a pasty, was his great delight. he died full of drink and victuals, in the undiminished enjoyment of his digestive faculties, in the forty-fifth year of his appetite. the collegians inscribed this memento, in perpetual remembrance of his _pieous_ knife and fork. "very well for a _trencher_ man," said horace; "now we must have a recitation from strasburg.{ } come, you jolly old teacher of hebrew, mount the rostrum, and "give us a taste of your quality." "ay, or by heavens we'll baptize him with a bumper of bishop," said echo. "for conscience sake, mishter echo, conshider vat it is you're about; i can no more shpeek in english than i can turn christian--i've drank so much of your red port to-day as voud make anoder red sea." "ay, and you shall be drowned in it, you old _sheenie_," said tom, "if you don't give us a speech." "a speech, a speech!" resounded from all { } strasburg, an eccentric jew, who gave lessons in hebrew to members of the university. ~ ~~the yet living subjects of the party. "veil, if i musht, i musht; but i musht do it by shubstitute then; my old friend, mark supple here, vill give you the history of tom tick." to this echo assented, on account of the allusions it bore to the albanians, some of whom were of the party. old mark, mounted on the chair at the upper end of the table, proceeded with the tale. [illustration: page ] the oxford rake's progress. tom was a tailor's heir, a dashing blade, whose sire in trade enough had made, by cribbage, short skirts, and little capes, long bills, and items for buckram, tapes, buttons, twist, and small ware; which swell a bill out so delightfully, or perhaps i should say frightfully, ~ ~~ that is, if it related to myself. suffice it to be told in wealth he roll'd, and being a fellow of some spirit, set up his coach; to 'scape reproach, he put the tailor on the shelf, and thought to make his boy a man of merit. on old etona's classic ground, tom's infant years in circling round were spent 'mid greek and latin; the boy had parts both gay and bright, a merry, mad, facetious sprite, with heart as soft as satin. for sport or spree tom never lack'd; a _con_{ } with all, his sock he crack'd with _oppidan_ or gownsman: could _smug_ a sign, or quiz the _dame_, or row, or ride, or poach for game, with _cads_, or eton townsmen. tom's _admiral_ design'd, most dads are blind to youthful folly, that tom should be a man of learning, to show his parent's great discerning, a parson rich and jolly. to oxford tom in due time went, upon degree d.d. intent, but more intent on ruin: _a freshman_, steering for the _port of stuff's_,{ } round _isle matricula_, and _isthmus of grace_, intent on living well and little doing. here tom came out a dashing blood, kept doll at woodstock, and a stud for hunting, race, or tandem; could _bag_ a proctor, _floor a raff_, or stifle e'en a _hull-dog's gaff_, get _bosky_, drive at random. eton phraseology--a friend. oxford phraseology--all these terms have been explained in an earlier part of the work. ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] but long before the first term ended, tom was inform'd, unless he mended, he'd better change his college. which said, the _don_ was hobbling to the shelf where college butler keeps his book of _battell_; tom nimbly ran, erased his name himself, to save the scandal of the students' prattle. in oxford, be it known, there is a place where all the mad wags in disgrace retire to improve their knowledge; the town _raff_ call it _botany bay_, its inmates _exiles, convicts_, and they say saint alban takes the student refugees: here tom, to 'scape _point non plus_, took his seat after a _waste of ready_--found his feet safe on the shores of indolence and ease; here, 'mid choice spirits, in the _isle of flip_, dad's will, and _sapping_, valued not young _snip_; scapula, homer, lexicon, laid by, join'd the peep-of-day boys in full cry.{ } a saving sire a sad son makes this adage suits most modern rakes, it was in the actual participation of these bacchanalian orgies, during the latter days of dr. w----y, the former head of the hall, when infirmities prevented his exercising the necessary watchful-ness over the buoyant spirits committed to his charge, that my friend bob transit and myself were initiated into the mysteries of the albanians. the accompanying scene, so faithfully delineated by his humorous pencil, will be fresh in the recollection of the _choice spirits_ who mingled in the joyous revelry. to particularise character would be to "betray the secrets of the prison-house," and is besides wholly unnecessary, every figure round the board being a portrait; kindred souls, whose merrie laughter-loving countenances and jovial propensities, will be readily recognised by every son of _alma mater_ who was at oxford during the last days of the _beaux esprits_ of alban hall. (_see plate_.) in justice to the learned grecian who now presides, it should be told, that these scenes are altogether suppressed. ~ ~~ and tom above all others. i should have told before, he was an only child, and therefore privileged to be gay and wild, having no brothers, whom his example might mislead into extravagance, or deed ridiculous and foolish. three tedious years in oxford spent, in midnight brawl and merriment, tom bid adieu to college, to cassock-robe of orthodox, to construe and decline--the box, supreme in stable knowledge; to dash on all within the ring, bet high, play deep, or rioting, at long's to sport his figure in honour's cause, some small affair give modern bucks a finish'd air, tom pull'd the fatal trigger. he kill'd his friend--but then remark, his friend had kill'd another spark, so 'twas but trick and tie. the cause of quarrel no one knew, not even tom,--away he flew, till time and forms of law, to fashionable vices blind, excuses for the guilty find, call murder a _faux pas_. the tinsell'd coat next struck his pride, how dashing in the park to ride a cornet of dragoons; upon a charger, thorough bred, to show off with a high plumed head, the gaze of legs and spoons; to rein him up in all his paces, then splash the passing trav'lers' faces, and spur and caper by; ~ ~~ get drunk at mess, then sally out to lisle-street fair, or beat a scout, or black a waiter's eye. of all the clubs,--the clippers, screws, the fly-by-nights, four horse, and blues, the daffy, snugs, and peep-o-day, tom's an elect; at all the hells, at bolton-row, with tip-top swells, and tat's men, deep he'd play. his debts oft paid by snyder's{ } pelf, who paid at last a debt himself, which all that live must pay. tom book'd{ } the old one snug inside, wore sables, look'd demure and sigh'd some few short hours away; till from the funeral return'd, then tom with expectation burn'd to hear his father's will:-- "twice twenty thousand pounds in cash,"-- "that's prime," quoth tom, "to cut a dash "at races or a mill,"-- "all my leaseholds, house and plate, my pictures and freehold estate, i give my darling heir; not doubting but, as i in trade by careful means this sum have made, he'll double it with care."-- "ay, that i will, i'll hit the nick, seven's the main,--here ned and dick bring down my blue and buff; take off the hatband, banish grief, 'tis time to turn o'er a new leaf, sorrow's but idle stuff." fame, trumpet-tongued, tom's wealth reports, his name is blazon'd at the courts of carlton and the fives. his equipage, his greys, his dress, his polish'd self, so like _noblesse_, "is ruin's sure perquise." flash for tailor. screwed up in his coffin. ~ ~~ beau brummell's bow had not the grace, alvanly stood eclipsed in face, the _roués_ all were mute, so exquisite, so chaste, unique, the mark for every leg and greek, who play the concave suit.{ } at almack's, paradise o' the west, tom's hand by prince and peer is press'd, and fashion cries supreme. his op'ra box, and little quean, to lounge, to see, and to be seen, makes life a pleasant dream. such dreams, alas! are transient light, a glow of brightness and delight, that wakes to years of pain. tom's round of pleasure soon was o'er, and clam'rous _duns_ assail the door when credit's on the wane. his riches pay his folly's price, and vanish soon a sacrifice, then friendly comrades fly; his ev'ry foible dragg'd to light, and faults (unheeded) crowd in sight, asham'd to show his face. beset by tradesmen, lawyers, _bums_,{ } he sinks where fashion never comes, a wealthier takes his place. _beat at all points, floor'd, and clean'd out_, tom yet resolv'd to brave it out, cards cut in a peculiar manner, to enable the leg to fleece his pigeon securely. "persons employed by the sheriff to hunt and seize human prey: they are always bound in sureties for the due execution of their office, and thence are called _bound bailiff's_, which the common people have corrupted into a much more homely ex-pression--_to wit, bum-bailiffs or bums_."--l _black com_. . ~ ~~ if die he must, die game. some few months o'er, again he strays 'midst scenes of former halcyon days, on other projects bent; no more ambitious of a name, or mere unprofitable fame, on gain he's now intent, to deal a flush, or cog a die, or plan a deep confed'racy to pluck a pigeon bare. elected by the legs a brother, his plan is to entrap some other in greeting's fatal snare. here for a time his arts succeed, but vice like his, it is decreed, can never triumph long: a noble, who had been his prey, convey'd the well cogg'd bones away, exposed them to the throng. now blown, "his occupation's" o'er, indictments, actions, on him pour, his ill got wealth must fly; and faster than it came, the law can fraud's last ill got shilling draw, tom's pocket soon drain'd dry. again at sea, a wreck, struck down, by fickle fortune and the town, without the means to bolt. his days in bed, for fear of bums, at night among the legs he comes, who gibe him for a dolt. he's cut, and comrades, one by one, avoid him as they would a dun. here finishes our tale-- tom tick, the life, the soul, the whim of courts and fashion when in trim, is left-- waiting for bail. ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] by the time old mark supple had finished his somewhat lengthy tale, the major part of the motley group of eccentrics who surrounded us were terribly cut: the garrulous organ of jack milburn was unable to articulate a word; _goose_ b----l, the gourmand, was crammed full, and looked, as he lay in the arms of morpheus, like a fat citizen on the night of a lord mayor's dinner--a lump of inanimate mortality. in one corner lay a poor little grecian, papa chrysanthus demetriades, whom tom echo had plied with bishop till he fell off his chair; count dennet was safely deposited beside him; and old will stewart,{ } the poacher, was just humming himself to sleep with the fag end of an old ballad as he sat upon the ground portraits of the three last-mentioned eccentrics will be found in page , sketched from the life. ~ ~~ resting his back against the defunct grecian. a diminutive little cripple, johnny holloway, was sleeping between his legs, upon whose head tom had fixed a wig of immense size, crowned with an opera hat and a fox's tail for a feather. "now to bury the dead," said eglantine; "let in the lads, mark." "now we shall have a little sport, old fellows," said echo: "come, transit, where are your paints and brushes?" in a minute the whole party were most industriously engaged in disfiguring the objects around us by painting their faces, some to resemble tattooing, while others were decorated with black eyes, huge mustachios, and different embellishments, until it would have been impossible for friend or relation to have recognised any one of their visages. this ceremony being completed, old mark introduced a new collection of worthies, who had been previously instructed for the sport; these were, i found, no other than the well-known oxford _cads_, marston will, tom webb, harry bell, and dick rymal,{ } all out and outers, as echo reported, for a spree with the gown, who had been regaled at some neighbouring public house by eglantine, to be in readiness for the wind-up of his eccentric entertainment; to the pious care of these worthies were consigned the strange-looking mortals who surrounded us. the plan was, i found, to carry them out quietly between two men, deposit them in a cart which they had in waiting, and having taken them to the water-side, place them in a barge and send them drifting down the water in the night to iffley, where their consternation on recovering the next morning and strange appearance would be sure to create a source of merriment both for the city and university. the instructions were most punctually obeyed, and the amusement the freak afterwards afforded the good people of oxford will not very well-known sporting cads, who are always ready to do a good turn for the _togati_, either for sport or spree. ~ ~~quickly be forgotten. thus ended the spread--and now having taken more than my usual quantity of wine, and being withal fatigued by the varied amusements of the evening, i would fain have retired to rest: but this, i found, would be contrary to good fellowship, and not at all in accordance with _college principles_. "we must have a spree" said echo, "by way of finish, the rum ones are all shipped off safely by this time--suppose we introduce blackmantle to our _grandmamma_, and the pretty _nuns_ of st. clement's." "soho, my good fellows," said transit; "we had better defer our visit in that direction until the night is more advanced. the old don{ } of----, remember, celebrates the paphian mysteries in that quarter occasionally, and we may not always be able to _shirk_ him as effectually as on the other evening, when echo and myself were snugly enjoying a _tête-a-tête_ with maria b----and little agnes s----{ }; we accidentally caught a glimpse of _old morality_ cautiously toddling after the pious mrs. a--ms, _vide-licet_ of arts,{ } a lady who has been regularly matriculated at this university, and taken up her degrees some years since. it was too rich a bit to lose, and although at the risk of discovery, i booked it immediately _eo instunti. 'exegi monumentum aere perennius_'--and here it is." we all must reverence dons; and i'm about to talk of dons--irreverently i doubt. for many a priest, when sombre evening gray mantles the sky, o'er maudlin bridge will stray-- forget his oaths, his office, and his fame, and mix in company i will not name. _aphrodisiacal licenses_. paphian divinities in high repute at oxford. pretty much in the same sense, probably, in which moore's gifted leman fanny is by him designated mistress of arts. and oh!--if a fellow like me may confer a diploma of hearts, with my lip thus i seal your degree, my divine little mistress of arts. for an account of fan's proficiency in astronomy, ethics, (not the nicomachean), and eloquence, see moore's epistles, vol. ii. p. . ~ ~~ [illustration: pge ] "an excellent likeness, i'faith, is it," said eglantine; whose eyes twinkled like stars amid the wind-driven clouds, and whose half clipped words and unsteady motion sufficiently evinced that he had paid due attention to the old laws of potation. "there's nothing like the _cloth_ for comfort, old fellows; remember what a man of christ church wrote to george colman when he was studying for the law. 'turn parson, colman, that's the way to thrive; your parsons are the happiest men alive. judges, there are but twelve; and never more, but stalls untold, and bishops twenty-four. of pride and claret, sloth and venison full, yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull! ~ ~~ he ne'er, good man, need pensive vigils keep to preach his audience once a week to sleep; on rich preferment battens at his ease, nor sweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.' if colman had turned parson he would have had a bishoprick long since, and rivalled that jolly old ancient walter de mapes. then what an honour he would have been to the church; no drowsy epistles spun out in lengthened phrase, 'like to the quondam student, named of yore, who with aristotle calmly choked a boar;' but true orthodox wit: the real light of grace would have fallen from his lips and charmed the crowded aisle; the rich epigrammatic style, the true creed of the churchman; no fear of canting innovations or evangelical sceptics; but all would have proceeded harmoniously, ay, and piously too--for true piety consists not in purgation of the body, but in purity of mind. then if we could but have witnessed colman filling the chair in one of our common rooms, enlivening with his genius, wit, and social conversation the learned _dromedaries_ of the sanctum, and dispelling the habitual gloom of a college hospitium, what chance would the sectarians of wesley, or the infatuated followers even of that arch rhapsodist, irving, have with the attractive eloquence and sound reasoning of true wit?" "bravo! bravo!"vociferated the party. "an excellent defence of the church," said echo, "for which eglantine deserves to be inducted to a valuable benefice; suppose we adjourn before the college gates are closed, and install him under the mitre." a proposition that met with a ready acquiescence from all present.{ } the genius of wit, mirth, and social enjoyment, can never find more sincere worshippers than an oxford wine-party seated round the festive board; here the sallies of youth, unchecked by care, the gaiety of hearts made glad with wine and revelry, the brilliant flashes of genius, and the eye beaming with delight, are found in the highest perfection. the merits of the society to which the youthful aspirant for fame and glory happens to belong often afford the embryo poet the theme of his song. impromptu parodies on old and popular songs often add greatly to the enjoy-ment of the convivial party. the discipline of the university prohibits late hours; and the evenings devoted to enjoyment are not often disgraced by excess. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] town and gown, an oxford row. battle of the togati and the town-raff--a night-scene in the high-street, oxford--description of the combatants--attack of the gunsmen upon the mitre--evolutions of the assailants--manoeuvres of the proctors and bull dogs-- perilous condition of blackmantle and his associates, eglantine, echo, and transit--snug retreat of lionise--the high-street after the battle--origin of the argotiers, and invention of cant-phrases--history of the intestine wars and civil broils of oxford, from the time of alfred--origin of the late strife--ancient ballad--retreat of the togati-- reflections of a freshman--black matins, or the effect of late drinking upon early risers--visit to golgotha, or the place of sculls--lecture from the big-wigs--tom echo receives sentence of rustication. [illustration: page ] the clocks of oxford were echoing each other in proclaiming the hour of midnight, when eglantine led the way by opening the door of his _hospitium_ to descend into the quadrangle of brazen-nose. "steady, steady, old fellows," said horace; "remember the don on the first-floor--hush, all be silent as the grave till you pass his oak." "let us _row_ him--let us fumigate the old fellow," said echo; "this is the night of purification, lads--bring some pipes, and a little frankincense, mark." and in this laudable ~ ~~enterprise of blowing asafoetida smoke through the don's key-hole the whole party were about to be instantly engaged, when an accidental slip of eglantine's spoiled the joke. while in the act of remonstrating with his jovial companions on the dangerous consequences attending detection, the scholar sustained a fall which left him suddenly deposited against the oak of the crabbed old master of arts, who inhabited rooms on the top of the lower staircase; fortunately, the dignitary had on that evening carried home more _liquor_ than _learning_ from the common room, and was at the time of the accident almost as sound asleep as the original founder. "there lies the domini of the feast," said echo, "knocked down in true orthodox style by the bishop--follow your leader, boys; and take care of your craniums, or you may chance to get a few phreno-lo-lo-logi-cal bu-lps--i begin to feel that hard study has somewhat impaired my artic-tic-u-u-la-tion, but then i can always raise a per-pendic-dic-u-u-lar, you see--always good at mathemat-tics. d--n aristotle, and the rest of the saints! say i: you see what comes of being logical." all of which exultation over poor eglantine's disaster, echo had the caution to make while steadying himself by keeping fast hold of one of the balustrades on the landing; which that arch wag transit perceiving, managed to cut nearly through with a knife, and then putting his foot against it sent tom suddenly oft in a flying leap after his companion, to the uproarious mirth of the whole party. by the time our two friends had recovered their legs, we were all in marching order for the mitre; working in sinuosities along, for not one of the party could have moved at right angles to any given point, or have counted six street lamps without at least multiplying them to a dozen. in a word, they were ripe for any spree, full of frolic, and bent on mischief; witness the piling a huge load of coals ~ ~~against one man's door, screwing up the oak of another, and _milling the glaze_ of a third, before we quitted the precincts of brazen-nose, which we did separately, to escape observation from the cerberus who guarded the portal. it is in a college wine-party that the true character of your early associates are easily discoverable: out of the excesses of the table very often spring the truest impressions, the first, but indelible affection which links kindred spirits together in after-time, and cements with increasing years into the most inviolable friendship. here the sallies of youth, unchecked by care, or fettered by restraint, give loose to mirth and revelry; and the brilliancy of genius and the warm-hearted gaiety of pure delight are found in the highest perfection. the blue light of heaven illumined the magnificent square of radcliffe, when we passed from beneath the porch of brazen-nose, and tipping with her silvery light the surrounding architecture, lent additional beauty to the solemn splendour of the scene. sophisticated as my faculties certainly were by the copious libations and occurrences of the day, i could yet admire with reverential awe the imposing grandeur by which i was surrounded. a wayward being from my infancy, not the least mark of my eccentricity is the peculiar humour in which i find myself when i have sacrificed too freely to the jolly god: unlike the major part of mankind, my temperament, instead of being invigorated and enlivened by the sparkling juice of the grape, loses its wonted nerve and elasticity; a sombre gloominess pervades the system, the pulse becomes nervous and languid, the spirits flagging and depressed, and the mind full of chimerical apprehensions and _ennui_. it was in this mood that eglantine found me ruminating on the noble works before me, while resting against a part of the pile of radcliffe library, contemplating ~ ~~the elegant crocketed pinnacles of all souls, the delicately taper spire of st. mary's, and the clustered enrichments and imperial canopies of masonry, and splendid traceries which every where strike the eye: all of which objects were rendered trebly impressive from the stillness of the night, and the flittering light by which they were illumined. i had enough of wine and frolic, and had hoped to have _shirked_ the party and stolen quietly to my lodgings, there to indulge in my lucubrations on the scene i had witnessed, and note in my journal, according to my usual practice, the more prominent events of the day, when horace commenced with-- "where the devil, old fellow, have you been hiding yourself? i've been hunting you some time. a little _cut_, i suppose: never mind, my boy, you'll be better presently. here's glorious sport on foot; don't you hear the war-cry?" at this moment a buzz of distant voices broke upon the ear like the mingled shouts of an election tumult. "there they are, old fellow: come, buckle on your armour--we must try your mettle to-night. all the university are out--a glorious row--come along, no shirking---the _togati_ against the town raff--remember the sacred cause, my boy." and in this way, spite of all remonstrance, was i dragged through the lane and enlisted with the rest of my companions into a corps of university men who were just forming themselves in the high-street to repel the daring attack of the very scum of the city, who had ill-treated and beaten some gownsmen in the neighbourhood of st. thomas's, and had the temerity to follow and assail them in their retreat to the high-street with every description of villanous epithet, and still more offensive and destructive missiles. "stand fast there, old fellows," said echo; who, although _devilishly cut_, seemed to be the leader of the division. "where's old mark supple?" "here i am sir, _take notice_" said the old scout, who appeared as active as ~ ~~an american rifleman. "will peake send us the bludgeons?" "he won't open his doors, sir, for anybody, _take notice_." "then down with the mitre, my hearties;" and instantly a rope was thrown across the _bishop's cap_ by old mark, and the tin sign, lamp, and all came tumbling into the street, smashed into a thousand pieces. peake (looking out of an upper window in his night-cap). doey be quiet, and go along, for god's zake, gentlemen! i shall be _ruinated and discommoned_ if i open my door to any body. tom echo. you infernal old fox-hunter! if you don't doff your knowledge bag and come to the door, we'll mill all your glaze, burst open your gates, and hamstring all your horses. mrs. peake (in her night-gown). stand out of the way, peake; let me speak to the gentlemen. gentlemen, doey, gentlemen, consider my reputation, and the reputation of ray house. o dear, gentlemen, doey go somewhere else--we've no sticks here, i azzure ye, and we're all in bed. doey go, gentlemen, pray do. transit. dame peake, if you don't open your doors directly, we'll break them open, and unkennel that old bagg'd fox, your husband, and drink all the black strap in your cellar, and--and play the devil with the maids. mrs. peake. don'te say so, don'te say so, mr. transit; i know you to be a quiet, peaceable gentleman, and i am zure you will befriend me: doey persuade 'em to go away, pray do, ~ ~~ mark supple. dame peake mrs. peake. oh, mr. mark supple, are you there i talk to the gentlemen, mr. mark, pray do. mark supple. it's no use, dame peake; they won't be gammon'd, take notice. if you have any old broom-handles, throw 'em out directly, and if not, throw all the brooms you have in the house out of window--throw out all your sticks--throw peake out. i'm for the gown, _take notice_. down with the town! down with the town! bill mags. (the waiter, at a lower window.) hist, hist, mr. echo; mr. eglantine, hist, hist; master's gone to the back of the house with all the sticks he can muster; and here's an old kitchen-chair you can break up and make bludgeons of (throwing the chair out of window), and here's the cook's rolling-pin, and i'll go and forage for more ammunition. horace eglantine. you're a right good fellow, bill; and i'll pay you before i do your master; and the brazen-nose men shall make your fortune. tom echo. but where's the academicals i sent old captain cook for we shall be beating one another in the dark without caps and gowns. captain cook. (a scout of christ church.) here i be, zur. that old rogue, dick shirley, refuses to send any gowns; he says he has nothing but noblemen's gowns and gold tufts in his house. ~ ~~ the hon. lillyman lionise. by the honour of my ancestry, that fellow shall never draw another stitch for christ church as long as he lives. come along, captain: by the honour of my ancestry, we'll uncase the old _snyder_; we'll have gowns, i warrant me, noble or not noble, gold tufts or no tufts. come along, cook. in a few moments old captain cook and the exquisite returned loaded with gowns and caps, having got in at the window and completely cleared the tailor's shop of all his academicals, in spite of his threats or remonstrances. in the interim, old mark supple and echo had succeeded in obtaining a supply of broom-handles and other weapons of defence; when the insignia of the university, the toga and cap, were soon distributed indiscriminately: the numbers of the university men increased every moment; and the yell of the town raff seemed to gain strength with every step as they approached the scene of action. gown! gown! town! town! were the only sounds heard in every direction; and the clamour and the tumult of voices were enough to shake the city with dismay. the authorities were by no means idle; but neither proctors or pro's, or marshal, or bull-dogs, or even deans, dons, and dignitaries, for such there were, who strained their every effort to quell the disturbance, were at all attended to, and many who came as peace-makers were compelled in their own defence to take an active part in the fray. from the bottom of the high-street to the end of the corn-market, and across again through st. aldate's to the old bridge, every where the more peaceable and respectable citizens might be seen popping their noddles out of window, and rubbing their half-closed eyes with affright, to learn the cause of the alarming strife. ~ ~~of the strong band of university men who rushed on eager for the coming fray, a number of them were fresh light-hearted etonians and old westminsters, who having just arrived to place themselves under the sacred banners of academus, thought their honour and their courage both concerned in defending the _togati_: most of these youthful zealots had as usual, at the beginning of a term, been lodged in the different inns and houses of the city, and from having drank somewhat freely of the welcome cup with old schoolfellows and new friends, were just ripe for mischief, unheedful of the consequences or the cause. on the other hand, the original fomenters of the strife had recruited their forces with herds of the lowest rabble gathered from the purlieus of their patron saints, st. clement and st. thomas, and the shores of the charwell,--the bargees, and butchers, and labourers, and scum of the suburbians: a huge conglomerated mass of thick sculls, and broad backs, and strengthy arms, and sturdy legs, and throats bawling for revenge, and hearts bursting with wrathful ire, rendered still more frantic and desperate by the magic influence of their accustomed war-whoop. these formed the base barbarian race of oxford truands,{ } including every vile thing that passes under the generic name of raff. from college to college the mania spread with the rapidity of an epidemic wind; and scholars, students, and fellows were every where in motion: here a stout bachelor of arts might be seen knocking down the ancient cerberus who opposed his passage; there the iron-bound college gates were forced open by the united power of the youthful inmates. in another quarter might be seen the heir of some noble family risking his neck in the headlong leap { }; and near him, a party of the _togati_ scaling the sacred battlements with as much energetic zeal as the ancient crusaders would have displayed against the ferocious saracens. the french _truands_ were beggars, who under the pretence of asking alms committed the most atrocious crimes and excesses. it was on one of these occasions that the celebrated charles james fox made that illustrious leap from the window of hertford college. ~ ~~scouts flying in every direction to procure caps and gowns, and scholars dropping from towers and windows by bell-ropes and _sheet-ladders_; every countenance exhibiting as much ardour and frenzied zeal, as if the consuming elements of earth and fire threatened the demolition of the sacred city of rhedycina. it was on the spot where once stood the ancient conduit of carfax, flanked on the one side by the venerable church of st. martin and the colonnade of the old butter-market, and on the other by the town-hall, from the central point of which terminate, south, west, and north, st. aldate's, the butcher-row, and the corn-market, that the scene exhibited its more substantial character. it was here the assailants first caught sight of each other; and the yell, and noise, and deafening shouts became terrific. in a moment all was fury and confusion: in the onset the gown, confident and daring, had evidently the advantage, and the retiring raff fell back in dismay; while the advancing and victorious party laid about them with their quarter-staves, and knuckles drawing blood, or teeth, or cracking crowns at every blow, until they had driven them back to the end of the corn-market. it was now that the strong arm and still stronger science of the sturdy bachelors of brazen-nose, and the square-built, athletic sons of cambria, the jones's of jesus, proved themselves of sterling mettle, and bore the brunt of the battle with unexampled courage: at this instant a second reinforcement arriving from the canals and wharfs on the banks of the isis, having forced their way by george-lane, brought timely assistance to the town raff, and enabled them again to rally and present so formidable an appearance, ~ ~~that the _togati_ deemed it prudent to retreat upon their reserve, who were every moment accumulating in immense numbers in the high-street: to this spot the townsmen, exulting in their trifling advantage, had the temerity to follow and renew the conflict, and here they sustained the most signal defeat: for the men of christ church, and pembroke, and st. mary's hall, and oriel, and corpus christi, had united their forces in the rear; while the front of the gown had fallen back upon the effective trinitarians, and albanians, and wadhamites, and men of magdalen, who had by this time roused them from their monastic towers and cells to fight the holy war, and defend their classic brotherhood: nor was this all the advantages the gown had to boast of, for the _scouts_, ever true to their masters, had summoned the lads of the fancy, and marston will, and harry bell, and a host of out and outers, came up to the scratch, and floored many a _youkel_ with their _bunch of fives_. it was at this period that the conflict assumed its most appalling feature, for the townsmen were completely hemmed into the centre, and fought with determined courage, presenting a hollow square, two fronts of which were fully engaged with the infuriated gown. long and fearful was the struggle for mastery, and many and vain the attempts of the townsmen to retreat, until the old oxford night coach, in its way up the high-street to the star inn in the corn-market, was compelled to force its passage through the conflicting parties; when the bull-dogs and the constables, headed by marshal holliday and old jack smith, united their forces, and following the vehicle, opened a passage into the very centre of the battle, where they had for some time to sustain the perilous attacks of oaths, and blows, and kicks from both parties, until having fairly wedged themselves between the combatants, they succeeded by threats and entreaties, and seizing a few of the ringleaders on ~ ~~both sides, to cause a dispersion, and restore by degrees the peace of the city. it was, however, some hours before the struggle had completely subsided, a running fight being kept up by the various straggling parties in their retreat; and at intervals the fearful cry of town and gown would resound from some plebeian alley or murky lane as an unfortunate wight of the adverse faction was discovered stealing homewards, covered with mud and scars. of my college friends and merry companions in the fray, tom echo alone remained visible, and he had (in his own phraseology) _dropped his sash_: according to hudibras, he looked "as men of inward light are wont to turn their opticks in upon't;" or, in plain english, had an _invisible_ eye. the "_disjecta fragmenta_" of his academical robe presented a most pitiful appearance; it was of the ragged sort, like the _mendicula impluviata_ of plautus, and his under habiliments bore evident marks of his having bitten the dust (i.e. mud) beneath the ponderous arm of some heroic blacksmith or bargee; but yet he was lively, and what with blows and exertion, perfectly sobered. "what, blackmantle? and alive, old fellow? well clone, my hearty; i saw you set to with that fresh water devil from charwell, the old bargee, and a pretty milling you gave him. i had intended to have seconded you, but just as i was making up, a son of vulcan let fly his sledge-hammer slap at my _smeller_, and stopped up one of my _oculars_, so i was obliged to turn to and finish him off; and when i had completed the job, you had bolted; not, however, without leaving your marks behind you. but where's eglantine? where's transit? where's the honourable? by my soul the _roué_ can handle his _mauleys_ well; i saw him floor one of the raff in very prime style. but come along, my hearty; we must walk over the ~ ~~field of battle and look after the wounded: i am desperately afraid that eglantine is _booked inside_--saw him surrounded by the _bull-dogs_--made a desperate effort to rescue him--and had some difficulty to clear myself; but never mind, ''tis the fortune of war,' and there's very good lodging in the castle. surely there's mark supple with some one on his back. what, mark, is that you?" "no, sir--yes, sir--i mean, sir, it's a gentleman of our college--o dearey me, i thought it had been a proctor or a bull-dog--for heaven's sake, help, sir! here's mr. transit quite senseless, _take notice_--picked him up in a doorway in lincoln-lane, bleeding like a pig, _take notice_. o dear, o dear, what a night this has been! we shall all be sent to the castle, and perhaps transported for manslaughter. for heaven's sake, mr. echo, help! bear his head up--take hold of his feet, mr. blackmantle, and i'll go before, and ring at dr. tuckwell's bell, _take notice_." in this way poor transit was conveyed to the surgery, where, after cleansing him from the blood and dirt, and the application of some aromatics, he soon recovered, and happily had not sustained any very serious injury. from old mark we learned that eglantine was a captive to the bull-dogs, and safely deposited in the castle along with marston will, who had fought nobly in his defence: of lionise we could gain no other tidings than that mark had seen him at the end of the fray climbing up to the first floor window of a tradesman's house in the high-street, whose daughter it was well known he had a little intrigue with, and where, as we concluded, he had found a balsam for his wounds, and shelter for the night. it was nearly three o'clock when i regained my lodging and found mags, the waiter of the mitre, on the look-out for me: echo had accompanied me home, and in our way we had picked up a wounded man of university college, who had suffered severely in the contest. it was worthy ~ ~~the pencil of a hogarth to have depicted the appearance of the high-street after the contest, when we were cautiously perambulating from end to end in search of absent friends, and fearing at every step the approach of the proctors or their bull-dogs: the lamps were almost all smashed, and the burners dangling to and fro with the wind, the greater part extinguished, or just emitting sufficient light to make night horrible. on the lamp-irons might be seen what at first sight was most appalling, the figure of some hero of the _togati_ dangling by the neck, but which, on nearer approach, proved to be only the dismembered academical of some gentleman-commoner hung up as a trophy by the town raff. broken windows and shutters torn from their hinges, and missiles of every description covering the ground, from the terrific scotch paving-pebble torn up from the roads, to the spokes of coach-wheels, and the oaken batons, and fragments of lanterns belonging to the town watch, skirts of coats, and caps, and remnants of _togas_ both silken and worsted, bespoke the quality of the heroes of the fray; while here and there a poor terrified wretch was exposing his addle head to the mildews of the night-damp, fearing a revival of the contest, or anxiously watching the return of husband, brother, father, or son.{ } this picture of an oxford row is not, as the general reader might imagine, the mere fiction of the novelist, but the true description of a contest which occurred some few years since; the leading features of which will be (although the names have been, except in one or two instances, studiously suppressed) easily recognised by many of the present sons of alma mater who shared in the perils and glory of the battle. to those who are strangers to the sacred city, and these casual effervescences of juvenile spirit, the admirable graphic view of the scene by my friend bob transit (see plate) will convey a very correct idea. to the credit of the more respectable and wealthy class of oxford citizens it should be told, they are now too sensible of their own interest, and, besides, too well-informed to mix with these civil disturbances; the lower orders, therefore, finding themselves unequal to the contest without their support, submit to the _togati_; and thus the civil wars that have raged in oxford with very little interruption from the days of alfred seem for the present extinguished. ~ ~~ on our arrival at the mitre, poor mrs. peake, half frightened to death, was up and busy in administering to the sufferers various consolatory draughts composed of bishop, and flesh and blood{ } and _rumbooze_; while the chambermaids, and peake, and the waiters were flying about the house with warm water, and basins, and towels, to the relief of the numerous applicants, who all seemed anxious to wash away the dirty remembrances of the disgusting scene. hitherto i had been so busily engaged in defending myself and preserving my friends, that i had not a moment for reflection. it has been well observed, that "place an englishman in the field of battle, no matter what his political feelings, he will fight like a lion, by instinct, or the mere force of example;" so with the narrator of this contest. i had not, up to this time, the least knowledge of the original cause of the row. i have naturally an aversion to pugilistic contests and tumultuous sports, and yet i found by certain bruises, and bumps, and stains of blood, and stiffness of joints, and exhaustion, and the loss of my upper garment, which i had then only just discovered, that i must have borne a _pretty considerable_{ } part in the contest, and carried away no small share of victorious laurels, since i had escaped without any very visible demonstration of my adversaries' prowess; but for this i must acknowledge myself indebted to my late private tutor the eton cad, joe cannon, whose fancy lectures on noseology, and the science of the milling system, had enabled me to brandy and port wine, half and half. an oxford phrase. ~ ~~defend my bread-basket, cover up my peepers, and keep my nob out of chancery{ }: a merit that all the use of a peculiar cant phraseology for different classes, it would appear, originated with the argoliers, a species of french beggars or monkish impostors, who were notorious for every thing that was bad and infamous: these people assumed the form of a regular government, elected a king, established a fixed code of laws, and invented a language peculiar to themselves, constructed probably by some of the debauched and licentious youths, who, abandoning their scholastic studies, associated with these vagabonds. in the poetical life of the french robber cartouche, a humorous account is given of the origin of the word _argot_; and the same author has also compiled a dictionary of the language then in use by these people, which is annexed to the work. hannan, in his very singular work, published in , entitled "a caveat, or warning for common cursitors (runners), vulgarly called vagabones," has described a number of the words then in use, among what he humorously calls the "lued lousey language of these lewtering beskes and lasy lovrels." and it will be remembered that at that time many of the students of our universities were among these cursitors, as we find by an old statute of the xxii of hen. viii.; "that scholars at the universities begging without licence, were to be punished like common cursi- tors." the vagabonds of spain are equally celebrated for their use of a peculiar slang or cant, as will be seen on reference to a very curious work of rafael frianoro, entitled" _il vagabondo, overo sferzo de bianti e vagabondi_." _viterbo_, , mo. as also in those excellent novels, "lazarillo do tormes," and "guzman de alfarache." the _romany_ or gipsies' dialect is given with the history of that singular people by mr. grellman; an english translation of which was published in , by roper, in quarto: from those works, grose principally compiled his "lexicon ballatronicum." in the present day we have many professors of slang, and in more ways than one, too many of cant; the greater part of whom are dull impostors, who rather invent strange terms to astonish the vulgar than adhere to the peculiar phrases of the persons they attempt to describe. it has long been matter of regret with the better order of english sporting men, that the pugilistic contests and turf events of the day are not written in plain english, "which all those who run might read," instead of being rendered almost unintelligible by being narrated in the language of beggars, thieves, and pickpockets--a jargon as free from true wit as it is full of obscenity. ~ ~~keate's{ } learning would not have compensated for under the peculiar circumstances in which i was placed. it was now that the mischief was done, and many a sound head was cracked, and many a courageous heart was smarting 'neath their wounds in the gloomy dungeons of the castle, or waiting in their rooms the probing instrument and plasters of messrs. wall, or kidd, or bourne, that a few of us, who had escaped tolerably well, and were seated round a bowl of bishop in the snug _sanctum sanctorum_ of the mitre, began to inquire of each other the origin of the fray. after a variety of conjectures and vague reports, each at variance with the other, and evidently deficient in the most remote connexion with the true cause of the strife, it was agreed to submit the question to the waiter, as a neutral observer, who assured us that the whole affair arose out of a trifling circumstance, originating with some mischievous boys, who, having watched two gownsmen into a cyprian temple in the neighbourhood of saint thomas, circulated a false report that they had carried thither the wives of two respectable mechanics. without taking the trouble to inquire into the truth or falsehood of the accusation, the door was immediately beset; the old cry of town and gown vociferated in every direction; and the unfortunate wights compelled to seek their safety by an ignominious flight through a back door and over the meadows. the tumult once raised, it was not to be appeased without some victim, and for this purpose they thought proper to attack a party of the _togati_, who were returning home from a little private sport with a well-known fancy lecturer: the opportunity was a good one to show-off, a regular fight commenced, and the raff were floored in every direction, until their numbers increasing beyond all the highly respected and learned head-master of eton college. ~ comparison, the university men were compelled to raise the cry of gown, and fly for succour and defence to the high-street: in this way had a few mischievous boys contrived to embroil the town and university in one of the most severe intestine struggles ever remembered. [illustration: page ] _a true chronicle of ye bloodie fighte betweene the clerkes of and scholairs of oxenforde, and the townsmen of the citie, who were crowdinge rounde the easterne gaite to see the kinge enter in his progresse wostwarde._ ~ ~~ sir gierke of oxenforde, prepare your robis riche, and noble cheere. ye kinge with alle his courtlie trane is spurring on your plaice to gane. and heere ye trumpet's merrie note, his neare approache proclaims, i wote; ye doctors, proctors, scholairs, go, and fore youre sovereigne bend ye lowe. now comes the kinge in grande arraie; and the scholairs presse alonge the waye, till ye easterne gaite was thronged so rounde, that passage coulde no where be founde. then the sheriffe's men their upraised speares did plye about the people's eares. and woe the day; the rabble route their speares did breake like glasse aboute. then the doctors, proctors, for the kinge, most lustilie for roome did singe; but thoughe theye bawled out amaine, no passage throughe the crowde coulde gane. ye northern gownsmen, a bold race, now swore they'd quicklie free the plaice; with stalwart gripe, and beadle's staffe theye clefte the townsmen's sculls in half. ~ ~~ and now the wrathful rabble rave, and quick returne withe club and stave; and heades righte learn'd in classic lore felt as they'd never felt before. now fierce and bloody growes the fraye: in vaine the mayore and sheriffe praye for peace--to cool the townsmens' ire, intreatie but impelles the fire. downe with the towne! the scholairs cry; downe with the gowne! the towne reply. loud rattle the caps of the clerkes in aire, and the citizens many a sortie beare; and many a churchman fought his waye, like a heroe in the bloodie fraye. and one right portlie father slewe of rabble townsmen not a fewe. and now 'mid the battle's strife and din there came to the easterne gate, the heralde of our lorde the kinge, with his merrie men all in state. "god help us!" quoth the courtlie childe, "what means this noise within? with joye the people have run wilde." and so he peeped him in, and throughe the wicker-gate he spied, and marvelled much thereat, the streets withe crimson current dyed, and towne and gowne laide flat. then he called his merrie men aloud, to bringe him a ladder straighte; the trumpet sounds--the warlike crowde in a moment forget theire hate. up rise the wounded, down theire arms both towne and gowne do lie; the kinge's approache ye people charmes, and alle looke merrilie. for howe'er towne and gowne may fighte, yet bothe are true to ye kinge. so on bothe may learning and honour lighte, let all men gailie singe.{ } ~ ~~ the above imitation of the style of the ancient ballad is founded on traditional circumstances said to have occurred when the pacific king james visited oxford.--_bernard blackmantle_. _intestine broils and civil wars of oxford_.--anthony wood, the faithful historian of oxford, gives an account of a quarrel between the partisans of st. guinbald and the residents of oxford, in the days of alfred, on his refounding the university, a.d. . after his death the continual inroads of the danes kept the oxonians in perpetual alarm, and in the year they destroyed the town by fire, and repeated their outrage upon the new built town in . seven years after, swein, the danish leader, was repulsed by the inhabitants in a similar attempt, who took vengeance on their im-placable enemy by a general massacre on the feast of st. brice. in the civil commotions under the saxon prince, oxford had again its full share of the evils of war. after the death of harold, william the conqueror was bravely opposed by the citizens in his attempt to enter oxford, which effecting by force, he was so much exas- perated at their attachment to harold, that he bestowed the government of the town on robert de oilgo, a norman, with permission to build a castle to keep his oxford subjects in awe. the disturbances during the reign of stephen and his successor were frequent, and in the reign of john, a. d. , an unfortunate occurrence threatened the entire destruction of oxford as a seat of learning. a student, engaged in thoughtless diversion, killed a woman, and fled from justice. a band of citizens, with the mayor at their head, surrounded the hall to which he belonged, and demanded the offender; on being informed of his absence, the lawless multitude seized three of the students, who were entirely unconnected with the transaction, and ob-tained an order from the weak king (whose dislike to the clergy is known), to put the innocent persons to death--an order which was but too promptly obeyed. the scholars, justly en-raged by this treatment, quitted oxford, some to cambridge and reading, and others to maidstone, in kent. the offended students also applied to the pope, who laid the city under an interdict and discharged all professors from teaching in it. this step completely humbled the citizens, who sent a deputation of the most respectable to wait on the pope's legate (then at westminster) to acknowledge their rashness and request mercy; the legate (nicholas, bishop of tusculum, ) granted their petition only on the most humiliating terms. the mayor and corporation were en-joined, by way of penance, to proceed annually, on the day dedicated to st. nicholas, to all the parish churches bare-headed, with hempen halters round their necks, and whips in their hands, on their bare feet, and in their' shirts, and there pray the benefit of absolution from the priests, repeating the penitential psalms, and to pay a mark of silver per annum to the students of the hall peculiarly injured; in addition to which they were, on the recurrence of the same day, to entertain one hundred poor scholars "_honestis refectionibus_," the abbot of evesham yearly paying sixteen shillings towards the festival expense a part of this ceremony, but without the degrading marks of it, is continued to this day. henry iii. occasionally resided at oxford, and held there many parliaments and councils: in the reign of this king the university flourished to an unexampled degree, the number of students being estimated at fifteen thousand. its popularity was about this time also greatly increased from the circumstance of not less than one thousand students quitting the learned institutions of paris, and repairing to oxford for instruction; but these foreigners introduced so dangerous a levity of manners, that the pope deemed it necessary to send his legate for the purpose of reforming " certain flagrant corruptions of the place." the legate was at first treated with much affected civility, but an occasion for quarrel being soon found, he would, in all probability, have been sacrificed upon the spot, had he not hidden himself in a belfry from the fury of the assailants. this tumult was, by the exercise of some strong measures, speedily appeased; but the number of students was at this period infinitely too great to preserve due subordination. they divided themselves into parties, among which the north and south countrymen were the most violent, and their quarrels harassing and perpetual. according to the rude temper of the age, these disputes were not settled by argument, but by dint of blows; and the peace of the city was in this way so often endangered, that the king thought it expedient to add to the civil power two aldermen and eight burgesses assistant, together with two bailiffs. from petty and intestine broils, the students appear to have acquired a disposition for political inter- ference. when prince edward, returning from paris, marched with an army towards wales, coming to oxford he was by the burghers refused admittance, "on occasion of the tumults now prevailing among the barons:" he quartered his soldiers in the adjacent villages, and "lodged himself that night in the royal palace of magdalen," the next morning proceeding on his intended journey; but the scholars, who were shut in the town, being desirous to salute a prince whom they loved so much, first assembled round _smith-gate_, and demanded to be let into the fields, which being refused by one of the bailiffs, they returned to their hostels for arms and broke open the gate, whereupon the mayor arrested many of them, and, on the chancellor's request, was so far from releasing them that he ordered the citizens to bring out their banners and display them in the midst of the street; and then embattling them, commanded a sudden onset on the rest of the scholars remaining in the town; and much blood-shed had been committed had not a scholar, by the sound of the school-bell in saint mary's church, given notice of the danger that threatened the students, then at dinner. on this alarm they straightways armed and went out, and in a tremendous conflict subdued and put the townsmen to flight. in consequence of this tumult, the king required the scholars to retire from the city during the time of holding his parliament; the chief part of the students accordingly repaired to northampton, where, shortly after the insurgent barons had fortified themselves, on the king's laying siege to the place, the scholars, offended by their late removal, joined with the nobility, and repaired to arms under their own standard, behaving in the fight with conspicuous gallantry, and greatly increasing the wrath of the king; who, however, on the place being subdued, was restrained from pur-suing them to extremities, from prudential motives. as the kingdom became more settled, the disturbances were less frequent, and within the last century assumed the character of sportive rows rather than malicious feuds. on a recent lamentable occasion (now happily forgotten) the political feelings of the gown and town in some measure revived the spirit of the "olden time;" but since then peace has waved her olive-branch over the city of oxford, and perfect harmony, let us hope, will exist between town and gown for evermore. ~ ~~ the veil of night was more than half drawn, ere the youthful inmates of the mitre retired to rest; and many of the party were compelled to put up with sorry accommodation, such was the influx of ~ ~~gownsmen who, shut out of lodging and college, had sought this refuge to wait the approaching morn;--a morn big with the fate of many a scholastic woe--of lectures and reprovals from tutors, and fines and impositions and denunciations from principals, of proctorial reports to the vice-chancellor, and examinations before the _big wigs_, and sentences of expulsion ~~and rustication: coming evils which, by anticipation, kept many a man awake upon his pillow, spite of the perilous fatigue which weighed so heavy upon the exhausted frame. the freshman had little to fear: he could plead his ignorance of college rules, or escape notice altogether, from not having yet domiciled within the walls of a college. although i had little to expect from the apprehension of any of these troubles, as my person was, from my short residence, most likely unknown to any of the authorities--yet did morpheus refuse his soporific balsam to the mind--i could not help thinking of my young and giddy companions, of the kind-hearted eglantine, immured within the walls of a dungeon; of the noble-spirited echo, maltreated and disfigured by the temporary loss of an eye; of the facetious bob transit, so bruised and exhausted, that a long illness might be expected; and, lastly, of our eton sextile, the incomparable exquisite lionise, who, if discovered in his dangerous frolic, would, perhaps, have to leap out of a first floor window at the risk of his neck, sustain an action for damages, and his expulsion from college at the same time. little dick gradus, with his usual cunning, had shirked us at the commencement of hostilities; and the honourable mr. sparkle had been carried home to his lodging, early in the fray, more overcome by hard drinking than hard fighting, and there safely put to bed by the indefatigable mark supple, to whose friendly zeal and more effective arm we were all much indebted. in this reflective mood, i had watched the retiring shadows of the night gradually disperse before the gray-eyed morn, and had just caught a glimpse of the golden streaks which illumine the face of day, when my o'er-wearied spirit sank to rest. [illustration: page ] a little before seven o'clock i was awoke by echo, who came into my room to borrow some clean linen, to enable him to attend chapel prayers at christ church. judge my surprise when i perceived my one-eyed ~ ~~warrior completely restored to his full sight, and not the least appearance of any participation in the affair of the previous night. "what? you can't comprehend how i managed my black optic? hey, old fellow," said echo; "you shall hear: knocked up transit, and made him send for his colours, and paint it over--looks quite natural, don't it?--defy the big wigs to find it out--and if i can but make all right by a sop to the old cerberus at the gate, and _queer_ the _prick bills_ at chapel prayers, i hope to escape the _quick-sands of rustication_, and pass safely through the _creek of proctorial jeopardy_. if you're fond of fun, old fellow, jump up and view the christ church men proceeding to _black matins_ this morning. after the roysten hunt yesterday--the dinner at the black bear at woodstock--and the _town and gown row_ of last night, there will be a motley procession this morning, i'll bet a hundred." the opportunity was a rare one to view the effect of late drinking upon early risers (see plate); slipping on my academicals, therefore, i accompanied my friend tom to morning prayers,--a circumstance, as i have since been informed, which would have involved me in very serious disgrace, had the appearance of an _ex college_ man at vespers attracted the notice of any of the big wigs. fortunately, however, i escaped the prying eyes of authority, which, on these occasions, are sometimes as much under the dominion of morpheus--and literally walk in their sleep from custom--as the young and inexperienced betray the influence of some more seductive charm. the very bell that called the drowsy student from his bed seemed to rise and fall in accordant sympathy with the lethargic humour that prevailed, tolling in slow and half-sounding notes scarcely audible beyond the college gates. the broken light, that shed its misty hue through the monastic aisle of painted windows and clustered columns, gave an increased appearance of drowsiness to the scene; while the chilling air of the ~ ~~morning nipped the young and dissolute, as it fell in hazy dews upon the bare-headed sons of _alma mater_, within many of whose bosoms the fires of the previous night's debauch were but scarce extinguished. then came the lazy unwashed _scout_, crawling along the quadrangle, rubbing his heavy eyes, and cursing his hard fate to be thus compelled to give early notice to some slumbering student of the hour of seven, waking him from dreams of bliss, by thundering at his _oak_ the summons to _black matins_. now crept the youthful band along the avenue, and one by one the drowsy congregation stole through the gothic ante-chamber that leads to christ church chapel, like unwilling victims to some pious sacrifice. here a lengthened yawn proclaimed the want of rest, and near a tremulous step and heavy half-closed eye was observed, pacing across the marble floor, with hand pressed to his _os frontis_, as if a thousand odd and sickly fantasies inhabited that chamber of the muses. now two friends might be seen, supporting a third, whose ghastly aspect bespoke him fresh in the sacred mysteries of college parties and of bacchus; but who had, nevertheless, undergone a tolerable seasoning on the previous night. there a jolly nimrod, who had just cleared the college walls, and reached his rooms time enough to cover his hunting frock and boots with his academicals, was seen racing along, to 'scape the _prick bill's_ report, with his round hunting cap in his hand, in lieu of the square tufted trencher of the schools. night-caps thrown off in the entry--shoes and stockings tied in the aisle--a red slipper and the black jockey boot decorating one pair of legs was no uncommon sight; while on every side rushed forward the anxious group with gowns on one arm, or trailing after them, or loosely thrown around the shoulders to escape tribulation, with here and there a sentimental-looking personage of portly habit and solemn gait moving slowly on, filled up the motley picture. the prayers were, indeed, brief, and ~ ~~hurried through with a rapidity that, i dare say, is never complained of by the _togati_; but is certainly little calculated to impress the youthful mind with any serious respect for these relics of monkish custom, which, after all, must be considered more in the light of a punishment for those who are compelled to attend than any necessary or instructive service connected with the true interests of orthodoxy. in a quarter of an hour the whole group had dispersed to their respective rooms, and within the five minutes next ensuing, i should suppose, the greater part were again comfortably deposited beneath their bedclothes, snoozing away the time till ten or twelve, to make up for these inroads on the slumbers of the previous night. a few hours spent in my friend's rooms, lolling on the sofa, while the scout prepared breakfast, and tom decorated his person, brought the awful hour of the morning, when all who had taken any very conspicuous share in the events of the previous night were likely to hear of their misdoings, and receive a summons to appear before the vice-chancellor in the divinity school, better known by the name of _golgotha_, or the place of skulls, (see plate); where, on this occasion, he was expected to meet the big wigs, to confer on some important measures necessary for the future peace and welfare of the university. the usual time had elapsed for these unpleasant visitations, and echo was chuckling finely at his dexterity in evading the eye of authority, nor was i a little pleased to have escaped myself, when a single rap at the oak, not unlike the hard determined thump of an inflexible dun, in one moment revived all our worst apprehensions, and, unfortunately, with too much reason for the alarm. the proctors had marked poor tom, and traced him out, and this visit was from one of their bull-dogs, bringing a summons for echo to attend before the vice-chancellor and dignitaries. "what's to be done, old fellow?" said echo; "i shall be ~ ~~expelled to a certainty--and, if i don't strike my own name off the books at the buttery hatch, shall be prevented making a retreat to cam roads.--you're out of the scrape, that's clear, and that affords me some hope; for as you are fresh, your word will pass for something in extenuation, or arrest of judgment." after some little time spent in anticipating the charges likely to be brought against him, and arranging the best mode of defence, it was agreed that echo should proceed forthwith to _golgotha_, and there, with undaunted front, meet his accusers; while i was to proceed to transit and lionise, and having instructed them in the story we had planned, meet him at the _place of skulls_, fully prepared to establish, by the most incontrovertible and consistent evidence, that we were not the aggressors in the row. a little persuasion was necessary to convince both our friends that their presence would be essential to echo's acquittal; they had too many just qualms, and fears, and prejudices of this inquisitorial court not to dread perhaps detection, and a severe reprimand themselves: having, however, succeeded in this point, we all three compared notes, and proceeded to where the vice-chancellor and certain heads of houses sat in solemn judgment on the trembling _togati_. echo was already under examination; one of the _bull-dogs_ had sworn particularly to tom's being a most active leader in the fray of the previous night; and having, in the contest, suffered a complete disorganization of his lower jaw, with the total loss of sundry of his _front rails_, he took this opportunity of affixing the honour of the deed to my unlucky friend, expecting, no doubt, a very handsome recompense would be awarded him by the court. expostulation was in vain: transit, lionise, and myself were successively called in and examined very minutely, and although we all agreed to a letter in our story, and made a very clever ~ ~~defence of the culprit, we yet had the mortification to hear from little dodd, who kept the door, and who is always best pleased when he can convey unpleasant tidings to the gown, that echo had received sentence of rustication for the remainder of the term; and that eglantine, in consideration of the imprisonment he had already undergone, and some favourable circumstances in his case, was let off with a fine and imposition. [illustration: page ] thus ended the row of the _town and gown_, as far as our party was personally concerned; but many of the members of the different colleges were equally unfortunate in meeting the heavy censures and judgments of authority. i have just taken possession of my _hospitium_, and set down with a determination _to fagg_; do, therefore, keep your promise, and enliven the dull routine of college studies with some account of the world at brighton. bernard blackmantle. on what dread perils doth the youth adventure, who dares within the fellows' bog to enter. [illustration: page b] [illustration: page ] the stage coach, or the trip to brighton. _improvements in travelling--contrast of ancient and modern conveyances and coachmen--project for a new land steam carriage--the inn-yard at the golden cross, charing cross-- mistakes of pas-sengers--variety of characters--advantages of the box-seat--obstructions on the road--a pull-up at the elephant and castle--move on to kensington common--hew churches--civic villas at brixton--modern taste in architecture described-arrival at croydon; why not now the king's road?--the joliffe hounds--a hunting leader-- anecdotes of the horse, by coachee--the new tunnel at reigate--the baron's chamber--the golden ball--the silver ball--and the golden calf--entrance into brighton._ ~ ~~ that every age is an improved edition of the former i am not (recollecting the splendid relics of antiquity) prepared to admit; but that the present is particularly distinguished for discoveries in science, and vast improvements in mechanical arts, every accurate observer must allow: the _prodigious_ inventions of late years cannot fail in due time of producing that perfectibility, the great consummation denominated the millennium. of all other improvements, perhaps the most conspicuous are in the powers of motion as connected with the mode and means of travelling. with what astonishment, were it possible to reanimate the clay-cold relics, would our ancestors survey the accelerated perfection to which coaching is brought in the present day! the journey from london to brighton, for instance, was, half-a-century since, completed at great risk in twenty-four hours, over a rough road that threatened destruction at every turn; and required the most laborious exertion to reach the summit of precipices that are now, like a ruined spendthrift, cut through and through: the declivities too have disappeared, and from its level face, the whole country would appear to have undergone another revolutionary change, even to the horses, harness, and the driver of the vehicle. in such a country as this, where a disposition to activity and a rambling propensity to seek their fortunes forms one of the most distinguishing characteristics, it was to be expected that travelling would be brought to great perfection; but the most sanguine in this particular could never have anticipated the rapidity with which we are now whirled from one end of the kingdom to the other; fifty-two miles in five hours and a quarter, five changes of horses, and the same coachman to whisk you back again to supper over the same ground, and within the limits of the same day. no _ruts or quarterings_ now--all level as a bowling-green--half-bred blood cattle--bright brass harness--_minute and a half time_ to change--and a well-bred gentlemanly fellow for a coachman, who amuses you ~ ~~with a volume of anecdotes, if you are fortunate enough to secure the box-seat, or touches his hat with the _congee_ of a courtier, as he pockets your tributary shilling at parting. no necessity either for settling your worldly affairs, or taking an affectionate farewell of a long string of relations before starting; travelling being now brought to a security unparalleled, and letters patent having passed the great seal of england to ensure, by means of _safety coaches_, the lives of her rambling subjects. there requires but one other invention to render the whole perfect, and that, if we may believe the newspapers, is very near completion--a coach to go without horses: to this i beg leave to propose, the steam apparatus might be made applicable to all the purposes of a portable kitchen. the coachman, instead of being a good judge of horse-flesh, to be selected from a first rate london tavern for his proficiency in cooking, a known prime hand at decomposing a turtle; instead of a book of roads, in the inside pocket should be placed a copy of mrs. glasse on cookery, or dr. kitchener on culinaries; where the fore-boot now is might be constructed a glazed larder, filled with all the good things in season: then too the accommodation to invalids, the back seat of the coach, might be made applicable to all the purposes of a shampooing or vapour bath--no occasion for molineux or his black rival mahomed; book your patients inside back seat in london, wrap them up in blankets, and give directions to the cook to keep up a good steam thermometer during the journey, °, and you may deliver them safe at brighton, properly hashed and reduced for any further medical experiments. (see engraving, p. .) the accommodation to fat citizens, and western _gourmands_, would be excellent, the very height of luxury and refinement--inhaling the salubrious breeze one moment, and gurgling down the glutinous calipash the next; no ~ ~~exactions of impudent waiters, or imposing landlords, or complaints of dying from hunger, or choking from the want of time to masticate; but every wish gratified and every sense employed. then how jovial and pleasant it would appear to see perched up in front a john bull-looking fellow in a snow-white jacket, with a night-cap and apron of the same, a carving-knife in a case by his side, and a poker in his hand to stir up the steam-furnace, or singe a highwayman's wig, should any one attack the coach; this indeed would be an improvement worthy of the age, and call forth the warmest and most grateful tributes of applause from all ranks in society. for myself, i have always endeavoured to read "men more than books," and have ever found an endless diversity of character, a never-failing source of study and amusement in a trip to a watering-place: perched on the top in summer, or pinched inside in winter of a stage-coach, here, at leisure and unknown, i can watch the varied groups of all nations as they roam about for profit or for pleasure, and note their varieties as they pass away like the retiring landscape, never perhaps to meet the eye again. the excursion to brighton was no sooner finally arranged, than declining the proffered seat in d'almaine's travelling carriage, i packed up my portmanteau, and gave directions to my servant to book me outside at the golden cross, by the seven o'clock morning coach, for brighton; taking care to secure the box-seat, by the payment of an extra shilling to the porter. an inn-yard, particularly such a well-frequented one as the golden cross, charing cross, affords the greatest variety of character and entertainment to a humorist. vehicles to all parts of the kingdom, and from the inscription on the dover coaches, i might add to all parts of the world, _via paris_. "does that coach go the whole way to france?" said an ~ ~~unsuspecting little piece of female simplicity to me, as i stood lolling on the steps at the coach-office door. "certainly," replied i, unthinkingly. "o, then i suppose," said the speaker, "they have finished the projected chain-pier from dover to calais." "france and england united? nothing more impossible," quoth i, correcting the impression i had unintentionally created. "are you going by the brighton, mam?" "yes, i be." "can't _take_ all that luggage." "then you sha'n't _take_ me." "don't wish to be __taken for a waggon-man." "no, but by jasus, friend, you are a wag-on-her," said a merry-faced hibernian, standing by. "have you paid down the _dust_, mam?" inquired the last speaker. "i have paid for my place, sir," said the lady; "and i shall lose two, if i don't go." "then by the powers, cookey, you had better pay for one and a half, and that will include luggage, and then you'll be a half gainer by the bargain." "what a cursed narrow hole this is for a decent-sized man to cram himself in at?" muttered an enormous bulky citizen, sticking half-way in the coach-door, and panting for breath from the violence of his exertions to drag his hind-quarters after him. "take these hampers on the top, jack," said the porter below to the man loading the coach, and quietly rested the baskets across the projecting _ultimatum_ of the fat citizen (to the no little amusement of the bystanders), who through his legs vociferated, "i'll indict you, fellows; i'll be----if i don't, under dick martin's act." "it must be then, my jewel," said the waggish hibernian, "for overloading a mule." "do we take _the whole_ of you to-day, sir?" said coachee, assisting to push him in. "what do you mean by _the whole_? i am only one man." "a master tailor," said coachee, aside, "he must be then, with the _pickings_ of nine poor journeymen in his paunch." "ish tere any room outshide te coach?" bawled out a black-headed little israelite; "ve shall be all shmotered vithin, ~ ~~tish hot day; here are too peepels inshite, vat each might fill a coach by temselves." "all right--all right; take care of your heads, gemmen, going under the gateway; give the bearing rein of the near leader one twist more, and pole up the off wheeler a link or two. all right, tom--all right--stand away from the horses' heads, there--ehewt, fee'e't!"--smack goes the whip, and away goes the brighton times like a congreve rocket, filled with all manner of combustibles. the box-seat has one considerable advantage--it exempts you from the inquisitive and oftentimes impertinent conversation of a mixed group of stage-coach passengers; in addition to which, if you are fond of driving, a foible of mine, i confess, it affords an opportunity for an extra lesson on the noble art of _handling the ribbons_, and at the same time puts you in possession of all the topographical, descriptive, and anecdotal matter relative to the resident gentry and the road. the first two miles from the place of starting is generally occupied in clearing obstructions on the road, taking up old maids at their own houses, with pug-dogs, pattens, and parrots, or pert young misses at their papas' shop-doors; whose mammas take this opportunity of delaying a coach-load of people to display their maternal tenderness at parting, while the junior branches of the family hover round the vehicle, and assail your ears with lisping out their eternal "good b'yes," and the old hairless head of the family is seen slyly _tipping_ coachee an extra shilling to take care of his darling girl. the elephant and castle produces another _pull-up_, and here a branch-coach brings a load of lumber from the city, which, while the porter is stowing away, gives time to exhibit the _lions_ who are leaving london in every direction. king's bench rulers with needy habiliments, and lingering looks, sighing for term-time and ~ ~~a _horse_,{ } on one side the road, and jews, newsmen, and _touters_, on the other; who nearly _give away_ their goods, if you believe them, for the good of the nation, or force you into a coach travelling in direct opposition to the road for which you have been booked, and in which your luggage may by such mischance happily precede you at least half a day. at length all again is declared right, the supervisor delivers his _way-bill_, and forward moves the coach, at a somewhat brisker pace, to kennington common. i shall not detain my readers here with a long dull account of the unfortunate rebels who suffered on this spot in ; but rather direct their attention to a neat protestant church, which has recently been erected on the space between the two roads leading to croydon and sutton, the portico of which is in fine architectural taste, and the whole building a very great accommodation and distinguished ornament to the neighbourhood. about half a mile farther, on the rise of brixton hill, is another newly erected church, the portico in the style of a greek temple, and in an equally commanding situation: from this to croydon, ten miles, you have a tolerable specimen of civic taste in rural architecture. on both sides of the road may be seen a variety of incongruous edifices, called villas and cottage _ornées_, peeping up in all the pride of a retired linen-draper, or the consequential authority of a man in office, in as many varied styles of architecture as of dispositions in the different proprietors, and all exhibiting (in their possessors' opinion) claims to the purest and most refined taste. for example, the basement story is in the chinese or venetian style, the first floor in that of the florid gothic, with tiles and a pediment _à-la-nash_, at the bank; a doorway with inclined jambs, and a hieroglyphic _à-la-greek_: a gable-ended glass _lean to_ on a day-rule, so called. ~ ~~one side, about big enough for a dog-kennel, is called a green-house, while a similar erection on the other affords retirement for the _tit_ and tilbury; the door of which is always set wide open in fine weather, to display to passers-by the splendid equipage of the occupier. the parterre in front (green as the jaundiced eye of their less fortunate brother tradesmen) is enriched with some dozens of vermilion-coloured flower-pots mounted on a japanned verdigris frame, sending forth odoriferous, balmy, and enchanting gales to the grateful olfactory organs, from the half-withered stems of pining and consumptive geraniums; to complete the picture, two unique plaster casts of naked figures, the apollo belvidere and the venus de medici, at most a foot in altitude, are placed on clumsy wooden pedestals of three times that height before the parlour-windows, painted in a chaste flesh-colour, and guarded by a whitechapel bull-cdog, who, like another cerberus, sits growling at the gate to fright away the child of poverty, and insult the less wealthy pedestrian. happy country! where every man can consult his own taste, and build according to his own fancy, amalgamating in one structure all the known orders and varieties, persian, egyptian, athenian, and european. croydon in contained the _archiepiscopal palace_ of the celebrated archbishop parker, who, as well as his successor whitgift, here had frequently the honour to entertain queen elizabeth and her court: the manor since the reign of william the conqueror has belonged to the archbishops of canterbury. the church is a venerable structure, and the stately tower, embowered with woods and flanked by the surrey hills, a most picturesque and commanding object; the interior contains some monuments of antiquity well worthy the attention of the curious. the town itself has little worthy of note except the hospital, ~ ~~founded by archbishop whitgift for a warder and twenty poor men and women, decayed housekeepers of croyden and lambeth: a very comfortable and well-endowed retirement. "this was formerly the king's road," said coachee, "but the radicals having thought proper to insult his majesty on his passing through to brighton during the affair of the late queen, he has ever since gone by the way of sutton: a circumstance that has at least operated to produce one christian virtue among the inhabitants, namely, that of humility; before this there was no _getting change_ for a civil sentence from them." to merstham seven miles, the road winds through a bleak valley called smithem bottom, till recently the favourite resort of the cockney gunners for rabbit-shooting; but whether from the noise of their harmless double-barrel _nocks_, or the more dreadful carnage of the croydon poachers, these animals are now exceedingly scarce in this neighbourhood. just as we came in sight of merstham, the distant view halloo of the huntsman broke upon our ears, when the near-leader rising upon his haunches and neighing with delight at the inspiring sound, gave us to understand that he had not always been used to a life of drudgery, but in earlier times had most likely carried some daring nimrod to the field, and bounded with fiery courage o'er hedge and gate, through dell and brake, outstripping the fleeting wind to gain the honour of _the brush_. ere we had gained the village, reynard and the whole field broke over the road in their scarlet frocks, and dogs and horses made a dash away for a steeple chase across the country, led by the worthy-hearted owner of the pack, the jolly fox-hunting colonel, hilton jolliffe, whose residence caps the summit of the hill. from hence to reigate, four miles farther, there was no circumstance or object of interest, if i except a very romantic tale coachee ~ ~~narrated of his hunting leader, who had of course been bred in the stud of royalty itself, and had since been the property of two or three sporting peers, when, having put out a _spavin_, during the last hunting season, he was sold for a __machiner; but being since fired and turned out, he had come up all right, and was now, according to coachee's disinterested opinion, one of the best hunters in the kingdom. as i was not exactly the customer coachee was looking for, being at the time pretty well mounted, i thought it better to indulge him in the joke, particularly as any doubt on my part might have soured the whip, and made him sullen for the rest of the journey. at reigate a trifling accident happened to one of the springs of the coach, which detained us half an hour, and enabled me to pay a visit to the celebrated sand cavern, where, it is reported, the barons met, during the reign of king john, to hold their councils and draw up that great _palladium_ of english liberty, _magna charta_, which was afterwards signed at runnymede. there was something awful about this stupendous excavation that impressed me with solemn thoughtfulness; it lies about sixty feet from the surface of the earth, and is divided into three apartments with arched roofs, the farthest of which is designated the barons' chamber. time flowed back upon my memory as i sat in the niches hewn out in the sides of the cavern, and meditation deep usurped my mind as i dwelt on the recollections of history; on the "majestic forms, and men of other times, retired to fan the patriotic fire, which, bursting forth at runnymede, with rays of glory lightened all the land!" near to the mouth of this cavern stands the remains of holms castle, celebrated in the history of the civil wars between charles the first and his parliament; and on the site of an ancient monastic establishment, ~ ~~near to the spot, has been erected a handsome modern mansion called the priory of holmsdale, the name of the valley in which the town is situate. returning to the inn i observed the new tunnel, which we had previously passed under, a recent work of great labour and expense, which saves a considerable distance in the approach to the town; it has been principally effected by a wealthy innkeeper, and certainly adds much to the advantage and beauty of the place. coachee had now made all right, and his anxious passengers were again replaced in their former situations to proceed on our journey. the next stage, ten miles, to crawley, a picturesque place, afforded little variety, if i except an immense elm which stands by the side of the road as you enter, and has a door in front to admit the curious into its hollow trunk. our next post was cuckfield, nine miles, where i did not discover any thing worthy of narration; from this to brighton, twelve miles, coachee amused me with some anecdotes of persons whom we passed upon the road. a handsome chariot, with a most divine little creature in the inside, and a good-looking _roué_, with huge mustachios, first attracted my notice: "that is the golden ball," said coachee, "and his new wife; he often _rolls down_ this road for a day or two--spends his cash like an emperor--and before he was _tied up_ used to tip pretty freely for _handling the ribbons_, but that's all up now, for _mamsell_ mercandotti finds him better amusement. a gem-man who often comes down with me says his father was a slopseller in ratcliffe highway, and afterwards marrying the widow of admiral hughes, a rich old west india nabob, he left this young gemman the bulk of his property, and a very worthy fellow he is: but we've another rich fellow that's rather notorious at brighton, which we distinguish by the name of the _silver ball_, only he's a bit of a _screw_, and has lately ~ ~~got himself into a scrape about a pretty actress, from which circumstance they have changed his name to the _foote ball_. i suppose you guess where i am now," said coachee, tipping me one of his knowing winks. "do you see that machine before us, a sort of cabriolet, with two horses drove in a curricle bar? that is another _swell_ who is very fond of brighton, a jew gentleman of the name of solomon, whom the wags have made a christian of by the new appellation of the _golden calf_; but his godfathers were never more out in their lives, for in _splitting a bob_, it's my opinion, he'd bother all bevis marks and the stock exchange into the bargain." in this way we trotted along, gathering good air and information at every step, until we were in sight of brighton downs, a long chain of hills, which appear on either side; with their undulating surfaces covered with the sweet herb wild thyme, and diversified by the numerous flocks of south-down sheep grazing on their loftiest summits. after winding through the romantic valley of preston, the white-fronted houses and glazed bricks of brighton break upon the sight, sparkling in the sun-beams, with a distant glimpse of the sea, appearing, at first sight, to rise above the town like a blue mountain in the distance: we entered the place along what is called the london road, with a view of the pavilion before us, the favourite abode of royalty, shooting its minaret towers and glass dome upwards in the most grotesque character, not unlike the representations of the kremlin at moscow; exciting, at the first glance, among the passengers, the most varied and amusing sallies of witticisms and conjectures.--having procured a sketch of it from this view, i shall leave you to contemplate, while i retire to my inn and make the necessary arrangements for refreshment and future habitation. by way of postscript, i enclose you a very entertaining scene i witnessed between d'almaine and ~ ~~his wife the night previous to my journey: they are strange creatures; but you love eccentrics, and may be amused with this little drama, which formed the motive for my visit. horatio heartly. [illustration: page ] the proposition. _family secrets--female tactics--how to carry the point._ ~ ~~"it was ever thus, d'almaine," said lady mary; "always hesitating between a natural liberality of disposition, and a cold, calculating, acquired parsimony, that has never increased our fortune in the sum of sixpence, or added in the slightest degree to our domestic comforts." "all the _prejudice of education_" said d'almaine, good-humouredly; "my old uncle, the banker, to whose bounty we are both much indebted, my dear, early inculcated these notions of thrift into the brain of a certain lighthearted young gentleman, whose buoyant spirits sometimes led him a little beyond the _barrier of prudence_, and too often left him environed with difficulties in the _marshes of impediment_. 'look before you leap,' was a wise saw of the old gentleman's; and 'be just before you're generous,' a proverb that never failed to accompany a temporary supply, or an additional demand upon his generosity."--"hang your old uncle!" replied lady mary, pouting and trying to look ill-tempered in the face of lord henry's good-natured remonstrance,--"i never ask a favour for myself, or solicit you to take the recreation necessary to your own health and that of your family, but i am pestered with the revised musty maxims of your dead old uncle. he has been consigned to the earth these ten years, and ~ ~~if it were not for the ten thousand per annum he left us, ought long since to have shared the fate of his ancestry, whose names were never heard more of than the tributary tablet imparts to the eye of curiosity in a country church, and within whose limits all inquiry ends." "gratitude, lady mary, if not respect for my feelings, should preserve that good man's name from reproach." lord henry's eye was unusually expressive--he continued:--"the coronet that graces your own soul-inspiring face would lack the lustre of its present brilliancy, but for the generous bequest of the old city banker, whose _plum_ was the _sweetest windfall_ that ever dropt into the empty purse of the poor possessor of an ancient baronial title. the old battlements of crackenbury have stood many a siege, 'tis true; but that formidable engine of modern warfare, the _catapulta_ of the auctioneer, had, but for him, proved more destructive to its walls than the battering-ram and hoarse cannonades of ancient rebels." ~ ~~when a woman is foiled at argument, she generally has recourse to finesse. lady mary had made up her mind to carry her point; finding therefore the right column of her vengeance turned by the smart attack of d'almaine's raillery, she was determined to out-flank him with her whole park of well-appointed artillery, consisting of all those endearing, solicitous looks and expressions, that can melt the most obdurate heart, and command a victory over the most experienced general. it was in vain that lord henry urged the unusual heavy expenses of the season in town,--the four hundred paid for the box at the opera,--or the seven hundred for the greys and the new barouche,--the pending demand from messrs. rundell's for the new service of plate,--and the splendid alterations and additions just made to the old family hall,--with ~ ~~numerous other most provoking items which the old steward had conjured up, as if on purpose, to abridge the pleasures of lady mary's intended tour. "it was very _distressing_--she heartily wished there was no such thing as money in the world--it made people very miserable--they were a much happier couple, she contended, when they were merely honourables, and lived upon a paltry two thousand and the expectancy--there never was any difficulty then about money transactions, and a proposition for a trip to a watering-place was always hailed with pleasure."--"true, lady mary; but then you forget we travelled in a stage coach, with your maid on the outside, while my man servant, with a led-horse, followed or preceded us. then, we were content with lodgings on the west-cliff, and the use of a kitchen: now, we require a splendid establishment, must travel in our own chariot, occupy half a mews with our horses, and fill half a good-sized barrack with our servants. then, we could live snug, accept an invitation to dinner with a commoner, and walk or ride about as we pleased, without being pointed at as _lions_ or _raro aves_ just broke loose from the great state aviary at st. james's." "we shall scarcely be discovered," said lady mary, "among the stars that surround the regal planet."--"we shall be much mortified then," said lord henry, facetiously.--"you are very provoking, d'almaine. i know your turf speculations have proved fortunate of late: i witnessed sir charles paying you a large sum the other morning; and i have good reason for thinking you have been successful at the club, for i have not heard your usual morning salutation to your valet, who generally on the occasion of your losses receives more checks than are payable at your bankers. you shall advance me a portion of your winnings, in return for which i promise you good health, good society, and, perhaps, if the stars _shoot ~ ~~rightly_, a good place for our second son. in these days of peace, the distaff can effect more than the field-marshal's baton."--"always provided," said my sire (clapping his hand upon his _os frontis_), "that nothing else _shoots out_ of such condescensions." "but why has brighton the preference as a watering place?" said lord henry: "the isle of wight is, in my opinion, more retired; southampton more select; tunbridge wells more rural; and worthing more social."--"true, d'almaine; but i am not yet so old and woe-begone, so out of conceit with myself, or misanthropic with the world, to choose either the retired, the select, the rural, or the social. i love the bustle of society, enjoy the promenade on the steyne, and the varied character that nightly fills the libraries; i read men, not books, and above all i enjoy the world of fashion. where the king is, there is concentrated all that is delightful in society. your retired dowagers and opposition peers may congregate in rural retirement, and sigh with envy at the enchanting splendour of the court circle; those only who have felt its cheering influence can speak of its inspiring pleasures; and all who have participated in the elegant scene will laugh at the whispers of malignity and the innuendoes of disappointment, which are ever pregnant with some newly invented _on dit_ of scandalous tendency, to libel a circle of whom they know nothing but by report; and that report, in nine instances out of ten, 'the weak invention of the enemy.'" "bravo, lady mary; your spirited defence of the pavilion party does honour to your heart, and displays as much good sense as honest feeling; but a little interest, methinks, lurks about it for all that: i have not forgotten the honour we received on our last visit; and you, i can perceive, anticipate a renewal of the same gratifying condescension; so give james his instructions, and let him proceed to brighton to-morrow to make the necessary arrangements for our arrival." ~ ~~thus ended the colloquy in the usual family manner, when well-bred men entertain something more than mere respect for their elegant and accomplished partners. [illustration: page ] sketches at brighton. _the pavilion party--interior described--royal and noble anecdotes--king and mathews_. ~ ~~i had preceded d'almaine and the countess only a few hours in my arrival at brighton; you know the vivacity and enchanting humour which ever animates that little divinity, and will not therefore be surprised to hear, on her name being announced at the pavilion, we were honoured with a royal invitation to an evening party. i had long sighed for an opportunity to view the interior of that eccentric building; but to have enjoyed such a treat, made doubly attractive by the presence of the king, reposing from the toils of state in his favourite retreat, and surrounded by the select circle of his private friends, was more than my most sanguine expectations could have led me to conjecture. suspending, therefore, my curiosity until the morrow, relative to the steyne, the beach, the libraries, and the characters, i made a desperate effort in embellishing, to look unusually stylish, and as usual, never succeeded so ill in my life. our residence on the grand parade is scarcely a hundred yards from, and overlooks the pavilion--a circumstance which had quite escaped my recollection; for with all the natural anxiety of a young and ardent mind, i had fully equipped myself before the count had even thought of entering his dressing-room. half-an-hour's lounge at the projecting window of our new habitation, on a tine summer's evening, gave me an opportunity of remarking the ~ ~~singular appearance the front of this building presents: "if minarets, rising together, provoke from the lips of the vulgar the old-fashioned joke-- '_de gustibus non est_ (i think) _disputandum_' the taste is plebeian that quizzes at random." there is really something very romantic in the style of its architecture, and by no means inelegant; perhaps it is better suited for the peculiar situation of this marine palace than a more classical or accredited order would be. it has been likened, on its first appearance, to a chess-board; but, in my thinking, it more nearly resembles that soul-inspiring scene, the splendid banquet table, decorated in the best style of modern grandeur, and covered with the usual plate and glass enrichments: for instance, the central dome represents the water magnum, the towers right and left, with their pointed spires, champagne bottles, the square compartments on each side are exactly like the form of our fashionable liqueur stands, the clock tower resembles the centre ornament of a plateau, the various small spires so many enriched _candelabra_, the glass dome a superb dessert dish; but "don't expect, my dear boy, i can similies find for a heap of similitudes so undefined. and why should i censure tastes not my concern? 'tis as well for the arts that all tastes have their turn." if i had written for three hours on the subject, i could not have been more explicit; you have only to arrange the articles in the order enumerated, and you have a model of the upper part of the building before you. at nine o'clock we made our _entré_ into the pavilion, westward, passing through the vestibule and hall, when we entered one of the most superb apartments that art or fancy can devise, whether for richness of effect, decoration, and design: this is ~ ~~called the _chinese gallery_, one hundred and sixty-two feet in length by seventeen feet in breadth, and is divided into five compartments, the centre being illumined with a light of stained glass, on which is represented the god of thunder, as described in the chinese mythology, surrounded by the imperial five-clawed dragons, supporting pendent lanterns, ornamented with corresponding devices. the ceiling or cove is the colour of peach blossom; and a chinese canopy is suspended round from the lower compartment with tassels, bells, &c.: the furniture and other decorations, such as cabinets, chimney-piece, trophies, and banners, which are in the gallery, are all in strict accordance with the chinese taste; while on every side the embellishments present twisted dragons, pagodas, and mythological devices of birds, flowers, insects, statues, formed from a yellow marble; and a rich collection of oriental china. the extreme compartments north and south are occupied by chased brass staircases, the lateral ornaments of which are serpents, and the balusters resemble bamboo. in the north division is the _fum_{ } or chinese bird of royalty: this gallery opens into the music room, an apartment forty-two feet square, with two recesses of ten feet each, and rising in height forty-one feet, to a dome thirty feet in diameter. the magnificence and imposing grandeur of effect surpasses all effort at detail. it presented a scene of enchantment which brought to recollection the florid descriptions, in the persian tales, of the palaces of the genii: the prevailing decoration is executed in green gold, and produces a most singularly splendid effect. on the walls are twelve highly finished paintings, views in china, principally near pekin, imitative of the crimson japan. the fum is said to be found in no part of the world but china. it is described as of most admirable beauty; and their absence for any time from the imperial city regarded as an omen of misfortune to the royal family. the emperor and mandarins have the semblance of these birds embroidered on their vestments. ~ ~~the dome appears to be excavated out of a rock of solid gold, and is supported by an octagonal base, ornamented with the richest chinese devices; at each angle of the room is a pagoda-tower, formed of the most costly materials in glass and china, with lamps attached; beneath the dome and base is a splendid canopy, supported by columns of crimson and gold, with twisted serpents of enormous size, and terrific expression surrounding them. a magnificent organ, by sinclair, the largest and best in the kingdom, occupies the north recess, twenty feet in width, length, and height: there are two entrances to this room, one from the _egyptian gallery_, and another from the yellow drawing-room, each under a rich canopy, supported by gold columns. a beautiful chimney-piece of white statuary marble, and an immense mirror, with splendid draperies of blue, red, and yellow satin, rare china jars, and ornaments in ormolu, increase the dazzling brilliancy of the apartment. as this was my first appearance in the palace, the countess, very considerately, proposed to sir h----t----, who conducted us, that we should walk through the other public apartments, before we were ushered into the presence chamber--a proposition the good-natured equerry very readily complied with. repassing, therefore, the whole length of the chinese gallery, the southern extremity communicates with the _royal banqueting room_, sixty feet in length, by forty-two in breadth: the walls are bounded at the height of twenty-three feet by a cornice, apparently inlaid with pearls and gold, from which spring four ecliptic arches, supported by golden columns, surmounted with a dome, rising to a height of forty-five feet, and constructed to represent an eastern sky; beneath which is seen spreading the broad umbrageous foliage of the luxuriant plantain, bearing its fruit and displaying, in all the progressive stages, ~ ~~the different varieties, from the early blossom to maturity: curious chinese symbols are suspended from the trunk, and connect themselves with a grand lustre, rising to a height of thirty feet, and reflecting the most varied and magical effect, being multiplied by other lustres, in the several angles adjoining. the walls are decorated with groups of figures, nearly the size of life, portraying the costume of the higher classes of the chinese; domestic episodes, painted on a ground of imitative pearl, richly wrought, in all the varied designs of chinese mythology. the furniture is of the most costly description--rose-wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and enriched with _or molu_ chasings of the most elegant design; the effect of which is admirably contrasted with the rich glossy jars of blue porcelain, of english manufacture, and magnificent brilliancy. centrally, between these magnificent apartments, is the rotunda or saloon; an oblong interior of fifty-five feet in length, the decoration chaste and classical in the extreme, being simply white and gold, the enriched cornice being supported by columns and pilasters, and the whole decoration uniting coolness with simplicity. the passages to some of the minor apartments are unique in their style of embellishment, which appears to be of polished white marble, but is, in fact, nothing but a superior dutch tile, cemented smoothly, in plaster of paris, and highly varnished. there are many other private and anterooms to the west of the chinese gallery, the decorations of which are more simple, but in a corresponding style. we had now arrived at the _yellow room (see plate_), where we understood his majesty would receive his evening party. [illustration: page ] the apartment is fifty-six feet in length, by twenty in breadth, and is hung round with a rich fluted drapery of yellow satin, suspended from the ceiling, and representing a magnificent chinese tent, from the centre of which hangs a chandelier of ~ ~~the most splendid design, the light of which is diffused through painted glasses, resembling in shape and colour every variety of the tulip, exciting the greatest admiration. the chimney-piece is chinese, the stove formed by _chimera_ chased in _or molu_, the figures above being models or automatons, of nearly the size of life, dressed in splendid costume, occasionally moving their heads and arms. the furniture of the room is of a similar character to those already described, except the seats, which are ottomans of yellow velvet, the window draperies being of the same splendid material. it was in this truly royal apartment we had the honour of waiting the approach of his majesty, who entered, at about a quarter before ten, apparently in the enjoyment of the most excellent health and highest spirits. he was preceded by sir a. f. barnard and lord francis conyngham, the grooms in waiting, and entered with the princess augusta leaning on his arm, the left of her royal highness being supported by the duke of york; the marquis of conyngham followed, leading in his marchioness; and the beautiful and accomplished lady elizabeth honoured sir william knighton as her conductor. the old earl of arran came hobbling on his crutches, dreadfully afflicted with the gout. sir c. paget, that merry son of neptune, with sir e. nagle, followed; the rear being brought up by the fascinating countess of warwick and her ever constant earl. _(see plate.)_ do not imagine, my dear bernard, that i shall so far outrage the honourable feelings of a gentleman as to relate every word, look, or action, of this illustrious party, for the rude ear of eager curiosity. those only who have witnessed the monarch in private life, freed from the weight of state affairs, and necessary regal accompaniments, can form a correct judgment of the unaffected goodness of his heart; the easy affability, and pliant condescension, with which he can divest ~ ~~every one around him of any feeling of restraint--the uncommon sprightliness and vivacity he displays in conversation--the life and soul of all that is elegant and classical, and the willing participator and promoter of a good joke. suffice it to say, the reception was flattering in the extreme, the entertainment conversational and highly intellectual. the moments flew so quickly, that i could have wished the hour of eleven, the period of the king's retiring, had been extended to the noontide of the morrow. but is this all, i think i can hear you say, this friend of my heart dares to repose with me on a subject so agreeable? no--you shall have a few _on dits_, but nothing touching on the scandalous; gleanings, from sir e---- and sir c----, the jesters of our sovereign lord the king; but nothing that might excite a blush in the cheek of the lovely countess, to whom i was indebted for the honour and delight i on that occasion experienced. imprimis:--i know you are intimate with that inimitable child of whim, charles mathews. he is in high estimation with royalty, i assure you; and annually receives the king's command to deliver a selection from his popular entertainments before him--an amusement of which his majesty speaks in terms of the warmest admiration. on the last occasion, a little _scena_ occurred that must have been highly amusing; as it displays at once the kind recollections of the king, and his amiable disposition. as i had it from sir c----, you may depend upon its authenticity. i shall denominate it the king at home, or mathews in carlton palace. _(see plate.)_ [illustration: page ] previous to mathews leaving this country for america, he exhibited a selection from his popular entertainments, by command of his majesty, at carlton palace.--a party of not more than six or eight persons were present, including the princess augusta and the marchioness of conyngham. during ~ ~~the entertainment (with which the king appeared much delighted), mathews introduced his imitations of various performers on the british stage, and was proceeding with john kemble in the stranger, when he was interrupted by the king, who, in the most affable manner, observed that his general imitations were excellent, and such as no one who had ever seen the characters could fail to recognise; but he thought the comedian's portrait of john kemble somewhat too boisterous.--"he is an old friend, and i might add, tutor of mine," observed his majesty: "when i was prince of wales he often favoured me with his company. i will give you an imitation of john kemble," said the good-humoured monarch. mathews was electrified. the lords of the bed-chamber eyed each other with surprise. the king rose and prefaced his imitations by observing, "i once requested john kemble to take a pinch of snuff with me, and for this purpose placed my box on the table before him, saying 'kemble, oblige (obleege) me by taking a pinch of snuff' he took a pinch, and then addressed me thus:--(here his majesty assumed the peculiar carriage of mr. kemble.) 'i thank your royal highness for your snuff, but, in future, do extend your royal jaws a little wider, and say oblige.'" the anecdote was given with the most powerful similitude to the actor's voice and manners, and had an astonishing effect on the party present. it is a circumstance equally worthy of the king and the scholar. mathews, at the conclusion, requested permission to offer an original anecdote of kemble, which had some affinity to the foregoing. kemble had been for many years the intimate friend of the earl of aberdeen. on one occasion he had called on that nobleman during his morning's ride, and left mrs. kemble in the carriage at the door. john and the noble earl were closely engaged on some literary subject a very long time, while mrs. kemble was ~ ~~shivering in the carriage (it being very cold weather). at length her patience being exhausted, she directed her servant to inform his master that she was waiting, and feared the cold weather would bring on an attack of the rheumatism. the fellow proceeded to the door of the earl's study, and delivered his message, leaving out the final letter in rheumatism.--this he had repeated three several times, by direction of his mistress, before he could obtain an answer. at length, kemble, roused from his subject by the importunities of the servant, replied, somewhat petulantly, "tell your mistress i shall not come, and, fellow, do you in future say '_tism_." among the party assembled on this occasion was the favoured son of esculapius, sir w---- k----, the secret of whose elevation to the highest confidence of royalty is one of those mysteries of the age which it is in vain to attempt to unravel, and which, perhaps, cannot be known to more than two persons in existence: great and irresistible, however, must that influence be, whether moral or physical, which could obtain such dominion over the mind as to throw into the shade the claims of rank and courtly _lions_, and place an humble disciple of esculapius on the very summit of royal favour. of his gentlemanly and amusing talents in society every one must speak in terms of the highest praise, and equally flattering are the reports of his medical skill; but many are the fleeting causes and conjectures assigned for his supremacy--reports which may not be written here, lest i assist in the courtly prattle of misrepresentation. sir w---- was, i believe, the executor of an old and highly-favoured confidential secretary; might not _certain circumstances_ arising out of that trust have paved the way to his elevation? if the intense merits of the individual have raised him to the dazzling ~ ~~height, the world cannot value them too highly, and sufficiently extol the discrimination of the first sovereign and first gentleman of the age who could discover and reward desert with such distinguished honour. but if his elevation is the result of any sacrifice of principle, or of any courtly intrigue to remove a once equally fortunate rival, and pave his path with gold, there are few who would envy the favoured minion: against such suspicion, however, we have the evidence of a life of honour, and the general estimation of society. of his predecessor, and the causes for his removal, i have heard some curious anecdotes, but these you shall have when we meet. a very good story is in circulation here among the court circle relative to the eccentric lady c---- l----, and a young marchioness, who, spite of the remonstrances of her friends and the general good taste of the ladies in that particular, recently selected an old man for a husband, in preference to a choice of at least twenty young and titled, dashing _roués_: the whim and caprice of the former is notorious, while the life and animation of the little marchioness renders her the brightest star of attraction in the hemisphere of fashion. "i should like to see billingsgate, amazingly," said the marchioness to her eccentric friend, while reading a humorous article on the subject in the morning chronicle. "it must be entertaining to hear the peculiar phraseology and observe the humorous vulgarities of these _naiades_, if one could do so _incog_." "and why not, my dear?" said lady c----; "you know there never was a female quixote in existence among the petticoat blue-stockings, from lady wortley montague to lady morgan, who was more deeply affected with the tom and jerry _mania_ than i am: leave all to me, and i'll answer for taking you there safely, enjoying the scene securely, and escaping without chance of detection." with lady ~ ~~c---- a whim of this description is by no means unusual, and the necessary attendance of a confidential servant to protect, in case of danger, a very essential personage. to this mercury, lady c---- confided her plan; giving directions for the completion of it on the morning of the morrow, and instructing him to obtain disguises from his wife, who is an upper servant in the family, for the use of the ladies. john, although perfectly free from any alarm on account of lady c----, should the whim become known, was not so easy in respect to the young and attractive marchioness, whose consort, should any thing unpleasant occur, john wisely calculated, might interfere to remove him from his situation. with this resolve he prudently communicated the ladies' intention to a confidential friend of the marquis, who, on receiving an intimation of their intentions, laughed at the whim, and determined to humour the joke, by attending the place, properly disguised, to watch at a distance the frolic of the ladies. the next morning, at the appointed hour, the footman brought a hackney-coach to the door, and the ladies were quickly conveyed to the scene of action, followed (unknowingly) by the marquis and his friend. here they amused themselves for some time in walking about and observing the bustle and variety of the, to them, very novel scene; soon, however, fatigued with the mobbing, thrusting, and filthiness, which is characteristic of the place, the marchioness was for returning, remarking to her friend that she had as yet heard none of that singular broad humour for which these nymphs of the fish-market were so celebrated. "then you shall have a specimen directly," said lady c----, "if i can provoke it; only prepare your ethics and your ears for a slight shock; "and immediately approaching an old fresh-water dragon, who sat behind an adjoining stall, with a countenance spirited in the ~ ~~extreme, and glowing with all the beautiful varieties of the ultra-marine and vermilion, produced by the all-potent properties of hodge's full-proof, she proceeded to cheapen the head and shoulders of a fine fish that lay in front of her, forcing her fingers under the gills, according to the approved custom of good housewives, to ascertain if it was fresh. [illustration: page ] after a parley as to price, lady c---- hinted that she doubted its being perfectly sweet: the very suspicion of vending an unsavoury article roused the old she-dragon at once into one of the most terrific passions imaginable, and directing all her ire against the ladies, she poured forth a volley of abuse fiery and appalling as the lava of a volcano, which concluded as follows.--"not sweet, you ----," said the offended deity; "how can i answer for its sweetness, when you have been tickling his gills with your stinking paws " _(see plate.)_ the marchioness retreated at the first burst of the storm, but lady c----continued to provoke the old naiad of the shambles, till she had fully satisfied her humour. again safely escorted home by the liveried mercury, the ladies thought to have enjoyed their joke in perfect security; but what was their astonishment, when on meeting the marquis and a select party at dinner, to find the identical fish served up at their own table, and the marquis amusing his friends by relating the whole circumstances of the frolic, as having occurred to two ladies of distinction during the laughter-loving days of charles the second. i need not animadvert upon the peculiar situation of the ladies, who, blushing through a crimson veil of the deepest hue, bore the raillery of the party assembled with as much good sense as good nature; acknowledging the frolic, and joining in the laugh the joke produced. beneath, you have one of our facetious friend bob transit's humorous sketches of an incident said to have occurred near b---- h----: in which an eccentric ~ ~~lady chose to call up the servants in the dead of the night, order out the carriage, and mounting the box herself, insisted upon giving the footman, who had been somewhat tardy in leaving his bed, a gentle airing in his shirt. [illustration: page ] characters on the beach and steyne, brighton. _on bathing and bathers--advantages of shampooing--french decency--brighton politeness--sketches of character--the banker's widow--miss jefferies--mrs. f----l--peter paragraph, the london correspondent--jack smith--the french consul--paphian divinities--c---- l----, esq.-- squeeze into the libraries--the new plunging bath--chain pier--cockney comicalities--royal gardens--the club house._ ~ ~~the next morning early i proceeded to the beach to enjoy the delightful and invigorating pleasure of sea-bathing. the clean pebble shore extending, as it does here, for a long distance beneath the east cliff, is a great advantage to those who, from indisposition or luxury, seek a dip in the ocean. one practice struck me as being a little objectionable, namely, the machines of the males and females being placed not only within sight of each other, but actually close alongside; by which circumstance, the sportive nymphs sometimes display more of nature's charms to the eager gaze of her wanton sons than befits me to tell, or decency to dwell on. i could not, however, with all the purity of my ethics, help envying a robust fellow who was assisting in clucking the dear unencumbered creatures under the rising wave.{ } some of the female bathers are very adventurous, and from the great drawback of water many accidents have occurred. i was much amused one morning with three sisters, in the machine adjoining mine, continually crying out to a male attendant "to push on, and not be afraid of the consequences; we can all swim well," said one of the miss b----'s (well known as the _marine graces_). "but my machine a'n't water-tight," replied the bathing-man, "and if i trust it any farther in, i shall never be able to get it out again." a frenchman who came down to bathe with his wife and sister insisted upon using the same machine with the ladies; the bathing-women remonstrated, but _monsieur_ retorted very fairly thus--"_mon dieu i vat is dat vat you tell me about décence. tromperie_--shall i no dip _mon femme a sour_ myself vith quite as much _bienséance_ as dat vulgar brute vat i see ducking de ladies yondere?" ~ ~~the naiads of the deep are a strange race of mortals, half fish and half human, with a masculine coarseness of manner that, i am told, has been faithfully copied from their great original, the once celebrated martha gun. it is not unusual for these women to continue in the water up to their waists for four hours at a time, without suffering the least affection of cold or rheumatism, and living to a great age. a dingy empiric has invented a new system of _humbug_ which is in great repute here, and is called _shampooing_; a sort of stewing alive by steam, sweetened by being forced through odoriferous herbs, and undergoing the pleasant sensation of being dabbed all the while with pads of flannels through holes in the wet blankets that surround you, until the cartilaginous substances of your joints are made as pliable as the ligaments of boiled calves' feet, your whole system relaxed and unnerved, and your trembling legs as useless in supporting your body as a pair of boots would be without the usual quantity of flesh and bone within them. the steyne affords excellent subject for the study of character, and the pencil of the humorist; the walks round are paved with brick, which, when the thermometer is something above eighty-six in the shade (the case just now), is very like pacing your parched feet over the pantiles of a turkish stove. there is, indeed, a ~ ~~grass-plot within the rails, but the luxury of walking upon it is reserved for the fishermen of the place exclusively, except on some extraordinary occasion, when the whole rabble of the town are let loose to annoy the visitants by puffing tobacco smoke in their faces, or jostling and insulting them with coarse ribaldry, until the genteel and decent are compelled to quit the promenade. i have had two or three such specimens of brighton manners while staying here, and could only wish i had the assistance of about twenty of the _oxford_togati_, trinitarians, or bachelors of brazennose. i think we should hit upon some expedient to tame these brutes, and teach them civilized conduct--an herculean labour which the town authorities seem afraid to attempt. the easy distance between this and the metropolis, with the great advantages of expeditious travelling, enable the multitudinous population of london to pour forth its motley groups, in greater variety than at any other watering place, margate excepted, with, however, this difference in favour of the former, that the mixture had more of the sprinkling of fashion about them, here and there a name of note, a splendid equipage, or a dazzling star, to illumine the dull nomenclatures in the library books of the johnson's, the thomson's, the brown's, and the levi's. the last-mentioned fraternity congregate here in shoals, usurp all the best lodgings, at the windows of which they are to be seen soliciting notice, with their hooked noses, copper countenances, and inquisitive eyes, decked out in all the faded finery of petticoat-lane, or bevis marks; while the heads of the houses of israel run down on a saturday, after the stock exchange closes, and often do as much business here on the sabbath, in gambling speculations for the _account day_, as they have done all the week before in london. here, too, you have the felicity to meet your tailor in his tandem, your ~ ~~butcher on his _trotter_, your shoemaker in a _fly_, and your wine-merchant with his bit of blood, his girl, and tilbury, making a greater splash than yourself, and pleasantly pointing you out to observation as a long-winded one, a great gambler, or some other such gratuitous return for your ill-bestowed patronage. to amalgamate with such _canaille_ is impossible--you are therefore driven into seclusion, or compelled to confine your visits and amusements to nearly the same circle you have just left london to be relieved from. among the "observed" of the present time, the great star of attraction is the rich banker's widow, who occupies the corner house of the grand parade, eclipsing in splendid equipages and attendants an eastern nabob, or royalty itself. good fortune threw old crony in my way, just as i had caught a glimpse of the widow's cap: you know his dry sarcastic humour and tenacious memory, and perhaps i ought to add, my inquisitive disposition. from him i gleaned a sketch of the widow's history, adorned with a few comments, which gallantry to the fair sex will not allow me to repeat. she had just joined conversation with the marquis of h----, who was attended by jackson, the pugilist; an illustrious personage and a noble earl were on her left; while behind the _jolie_ dame, at a respectful distance, paced two liveried emblems of her deceased husband's bounty, clad in the sad habiliments of woe, and looking as merry as mutes at a rich man's funeral. _(see plate.) [illustration: page ] "she has the reputation of being very charitable," said i. "she has," responded crony; "but the total neglect of poor wewitzer, in the hour of penury and sickness, is no proof of her feeling, much less of her generosity. i have known her long," continued crony, "from her earliest days of obscurity and indigence to these of unexampled prosperity, and i never could agree with common report in that particular." i dare say i looked at this moment very ~ ~~significantly; for crony, without waiting my request, continued his history. "her father was the gay and dissolute jack kinnear, well known in dublin for his eccentricities about the time of the rebellion, in which affair he made himself so conspicuous that he was compelled to expatriate, and fled to england by way of liverpool; where his means soon failing, jack, never at a loss, took up the profession of an actor, and succeeded admirably. his animated style and attractive person are still spoken of with delight by many of the old inhabitants of carlisle, rochdale, kendal, and the neighbouring towns of lancashire, where he first made his appearance in an itinerant company, then under the management of a man of the name of bibby, and in whose house, under very peculiar circumstances, our heroine was born; but 'merit and worth from no condition rise; act well your part--there all the honour lies.' ~ ~~that little harriet was a child of much promise there is no doubt, playing, in her mother's name, at a very early period, all the juvenile parts in bibby's company with great _éclat_ until she attained the age of eighteen, when her abilities procured her a situation to fill the first parts in genteel comedy in the theatres-royal manchester and liverpool. from this time her fame increased rapidly, which was not a little enhanced by her attractive person, and consequent number of admirers; for even among the cotton lords of manchester a fine-grown, raven-locked, black-eyed brunette, arch, playful, and clever, could not fail to create sensations of desire: but at this time the affections of the lady were fixed on a son of thespis, then a member of the same company, and to whom she was shortly afterwards betrothed; but the marriage, from some capricious cause or other, was never consummated: the actor, well-known as scotch grant, is now much reduced in life, and a member of ~ ~~one of the minor companies of the metropolis. on her quitting liverpool, in , she played at the stafford theatre during the election contest, where, having the good-fortune to form an intimacy with the hortons, a highly-respectable family then resident there, and great friends of sheridan, they succeeded, on the return of that gentleman to parliament for the borough of stafford, to obtain from him an engagement for our heroine at the theatre-royal drury lane, of which he was at that time proprietor. 'brevity is the soul of wit,'" said crony: "i shall not attempt to enumerate all the parts she played there; suffice it to say, she was successful, and became a great favourite with the public. it was here she first attracted the notice of the rich old banker, who having just discarded another actress, mrs. m----r, whom he had kept some time, on account of an intimacy he discovered with the lady and p----e, the oboe player, he made certain propositions, accompanied with such liberal presents, that the fair yielded to the all-powerful influence, not of love, but gold; and having, through the interference of poor w----, secured to herself a settlement which made her independent for life, threw out the well-planned story of the lottery ticket, as a 'tub to the whale': a stratagem that, for some time, succeeded admirably, until a malicious wag belonging to the company undertook to solve the riddle of her prosperity, by pretending to bet a wager of one hundred, that the lady had actually gained twenty thousand pounds by the lottery, and he would name the ticket: with this excuse, for what otherwise might have been deemed impertinent, he put the question, and out of the reply developed the whole affair. all london now rung with the splendour of her equipage, the extent of her charities, and the liberality of her conduct to an old actor and a young female friend, miss s----n, who was invariably seen with ~ ~~her in public. such was the notoriety of the intimacy, that the three married daughters of the banker, all persons of title and the highest respectability, thought it right to question their father, relative to the truth of the reports in circulation. whatever might have been their apprehensions, their fears were quieted by the information, that the lady in question was a natural daughter, born previous to the alliance to which they owed their birth: this assurance not only induced the parties to admit her to their presence, but she was also introduced to, and became intimate with, the wife of the man to whom she owes her present good fortune. it was now, that, feeling herself secure, she displayed that capricious feeling which has since marked her character: poor w----r, her mentor and defender, was on some mere pretence abandoned, and a sturdy blustering fellow, in the same profession, substituted for the sincere adviser, the witty and agreeable companion: it was to r----d she sent a present of one thousand pounds, for a single ticket, on his benefit night. but her ambition had not yet attained its highest point: the banker's wife died, and our fortunate heroine was elected to her place while yet the clay-cold corse of her predecessor remained above ground; a circumstance, which brought down a heavy calamity on the clerical who performed the marriage rites,{ } but which was remedied by an annuity from the banker. from this period, the haughty bearing of the lady exceeded all bounds; the splendour of her establishment, the extravagance of her parties, and the munificence of her charities, trumpeted forth by that many-tongued oracle, the public press, eclipsed the brilliancy of the saturnine b----n, the author of 'the stage,' a poem, on hearing the day after her marriage with the banker, a conversation relative to her age, said he was sure the party were all in error, as there could be no doubt the lady was on the previous night _under age_. ~ ~~royal banquets, and outshone the greatest and wealthiest of the stars of fashion. about this time, her hitherto inseparable companion made a slip with a certain amorous manager; and such was the indignation of our moral heroine on the discovery, that she spurned the unfortunate from her for ever, and actually turned the offending spark out of doors herself, accompanying the act with a very unladylike demonstration of her vengeance. b----d, her most obsequious servant, died suddenly. poor dr. j---- a----s, who gave up a highly respectable and increasing practice, in greek-street, soho, as a physician, to attend, exclusively, on the 'geud auld mon' and his rib, met such a return for his kindness and attention, that he committed suicide. her next friend, a mr. g----n, a very handsome young man, who was induced to quit his situation in the bank for the office of private secretary, made a mistake one night, and eloped with the female confidante of the banker's wife, a crime for which the perpetrator could never hope to meet with forgiveness. it is not a little singular," said crony, "that almost all her intimate acquaintances have, sooner or later, fallen into disrepute with their patroness, and felt how weak is the reliance upon the capricious and the wayward." on the death of the old banker, our heroine had so wheedled the dotard, that he left her, to the surprise of the world, the whole of his immense property, recommending only certain legacies, and leaving an honourable and high-minded family dependent upon her bountiful consideration. "i could relate some very extraordinary anecdotes arising out of that circumstance," said crony; "but you must be content with one, farcical in the extreme, which fully displays the lady's affection for her former profession, and shows she is a perfect mistress of stage effect. on the removal of the shrivelled remains of the old dotard for interment, his affectionate rib accompanied the ~ ~~procession, and when they rested for the night at an inn on the road, guarded them in death as she had done in the close of life, by sleeping on a sofa in the same room. cruel, cruel separation! what a scene for the revival of 'grief à la mode!' "but she is unhappy with all her wealth," said the cynic. "careless as some portion of our nobility are in their choice of companions for their sports or pleasures, they have yet too much consideration left of what is due to their rank, their wives, and daughters, not to hesitate before they receive----. but never mind," said crony; "you know the rest. you must have heard of a recent calamity which threatened the lady; and on which that mad wag, john bull, let fly some cutting jokes. a very sagacious police magistrate, accompanied by one of his _indefatigables_, went to _inspect the premises_, accompanied by a gentleman of the faculty; but, after all their united efforts to unravel the mystery, it turned out a mere _scratch_, a very flat affair. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~"i think," said crony, "we have now arrived at the ultimatum of the widow's history, and may as well take a turn or two up the steyne, to look out for other character. the ancient female you perceive yonder, leaning on her tall gold-headed cane, is miss j----s, a maid of honour to the late queen charlotte, and the particular friend of mrs. f----l: said to be the only one left out of eight persons, who accompanied two celebrated personages, many years since, in a stolen matrimonial speculation to calais. she is as highly respected as her friend mrs. f----l is beloved here." "who the deuce is that strange looking character yonder, enveloped in a boat-cloak, and muffled up to the eyes with a black handkerchief?" "that is a very important personage in a watering place, i assure you," replied crony; "being no other than the celebrated peter paragraph, the london correspondent to the morning post, who involves, to use his own phrase, the whole hemisphere of fashion in his mystifications and reports: informs the readers of that paper how many rays of sunshine have exhilarated the brightonians during the week, furnishes a correct journal of fogs, rains, storms, shipwrecks, and hazy mists; and, above all, announces the arrivals and departures, mixing up royal and noble fashionables and _kitchen stuff'_ in the same beautiful obscurity of diction. peter was formerly a _friseur_; but has long since quitted the shaving and cutting profession for the more profitable calling of collector of _on dits_ and _puffs extraordinaire_. the swaggering broad-shouldered blade who follows near him, with a frontispiece like the red lion, is the well-known radical, jack s----h, now agent to the french consul for this place, and the unsuccessful candidate for the _independent_ borough of shoreham." "a complete eccentric, by all my hopes of pleasure! crony, who are those two dashing divinities, who come tripping along so lively yonder?" "daughters of ~ ~~pleasure," replied the cynic; "a pair of justly celebrated paphians, west-end comets, who have come here, no doubt, with the double view of profit and amusement. the plump looking dame on the right, is aug--ta c--ri, (otherwise lady h----e); so called after the p--n--ss a----a, her godmamma. her father, old ab--t, one of q----n c----te's _original_ german pages, brought up a large family in respectability, under the fostering protection of his royal mistress. aug----ta, at the early age of fifteen, eloped from st. james's, on a matrimonial speculation with a young musician, mr. an----y c----, (himself a boy of )! from such a union what could be expected? a mother at , and a neglected dishonoured wife, before she had counted many years of womanhood. if she fell an unresisting victim to the seduction which her youth, beauty, and musical talents attracted, '_her stars were more to blame than she._' let it be recorded, however, that her conduct as wife and mother was free from reproach, until a _depraved, unnatural_ man (who by the way has since fled the country) set her the example of licentiousness. "amongst her earliest admirers, was the wealthy citizen, mr. s---- m----, a bon vivant, a _five-bottle_ man (who has, not unaptly, been since nominated a representative in p----l for one of the _cinque ports_). to this witty man's generous care she is indebted for an annuity, which, with common prudence, ought to secure her from want during her own life. on her departure from this lover, which proceeded entirely from her own caprice and restless extravagance, the vain aug--ta launched at once into all the dangerous pleasures of a cyprian life. the court, the city, and the _'change_, paid homage to her charms. one high in the r----l h----h----id wore her chains for many months; and it was probably more in the spirit of revenge for open neglect, than admiration of such a ~ ~~faded beau, that lady g---- b---- admitted the e---- of b----e to usurp the husband's place and privilege. it is extraordinary that the circumstance just mentioned, which was notorious, was not brought forward in mitigation of the damages for the loss of conjugal joys; and which a jury of citizens, with a tender feeling for their own honour, valued at ten thousand pounds. my lord g---- b---- pocketed the injury and the ten thousand,; and his noble substitute has since made the 'amende honorable' to public morals, by uniting his destinies with an amiable woman, the daughter of a doctor of music, and a beauty of the sister country, who does honour to the rank to which she has been so unexpectedly elevated. "mrs. c----i had no acquaintance of her own sex in the world of gaiety but one; the beautiful, interesting, mademoiselle st. m--g--te, then ( and ) in the zenith of her charms. the gentle ad--l--de, whose sylph-like form, graceful movements, and highly polished manner, delighted all who knew her, formed a strange and striking contrast to the short, fat, bustling, salacious aug--ta, whose boisterous bon-mots, and horse-laughical bursts, astonished rather than charmed. both, however, found abundance of admirers to their several tastes. it was early in the spring of that the subject of this article had the good or evil fortune to attract the eye of a noble lord of some notoriety, who pounced on his plump prey with more of the amorous assurance of the bird of jove than the cautious hoverings of the wary h--ke. love like his admitted of no delay. preliminaries were soon arranged, under the auspices of that experienced matron, madame d'e--v--e, whose address, in this delicate negotiation, extorted from his lordship's generosity, besides a cheque on h----d and g--bbs for a cool hundred, the payment of 'brother martin's' old score, of long standing, for bed and board at madame's house of business, little st. martin's-~ ~~street. the public have been amused with the ridiculous story of the mock marriage; but whatever were his faults or follies, and he is since called to his account, his l--ds--p stands guiltless of this. 'tis true, her 'ladyship' asserted, nay, we believe, swore as much; but she is known to possess such boundless imaginative faculties, that her nearest and dearest friends have never yet been able to detect her in the weakness of uttering a palpable truth. the assumption of the name and title arose out of a circumstance so strange, so ridiculous, and so unsavoury, that, with all our 'gusto' for fun, we must omit it: suffice it to say, that it originated in--what?--gentle reader--in a dose of physic!!! for further particulars, apply to mrs. c----l, of the c--s--le s--t--h--ll. after this strange event, which imparted to her ladyship all the honours of the coronet, mrs. c----i was to be seen in the park, from day to day; the envy of every less fortunate dolly, and the horror of the few friends which folly left her lordly dupe. in this state of doubtful felicity her ladyship rolled on (for she almost lived in her carriage) for three years; when, alas! by some cruel caprice of love, or some detected intrigue, or from the holy scruples of his lordship's reverend adviser, padre ambrosio, this connexion was suddenly dissolved at paris; when mrs. c----, no longer acknowledged as my lady, was at an hour's notice packed off in the dilly for dover, and her jewels, in half the time, packed up in their casket and despatched to lafitte's, in order to raise the ways and means for the peer and his ghostly confessor! "her ladyship's next attempt at notoriety was her grand masked ball at the argyll rooms in ; an entertainment which, for elegant display and superior arrangement, did great credit to her taste, or to that of her broad-shouldered milesian friend, to whom it is said the management of the whole was committed. the expense of this act of folly has been variously ~ ~~estimated; and the honour of defraying it gratuitously allotted to an illustrious commander, whose former weakness and culpability has been amply redeemed by years of truly r----l benevolence and public service. we can state, however, that neither the purse or person of the royal d----contributed to the _éclat_ of the _fête_. an amorous hebrew city clerk, who had long '_looked and loved_' at humble distance, taking advantage of his uncle's absence on the continent in a _diamond hunting_ speculation, having left the immediate jewel of his soul, his cash, at home, the enamoured youth seized the very 'nick o' time,' furnished half the funds for the night, for half a morning's conversation in upper y--street: her ladyship's indefatigable industry furnished the other moiety in a couple of days. a mr. z--ch--y contributed fifty, which coming to the ears of his sandy-haired lassie, his own paid forfeit of his folly, to their almost total abstraction from the thick head to which they project with asinine pride. since this splash in the whirlpool of fashionable folly, her 'ladyship,' for she clings to the rank with all the tenacity of a fencible field officer, has lived in comparative retirement near e--dg--e r--d, nursing a bantling of the new era, and singing '_john anderson my joe_' to her now 'gude man;' only occasionally relapsing into former gaieties by a sly trip to box hill or virginia water with the grandson of a barber, a flush but gawky boy, who, forgetting that it is to the talents and judicial virtues of his honoured sire he owes his elevation, rejects that proud and wholesome example; and, by his arrogance and vanity, excites pity for the father and contempt for the son. her ladyship, who by her own confession has been 'just nine and twenty' for the last ten years, may still boast of her conquests. her amour with the _yellow dwarf_ of g--vs--r p--e is too good to be lost. they are followed by one, who, time was, would have chased them round the steyne ~ ~~and into cover with all the spirit of a true sportsman; but his days of revelry are past,--that is the celebrated _roué_, c---- l----, a '_trifle light as air,_' yet in nature's spite a very ultra in the pursuit of gallantry. to record the number of frail fair ones to whose charms he owned ephemeral homage would fill a volume. the wantons wife whose vices sunk her from the drawing-room to the lobby; the{ } kitchen wench, whose pretty face and lewd ambition raised her to it; the romance bewildered{ } miss, and the rude unlettered { } villager, the hardened drunken profligate, and the timid half-ruined victim (the almost infant jenny!) have all in turn tasted his bounty and his wine, have each been honoured with a page in his trifles: of his caresses he wisely was more chary. which of the frail sisterhood has not had a ride in g---- l----'s worn out in the service and which in its day might be said to roll mechanically from c----l----to c----s-s--t, with almost instinctive precision. but his days of poesy and nights of folly are now past! honest c----has taken the hint from nature, and retired, at once, from the republics of venus and of letters. a kind, a generous, and a susceptible heart like his must long ere this have found, in the arms of an amiable wife, those unfading and honourable joys which, reflection must convince him, were not to be extracted from those foul and polluted sources from whence he sought and drew a short-lived pleasure." you know crony's affection for a good dinner, and will not therefore be surprised that i had the honour of his company this day; but i'faith he deserved his reward for the cheerfulness and amusement with which he contrived to kill time. lady b----e. mrs. h----y. louisa v----e. mrs. s--d--s. mrs. s--mm--ns. ~ ~~in the evening it was proposed to visit the libraries; but as these places of public resort are not always eligible for the appearance of a star, crony and myself were despatched first to reconnoitre and report to the countess our opinions of the assembled group. the association of society has perhaps undergone a greater change in england within the last thirty years than any other of our peculiar characteristics; at least, i should guess so from crony's descriptions of the persons who formerly honoured the libraries with their presence; but whose names (if they now condescend to subscribe) are entered in a separate book, that they may not be defiled by appearing in the same column with the plebeian host of the three nations who form the united family of great britain. "ay, sir," said crony, with a sigh that bespoke the bitterness of reflection, "i remember when this spot (luccombe's library) was the resort of all the beauty and brilliancy that once illumined the hemisphere of calton palace,--the satellites of the heir apparent, the brave, the witty, and the gay,--the soul-inspiring, mirthful band, whose talents gave a splendid lustre to the orb of royalty, far surpassing the most costly jewel in his princely coronet. but they are gone, struck to the earth by the desolating hand of the avenger death, and have left no traces of their genius upon the minds of their successors." of the motley assemblage which now surrounds us it would be difficult to attempt a picture. the pencil of a cruikshank or a rowlandson might indeed convey some idea; but all weaker hands would find the subject overpowering. a mob of manufacturers, melting hot, elbowing one another into ill-humour, by their anxiety to teach their offspring the fashionable vice of gaming; giving the pretty innocents a taste for _loo_, which generally ends in _loo_-sening what little purity of principle the prejudice of education has left upon their intellect. in our more fashionable _hells_, wine and choice _liqueurs_ are the stimulants ~ ~~to vice; here, the seduction consists in the strumming of an ill-toned piano, to the squeaking of some poor discordant whom poverty compels to public exposure; and who, generally being of the softer sex, pity protects from the severity of critical remark. i need not say our report to the dalmaines was unfavourable; and the divine little countess, frustrated in her intentions of honouring the libraries with her presence, determined upon promenading up the west cliff, attended by old crony and myself. the bright-eyed goddess of the night emitted a ray of more than usual brilliancy, and o'er the blue waters of the deep spread forth a silvery and refulgent lustre, that lent a charm of magical inspiration to the rippling waves. for what of nature's mighty works can more delight, than '----circling ocean, when the swell by zephyrs borne from off the main, heaves to the breeze, and sinks again?' the deep murmuring of the hollow surge as it rolls over the pebble beach, the fresh current of saline air that braces and invigorates, and the uninterrupted view of the watery expanse, are attractions of delight and contemplation which are nowhere to be enjoyed in greater perfection than at brighton. the serenity of the evening induced us to pass the barrier of the chain-pier, and bend our steps towards the projecting extremity of that ingenious structure. an old welsh harper was touching his instrument with more than usual skill for an itinerant professor, while the plaintive notes of the air he tuned accorded with the solemnity of the surrounding scene. "i could pass an evening here," said the countess, in a somewhat contemplative mood, "in the society of kindred spirits, with more delightful gratification than among the giddy throng who meet at almack's." crony bowed to the ground, overpowered by the ~ ~~compliment; while your humble servant, less obsequious, but equally conscious of the flattering honour, advanced my left foot sideways, drew up my right longitudinally, and touched my beaver with a _congée_, that convinced me i had not forgotten the early instructions of our old eton posture-master, the all-accomplished signor angelo. "a __wery hextonishing vurk, this here pier," said a fat, little squab of a citizen, sideling up to crony like a full-grown porpoise; "_wery hexpensive_, and _wery huseless, i thinks_" continued the intruder. crony reared his crest in silent indignation, while his visage betokened an approaching storm; but a significant look from the countess gave him the hint that some amusement might be derived from the _animal_; who, without understanding the contempt he excited, proceeded--"_vun_ of the new _bubble_ companies' _specks, i supposes, vat old daddy boreas vill blow avay sum night in a hurrikin_. it puts me _wery_ much in mind of a two bottle man." "why so?" said crony. "bekause it's only half seas _hover_." this little civic _jeu d'esprit_ made his peace with us by producing a hearty laugh, in which he did not fail to join in unison. "but are you aware of the usefulness and national importance of the projector's plans? said crony. "not i," responded the citizen: "i hates all projections of breweries, bridges, buildings, and boring companies, from the golden-lane speck to the vaterloo; from thence up to the new street, and down to the tunnel under the thames, vich my banker, sir william curtis, says, is the greatest bore in london." "but humanity, sir," said crony, "has, i hope, some influence with you; and this undertaking is intended not only for the healthful pleasure of the brighton visitors, but for the convenience of vessels in distress, and the landing of passengers in bad weather." "ay, there it is,--that's hexactly vat i thought; to help our rich people more easily out of ~ ~~the country, and bring a set of poor half-starved foreigners in: vy, i'm told it's to be carried right across the channel in time, and then the few good ones ve have left vill be marching off to the enemy." this conceit amused the countess exceedingly, and was followed by many other equally strange expressions and conjectures; among which, crony contrived to persuade him that great amusement was to be derived in bobbing for mackerel and turbot with the line: a pleasure combining so much of profit in expectancy that the old citizen was, at last, induced to admit the utility of the chain-pier. retracing our steps towards the steyne, we had one more good laugh at our companion's credulity, who expressed great anxiety to know what the huge wheel was intended for, which is at the corner by the barrier, and throws up water for the use of the town; but which, crony very promptly assured him, was the grand action of the improved roasting apparatus at the york hotel. we now bade farewell to our amusing companion, and proceeded to view the new plunging bath at the bottom of east-street, built in the form of an amphitheatre, and surrounded by dressing-rooms, with a fountain in the centre, from which a continued supply of salt-water is obtained. the advantages may be great in bad weather; but to my mind there is nothing like the open sea, particularly as confined water is always additionally cold. on our arrival at home, a parcel from london brought the enclosed from tom echo, upon whom the sentence of rustication has, i fear, been productive of fresh follies. [illustration: page ] dear heartily, having cut college for a _bolt_ to the _village_,{ } i expected to have found you in the _bay of condolence_,{ } but hear you left your _moorings_ lately london, so called at oxford. the consolation afforded by friends when _plucked_ or rusticated. ~ ~~to _waste the ready_ among the _sharks_ at brighton. though not quite at _point nonplus_, i am very near the _united kingdoms_ of _sans souci and sans sixsous_,{ } and shall bring to, and wait for company, in the province of bacchus. i have only just quitted _Æager haven_, and been very near the _wall_{ }; have sustained another dreadful fire from _convocation castle,_{ } which had nigh shattered my _fore-lights_, and was very near being _blown up_ in attempting to pass the _long hope_.{ } if you wish to save an old etonian from _east jeopardy_,{ } set sail directly, and tow me out of the _river tick_ into the _region of rejoicing_; then will we get _bosky_ together, sing old songs, tell merry tales, and _spree_ and _sport_ on the _states of independency_. yours truly, the _oxford rustic_, london. tom echo. p. s. i should not have cut so suddenly, but joined bob transit and eglantine in giving two of the old big wigs a flying leap t'other evening, as they left christ church hall, in return for rusticating me:--to escape suspicion, broke away by the mail. i know your affection for a good joke, so induced bob to book it, and let me have the sketch, which i here enclose. riddance of cares, and, ultimately, of sixpences. the depot of invalids; dr. wall being a celebrated surgeon, whose skill is proverbial in the cure of the headington or bagley fever. for a view of poor tom during his suffering--_(see plate by bob transit.)_ the house of convocation in oxford, when the twenty-five heads of colleges and the masters meet to transact and investigate university affairs. the symbol of long expectation in studying for a degree. terrors of anticipation. the remaining phrases have all been explained in an earlier part of the work. ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] mad as the d'almaine's must think me for obeying such a summons, i have just bade them adieu, and am off to-morrow, by the earliest coach, for london. the only place i have omitted to notice, in my sketches of brighton, is the club house on the steyne parade, where a few _old rooks_ congregate, to keep a sharp look-out for an unsuspecting _green one_, or a wealthy _pigeon_, who, if once _netted_, seldom succeeds in quitting the trap without being plucked of a few of his feathers. the greatest improvement to a place barren of foliage and the agreeable retirement of overshadowed walks, is the royal gardens, on the level at the extremity of the town, in a line with the steyne enclosures as you enter from the london road. the taste, variety, and accommodation displayed in this elegant place of amusement, renders it certainly the most attractive of public gardens, while the arrangements are calculated to gratify all ~ ~~classes of society without the danger of too crowded an assemblage. let us see you when term ends; and in the interim expect a long account of sprees and sports in the village. horatio heartly. [illustration: page ] metropolitan sketches. _heartly, echo, and transit start for a spree--scenes by daylight, starlight, and gaslight--black mon-day at tattersall's--the first meeting after the great st. leger-- heroes of the turf paying and receiving--dinner at fishmongers' hall--com-mittee of greeks--the affair of the cogged dice--a regular break-down--rules for the new club-- the daffy club, or a musical muster of the fancy: striking portraits--counting the stars--covent garden, what it was, and what it is--the finish--anecdotes of characters--the hall of infamy, alias the covent garden hell._ of all the scenes where rich and varied character is to be found in the metropolis and its environs, none can exceed that emporium for sharps and flats, famed tattersall's, whether for buying a good horse, betting a round sum, or, in the sporting phrase, learning how to make the best of every thing. "shall we take a _tooddle_ up to hyde-park corner?" said echo; "this is the settling day for all bets made upon the great doncaster st. léger, when the _swells book up_, and the knowing ones _draw_ their _bussel_:--_black_ monday, as sir john lade terms it, when the event has not come off right." "a noble opportunity," replied transit, "for a picture of turf curiosities. come, heartly, throw philosophy aside, and let us set forth for a day's enjoyment, and then to finish with a night of frolic. an occasional spree is as necessary to the relaxation of the mind, as exercise is to ~ ~~ensure health. the true secret to make life pleasant, and study profitable, is to be able to throw off our cares as we do our morning gowns, and, when we sally forth to the world, derive fresh spirit, vigour, and information from cheerful companions, good air, and new objects. high 'change among the heroes of the turf presents ample food for the humorist; while the strange contrast of character and countenance affords the man of, feeling and discernment subject for amusement and future contemplation." it was in the midst of one of the most numerous meetings ever remembered at tattersall's, when barefoot won the race, contrary to the general expectation of the knowing ones, that we made our _entré_. with echo every sporting character was better known than his college tutor, and not a few kept an eye upon the boy, with hopes, no doubt, of hereafter benefiting by his inexperience, when, having got the whip-hand of his juvenile restrictions, he starts forth to the world a man of fashion and consequence, with an unencumbered property of fifteen thousand per annum, besides expectancies. "here's a game of chess for you, transit," said echo; "why, every move upon the board is a character, and not one but what is worth booking. observe the arch slyness of the jockey yonder, ear-wigging his patron, a young blood of the fancy, into a _good thing_; particularising all the capabilities and qualities of the different horses named, and making the event (in his own estimation) as _sure as the bank of england_:--how finely contrasted with the easy indifference of the dignified sportsman near him, who leaves all to chance, spite of the significant nods and winks from a regular _artiste_ near him, who never suffers him to make a bet out of the ring, if it is possible to prevent him, by throwing in a little suspicion, in order that he and his friends may have the plucking of their victim exclusively. the portly-looking man in the left-hand corner _(see ~ ~~plate)_ is mr. tanfield, one of the greatest betting men on the turf; who can lose and pay twenty thousand without moving a muscle, and pocket the like sum without indulging in a smile; always steady as old time, and never giving away a chance, but carefully keeping his eye upon cocker (i. e. his book), to see how the odds stand, and working away by that system which is well understood under the term management. in front of him is the sporting earl of sefton, and that highly-esteemed son of nimrod, colonel hilton joliffe,--men of the strictest probity, and hence often appointed referees on matters in dispute. [illustration: page ] lawyer l----, and little wise-man, are settling their differences with _bluff_ bland, who carries all his bets in his memory till he reaches home, because a book upon the spot would be useless. in the right-hand corner, just in front of old general b----n, is john gully, once the pugilist, but now a man of considerable property, which has been principally acquired by his knowledge of calculation, and strict attention to honourable conduct: there are few men on the turf more respected, and very few among those who keep _betting_ books whose conduct will command the same approbation. the old beau in the corner is sir lumley s----n, who, without the means to bet much, still loves to linger near the scene of former extravagance." "a good disciple of lavater," said transit, "might tell the good or ill fortunes of those around him, by a slight observance of their countenances. see that merry-looking, ruby-faced fellow just leaving the door of the subscription-room: can any body doubt that he has _come off all right_?--or who would dispute that yon pallid-cheeked gentleman, with a long face and quivering lip, betrays, by the agitation of his nerves, the extent of his sufferings? the peer with a solemn visage tears out his last check, turns upon his heel, whistles a tune, and sets against the gross amount of his losses another mortgage of ~ ~~the family acres, or a _post obit_ upon some expectancy: the regular sporting man, the out and outer, turns to his book-- 'for there he finds, _no matter who has won_,{ } whichever animal, or mare, or colt; nay, though each horse that started for't should bolt, or all at once fall lame, or die, or stray, he yet must pocket hundreds by the day.'" two or three amusing scenes took place among those who wanted, and those who had nothing to give, but yet were too honourable to _levant_: many exhibited outward and visible signs of inward grief. a man of metal dropped his last sovereign with a sigh, but chafed a little about false reports of chaunting up a losing horse, doing the _thing neatly_, keeping the secret, and other such like delicate innuendoes, which among sporting men pass current, provided the losers pay promptly. several, who had gone beyond their depth, were recommended to the consideration of the humane, in hopes that time might yet bring them about. we had now passed more than two hours among the motley group, when tom, having exchanged the time o'day with most of his sporting friends, proposed an adjournment to _fishmongers' hall_, or, as he prefaced it, with a visit to the new club in st. james's-street; to which resort of greeks and gudgeons we immediately proceeded. [illustration: page ] we had just turned the corner of st. james's-street, and were preparing to ascend the steps which lead to the new club, as crockford's establishment is termed, when old crony accosted me. to all but betting men, this must appear impossible; but management is every thing; and with a knowledge of the secret, according to turf logic, it is one hundred to one against calculation, and, by turf mathematics, five hundred to one against any event coming right upon the square. in the sporting phrase, 'turf men never back any thing to win;' they have no favourites, unless there is a x; and their common practice is to accommodate all, by taking the odds, till betting is reduced to a _certainty_. ~ ~~he had it seems come off by the brighton ten o'clock coach, and was now, "according to his usual custom i' the afternoon," on the look-out for an _invite_ to a good dinner and a bottle. as i knew he would prove an agreeable, if not a very useful companion in our present enterprise, i did not hesitate to present him to echo and transit, who, upon my very flattering introduction, received him graciously; although bob hinted he was rather _too old_ for a _play-fellow_, and echo whispered me to keep a _sharp lookout_, as he strongly suspected he was a _staff officer_ of the _new greek corps of sappers and miners_. in london you can neither rob nor be robbed genteelly without a formal introduction: how echo had contrived it i know not, but we were very politely ushered into the grand club-room, a splendid apartment of considerable extent, with a bow-window in front, exactly facing white's. to speak correctly of the elegance and taste displayed in the decorations and furniture, not omitting the costly sideboard of richly-chased plate, i can only say it rivalled any thing i had ever before witnessed, and was calculated to impress the young mind with the most extravagant ideas of the wealth and magnificence of the members or _committee_. the honourable mr. b----, one of the brothers of the earl of r----, was the _procureur_ to whom, i found, we were indebted, for the present _honour_--a gay man, of some fashionable notoriety, whose fortune is said to have suffered severely by his attachment to the _orthodox orgies_ at the once celebrated gothic hall, when parson john ambrose used to officiate as the presiding minister. "here he is a member of the committee," said crony, "and, with his brother and the old lord f----, the marquis h----, colonel c----, and the earl of g----, forms the _secret directory_ of the new club, which is considered almost as good a thing as a mexican mine; for, if report speaks truly, the amount ~ ~~of the profits in the last season exceeded one hundred thousand pounds, after payment of expenses." a sudden crash in the street at this moment drew the attention of all to the window, where an accident presented a very ominous warning to those within _(see plate)_. "a regular break down," said echo. "_floored_" said transit, "_but not much the matter_." "i beg your pardon, sir," said a wry-mouthed portly-looking gentleman, who stood next to bob; "it is a very _awkward_ circumstance to have occurred just here: i'll bet ten to one it spoils all the _play_ to-night; and if any of those newspaper fellows get to hear of it, _fishmongers' hall_ and its members will figure in print again to-morrow;" and with that he bustled off to the street to assist in re-producing a _move_ with all possible celerity. "who the deuce was the queer-looking _cawker_?" we all at once inquired of crony. "what, gentlemen! not know the director-general, the accomplished commander-in-chief, the thrice-renowned cocker crockford? (so named from his admirable tact at calculation): why, i thought every one who had witnessed a horse-race, or a boxing-match, or betted a guinea at tattersall's, must have known the _director_, who has been a notorious character among the sporting circles for the last thirty years: and, if truth be told, is not the worst of a bad lot. about five-and-twenty years since i remember him," said crony, "keeping a snug little fishmonger's shop, at the corner of essex-street, in the strand, where i have often betted a guinea with him on a trotting match, for he was then fond of _the thing_, and attended the races and fights in company with old jerry cloves, the lighterman, who is now as well _breeched_ as himself. it is a very extraordinary fact," continued crony, "and one which certainly excites suspicion, that almost all those who have made large fortunes by the turf or play are men of obscure origin, who, but a few years since, were not worth a guinea, ~ ~~while those by whom they have risen are now reduced to beggary." how many representatives of noble houses, and splendid patrimonies, handed down with increasing care from generation, to generation, have been ruined and dissipated by this pernicious vice! --the gay and inexperienced nipped in the very bud of life, and plunged into irretrievable misery--while the high-spirited and the noble-minded victims to false honour, too often seek a refuge from despair in the grave of the suicide! such were the reflections that oppressed my mind while contemplating the scene before me: i was, however, roused from my reverie by crony's continuation of the _director's_ history. "he bears the character of an honourable man," said our mentor, "among the play world, and has the credit of being scrupulously particular in all matters of play and pay. for the fashion of his manners, they might be much improved, certainly; but for generosity and a kind action, there are very few among the _greeks_ who excel the old fishmonger. he was formerly associated with t--l-r and others in the french hazard bank, at watier's club house, corner of bolton-row; but t--l-r, having purchased the house without the knowledge of his partners, wanted so many exclusive advantages for himself, that the director withdrew, just in time to save himself from the obloquy of an affair which occurred shortly afterwards, in which certain persons were charged with using false dice. the complainant, a young sprig of fashion, seized the _unhallowed bones_, and bore them off in triumph to a stick shop in the neighbourhood; where, for some time afterwards, they were exhibited to the gaze of many a fashionable dupe. the circumstance produced more than one good effect--it prevented a return of any disposition to play on the part of the detector, and closed the house for ever since." after the dinner, which was served up in a princely style, we were invited by the honourable to ~ ~~view the upper apartment, called the grand saloon, a true picture of which accompanies this, from the pencil of my friend, bob transit, and into which he has contrived to introduce the affair of the cogged dice _(see plate)_, a licence always allowable to poets and painters in the union of time and place. the characters here will speak for themselves. [illustration: page ] they are all sketches from the life, and as like the originals as the reflection of their persons would be in a looking-glass. by the frequenters of such places they will be immediately recognised; while to the uninitiated the family cognomen is of little consequence, and is omitted, as it might give pain to worthy bosoms who are not yet irrecoverably lost. by the strict rules of _fishmongers' hall_, the members of brookes', white's, boodle's, the cocoa tree, alfred and travellers' clubs only are admissible; but this restriction is not always enforced, particularly where there is a chance of a _good bite_. the principal game played here is french hazard, the director and friends supplying the bank, the premium for which, with what the box-money produces, forms no inconsiderable source of profit. it is ridiculous to suppose any unfair practices are ever resorted to in the general game; in a mixed company they would be easily detected, and must end in the ruin of the house: but the chances of the game, calculation, and superior play, give proficients every advantage, and should teach the inexperienced caution. "it is heart-rending," said crony, whom i had smuggled into one corner of the room, for the purpose of enjoying his remarks free from observation, "to observe the progress of the unfortunate votaries to this destructive vice, as they gradually proceed through the various stages of its seductive influence. the young and thoughtless are delighted with the fascination of the scene: to the more profligate sensualist it affords an opportunity of enjoying the choicest _liqueurs_, coffee, and wines, ~ ~~free of expense; and, although he may have no money to lose himself, he can do the house a _good turn_, by introducing some _pigeon_ who has _just come out_; and he is therefore always a welcome visitor. at crockford's, all games where the aid of mechanism would be necessary are cautiously avoided, not from any moral dislike to _rouge et noir or roulette_, but from the apprehension of an occasional visit from the police, and the danger attending the discovery of such apparatus, which, from its bulk, cannot easily be concealed. in the space of an hour echo had lost all the money he possessed, and had given his i o u for a very considerable sum; although frequently urged to desist by transit, who, with all his love of life and frolic, is yet a decided enemy to gaming. one excess generally leads to another. from tattersall's we had passed to crockford's; and on quitting the latter it was proposed we should visit tom belcher's, the castle tavern, holborn, particularly as on this night there was a weekly musical muster of the _fancy_, yclept the _daffy club_; a scene rich in promise for the pencil of our friend bob, of sporting information to echo, and full of characteristic subject for the observation of the english spy--of that eccentric being, of whom, i hope, i may continue to sing '_esto perpétua_!' life is, with him, a golden dream, a milky way, where all's serene. wit's treasured stores his humour wait,-- his volume, man in every state,-- from grave to gay, from rich to poor, from gilded dome to rustic door. through all degrees life's varied page, he shows the manners of the age. the daffy club presents to the eye of a calm observer a fund of entertainment; to the merry mad-wag who is fond of _life_, blowing his _steamer_, and drinking _blue ruin_, until all is blue before him, a ~ ~~source of infinite amusement; the convivial finds his antidote to the rubs and jeers of this world in a rum chaunt; while the out and outer may here open his mag-azine of tooth-powder, cause a grand explosion, and never fear to meet a broadside in return. the knowing cove finds his account in looking out for the green ones, and the greens find their head sometimes a little heavier, and their pockets lighter, by an accidental rencontre with the fancy. to see the place in perfection, a stranger should choose the night previous to some important mill, when our host of the castle plays second, and all the lads are mustered to _stump up_ their blunt, or to catch the important _whisper_ where the _scene of action_ is likely to be (for there is always due caution used in the disclosure), to take a peep at the pugilists present, and trot off as well satisfied as if he had partaken of a splendid banquet with the great mogul. the long room is neatly fitted up, and lighted with gas; and the numerous sporting subjects, elegantly framed and glazed, have rather an imposing effect upon the entrance of the visitor, and among which may be recognised animated likenesses of the late renowned jem belcher, and his daring competitor (that inordinate glutton) burke. the fine whole-length portrait of mr. jackson stands between those of the champion and tom belcher; the father of the present race of boxers, old joe ward; the jew phenomenon, dutch sam; bob gregson, in water colours, by the late john emery, of covent garden theatre; the scientific contest between humphreys and mendoza; also the battle between crib and jem belcher; a finely executed portrait of the late tremendous molineux; portraits of gulley, randall, harmer, turner, painter, tom owen, and scroggins, with a variety of other subjects connected with the turf, chase, &c, including a good likeness of the dog trusty, the champion of the canine race in fifty battles, and the favourite ~ ~~animal of jem belcher, the gift of lord camelford--the whole forming a characteristic trait of the sporting world. the long table, or the ring, as it is facetiously termed, is where the _old slanders_ generally perch themselves to receive the visits of the swells, and give each other the office relative to passing events: and what set of men are better able to speak of society in all its various ramifications, from the cabinet-counsellor to the _cosey costermonger_? jemmy soares, the president, must be considered a _downy one_; having served five apprenticeships to the office of sheriffs representative, and is as good a fellow in his way as ever _tapped a shy one_ upon the shoulder-joint, or let fly a _ca sa_ at your goods and chattels. lucky bob is a fellow of another stamp, "a _nation good vice_" as ever was attached to the house of _brunswick_. then comes our host, a civil, well-behaved man, without any of the exterior appearance of the ruffian, or perhaps i should say of his profession, and with all the good-natured qualifications for a peaceable citizen, and an obliging, merry landlord: next to him you will perceive the _immortal typo_, the all-accomplished pierce egan; an eccentric in his way, both in manner and person, but not deficient in that peculiar species of wit which fits him for the high office of historian of the ring. the ironical praise of blackwood he has the good sense to turn to a right account, laughs at their satire, and pretends to believe it is all meant in _right-down earnest_ approbation of his extraordinary merits. for a long while after his great instructor's neglect of his friends, pierce kept undisturbed possession of the throne; but recently competitors have shown themselves in the field _well found_ in all particulars, and carrying such witty and weighty ammunition wherewithal, that they more than threaten "to push the hero from his stool."{ } tom the editors of the annals of sporting, and bell's life in london, are both fellows of infinite wit. ~ ~~spring, who is fond of _cocking_ as well as fighting, is seen with his bag in the right-hand corner, chaffing with the duck-lane doss man; while lawyer l----e, a true sportsman, whether for the turf or chase, is betting the odds with brother adey, greek against greek. behind them are seen the heroes scroggins and turner; and at the opposite end of the table, a wake-ful one, but a grosser man than either, and something of the _levanter_: the bald-headed stag on his right goes by the quaint cognomen of the _japan oracle_, from the retentive memory he possesses on all sporting and pugilistic events. the old waiter is a picture every frequenter will recognise, and the smoking a dozer no unusual bit of a spree. here, my dear bernard, you have before you a true portrait of the celebrated daffy{ } club, done from the life by our the great lexicographer of the fancy gives the following definition of the word daffy. the phrase was coined at the mint of the fancy, and has since passed current without ever being overhauled as queer. the colossus of literature, after all his nous and acute researches to explain the synonyms of the english language, does not appear to have been down to the interpretation of daffy; nor indeed does bailey or sheridan seem at all fly to it; and even slang grose has no touch of its extensive signification. the squeamish fair one who takes it on the sly, merely to cure the vapours, politely names it to her friends as white wine. the swell chaffs it as blue ruin, to elevate his notions. the laundress loves dearly a drain of ould tom, from its strength to comfort her inside. the drag fiddler can toss off a quartern of max without making a wry mug. the costermonger illumines his ideas with a flash of lightning.' the hoarse cyprian owes her existence to copious draughts of jacky. the link-boy and mud larks, in joining their browns together, are for some stark naked. and the out and outers, from the addition of bitters to it, in order to sharpen up a dissipated and damaged victualling office, cannot take any thing but fuller's earth. much it should seem, therefore, depends upon a name; and as a soft sound is at all times pleasing to the listener--to have denominated this sporting society the gin club would not only have proved barbarous to the ear, but the vulgarity of the chant might have deprived it of many of its elegant friends. it is a subject, however, which it must be admitted has a good deal of taste belonging to it--and as a sporting man would be nothing if he was not flash, the daffy club meet under the above title. ~ ~~mutual friend, bob transit (see plate), in closing my account of which i have only to say, we were not disappointed in our search after variety, and came away high in spirits, and perfectly satisfied with the good-humour and social intercourse of our eccentric associates. [illustration: ] the sad, the sober, and the sentimental were all gone to roost, before our merry trio sallied forth from the castle tavern, ripe for any sport or spree. of all the bucks in this buckish age, your london buck is the only true fellow of spirit; with him life never begins too early, or finishes too late; how many of the west-end _roués_ ride twenty miles out, in a cold morning, to meet the hounds, and after a hard day's run mount their hack and ride twenty miles home to have the pleasure of enjoying their own fire-side, or of relating the hair-breadth perils and escapes they have encountered, to their less active associates at long's or stevens's, the cider cellar, or the coal-hole! the general introduction of gas throws too clear a light upon many dark transactions and midnight frolics to allow the repetition of the scenes of former times: here and there to be sure an odd nook, or a dark cranny, is yet left unenlightened; but the leading streets of the metropolis are, for the most part, too well illuminated to allow the _spreeish_ or the _sprightly_ to carry on their jokes in security, or bolt away with safety when a charley thinks proper to set his _child a crying_.{ } we had crossed the road, in the direction of chancery-lane, expecting to have met with a hackney _rattler_, but not one was to be found upon the stand, when bob espied the broad _tilt_ of a _jarvey perched_ upon his _shop-board_, and impelling along, with no little labour of the whip, a pair of _anatomies_, whose external appearance showed they springing his rattle. ~ ~~had benefited very little by the opening of the ports for oats, or the digestive operation of the new corn-bill. "hired, old jarvey?" said echo, fixing himself in the road before the fiery charioteer. "no, but tired, young davey," replied the dragsman. "take a fare to covent garden?" "not if i knows it," was the knowing reply; "so stir your stumps, my tight one, or i shall drive over you." "you had better take us," said transit. "i tell you i won't; i am a day man, going home, and i don't take night jobs." "but i tell you, you must," said echo; "so round with your drag, and we'll make your last day a long day, and give you the benefit of resurrection into the bargain." "why, look ye, my jolly masters, if you're up to a lark of that 'ere sort, take care you don't get a floorer; i've got a rum customer inside what i'm giving a lift to for love--only josh hudson, the miller; and if he should chance to wake, i think he'll be for dusting some of your jackets." "what, my friend josh inside?" vociferated echo, "then it's all right: go it, my hearties; mount the box one on each hand, and make him drive us to the finish--while i settle the matter with the inside passenger." josh, who had all this time been taking _forty winks_, while on his road to his crony belcher's, soon recognised his patron, echo; and jarvey, finding that all remonstrance was useless, thought it better to make a "virtue of necessity;" so turning his machine to the right about, he, in due time, deposited us in the purlieus of covent garden. the hoarse note of the drowsy night-guard reverberated through the long aisle of the now-forsaken piazzas, as the trembling flame of the parish lamp, flittering in its half-exhausted jet, proclaimed the approach of day; the heavy rumbling of the gardeners' carts, laden with vegetables for the ensuing market, alone disturbed the quiet of the adjoining streets. in a dark angle might be seen the houseless wanderer, or the abandoned profligate, ~ ~~gathered up like a lump of rags in a corner, and shivering with the nipping air. the gloom which surrounded us had, for a moment, chilled the wild exuberance of my companions' mirth; and it is more than probable we should have suspended our visit to the _finish_, at least for that night, had not the jocund note of some uproarious bacchanalian assailed our ears with the well-known college chant of old walter de mapes, "_mihi est propositum in tabernâ mori_," which being given in g major, was re-echoed from one end to the other of the arched piazza: at a little distance we perceived the jovial singer reeling forwards, or rather working his way, from right to left, in sinuosities, along, or according to nautical phrase, upon __tack and half tack, bearing up to windward, in habiliments black as a crow, with the exception of his neckcloth and under vest; but judge our surprise and delight, when, upon nearer approach, we discovered the _bon vivant_ to be no other than our old friend crony, who had been sacrificing to the jolly god with those choice spirits the members of the beefsteak club,{ } who meet in a room built expressly this club, which may boast among its members some of the most distinguished names of the age, including royalty itself, owed its origin to the talents of those celebrated artists richards and loutherbourg, whose scenic performances were in those days often exhibited to a select number of the nobility and gentry, patrons of the drama and the arts, in the painting-room of the theatre, previous to their being displayed to the public. it was on one of those occasions that some noblemen surprised the artist cooking his beef- steak for luncheon in his painting-room, and kindly partaking of the _déjeuné à la fourchette_, with him, suggested and established the beef-steak club, which was originally, and up to the time of the fire, held in an apart-ment over the old theatre royal, covent garden; but since that period the members have been accommodated by mr. arnold, who built the present room expressly for their use. in page of this work, allusion will be found by name to some of the brilliant wits who graced this festive board, and gave a lustre to the feast. in the old place of meeting the identical gridiron on which richards and loutherbourg operated was to be seen attached to the ceiling, emblematical of the origin of the society, which may now be considered as the only relic left of that social intercourse which formerly existed in so many shapes between those who were distinguished for their noble birth and wealth, and the poorer, but equally illustrious, of the children of genius. it would be an act of injustice to the present race of scenic artists to close this note without acknowledging their more than equal merits to their predecessors: the grieves (father and sons), phillips, marinari, wilson, tomkins, and stanfield, are all names of high talent; but the novelty of their art has, from its general cultivation, lost much of this peculiar attraction. ~ ~~for them over the audience part of the english opera house. the ruby glow of the old boy's countenance shone like an omen of the merry humour of his mind. "what, out for a spree, boys, or just bailed from the watch-house, which is it? the alpha or omega, for they generally follow one another?" "then you are in time for the _equivoque_, crony," said echo; "so enlist him, transit;" and without more ceremony, crony was marched off, __vi et armis, to the _finish_, a coffee-house in james-street, covent garden, where the _peep-o'-day boys_ and _family men_ meet to conclude the night's debauch _(see plate)_; "_video meliora proboque, détériora sequoi_;" you will exclaim, and 'tis granted; but "_lusus animo debent aliquando dari, ad cogitandum melior ut red eat sibi_," says phodrus, and be the poet's apology mine, for i am neither afraid or ashamed to confess myself an admirer of life in all its variegated lights and shadows, deriving my amusement from the great source of knowledge, the study of that eccentric volume--man. the new police act has, in some measure, abated the extent of these nuisances, the low coffee-shops of the metropolis, which were, for the greater part, little better than a rendezvous for thieves of every description, depots both for the ~ ~~plunder and the plunderer; where, if an unthinking or profligate victim once entered, he seldom came out without experiencing treatment which operated like a severe lesson, that would leave its moral upon his mind as long as he continued an inhabitant of the terrestrial world. [illustration: page ] the attempt to describe the party around us baffled even the descriptive powers of old crony; some few, indeed, were known to the man of the world as reputed sharpers,--fellows who are always to be found lingering about houses of such resort, to catch the inexperienced; when, having sacrificed their victim either by gambling, cheating, or swindling, they divide the profits with the keeper of the house, without whose assistance they could not hope to arrive at the necessary information, or be enabled to continue their frauds with impunity; but, thus protected, they have a ready witness at hand to speak to their character, without the suspicion of his being a confederate in their villany. here might be seen the woman of pleasure, lost to every sense of her sex's shame, consuming the remaining portion of the night by a wasteful expenditure of her ill-acquired gains upon some abandoned profligate, bearing, indeed, the outward form of man, but presenting a most degrading spectacle--a wretch so lost to all sense of honour and manhood as meanly to subsist on the wages of prostitution. one or two characters i must not omit: observe the fair cyprian with the ermine tippet, seated on the right of a well-known _billiard sharp_, who made his escape from dublin for having dived a little too deep into the pockets of his brother emeralders; here he passes for a swell, and has abandoned his former profession for the more honest union of callings, a pimp and playman, in other words, a finished _greek_. the lady was the _chère amie_ of the unfortunate youth hayward (designated as the modern macheath), who suffered an ignominious death. he was betrayed and sold to the ~ ~~officers by this very woman, upon whom he had lavished the earnings of his infamy, when endeavouring to secrete himself from the searching eye of justice. the unhappy female on the other side was early in life seduced by the once celebrated lord b----, by whose title, to his lasting infamy, she is still known: what she might have been, but for his arts, reflection too often compels her to acknowledge, when sober and sinking under her load of misery; at other times she has recourse to liquor to drown her complicated misfortunes; when wild and infuriated, she more nearly resembles a demon than a woman, spreading forth terror and destruction upon all around; in this state she is often brought to the police-office, where the humanity of the magistrates, softened perhaps by a recollection of her wrongs, generally operates to procure for her some very trifling and lenient sentence.{ } the life of a woman of the town. ah! what avails how once appear'd the fair, when from gay equipage she falls obscure? in vain she moves her livid lips in prayer; what man so mean to recollect the poor? from place to place, by unfee'd bailiffs drove, as fainting fawns from thirsty bloodhounds fly; see the sad remnants of unhallow'd love in prisons perish, or on dunghills die. pimps and dependents once her beauties praised, and on those beauties, vermin-like, they fed; from wretchedness the crew her bounty raised, when by her spoils enrich'd--deny her bread. through street to street she wends, as want betides, like shore's sad wife, in winter's dismal hours; the bleak winds piercing her unnourish'd sides, her houseless head dripping with drizzy showers. sickly she strolls amidst the miry lane, while streaming spouts dash on her unclothed neck; by famine pinch'd, pinch'd by disease-bred pain, contrition's portrait, and rash beauty's wreck. ~ ~~we had now passed from the first receptacle to an inner and more elegant apartment, where we could be accommodated with suitable refreshments, wine, spirits, or, in fact, any thing we pleased to order and were disposed to pay for; a practice at most of these early coffee-houses, as they are denominated. the company in this room were, as far as appearances went, of rather a better order; but an event soon occurred which convinced us that their morality was perhaps more exceptionable than the motley group which filled the outer chamber. a bevy of damsels were singing, flirting, and drinking, to amuse their companions,--when all at once the doors were forced open, and in rushed three of the principal officers of bow-street, the indefatigable bishop, the determined smith, and the resolute ruthven (see plate), all armed and prepared for some dreadful encounter: in an instant their followers had possessed themselves of the doors--flight, therefore, was in vain; and bob transit, in attempting it, narrowly escaped an awkward crack on the crania from old jack townshend, who being past active service, was posted at the entrance with the beak himself, to do garrison duty. [illustration: page ] "_the traps! the traps!_" vociferated some one in the adjoining room; "_douse the glims! stash it--stash it!_" was the general exclamation in ours: but before the party could effect their purpose, the principals were in safe custody: and the reader (i.e. pocket-book) containing all the stolen property, preserved from the flames by the wary eye and prompt arm of the _indefatigable_ bishop. before any one was allowed to depart the room, a general muster and search took place, in which poor bob transit felt most awkward, as some voluptuous sketches found in his pocket called forth she dies; sad outcast! heart-broke by remorse; pale, stretch'd against th' inhospitable doors; while gathering gossips taunt the flesh less corse, and thank their gods _that they were never w--res!_ ~ ~~the severe animadversion of his worship, the beak, who lamented that such fine talent should be thus immorally applied: with this brief lecture, and a caution for the future, we were allowed to escape; while almost all the rest, male and female, were marched off to an adjoining watch-house, to abide the public examination and fiat of the morrow. of all the party, old crony was the most sensibly affected by the late rencontre; twenty bottles of soda-water could not have produced a more important change. his conversation and appearance had, in an instant, recovered their wonted steadiness; and before we were half across the market, crony was moralizing upon the dangers of the scene from which we had so recently and fortunately escaped. but hearts young and buoyant as ours, when lighted up by the fire of enterprise, and provoked to action by potent charges of the grape, were not to be dashed by one repulse, or compelled to beat a retreat at the first brush with a reconnoitring party; we had sallied forth in pursuit of a spree, and frolic we were determined upon, "while misty night, with silent pace, steals gradual o'er the wanton chase." there is something very romantic in prowling the streets of the metropolis at midnight, in quest of adventure; at least, so my companions insisted, and i had embarked too deeply in the night's debauch to moralize upon its consequences. how many a sober-looking face demure when morning dawns would blush to meet the accusing spirit of the night, dressed out in all the fantasies of whim and eccentricity with which the rosy god of midnight revelry clothes his laughter-loving bacchanals-- "while sleep attendant at her drowsy fane, parent of ease, envelopes all your train!" the lamentations of old crony brought to mind the ~ ~~complaints of honest jack falstaff against his associates. "there is no truth in villanous man!" said our monitor. "i remember when a gentleman might have reeled round the environs of covent garden, in and out of every establishment, from the bedford to mother butlers, without having his pleasures broken in upon by the irruptions of bow-street mohawks, or his person endangered by any association he chose to mix with; but we are returning to the times of the _roundheads_ and the _puritans; cant,_ vile hypocritical _cant_, has bitten the ear of authority, and the great officers of the state are infected with the jesuitical mania. 'man is a ship that sails with adverse winds, and has no haven till he land at death. then, when he thinks his hands fast grasp the bank, conies a rude billow betwixt him and safety, and beats him back into the deep again.'" "i subscribe to none of their fooleries," said i; "for i am of the true orthodox--love my king, my girl, my friend, and my bottle: a truce with all their raven croakings; they would overload mortality, and press our shoulders with too great a weight of dismal miseries. but come, my boys, we who have free souls, let us to the banquet, while yet sol's fiery charioteer lies sleeping at his eastern palace in the lap of thetis--let us chant carols of mirth to old jove or bully mars; and, like chaste votaries, perform our orgies at the shrine of venus, ere yet aurora tears aside the curtain that conceals our revels." in this way we rallied our cameleon-selves, until we again found shelter from the dews of night in carpenter's coffee-house; a small, but well-conducted place, standing at the east end of the market, which opens between two and three o'clock in the morning, for the accommodation of those who are hourly arriving with waggon loads of vegetable commodities. here, over a bottle of mulled port, crony gave us the history of ~ ~~what covent garden used to be, when the eminent, the eccentric, and the notorious in every walk of life, were to be found nightly indulging their festivities within its famous precincts. "covent garden," said crony, once so celebrated for its clubs of wits and convents of fine women, is grown as dull as _modern athens_, and its ladies of pleasure almost as vulgar as scotch landladies; formerly, the first beauties of the time assembled every evening under the piazzas, and promenaded for hours to the soft notes of the dulcet lute, and the silver tongues of amorous and persuasive beaus; then the gay scene partook of the splendour of a venetian carnival, and such beauties as the kitten, peggy yates, sally hall the brunette, betsy careless, and the lively mrs. stewart, graced the merry throng, with a hundred more, equally famed, whose names are enrolled in the cabinet of love's votaries. then there was a celebrated house in charles-street, called the _field of blood_, where the droll fellows of the time used nightly to resort, and throw down whole regiments of _black_ artillery; and then at tom or moll king's, a coffee-house so called, which stood in the centre of covent garden market, at midnight might be found the bucks, bloods, demireps, and choice spirits of london, associated with the most elegant and fascinating cyprians, congregated with every species of human kind that intemperance, idleness, necessity, or curiosity could assemble together. there you might see tom king enter as rough as a bridewell whipper, roaring down the long room and rousing all the sleepers, thrusting them and all who had empty glasses out of his house, setting everything to rights,--when in would roll three or four jolly fellows, claret-cosey, and in three minutes put it all into uproar again; playing all sorts of mad pranks, until the guests in the long room were at battle-royal together; for in those days pugilistic encounters were equally common as with the present ~ ~~times, owing to the celebrity of broughton and his amphitheatre, where the science of boxing was publicly taught. then was the spiller's head in clare-market, in great vogue for the nightly assemblage of the wits; there might be seen hogarth, and betterton the actor, and dr. garth, and charles churchill, the first of english satirists, and the arch politician, wilkes, and the gay duke of wharton, and witty morley, the author of joe miller, and walker, the celebrated macheath, and the well-known bab selby, the oyster-woman, and fig, the boxer, and old corins, the clerical attorney.--all "hail, fellow, well met."{ } and a friend of mine has in his possession a most extraordinary picture of hogarth's, on this subject, which has never yet been engraved from. it is called st. james's day, or the first day of oysters, and represents the interior of the spiller's head in clare-market, as it then appeared. the principal figures are the gay and dissolute duke of wharton, for whom the well-known bab selby, the oyster-wench, is opening oysters; spiller is standing at her back, patting her shoulder; the figure sitting smoking by the side of the duke is a portrait of morley, the author of joe miller; and the man standing behind is a portrait of the well-known attendant on the duke's drunken frolics, fig, the brother of fig, the boxer: the person drinking at the bar is corins, called the parson-attorney, from his habit of dressing in clerical attire; the two persons sitting at the table represent portraits of the celebrated dr. garth, and betterton, the actor; the figures, also, of walker, the celebrated macheath, and lavinia fenton, the highly-reputed polly, afterwards duchess of bolton, may be recognised in the back-ground. the circumstances of this picture having escaped the notice of the biographer of hogarth is by no means singular. mr. halls, one of the magistrates at bow-street, has, among other choice specimens by hogarth, the lost picture of the harlot's progress; the subject telling her fortune by the tea-grounds in her cup, admirably characteristic of the artist and his story. in my own collection i have the original picture of the fish-women of calais, with a view of the market-place, painted on the spot, and as little known as the others to which i have alluded. there are, no doubt, many other equally clever performances of hogarth's prolific pencil which are not generally known to the public, or have not yet been engraved. ~ ~~in the same neighbourhood, in russel-court, at the old cheshire cheese, the inimitable but dissolute tom brown wrote many of his cleverest essays. then too commenced the midnight revelries and notoriety of the cider cellar, in maiden-lane, when sim sloper, bob washington, jemmy tas well, totty wright, and harry hatzell, led the way for a whole regiment more of frolic-making beings who, like falstaff, were not only, witty themselves, but the cause of keeping it alive in others: to these succeeded porson the grecian, captain thompson, tom hewerdine, sir john moore, mr. edwin, mr. woodfall, mr. brownlow, captain morris, and a host of other highly-gifted men, the first lyrical and political writers of the day,--who frequented the cider cellar after the meetings of the _anacreontic, beefsteak_, and _humbug_ clubs then held in the neighbourhood, to taste the parting bowl and swear eternal friendship. in later times, her majesty the queen of bohemia{ } raised her standard in tavistock-row, covent garden, where she held a midnight court for the wits; superintended by the renowned daughter of hibernia, and maid of honour to her majesty, the facetious mother butler--the ever-constant supporter of richard brinsley sheridan, esquire, and a leading feature in all the memorable westminster elections of the last fifty years. how many jovial nights have i passed and jolly fellows have i met in the snug _sanctum sanctorum!_ a little _crib_, as the _fishmongers_ would call it, with an entrance through the bar, and into which none were ever permitted to enter without a formal introduction and the gracious permission of the hostess. among those who were thus specially privileged, and had the honour of the _entré_, were the reporters for the morning papers, the leading members of the _eccentrics_, the actors and musicians of the two theatres royal, merry members of both houses of the sign of the house. ~ ~~parliament, and mad wags of every country who had any established claim to the kindred feelings of genius. such were the frequenters of the finish. here, poor tom sheridan, with a comic gravity that set discretion at defiance, would let fly some of his brilliant drolleries at the _improvisatore_, theodore hook; who, lacking nothing of his opponent's wit, would quickly return his tire with the sharp encounter of a satiric epigram or a brace of puns, planted with the most happy effect upon the weak side of his adversary's merriment. there too might be seen the wayward and the talented george cook, gentlemanly in conduct, and full of anecdote when sober, but ever captious and uproarious in his cups. then might be heard a strange encounter of expressions between the queen of covent garden and the voluptuary, lord barrymore,{ } seconded by his brother, the pious augustus. in one corner might be seen poor dermody, the poet, shivering with wretchedness, and mother butler pleading his cause with a generous feeling that does honour to her heart, collecting for him a temporary supply which, alas! his imprudence generally dissipated with the morrow. here, george sutton manners,{ } and peter finnerty,{ } and james brownly,{ } inspired by frequent potations of the real designated cripplegate and newgate. the relative of the present archbishop of canterbury, and then editor of the satirist magazine. peter finnerty was a reporter on the chronicle. the his- tory of finnerty's political persecutions in his own country (ireland), and afterwards in this, are interwoven with our history. the firmness and honesty of his mind had endeared him to a very large circle of patriot friends. he was eloquent, but impetuous, his ideas appearing to flow too fast for delivery. with all the natural warmth of his country, he had a heart of sterling gold. finnerty died in , very shortly after his friend perry. james brownly, formerly a reporter on the times; of whom sheridan said, hearing him speak, that his situation ought to have been in the body of the house of commons, instead of the gallery. brownly possessed very rare natural talents, was originally an upholsterer in catherine- street, strand, and by dint of application acquired a very correct knowledge of the tine arts: he was particularly skilled in architecture and heraldry. in addition to his extraordinary powers as an orator, he was a most elegant critic, and a very amiable man. he died in , much regretted by all who knew him. ~ ~~rocrea whiskey, would hold forth in powerful contention, until mine hostess of the _finish_{ } would put an end to the debate; and the irritation it would sometimes engender, by disencumbering herself of a few of her milesian monosyllables. then would bounce into the room, felix m'carthy, the very cream of comicalities, and the warm-hearted james hay ne, and frank phippen, and michael nugent, and the eloquent david power, and memory middleton, and father proby, just to sip an emulsion after the close of their labours in reporting a long debate in the house of commons. here, too, i remember to have seen for the first time in my life, the wayward byron, with the light of genius beaming in his noble countenance, and an eye brilliant and expressive as the evening star; the rich juice of the tuscan grape had diffused an unusual glow over his features, and inspired him with a playful animation, that but rarely illumined the misanthropic gloominess of his too sensitive mind. an histrionic star alike distinguished for talent and eccentricity accompanied him--the gallant, gay lothario, kean. but i should consume the remnant of the night to retrace more of the fading recollections of the _finish_. that it was a scene where prudence did not always preside, is true; but there was a rich union of talent and character always to be found within its circle, that mother butler, the queen of covent-garden, for many years kept the celebrated finish, where, if shut out of your lodging, you might take shelter till morning, very often in the very best of company. the house has, since she left it, been shut up through the suspension of its licence. mother butler was a witty, generous-hearted, and very extraordinary woman. she is, i believe, still living, and in good circumstances. ~ ~~prevented any very violent outrage upon propriety or decorum. in the present day, there is nothing like it--the phoenix,{ } offley's,{ } the coal-hole,{ } and what yet remains of the dismembered eccentrics,{ } bears no comparison to the ripe drolleries and a society established at the wrekin tavern in broad- court, in imitation of the celebrated club at brazennose college, oxford, and of whom i purpose to take some notice hereafter. the burton ale rooms; frequented by baby bucks, black- legs and half-pay officers. a tavern in fountain-court, strand, kept by the poet rhodes; celebrated for the saturday ordinary. in the room, where of old the eccentrics {*} met; when mortals were brilliants, and fond of a whet, and _hecate_ environ'd all london in jet. where adolphus, and shorri',{**} and famed charley fox, with a hundred good whigs led by alderman cox, put their names in the books, and their cash in the box; where perpetual whittle,{***} facetiously grand, on the president's throne each night took his stand, with his three-curly wig, and his hammer in hand: then brownly, with eloquence florid and clear, pour'd a torrent of metaphor into the ear, with well-rounded periods, and satire severe. here too peter finnerty, erin's own child, impetuous, frolicsome, witty, and wild, with many a tale has our reason beguiled: then wit was triumphant, and night after night was the morn usher'd in with a flood of delight. * the eccentrics, a club principally composed of persons connected with the press or the drama, originally established at the swan, in chandos-street, covent-garden, under the name of the brilliants, and afterwards removed to the sutherland arms, in may's-buildings, st. martin's-lane; --here, for many years, it continued the resort of some of the first wits of the time; the chair was seldom taken till the theatres were over, and rarely vacated till between four and five in the morning. ** sheridan, charles fox, adolphus, and many of the most eminent men now at the bar, were members or occasional frequenters. *** james whittle, esq., of fleet-street, (or, as he was more generally denominated, the facetious jemmy whittle, of the respectable firm of laurie and whittle, booksellers and publishers) was for some years perpetual president of the society, and by his quaint manners, and good-humoured sociality, added much to the felicity of the scene--he is but recently dead. ~ ~~pleasant witticisms which sparkled forth in endless variety among the choice spirits who frequented the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the _old finish_. "there is yet, however, one more place worthy of notice," said crony; "not for any amusement we shall derive from its frequenters, but, simply, that it is the most notorious place in london." thither it was agreed we should adjourn; for crony's description of _madame and messieurs_ the _conducteurs_ was quite sufficient to produce excitement in the young and ardent minds by which he was then surrounded. i shall not pollute this work by a repetition of the circumstances connected with this place, as detailed by old crony, lest humanity should start back with horror and disgust at the bare mention, and charity endeavour to throw discredit on the true, but black recital. the specious pretence of selling shell-fish and oysters is a mere trap for the inexperienced, as every description of expensive wines, liqueurs, coffee, and costly suppers are in more general request, and the wanton extravagance exhibited within its vortex is enough to strike the uninitiated and the moralist with the most appalling sentiments of horror and dismay. yet within this _saloon (see plate)_ did we enter, at four o'clock in the morning, to view the depravity of human nature, and watch the operation of licentiousness upon the young and thoughtless. [illustration: page ] a newgate turnkey would, no doubt, recognize many old acquaintances; in the special hope of which, bob transit has faithfully delineated some of the most conspicuous characters, as they appeared on that occasion, lending their hearty assistance in the general scene of maddening uproar. it was past five o'clock in the morning ere we quitted this den of dreadful depravity, heartily tired out by the night's adventures, yet solacing ourselves with the reflection that we had seen much and suffered little either in respect to our purses or our persons. visit to westminster hall. _worthies thereof--legal sketches of the long robe--the maiden brief--an awkward recognition--visit to banco regis-- surrey collegians giving a lift to a limb of the late, "thus far shalt thou go and no farther"--park rangers--visit to the life academy--r--a--ys of genius reflecting on the true line of beauty--arrival of bernard black-mantle in london--reads his play and farce in the green rooms of the two theatres royal, drury lane and covent garden--sketches of theatrical character--the city ball at the mansion house-- the squeeze--civic characters--return to alma mater--the wind-up--term ends_. ~ ~~a note from dick gradus invited echo and myself to hear his opening speech in westminster hall. "i have received my _maiden brief_" writes the young counsel, "and shall be happy if you will be present at my first attempt, when, like a true _amicus curio_, the presence of an old school-fellow will inspire confidence, and point out what may strike him as defective in my style." "we will all go," said transit; "echo will be amused by the oratory of the bar, and i shall employ my pencil to advantage in taking notes, not of _short hand_, but of _long heads_, and still _longer faces_." the confusion created by the building of the new courts at westminster has literally choked up, for a time, that noble specimen of gothic architecture--the ancient hall; the king's bench sittings are therefore temporarily held in the sessions house, a small, but ~ ~~rather compact octangular building, on the right of parliament-street. hither we hasted, at nine o'clock in the morning, to take a view of the court, judges, and counsel, and congratulate our friend gradus on his _entrée_. it has been said, that the only profession in this country where talents can insure success, is the law. if by this is meant talents of a popular kind, the power of giving effect to comprehensive views of justice and the bonds of society, a command of language, and a faculty of bringing to bear upon one point all the resources of intellect and knowledge, they are mistaken; they speak from former experience, and not from present observation: they are thinking of the days of a mingay or an erskine, not of those of a marryat or a scarlett; of the time when juries were wrought upon by the united influence of zeal and talent, not when they are governed by _precedents and practice_; when men were allowed to feel a little, as well as think a great deal; when the now common phrase of possessing the _ear of the court_ was not understood, and the tactician and the bully were unknown to the bar. it is asserted, that one-fifth of the causes that come before our courts are decided upon mere matters of form, without the slightest reference to their merits. every student for the bar must now place himself under some special pleader, and go through all the complicated drudgery of the office of one of these underlings, before he can hope to fill a higher walk; general principles, and enlarged notions of law and justice, are smothered in laborious and absurd technicalities; the enervated mind becomes shackled, until the natural vigour of the intellect is so reduced, as to make its bondage cease to seem burdensome. dick, with a confidence in his own powers, has avoided this degrading preparation; it is only two months since he was first called to the bar, and with a knowledge of his father's influence and property added to his own talents, he hopes to make a ~ ~~stand in court, previous to his being transplanted to the commons house of parliament. a tolerable correct estimate may be formed of the popularity of the judges, by observing the varied bearings of respect evinced towards them upon their entrance into court. mr. justice best came first, bending nearly double under a painful infirmity, and was received by a cold and ceremonious rising of the bar. to him succeeded his brother holroyd, a learned but not a very brilliant lawyer, and another partial acknowledgment of the counsel was observable. then entered the chief justice, sir charles abbot, with more of dignity in his carriage than either of the preceding, and a countenance finely expressive of serenity and comprehensive faculties: his welcome was of a more general, and, i may add, genial nature; for his judicial virtues have much endeared him to the profession and the public. but the universal acknowledgment of the bar, the jury, and the reporters for the public press, who generally occupy the students' box, was reserved for mr. justice bayley; upon whose entrance, all in court appeared to rise with one accord to pay a tribute of respect to this very distinguished, just, and learned man. all this might have been accidental, you will say; but it was in such strict accordance with my own feelings and popular opinion besides, that, however invidious it may appear, i cannot resist the placing it upon record. to return to the chief justice: he is considered a man of strong and piercing intellect, penetrating at once to the bottom of a cause, when others, even the counsel, are very often only upon the surface; his intuition in this respect is proverbial, and hence much of the valuable time of the court is saved upon preliminary or immaterial points. added to which, he is an excellent lawyer, shrewd, clear, and forcible in his delivery, very firm in his judgments, and mild in his ~ ~~language; with a patient command of temper, and continued appearance of good-humour, that adds much to his dignity, and increases public veneration. that he has been the architect of his own elevation is much to be applauded; and it is equally honourable to the state to acknowledge, that he is more indebted to his great talents and his legal knowledge for his present situation than to any personal influence of great interest{ }: of him it may be justly said, he hath "a piercing wit quite void of ostentation; high-erected thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy; an eloquence as sweet in the uttering, as slow to come to the uttering." _sir p. sidney's arcadia_. it was dick gradus's good-luck to be opposed to scarlett in a case of libel, where the latter was for the defendant. "of all men else at the bar, i know of no one whom i so much wish to encounter," said gradus. his irritable temper, negligence in reading his briefs, and consummate ignorance{ } in any thing beyond term-reports, renders him an easy conquest to a quiet, learned, and comprehensive mind. the two former are qualifications gradus possesses in a very superior degree, and he proved he was in no wise deficient in his opponent's great requisite; i suppose we must call it confidence; but another phrase would be more significant. scarlett is a great tactician; and in defending his client, never hesitates to take we hear that an allusion in page of this work has been supposed to relate to a near relative of the respected chief justice: if it bears any similitude, it is the effect of accident alone; the portrait being drawn for another and a very different person, as the reference to altitude might have shown. see the castigation he received in the courier of friday. dec. , , for his total ignorance of the common terms of art. "----that trick of courts to wear silk at the cost of flattery." _james shirley's poems_. ~ ~~what i should consider the most unfair, as they are ungentlemanly advantages. but there "be they that use men's writings like brute beasts, to make them draw which way they list." _t. nash's lenten stuff_, . his great success and immense practice at the bar is more owing to the scarcity of silk-gowns{ } than the profundity of his talents. the perpetual simper that plays upon his ruby countenance, when finessing with a jury, has, no doubt, its artful effect; although it is as foreign to the true feelings of the man, as the malicious grin of the malignant satirist would be to generosity and true genius. of his oratory, the _aureum flumen orationis_ is certainly not his; and, if he begins a sentence well, he seldom arrives at the conclusion on the same level: he is always most happy in a reply, when he can trick his adversary by making an abusive speech, and calling no witnesses to prove his assertions. our friend gradus obtained a verdict, and after it the congratulations of the court and bar, with whom scarlett is, from his superciliousness, no great favourite. owen feltham, in his resolves, well says, that "arrogance is a weed that ever grows upon a dunghill."{ } the contrast between scarlett and his great opponent, mr. serjeant copley, generally speaking, the management of two-thirds of the business of the court is entrusted to _four silk-gowns_, and about twice as many _worsted_ robes behind the bar. an impromptu written in the court of king's bench during a recent trial for libel. the learned pig. "my learned friend," the showman cries; the pig assents--the showman lies; so counsel oft address a brother in flattering lie to one another; calling their friend some legal varlet, who lies, and bullies, till he's scarlett. ~ ~~the present attorney-general, is a strong proof of the truth of this quotation. to a systematic and profound knowledge of the law, this gentleman unites a mind richly stored with all the advantages of a liberal education and extensive reading, not merely confined to the dry pursuit in which he is engaged, but branching forth into the most luxuriant and highly-cultivated fields of science and the arts. on this account, he shines with peculiar brightness at _nisi prius_; and is as much above the former in the powers of his mind and splendour of his oratory, as he is superior to the presumptuousness of scarlett's vulgarity. mr. marryat is said to possess an excellent knowledge of the heavy business of his profession; and it must be admitted, that his full, round, heavy-looking countenance, and still heavier attempts at wit and humour, admirably suit the man to his peculiar manner: after all, he is a most persevering counsel; not deficient in good sense, and always distinguished by great zeal for his client's interests. mr. gurney is a steady, pains-taking advocate, considered by the profession as a tolerable criminal lawyer, but never affecting any very learned arguments in affairs of principles or precedents. in addressing a jury, he is both perspicuous and convincing; but far too candid and gentlemanly in his practice to contend with the trickery of scarlett.--mr. common-serjeant denman is a man fitted by nature for the law. i never saw a more judicial-looking countenance in my life; there is a sedate gravity about it, both "stern and mild," firm without fierceness, and severe without austerity:--he appears thoughtful, penetrating, and serene, yet not by any means devoid of feeling and expression:--deeply read in the learning of his profession, he is yet much better than a mere lawyer; for his speeches and manners must convince his hearers that he is an accomplished gentleman. of brougham, it may be justly said,~ ~~ ----" his delights are dolphin-like; they show his back above the elements he lives in:" his voice, manner, and personal appearance, are not the happiest; but the gigantic powers of his mind, and the energy of his unconquerable spirit, rise superior to these defects. his style of speaking is marked by a nervous freedom of the most convincing character; he aims little at refinement, and labours more to make himself intelligible than elegant. in zeal for his clients, no man is more indefatigable; and he always appears to dart forward with an undaunted resolution to overcome and accomplish. but here i must stop sketching characters, and refer you to a very able representation of the court, the bar, and jury, by our friend transit, in which are accurate likenesses of all i have previously named, and also of the following worthies, messrs. raine, pollock, ashworth, courtney, starkie, williams, parke, rotch, piatt, patterson, raper, browne, lawrence, and whately, to which are added some whom-- "god forbid me if i slander them with the title of learned, for generally they are not."--nash's lenten stuff, . [illustration: page ] we were just clearing the steps of the court house, when a jolly-looking, knowing sort of fellow, begged permission to speak to echo. a crimson flush o'erspread tom's countenance in a moment. transit, who was down, as he phrased it, tipped me a wink; and although i had never before seen either of the professional brothers-in-law, john doe and richard roe, the smart jockey-boots, short stick, sturdy appearance, and taking manners of the worthy, convinced me at once, that our new acquaintance was one or other of those well-known personages: to be brief, poor tom was arrested for a large sum by a bond-street hotel-keeper, who had trusted him somewhat too long. ~ ~~arrangement by bail was impossible: this was a proceeding on a judgment; and with as little ceremony, and as much _sang froid_ as he would have entered a theatre, poor tom was placed inside a hackney coach, accompanied by the aforesaid personage and his man, and drove off in apparent good spirits for the king's bench prison, where transit and myself promised to attend him on the morrow, employing the mean time in attempting to free him from durance vile. it was about twelve at noon of the next day, when transit and myself, accompanied by tom's creditor and his solicitor, traversed over waterloo bridge, and bent our steps towards the abode of our incarcerated friend. "the winds of march, with many a sudden gust, about saint george's fields had raised the dust; and stirr'd the massive bars that stand beneath the spikes, that wags call _justice abbot's teeth_." the first glimpse of the obelisk convinced us we had entered the confines of _abbot's park_, as the rules are generally termed, for here bob recognised two or three among the sauntering rangers, whose habiliments bore evidence of their once fashionable notoriety; "and still they seem'd, though shorn of many a ray, not less than some arch dandy in decay." "a very pretty _bit of true life_," said bob; and out came the sketch book to note them down, which, as we loitered forward, was effected in his usual rapid manner, portraying one or two well-known characters; but for their cognomens, misfortune claims exemption:--to them we say, "thou seest thou neither art mark'd out or named, and therefore only to thyself art shamed." _j. withers's abuses strict and whipt_. ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] to be brief, we found echo, by the aid of the crier, safely tiled in at ten in twelve, happy to all appearance, and perfectly domiciled, with two other equally fresh associates. the creditor and his solicitor chose to wait the issue of our proposition in the lobby; a precaution, as i afterwards found, to be essentially necessary to their own safety; for, "he whom just laws imprison still is free beyond the proudest slaves of tyranny." although i must confess the exhibition we had of _freedom in banco regis_ was rather a rough specimen; a poor little limb of the law, who had formerly been a leg himself, had, like other great lawyers, ratted, and commenced a furious warfare upon some old cronies, for divers penalties and perjuries, arising out of greek prosecutions: too eager to draw the blunt, he had been inveigled into the interior of the prison, and there, after undergoing a most delightful pumping upon, ~ ~~was _rough-dried_ by being tossed in a blanket (see plate). [illustration: page ] this entertainment we had the honour of witnessing from echo's room window; and unless the marshal and his officers had interfered, i know not what might have been the result. a very few words sufficed to convince tom of the necessity of yielding to his creditor's wishes. a letter of licence was immediately produced and signed, and the gay-hearted echo left once more at liberty to wing his flight wherever his fancy might direct. on our road home, it was no trifling amusement to hear him relate "the customs of the place, the manners of its mingled populace, the lavish waste, the riot, and excess, neighbour'd by famine, and the worst distress; the decent few, that keep their own respect, and the contagion of the place reject; the many, who, when once the lobby's pass'd, away for ever all decorum cast, and think the walls too solid and too high, to let the world behold their infamy." ever on the alert for novelty, we hopped into and dined at the coal hole tavern in the strand, certainly one of the best and cheapest ordinaries in london, and the society not of the meanest. rhodes himself is a punster and a poet, sings a good song, and sells the best of wine; and what renders mine host more estimable, is the superior manners of the man. here was congregated together a mixed, but truly merry company, composed of actors, authors, reporters, clerks in public departments, and half-pay officers, full of whim, wit, and eccentricity, which, when the mantling bowl had circulated, did often "set the table in a roar." in the evening, transit proposed to us a visit to the life academy, somerset house, where he was an admitted student; but on trying the experiment, was not able to effect our introduction: you must therefore be content with ~ ~~his sketch of the _true sublime_, in which he has contrived to introduce the portraits of several well-known academicians _(see plate)_. [illustration: page ] thus far horatio heartly had written, when the unexpected appearance of bernard blackmantle in london cut short the thread of his narrative. "where now, mad-cap?" said the sincere friend of his heart: "what unaccountable circumstance can have brought you to the village in term and out of vacation?" "a very uncommon affair, indeed, for a young author, i assure you: i have had the good fortune to receive a notice from the managers of the two theatres royal, that my play is accepted at covent garden, and my farce at drury lane, and am come up post-haste to read them in the green rooms to-morrow, and take the town by storm before the end of the next month." "it is a dangerous experiment," said horatio. "i know it," replied the fearless bernard; "but he who fears danger will never march on to fortune or to victory. i am sure i have a sincere friend in charles kemble, if managerial influence can ensure the success of my play; and i have cast my farce so strong, that even with all elliston's mismanagement, it cannot well fail of making a hit. _nil desperandum_ is my motto; so a truce with your friendly forebodings of doubts, and fears, and critics' _scratches_; for i am determined 'to seek the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth.'" thus ended the colloquy, and on the morning of the morrow bernard was introduced, in due form, to the _dramatis personæ_ of the theatre royal, covent garden (see plate). [illustration: page ] there is as much difference between the rival companies of the two patent theatres as there is between the habits and conduct of the managers: in covent garden, the gentlemanly manners of charles kemble, and his amiable desire to make all happy around him, has imparted something of a kindred feeling to the ~ ~~performers; and hence, assisted by the friendly ancient fawcett, the whole of the establishment has all the united family feeling of a little commonwealth, struggling to secure its independence and popularity. here bernard's reception was every thing a young author could wish: kind attention from the company, and considerative hints for the improvement of his play, accompanied with the good wishes of all for its success, left an impression of gratitude upon the mind of the young author, that gave fresh inspiration to his talents, and increased his confidence in his own abilities. at drury lane the case was far otherwise; and the want of that friendly attention which distinguished the rival company proved very embarrassing to the early buddings of dramatic genius. perhaps a slight sketch of the scene might not prove uninstructive to young authors, or fail in its intended effect upon old actors. reader, imagine bernard blackmantle, an enthusiastic and eccentric child of genius, seated at the green-room table, reading his musical farce to the surrounding company, and then judge what must be the effect of the following little scene. programme. bernard blackmantle reading; mr. elliston speaking to spring, the box-office keeper; and mr. winston in a passion, at the door, with the master carpenter; mr. knight favouring the author with a few new ideas; and the whole company engaged in the most amusing way, making side speeches to one another (see plate). dowton. 'gad, renounce me--little valorous--d----d annoying, (_looking at his watch_)--these long rehearsals always spoil my vauxhall dinner--more hints to the author--better keep them for his next piece. ~ ~~munden (sputtering). my wigs and eyes--dowton's a better part than mine; i'll have a fit of the gout, on purpose to get out of it--that's what i will. knight (to the author). my dear boy, it strikes me that it might be much improved. (aside) got an idea; but can't let him have it for nothing. harley (to elliston). if this piece succeeds, it can't be played every night--let fitz. understudy it--don't breakfast on beef-steaks, now. if you wish to enjoy health--live at pimlico--take a run in the parks--and read abernethy on constitutional origin. terry (to mrs. orger). it's a remarkable thing that the manager should allow these d----d interruptions. if it was my piece, i would not suffer it--that's my opinion. wallace (to himself). what a little discontented mortal that is!--it's the best part in the piece, and he wishes it made still better. elliston (awakening). silence there, gentlemen, or it will be impossible to settle this important point--and my property will, in consequence, be much deteriorated. (enter boy with brandy and water.) proceed, sir--(to author, after a sip)--very spirited indeed. [illustration: page ] enter sam. spring, touching his hat. spring. underline a special desire, sir, next week? elliston. no, sam., i fear our special desires are nearly threadbare. prompter's boy calling in at the door. mr. octavius clarke would be glad to speak with mr. elliston. elliston. he be d----d! silence that noise between messrs. winston and bunn--and turn out waterloo tom. madame vestris. my dear elliston, do you mean to keep us here all day? ~ ~~elliston (whispering). i had rather keep you all night, madame. sherwin (to g. smith). i wish it may be true that one of our comedians is going to the other house; i shall then stand some chance for a little good business--at present i have only two decent parts to my back. liston (as stiff as a poker). if i pass an opinion, i must have an increase of salary; i never unbend on these occasions. mrs. orger (to the author). this part is not so good as sally mags. i must take my friend's opinion in the city. miss stephens (laughing). i shall only sing one stanza of this ballad--it's too sentimental. miss smithson (aside, but loud enough for the manager to hear). ton my honour, mr. elliston never casts me any thing but the sentimental dolls and _la la_ ladies. g-- smith (in a full bass voice). nor me any thing but the rough cottagers and banditti men; but, never mind, my bass solo will do the trick. gattie (yawning). i wish it was twelve o'clock, for i'm half asleep, and i've made a vow never to take snuff before twelve; if you don't believe me, ask mrs. g. after the hit i made in monsieur tonson, it's d--d hard they don't write more frenchmen. madame vestris. mr. author, can't you make this a breeches part?--i shall be _all abroad_ in petticoats. bernard blackmantle. i should wish to be _at home_ with madame vestris. mrs. harlowe. really, mr. author, this part of mine is a mere clod's wife--nothing like so good as dame ashfield. could not you introduce a supper-scene? at length silence is once more obtained; the author finishes his task, and retires from the _green-room_ ~ ~~looking as blue as megrim, and feeling as fretful as the renowned sir plagiary. of the success or failure of the two productions, i shall speak in the next volume; when i propose to give the first night of a new play, with sketches of some of the critical characters who usually attend. in the evening, transit, echo, and heartly enlisted me for the lord mayor's ball at the mansion house--a most delightful squeeze; and, it being during waithman's mayoralty, abounding with lots of character for my friend bob; to whose facetious pencil, i must at present leave the scene (see plate); intending to be more particular in my civic descriptions, should i have the honour of dining with the corporation next year in their guildhall. [illustration: page a] the wind-up of the term rendered it essentially necessary that i should return to oxford with all possible expedition, as my absence at such a time, if discovered, might involve me in some unpleasant feeling with the big wigs. hither i arrived, in due time to save a lecture, and receive an invitation to spend a few weeks in the ensuing year at cambridge, where my kind friend horace eglantine has entered himself of trinity; and by the way of inducement, has transmitted the characteristic sketch of the notorious jemmy gordon playing off one of his mad pranks upon the big wigs of peter-house, (see plate) the particulars of which, will, with more propriety, come into my sketches at cambridge. [illustration: page b] we are here all bustle--scouts packing up and posting off to the coach-offices with luggage--securing places for students, and afterwards clearing places for themselves--oxford duns on the sharp look-out for shy-ones, and pretty girls whimpering at the loss of their lovers--dons and big wigs promising themselves temporal pleasures, and their ladies reviling the mantua-makers for not having used sufficient expedition--some taking their last farewell of _alma mater_, and others sighing to behold the joyous faces of affectionate kindred and early friends. long ~ ~~bills, and still _longer_ promises passing currently--and the high-street exhibiting a scene of general confusion, until the last coach rattles over magdalen bridge, and oxford tradesmen close their _oaks_. bernard blackmantle. [illustration: page ] term ends. conclusion of volume one. [illustration: page ] volume ii. the english spy an original work, characteristic, satirical, and humorous, comprising scenes and sketches in every rank of society, being portraits of the illustrious, eminent, eccentric and notorious drawn from the life by bernard blackmantle the illustrations designed by robert cruikshank vol. ii [illustration: spines] by frolic, mirth, and fancy gay, old father time is borne away. london: published by sherwood, gilbert, and piper, paternoster-row. . london. printed by thomas davison, whitefriars [illustration: titlepage] [illustration: title ] illustrations in the english spy. to face page i. a short set-to at long's hotel; or, stopford not getting the best of it. ii. courtiers carousing in a cadger's ken. iii. the wake; or, teddy o'rafferty's last appearance. a scene in the holy land. iv. the cyprian's ball at the argyll room. v. john liston and the lambkins; or, the citizen's treat. vi. the great actor; or, mr punch in all his glory. amusements of the lower orders. scene in leicester-fields. vii. college ghosts. a frolic of the westminster blacks. a scene in dean's yard. viii. the marigold family on a party of plea- sure; or, the effect of a storm in the little bay of biscay, otherwise, chelsea reach. hints to fresh water sailors, the alderman and family running foul of the safety. a bit of fun for the westminster scholars. how to make ducks and geese swim after they are cooked. calamities of a cit's water party to richmond. ix. the epping hunt on easter monday; or, cockney comicalities in full chase. lots of characters and lots of accidents, runaways and fly-aways, no goes and out and outers, the flask and the foolish, gibs, spavins, millers and trumpeters. the stag against the field. bob transit's excursion with the nacker man. x. the tea-pot row at harrow; or, the battle of hog lane. harrow boys making a smash among the crockery, a scene sketched from the life, dedicated to the sons of noblemen and gentlemen participators in the sport. xi. the cit's sunday ordinary at the gate house, highgate; or, every hog to his own apple. another trip with the marigold family. specimens of gormandizing. inhabitants of cockayne ruralizing. cits and their cubs. cutting capers, a scramble for a dinner. xii. bulls and bears in high bustle; or, billy wright's pony made a member of the stock exchange. interior view of the money market. portraits of well-known stock brokers. a scene sketched from the life. xiii. the promenade at cowes. with portraits of noble commanders and members of the royal yacht club. xiv. the return to port. sailors carousing, or a jollification on board the piranga. xv. point street, portsmouth. chairing the cockswain. british tars and their girls in high glee. xvi. evening and in high spirits, a scene at long's hotel, bond-street. well-known roués and their satellites. portraits from the life, including the pea green hayne, tom best, lord w. lennox, colonel berkeley, mr. jackson, white headed bob, hudson the tobacconist, john long, &c. &c. xvii. morning, and in low spirits, a lock up scene in a sponging house, carey street.-- a bit of good truth. for particulars, see work; or inquire of fat radford, the domini of the domxts. xviii. the house of lords in high debate. sketched at the time when ii. r. h. the duke of york was making his celebrated speech upon the catholic question. portraits of the dukes of york, gloucester, wellington, de- vonshire, marquesses of anglesea and hertford, earls of liver- pool, grey, westmorland, bathurst, eldon, and pomfret, lords holland, king, ellenborough, &c. &c. and the whole bench of bishops. xix. the point of honour decided; or, the leaden arguments of a love affair. view in hyde park. tom echo engaged in an affair of honour. a chapter on duelling. xx. the great subscription room at brookes's. opposition members engaged upon hazardous points. por- traits of the great and the little well-known parliamentary characters. xxi. the evening in the circular room; or, a squeeze at carlton palace. exquisites and elegantes making their way to the presence chamber. portraits of stars of note and ton, blue ribands and red ribands, army and navy. xxii. the high street, cheltenham. well-known characters among the chelts. xxiii. going out. a view of berkeley hunt kennel. xxiv. the royal wells at cheltenham; or, spas- modic affections from spa waters. chronic affections and cramp comicalities. xxv. the bag-men's banquet. a view of the commercial room at the bell inn, chelten- ham. portraits of well-known travellers. xxvi. the oakland cottages, cheltenham; or, fox hunters and their favourites, a tit bit, done from the life. dedicated to the members of the berkeley hunt. xxvii. doncaster race course during the great st. leger race, . well-known heroes of the turf. legs and loungers. xxviii. the comical procession from gloucester to berkeley. xxix. the post office, bristol. arrival of the london mail. lots of news, and new characters. portraits of well-known bristolians. xxx. fancy ball at the upper rooms, bath. xxxi. the pump room, bath. visitors taking a sip with king bladud. xxxii. the old beau and false belle; or, mr. b. and miss l. a bath story. xxxiii. the public baths at bath; or, stewing alive. bernard blackmantle and bob transit taking a dip with king bladud. union of the sexes. welsh wigs and decency. no swimming or plunging allowed. xxxiv. milsom street and bond street, or bath swells. well-known characters at the court of king bladud. xxxv. the buff club at the pig and whistle, avon street, bath. a bit of real life in the territories of old king bladud. xxxvi. the bowling alley at worcester; or, the well-known characters of the hand and glove club. engravings on wood. . the gate house, highgate, citizens toiling up the hill to the sunday ordinary . a lame duck waddling out of the stock exchange . the dandy candy man, a cheltenham vignette . the floating harbour and welsh back, bristol. . bath market-place, with portraits of the celebrated orange women . the sporting club at the castle tavern. portraits of choice spirits . the battle of the chairs . vignette. portraits of blackmantle the english spy, and transit the english spy. nor rank, nor order, nor condition, imperial, lowly, or patrician, shall, when they see this volume, cry, "the satirist has pass'd us by:" but, with good humour, view our page depict the manners of the age. vide work. introduction to the second volume. bernard blackmantle to the public. "the muse's office was by heaven design'd to please, improve, instruct, reform mankind." --churchill. readers!--friends, i may say, for your flattering support has enabled me to continue my sketches of society to a second volume with that prospect of advantage to all concerned which makes labour delightful--accept this fresh offering of an eccentric, but grateful mind, to that shrine where alone he feels he owes any submission--the tribunal of public opinion. in starting for the goal of my ambition, the prize of your approbation, i have purposely avoided the beaten track of other periodical writers, choosing for my subjects scenes and characters of real life, transactions of our own times, _characteristic, satirical, and humorous_, confined to no particular place, and carefully avoiding every thing like personal ill-nature or party feeling. my associates, the artists and publishers, are not less anxious than myself to acknowledge their gratitude; and we intend to prove, by our united endeavours, how highly we appreciate the extensive patronage we have already obtained. bernard blackmantle, ode, congratulatory and advisiory, to bernard blackmantle, esq. on the completion of his first volume of the spy. "i smell a rat."--book of common parlance. "more sinned against than sinning."--william shakspeare. "the very _spy_ o' the time."--ibid. well done, my lad, you've run on strong amidst the bustle of life's throng, nor thrown a _spavin_ yet; you've gone at score, your pace has told; i hope, my boy, your wind will hold-- you've others yet to fret. you've told the town that you are _fly_ to cant, and rant, and trickery; and that whene'er you doze, like bristol men, you never keep but one eye closed--so you can tweak e'en then a scoundrel's nose. pull up, and rinse your mouth a bit; it is hot work, this race of wit, and sets the bellows piping; next vol. you'll grind _the flats_ again, and file the _sharps_ unto the grain, their very stomachs griping. ~ ~~ but why, good bernard, do you dream that we reviewers scorn the cream{ } arising from your jokes? upon my soul, we love some fun as well as any 'neath the sun, although we fight in cloaks. heav'n help thee, boy, we are not they who only go to damn a play, and cackle in the pit; like good sir william curtis{ } we can laugh at _nous_ and drollery, though of ourselves 'twere writ. was yours but sky blue milk and water, we'd hand you over to the slaughter of cow committee-men{ }; for butterflies, and "such small deer," are much beneath our potent spear-- the sharp gray goose-wing'd pen. see my friend bernard's _cracker_ to the reviewers in no. , a perfect fifth of november bit of _firework_, i can assure you, good people. but it won't go off with me without a brand from the bonfire in return. "bear this bear all." have you ever dared the "salt sea ocean," my readers, with the alderman admiral? if not, know that he has as pretty a collection of caricatures in his cabin, and all against his own sweet self, as need be wished to heal sea-sickness. is not this magnanimity? i think so. the baronet is really "a worthy gentleman." vide advertisements of "alderney milk company." what company shall we keep next, my masters? mining companies, or steam brick companies, or washing companies? how many of them will be in the suds anon? pshaw! throw physic to the projectors--i prefer strong beer well hopped. but yours we feel is sterner stuff, and though perchance _too much in huff_, _more natural_ you will swear; it really shows such game and pluck, that we could take with you "pot luck," and deem it decent fare. but, 'pon our _conscience_, bonny lad, (we've got _some_, boy), it is too bad so fiercely to show fight; gadzooks, 'tis time when comes the foe to strip and sport a word and blow, my dear pugnacious wight! 'tis very wise, t own, to pull fast by the horns some butting bull, when 'gainst yourself he flies; but to attack that sturdy beast, when he's no thoughts on you to feast, is very _otherwise_. but we'll forgive your paper balls, which on our jackets hurtless falls, like hail upon a tower: pray put wet blankets on your ire; really, good sir, we've no desire to blight so smart a flower. well, then, i see no reason why there should be war, good mister spy so, faith! we'll be allies; and if we must have fights and frays, we'll shoot at pride and poppinjays, and folly as it flies. there's field enough for both to _beat_ employment for our hands, eyes, feet, to mark the quarry down, _black game_ and white game a full crop, fine birds, fine feathers for to lop, in country and in town. ~ ~~ new city _specs_, new west-end rigs, new gas-blown boots, new steam-curl'd wigs, new fashionable schools, new dandies, and new bond-street dons, and new intrigues, and new crim cons, new companies of fools.{ } maria foote and edmund kean, the "lions" just now of the scene, shall yield to newer fun; for all our wonders at the best are cast off for a newer vest, after a nine days' run. old beaux at bath, manoeuvring belles, and pump-room puppies, melsom swells, and mr. _heaviside_,{ } and cheltenham carders,{ } every _runt_, see note , page . mr. heaviside, the polite m. c. of bath. he has the finest cauliflower head of hair i over remember; but it covers a world of wit, for all that, and therefore however it may appear, it certainly is not the heavy side of him. cards, cards, cards, nothing but cards from "rosy morn to dewy eve" at the town of cheltenham. whist, with the sun shining upon their sovereigns, one would think a sovereign remedy for their waste of the blessed day--_écarte_, whilst the blue sky is mocking the blue countenances of your thirty pound losers in as many seconds. is it not marvellous? fathers, husbands, men who profess to belong to the church. by jupiter! instead of founding the new university they talk about, they had better make it for the pupilage of perpetual card-players, and let them take their degrees by the cleverness in odd tricks, or their ability in shuffling. "no offence, gregory." "no wonder they have their decrepit ones, their ranters." ~ ~~ the playhouse, berkeley, and "the hunt," with marshall{ } by their side. all these and more i should be loth to let escape from one or both, so saddle for next heat: the bell is rung, the course is cleared, mount on your hobby, "nought afear'd," _black-jacket_ can't be beat. "dum _spiro_ spero" shout, and ride till you have 'scalp'd old folly's hide, and none a kiss will waft her; bind all the fools in your new book, that "i spy!" may lay my hook, and d--n them nicely after. an honest reviewer.{ } given at my friend, "sir john barleycorn's" chambers, tavistock, covent garden, this the th, day of february, , "almost at odds with morning." mr. marshall, the m. c. of cheltenham. "wear him in your heart's core, horatio." i knew him well, a "fellow of infinite jest." a long reign and a merry one to him. my anonymous friend will perceive that i estimate his wit and talent quite as much as his honesty: had he not been such a _rara avis_ he would have been consigned to the "tomb of all the capulets." cytherean beauties. "the trav'ller, if he chance to stray, may turn uncensured to his way; polluted streams again are pure, and deepest wounds admit a cure; but woman no redemption knows-- the wounds of honour never close." --moore. ~ ~~tremble not, ye fair daughters of chastity! frown not, ye moralists! as your eyes rest upon the significant title to our chapter, lest we should sacrifice to curiosity the blush of virtue. we are painters of real life in all its varieties, but our colouring shall not be over-charged, or our characters out of keeping. the glare of profligacy shall be softened down or so neutralized as not to offend the most delicate feelings. in sketching the reigning beauties of the time, we shall endeavour to indulge the lovers of variety without sacrificing the fair fame of individuals, or attempting to make vice respectable. pleasure is our pursuit, but we are accompanied up the flowery ascent by contemplation and reflection, two monitors that shrink back, like sensitive plants, as the thorns press upon them through the ambrosial beds of new-blown roses. in our record of the daughters of pleasure, we shall only notice those who are distinguished as _belles of ton--stars_ of the first magnitude in the hemisphere of fashion; and of these the reader may say, with one or two exceptions, they "come like shadows, so depart." we would rather excite sympathy and pity for the ~ ~~unfortunate, than by detailing all we know produce the opposite feelings of obloquy and detestation. "unhappy sex! when beauty is your snare, exposed to trials, made too frail to bear." then, oh! ye daughters of celestial virtue, point not the scoffing glance at these, her truant children, as ye pass them by--but pity, and afford them a gleam of cheerful hope: so shall ye merit the protection of him whose chief attribute is charity and universal benevolence. and ye, lords of the creation! commiserate their misfortunes, which owe their origin to the baseness of the seducer, and the natural depravity of your own sex. ladies of distinction, "dans le parterre des impures." "simplex sigillum veri." "nought is there under heav'n's wide hollowness that moves more dear, compassion of the mind, than beauty brought t' unworthy wretchedness." ~ ~~if ever there was a fellow formed by nature to captivate and conquer the heart of lovely woman, it is that arch-looking, light-hearted apollo, horace eglantine, with his soul-enlivening conversational talents, his scraps of poetry, and puns, and fashionable anecdote; his chivalrous form and noble carriage, joined to a mirth-inspiring countenance and soft languishing blue eye, which sets half the delicate bosoms that surround him palpitating between hope and fear; then a glance at his well-shaped leg, or the fascination of an elegant compliment, smilingly overleaping a pearly fence of more than usual whiteness and regularity, fixes the fair one's doom; while the young rogue, triumphing in his success, turns on his heel and plays off another battery on the next pretty susceptible piece of enchanting simplicity that accident may throw into his way. "who is that attractive star before whose influential light he at present seems to bow with adoration?" "a _fallen one_," said crony, to whom the question was addressed, as he rode up the drive in hyde park, towards cumberland-gate, accompanied by bernard blackmantle. "a _fallen one_" reiterated the oxonian--"impossible!" "why, i have marked the fair daughter of fashion myself for the last fortnight constantly in the drive with one of the most superb ~ ~~equipages among the _ton_ of the day." "true," responded crony, "and might have done so for any time these three years." in london these daughters of pleasure are like physicians travelling about to destroy in all sorts of ways, some on foot, others on horseback, and the more finished lolling in their carriages, ogling and attracting by the witchery of bright eyes; the latter may, however, very easily be known, by the usual absence of all armorial bearings upon the panel, the chariot elegant and in the newest fashion, generally dark-coloured, and lined with crimson to cast a rich glow upon the occupant, and the servants in plain frock liveries, with a cockade, of course, to imply their mistresses have _seen service_. i know but of one who sports any heraldic ornament, and that is the female giovanni, who has the very appropriate crest of a serpent coiled, and preparing to spring upon its prey, _à la cavendish_. the _elegante_ in the dark _vis_, to whom our friend horace is paying court, is the _ci-devant_ lady ros--b--y, otherwise clara w----. by the peer she has a son, and from the plebeian a pension of two hundred pounds per annum: her origin, like most of the frail sisterhood, is very obscure; but clara certainly possesses talents of the first order, and evinces a generosity of disposition to her sisters and family that is deserving of commendation. in person, she is plump and well-shaped, but of short stature, with a fine dark eye and raven locks that give considerable effect to an otherwise interesting countenance. a few years since she had a penchant for the stage, and played repeatedly at one of the minor theatres, under the name of "the lady;" a character clara can, when she pleases, support with unusual _gaieté_: instance her splendid parties in manchester-street, manchester-square, where i have seen a coruscation of beauties assembled together that must have made great havoc in their time among the hearts of the young, the gay, and the generous. like ~ ~~most of her society, clara has no idea of prudence, and hence to escape some pressing importunities, she levanted for a short time to scotland, but has since, by the liberal advances of her present delusive, been enabled to quit the interested apprehensions of the _dun_ family. the swaggering belle in the green pelisse yonder, on the _pavé_, is the celebrated courtezan, mrs. st*pf**d, of curzon-street, may-fair. how she acquired her present cognomen i know not, unless it was for her _stopping_ accomplishment in the polite science of pugilism and modern patter, in both of which she is a finished proficient, as poor john d------, a dashing savoury chemist, can vouch for. on a certain night, she followed this unfaithful swain, placing herself (unknown to him) behind his carriage, to the house of a rival sister of cytherea, mrs. st**h**e, and there enforced, by divers potent means, due submission to the laws of constancy and love; but as such compulsory measures were not in _good taste_ with the _protector's_ feelings, the contract was soon void, and the lady once more liberated to choose another and another swain, with a pension of two hundred pounds per annum, and a well-furnished house into the bargain. she was formerly, and when first she came out, the _chère amie_ of tom b-----, who had, in spite of his science recently, in a short affair at long's hotel, not much the best of it. (see plate). [illustration: page ] from him she bolted, and enlisted with an officer of the nineteenth lancers; but not liking the house of montague, she obtained the grant of a furlough, and has since indulged in a plurality of lovers, without much attention to size, age, persons, or professions. of her talent in love affairs, we have given some specimens; and her courage in war can never be doubted after the formidable attack she recently made upon general sir john d***e, returning through hounslow from a review, from which _rencontre_ she has obtained the appropriate appellation of the _brazen ~ ~~ bellona_. a pretty round face, dark hair, and fine bushy eyebrows, are no mean attractions; independent of which the lady is always upon good terms with herself. the _belle whip_ driving the cabriolet, with a chestnut horse and four white legs, is the _edgeware diana_ mrs. s***h, at present engaged in a partnership affair, in the foreign line, with two citizens, messrs o. r. and s.; the peepholes at the side of her machine imply more than mere curiosity, and are said to have been invented by general ogle, for the use of the ladies when on active service. the beautiful little water lily in the chocolate-coloured chariot, with a languishing blue eye and alabaster skin, is mrs. ha****y, otherwise k**d***k, of gr--n-street, a great favourite with all who know her, from the elegance of her manners and the attractions of her person (being perfect symmetry); at present she is under the _special protection_ of a city stave merchant, and has the _reputation_ of being very sincere in her attachments. "you must have been a desperate fellow in your time, crony," said i, "among the belles of this class, or you could never have become so familiar with their history." "it is the fashion," replied the veteran, "to understand these matters; among the _bons vivants_ of the present day a fellow would be suspected of _chastity_, or regarded as _uncivilized_, who could not run through the history of the reigning beauties of the times, descanting upon their various charms with poetical fervor, or illuminating, as he proceeds, with some choice anecdotes of the _paphian divinities_, their protectors and propensities; and to do the fair _citherians_ justice, they are not much behindhand with us in that respect, for the whole conversation of the sisterhood turns upon the figure, fortune, genius, or generosity of the admiring beaux. to a young and ardent mind, just emerging from scholastic discipline, with feelings uncontaminated by ~ ~~fashionable levities, and a purse equal to all pleasurable purposes, a correct knowledge of the mysteries of the _citherian principles of astronomy_ may be of the most essential consequence, not less in protecting his _morals and health_ than in the preservation of life and fortune. one half the duels, suicides, and _fashionable bankruptcies_ spring from this polluted source. the stars of this order rise and fall in estimation, become fixed planets or meteors of the most enchanting brilliancy, in proportion not to the grace of modesty, or the fascination of personal beauty, but to the notoriety and number of their amours, and the peerless dignity of their plurality of lovers. "place the goddess of love on the pedestal of chastity, in the sacred recesses of the grove of health, veiled by virgin innocence, and robed in celestial purity, and who among the _cameleon_ race of fashionable _roués_ would incur the charge of _vandalism_, or turn aside to pay devotion at her shrine? but let the salacious deity of impurity mount the car of profligacy, and drive forth in all the glare of crimson and gold, and a thousand devotees are ready to sacrifice their honour upon her profligate altars, or chain themselves to her chariot wheels as willing slaves to worship and adore." "let us take another turn up the drive," said i, "for i am willing to confess myself much interested in this _new system of astronomy_, and perhaps we may discover a few more of the _terrestrial planets_, and observe the _stars_ that move around their frail orbits." "i must first make you acquainted with the signs of the _paphian zodiac_," said crony; "for every one of these attractions have their peculiar and appropriate fashionable appellations. i have already introduced you to the _bang bantum_, mrs bertram; the _london leda_, moll raffles; the _spanish nun_, st. margurite; the _sparrow hawk_, augusta c****e{ }; the _golden_ see vol. i. ~ ~~_pippin_, mrs. c.; the _white crow_, clara w****; the _brazen bellona_, mrs. st**f**d; the _edgeware diana_, mrs. s**th; and the _water lily symmeterian_, ha**l*y--_all planets_ of the first order, carriage curiosities. let us now proceed to make further observations. the _jolie_ dame yonder, in the phaeton, drawn by two fine bays, is called the _white doe_, from her first deer protector; and although somewhat on the decline, she is yet an exhibit of no mean attraction, and a lady of fortune. thanks to the liberality of an old hewer of stone, and the talismanic powers of the _golden ball_, deserted by her last swain since his marriage, she now reclines upon the velvet cushion of independence, enjoying in the kilburn retreat, her _otium cum dignitate_, secure from the rude winds of adversity, and in the occasional society of a few old friends. the lovely thais in the brown chariot, with a fine roman countenance, dark hair, and sparkling eyes, is the favourite elect of a well-known whig member; here she passes by the name of the _comic muse_, the first letter of which will also answer for the leading initial of her theatrical cognomen. her, private history is well-known to every son of _old etona_ who has taken a _toodle_ over windsor-bridge on a market-day within the last fifteen years, her parents being market gardeners in the neighbourhood; and her two unmarried sisters, both fine girls, are equally celebrated with the bath orange-women for the neatness of their dress and comeliness of their persons. there is a sprightliness and good-humour about the _comic muse_ that turns aside the shafts of ill-nature; and had she made her selection more in accordance with propriety, and her own age, she might have escaped our notice; but, alas!" said crony, "she forgets that 'the rose's age is but a day; its bloom, the pledge of its decay, sweet in scent, in colour bright, it blooms at morn and fades at night. ~ ~~at this moment a dashing little horsewoman trotted by in great style, followed by a servant in blue and gold livery; her bust was perfection itself, but studded with the oddest pair of _ogles_ in the world, and crony assured me (report said) her person was supported by the shortest pair of legs, for an adult, in christendom. "that is the _queen_ of the _dandysettes_," said my old friend, "sophia, selina, or, as she is more generally denominated, _galloping_ w****y, from a _long pole_, who settled the interest of five thousand upon her for her natural life; she is since said to have married her groom, with, however, this prudent stipulation, that he is still to ride behind her in public, and answer all demands in _propria persona_. she is constantly to be seen at all masquerades, and may be easily known by her utter contempt for the incumbrance of decent costume." "how d'ye do? how d'ye do?" said a most elegant creature, stretching forth her delicate white kid-covered arm over the _fenêtre_ of lord hxxxxxxx*h's _vis à vis_. "ah! _bon jour, ma chère amie_," said old crony, waving his hand and making one of his best bows in return. "you are a happy dog," said i, "old fellow, to be upon such pleasant terms with that divinity. no plebeian blood there, i should think: a peeress, i perceive, by the coronet on the panels." "_a peine cognoist, ou la femme et le melon_," responded crony, "you shall hear. among the _ton_ she passes by the name of vestina the titan, from her being such a finished tactician in the campaigns of venus;. her ordinary appellation is mrs. st--h--pe: whether this be a _nom de guerre or a nom de terre_, i shall not pretend to decide; if we admit that _la chose est toute_, _et que la nom n'y fait rien_, the rest is of no consequence. it would be an intricate task to unravel the family web of our fashionable frail ones, although that of many frail fashionables stands high in heraldry. the lady in question, although in 'the sear o' the leaf,' is yet in high request; 'fat, fair, and forty' shall i say? ~ ~~alas! that would have been more suitable ten years since; but, _n'importe_, she has the science to conceal the ravages of time, and is yet considered attractive. no one better understands the art of intrigue; and she is, moreover, a travelled dame, not deficient in intellect, full of anecdote; and as _conjugation and declension_ go hand in hand with some men of taste, she has risen into notice when others usually decline. a sporting colonel is said to have formerly contributed largely to her comforts, and her tact in matters of business is notorious; about two hundred per annum she derived from the stock exchange, and her present _peerless protector_ no doubt subscribes liberally. to be brief, laura has money in the funds, a splendid house, carriage, gives her grand parties, and lives proportionably expensive and elegant; yet with all this she has taken care that the age of gold may succeed to the age of brass, that the retirement of her latter days may not be overclouded by the storms of adversity. she had two sisters, both gay, who formerly figured on the _pavé_, sarah and louisa; but of late they have disappeared, report says, to _conjugate_ in private. turn your eyes towards the promenade," said crony, "and observe that constellation of beauties, three in number, who move along _le verd gazon_: they are denominated the _red rose_, the _moss rose_, and the _cabbage rose_. the first is rose co*l**d, a dashing belle, who has long figured in high life; her first appearance was in company with lord william f***g***ld, by whom she has a child living; from thence we trace her to the protection of another peer, lord ty*****], and from him gradually declining to the rich relative of a northern baronet, sportive little jack r*****n, whose favourite _lauda finem_ she continued for some time; but as the law engrossed rather too much of her protector's affairs, so the fair engrossed rather too much of the law; whether she has yet given up ~ ~~practice in the king's bench i cannot determine, but her appearance here signifies that she will accept a fee from any side; rose has long since lost every tint of the maiden's blush, and is now in the full blow of her beauty and maturity, but certainly not without considerable personal attractions; with some her _nom de guerre_ is _rosa longa_, and a wag of the day says, that rose is a beauty in _spite of her teeth_. the _moss rose_ has recently changed her cognomen with her residence, and is now mrs. f**, of beaumout-street; she was never esteemed a _planet_, and may be now said to have sunk into a star of the second order, a little _twinkling light_, useful to assist elderly gentlemen in finding their way to the paphian temple. the _cabbage rose_ is one of your vulgar beauties, ripe as a peach, and rich in countenance as the ruby: if she has never figured away with the peerage, she has yet the credit of being entitled to _three balls_ on her coronet, and an _old uncle_ to support them: she has lately taken a snug box in park-place, regent's-park, and lives in very good style. the belle in the brown chariot, gray horses, and blue liveries is now the lady of a baronet, and one of three _graceless graces_, the elxxxxx's, who, because their father kept a livery stable, must needs all go to _rack_: she has a large family living by mr. v*l*b***s, whom she left for the honour of her present connexion. that she is married to the baronet, there is no doubt; and it is but justice to add, she is one among the many instances of such compromises in fashionable life who are admitted into society upon sufferance, and falls into the class of demi-respectables. among the park beaux she is known by the appellation of the _doldrums_ her two sisters have been missing some time, and it is said are now rusticating in paris." my friend eglantine had evidently fled away with the white crow, and the fashionables were rapidly decreasing in the drive, when crony, whose scent of ~ ~~dinner hour is as staunch as that of an old pointer at game, gave evident symptoms of his inclination to masticate. "we must take another opportunity to finish our lecture on the principles of _citherian astronomy_," said the old beau, "for as yet we are not half through the list of constellations. i have a great desire to introduce you to harriette wilson and her sisters, whose true history will prove very entertaining, particularly as the fair writer has altogether omitted the genuine anecdotes of herself and family in her recently published memoirs." at dinner we were joined by horace eglantine and bob transit, from the first of whom we learned, that a grand fancy ball was to take place at the argyll rooms in the course of the ensuing week, under the immediate direction of four fashionable impures, and at the expense of general trinket, a broad-shouldered milesian, who having made a considerable sum by the commissariat service, had returned home to spend his peninsular pennies among the paphian dames of the metropolis. for this entertainment we resolved to obtain tickets, and as the ci-devant lady h***e was to be patroness, crony assured us there would be no difficulty in that respect, added to which, he there promised to finish his sketches of the citherian beauties of the metropolis, and afford my friend transit an opportunity of sketching certain portraits both of paphians and their paramours. [illustration: page ] the wake; or, teddy o'rafferty's last appearance. a scene in the holy land. ~ ~~ 'twas at teddy o'rafferty's wake, just to comfort ould judy, his wife, the lads of the hod had a frake. and kept the thing up to the life. there was father o'donahoo, mr. delany, pat murphy the doctor, that rebel o'shaney, young terence, a nate little knight o' the hod, and that great dust o'sullivan just out o' quod; then florence the piper, no music is riper, to all the sweet cratures with emerald fatures who came to drink health to the dead. not bryan baroo had a louder shaloo when he gave up his breath, to that tythe hunter death, than the howl over teddy's cowld head: 'twas enough to have rais'd up a saint. all the darlings with whiskey so faint, and the lads full of fight, had a glorious night, when ould teddy was wak'd in his shed. --original. he who has not travelled in ireland should never presume to offer an opinion upon its natives. it is not from the wealthy absentees, who since the union have abandoned their countrymen to wretchedness, for the advancement of their own ambitious views, that we can form a judgment of the exalted irish: nor is it from the lowly race, who driven forth by starving penury, crowd our more prosperous shores, ~ ~~that we can justly estimate the true character of the peasantry of that unhappy country. the memoirs of captain rock may have done something towards removing the national prejudices of englishmen; while the frequent and continued agitation of that important question, the emancipation of the catholics, has roused a spirit of inquiry in every worthy bosom that will much advantage the oppressed, and, eventually, diffuse a more general and generous feeling towards the irish throughout civilized europe. i have been led into this strain of contemplation, by observing the ridiculous folly and wasteful expenditure of the nobility and fashionables of great britain; who, neglecting their starving tenantry and kindred friends, crowd to the shores of france and italy in search of scenery and variety, without having the slightest knowledge of the romantic beauties and delightful landscapes, which abound in the three kingdoms of the rose, the shamrock, and the thistle. how much good might be done by the examples of a few illustrious, noble, and wealthy individuals, making annual visits to ireland and scotland! what a field does it afford for true enjoyment! how superior, in most instances, the accommodations and security; and how little, if at all inferior, to the scenic attractions of foreign countries. then too the gratification of observing the progress of improvement in the lower classes, of administering to their wants, and consoling with them under their patient sufferings from oppressive laws, rendered perhaps painfully necessary by the political temperature of the times or the unforgiving suspicions of the past. but i am becoming sentimental when i ought to be humorous, contemplative when i should be characteristic, and seriously sententious when i ought to be playfully satirical. forgive me, gentle reader, if from the collapse of the spirit, i have for a moment turned aside from the natural gaiety of my ~ ~~style, to give utterance to the warm feelings of an eccentric but generous heart. but, _allons_ to the wake. "plaze ye'r honor," said barney o'finn (my groom of the chambers), "may i be _axing_ a holiday to-night?" "it will be very inconvenient, barney; but------" "but, your honor's not the jontleman to refuse a small trate o' the sort," said barney, anticipating the conclusion of my objection. there was some thing unusually anxious about the style of the poor fellow's request that made me hesitate in the refusal. "it's not myself that would be craving the favor, but a poor dead cousin o' mine, heaven rest his sowl!" "and how can the granting of such a request benefit your departed relation, barney?" quoth i, not a little puzzled by the strangeness of the application. "sure, that's mighty _dare_ of comprehension, your honor. teddy o'rafferty was my own mother's brother's son, and devil o' like o' him there was in all kilgobbin: we went to ould father o'rourke's school together when we were spalpeens, and ate our _paraters_ and butter-milk out o' the same platter; many's the scrape we've been in together: bad luck to the ould schoolmaster, for he flogged all the _larning_ out o' poor teddy, and all the liking for't out of barney o'finn, that's myself, your honor--so one dark night we took advantage of the moon, and having joined partnership in property put it all into a limerick silk handkerchief, with which we made the best of our way to dublin, travelling stage arter stage by the ould-fashioned conveyance, pat adam's ten-toed machine. many's the drap we got on the road to drive away care. all the wide world before us, and all the fine family estate behind,--pigs, poultry, and relations,--divil a tenpenny did we ever touch since. it's not your honor that will be angry to hear a few family misfortins," said barney, hesitating to proceed with his narration, "give me my hat, fellow," said ~ ~~i, "and don't torture me with your nonsense."-- "may be it an't nonsense your honor means?" "and why not, sirrah?"--"bekase it's not in your nature to spake light o' the dead." up to this point, my attention had been divided between the morning chronicle which lay upon my breakfast table, and barney's comical relation; a glance at the narrator, however, as he finished the last sentence, convinced me that i ought to have treated him with more feeling. he was holding my hat towards me, when the pearly drop of affliction burst uncontrollably forth, and hung on the side of the beaver, like a sparkling crystal gem loosed from the cavern's roof, to rest upon the jasper stone beneath. i would have given up my mastership of arts to have recalled that word nonsense: i was so touched with the poor fellow's pathos.--" shall i tell your onor the _partikilars_?" "ay, do, barney, proceed."--"well, your onor, we worked our way to london togither--haymaking and harvesting: 'taste fashions the man' was a saw of ould father o'rourke's; 'though divil a taste had he, but for draining the whiskey bottle and bating the boys, bad luck to his mimory! 'is it yourself?' said i, to young squire o'sullivan, from scullanabogue, whom good fortune threw in my way the very first day i was in london.--'troth, and it is, barney,' said he: 'what brings you to the sate of government?' 'i'm seeking sarvice and fortune, your onor,' said i. 'come your ways, then, my darling,' said he; and, without more to do, he made me his _locum tenens_, first clerk, messenger, and man of all work to a maynooth milesian. there was onor enough in all conscience for me, only it was not vary profitable. for, altho' my master followed the law, the law wouldn't follow him, and he'd rather more bags than briefs:--the consequence was, i had more banyan days than the man in the wilderness. divil a'care, i got a character by my conduct, and a good place when i left him, as your ~ ~~govonor can testify. as for poor teddy, divil a partikle of taste had he for fashionable life, but a mighty pratty notion of the arts, so he turned operative arkitekt; engaged himself to a layer of bricks, and skipped nimbly up and down a five story ladder with a long-tailed box upon his shoulder--pace be to his ashes! he was rather too fond of the _crature_--many's the slip he had for his life--one minute breaking a jest, and the next breaking a joint; till there wasn't a sound limb to his body. arrah, sure, it was all the same to teddy--only last monday, he was more elevated than usual, for he had just reached the top of the steeple of one of the new churches with a three gallon can of beer upon his _knowledge-box_, and, perhaps a little too much of the _crature_ inside o! it. 'shout, teddy, to the honour of the saint,' said the foreman of the works (for they had just completed the job). poor teddy's religion got the better of his understanding, for in shouting long life to the dedicatory saint, he lost his own--missed his footing, and pitched over the scaffold like an odd chimney-pot in a high wind, and came down smash to the bottom with a head as flat as a bump. divil a word has he ever spake since; for when they picked him up, he was dead as a dublin bay herring--and now he lies in his cabin in dyot-street, st. giles, as stiff as a poker,--and to-night, your onor, we are going to _wake_ him, poor sowl! to smoke a pipe, and spake an _horashon_ over his corpse before we put him dacently to bed with the shovel. then, there's his poor widow left childless, and divil a rap to buy paraters wid--bad luck to the eye that wouldn't drap a tear to his mimory, and cowld be the heart that refuses to comfort his widow!" here poor barney could no longer restrain his feelings, and having concluded the family history, blubbered outright. it was a strange mixture of the ludicrous and the sorrowful; but told with such an artless simplicity and genuine traits of feeling, that i would have defied the most ~ ~~volatile to have felt uninterested with the speaker. "you shall go, by all means, barney," said i: "and here is a trifle to comfort the poor widow with." "the blessings of the whole calendar full on your onor!" responded the grateful irishman. what a scene, thought i, for the pencil of my friend bob transit!"could a stranger visit the place," i inquired, without molestation or the charge of impertinence, barney?" "divil a charge, your onor; and as to impertinence, a wake's like a house-warming, where every guest is welcome." with this assurance, i apprised barney of my intention to gratify curiosity, and to bring a friend with me; carefully noted down the direction, and left the grateful fellow to pursue his course. the absurdities of funeral ceremonies have hitherto triumphed over the advances of civilization, and in many countries are still continued with almost as much affected solemnity and ridiculous parade as distinguished the early processions of the pagans, heathens, and druids. the honours bestowed upon the dead may inculcate a good moral lesson upon the minds of the living, and teach them so to act in this life that their cold remains may deserve the after-exordium of their friends; but, in most instances, funeral pomp has more of worldly vanity in it than true respect, and it is no unusual circumstance in the meaner ranks of life, for the survivors to abridge their own comforts by a wasteful expenditure and useless parade, with which they think to honour the memory of the dead. the egyptians carry this folly perhaps to the most absurd degree; their catacombs and splendid tombs far outrivalling the habitations of their princes, together with their expensive mode of embalming, are with us matters of curiosity, and often induce a sacrilegious transfer of some distinguished mummy to the museums of the connoisseur. the athenians, greeks, and romans, had each their peculiar funeral ceremonies in the exhumation, ~ ~~sacrifices, and orations performed on such occasions; and much of the present customs of the romish church are, no doubt, derivable from and to be traced to these last-mentioned nations. in the present times, no race of people are more superstitious in their veneration for the ancient customs of their country and funeral rites, than the lower orders of the irish, and that folly is often carried to a greater height during their domicile in this country than when residing at home. it was about nine o'clock at night when eglantine, transit, and myself sallied forth to st. giles's in search of the wake, or, as bob called it, on a crusade to the holy land. formerly, such a visit would have been attended with great danger to the parties making the attempt, from the number of desperate characters who inhabited the back-slums lying in the rear of broad-street: where used to be congregated together, the most notorious thieves, beggars, and bunters of the metropolis, amalgamated with the poverty and wretchedness of every country, but more particularly the lower classes of irish, who still continue to exist in great numbers in the neighbourhood. here was formerly held in a night-cellar, the celebrated beggars' club, at which the dissolute lord barrymore and colonel george hanger, afterwards lord coleraine, are said to have often officiated as president and vice-president, attended by their profligate companions, and surrounded by the most extraordinary characters of the times; the portraits and biography of whom may be seen in smith's 'vagabondiana,' a very clever and highly entertaining work. it was on this spot that george parker collected his materials for 'life's painter of variegated characters,' and among its varieties, that grose and others obtained the flash and patter which form the cream of their humorous works. formerly, the beggars' ordinary, held in a cellar was a scene worthy ~ ~~of the pencil of a hogarth or a cruikshank; notorious impostors, professional paupers, ballad-singers, and blind fiddlers might here be witnessed carousing on the profits of mistaken charity, and laughing in their cups at the credulity of mankind; but the police have now disturbed their nightly orgies, and the mendicant society ruined their lucrative calling. the long table, where the trenchers consisted of so many round holes turned out in the plank, and the knives, forks, spoons, candle-sticks, and fire-irons all chained to their separate places, is no longer to be seen. the night-cellar yet exists, where the wretched obtain a temporary lodging and straw bed at twopence per head; but the augean stable has been cleansed of much of its former impurities, and scarce a vestige remains of the disgusting depravity of former times. [illustration: page ] a little way up dyot-street, on the right hand from holborn, we perceived the gateway to which barney had directed me, and passing under it into a court filled with tottering tenements of the most wretched appearance, we were soon attracted to the spot we sought, by the clamour of voices apparently singing and vociferating together. the faithful barney was ready posted at the door to receive us, and had evidently prepared the company to show more than usual respect. an old building or shed adjoining the deceased's residence, which had been used for a carpenter's shop, was converted for the occasion from its general purpose to a melancholy hall of mourning. at one end of this place was the corpse of the deceased, visible to every person from its being placed on a bed in a sitting posture, beneath a tester of ragged check-furniture; large sheets of white linen were spread around the walls in lieu of tapestries, and covered with various devices wrought into fantastic images of flowers, angels, and seraphim. a large, fresh-gathered posy in the bosom of the deceased had a most striking effect, when contrasted ~ ~~with the pallidness of death; over the lower parts of the corpse was spread a counterpane, covered with roses, marigolds, and sweet-smelling flowers; whilst on his breast reposed the cross, emblematical of the dead man's faith; and on a table opposite, at the extreme end, stood an image of our redeemer, before which burned four tall lights in massive candlesticks, lent by the priest upon such occasions to give additional solemnity to the scene. there is something very awful in the contemplation of death, from which not even the strongest mind can altogether divest itself. but at a _wake_ the solemn gloom which generally pervades the chamber of a lifeless corpse is partially removed by the appearance of the friends of the deceased arranged around, drinking, singing, and smoking tobacco in profusion. still there was something unusually impressive in observing the poor widow of o'rafferty, seated at the feet of her deceased lord with an infant in her arms, and all the appearance of a heart heavily charged with despondency and grief. an old irishwoman, seated at the side of the bed, was making the most violent gesticulations, and audibly calling upon the spirit of the departed "to see how they onor'd his mimory," raising the cross before her, while two or three others came up to the head, uttered a short prayer, and then sat down to drink his sowl out of purgation. (see plate.) [illustration: page ] but the most extraordinary part of the ceremony was the _howl_, or oration spoken over the dead man by a rough-looking, broad-shouldered emeralder, who descanted upon his virtues as if he had been an hero of the first magnitude, and invoked every saint in the calendar to free the departed from perdition. for some time decorum was pretty well preserved; but on my friends bob transit and horace eglantine sending barney out for a whole gallon of whiskey, and a proportionate quantity of pipes and tobacco, the dull scene of silent meditation ~ ~~gave way to sports and spree, more accordant with their feelings; and the kindred of the deceased were too familiar with such amusements to consider them in any degree disrespectful. there is a volatile something in the irish character that strongly partakes of the frivolity of our gallic neighbours; and it is from this feature that we often find them gay amidst the most appalling wants, and humorous even in the sight of cold mortality. a song was soon proposed, and many a ludicrous stave sung, as the inspiring cup made the circle of the company. "luke caffary's kilmainham minit," an old flash chant, and "the night before larry was stretched," were among the most favourite ditties of the night. a verse from the last may serve to show their _peculiar_ character. "the night before larry was stretch'd, the boys they all paid him a visit; and bit in their sacks too they fetch'd, they sweated their duds till they riz it. for larry was always the lad, when a friend was condemn'd to the squeezer. but he'd fence all the foss that he had to help a poor friend to a sneezer, and moisten his sowl before he died." ere eleven o'clock had arrived, the copious potations of whiskey and strong beer, joined to the fumes of the tobacco, had caused a powerful alteration in the demeanor of the assembled group, who now became most indecorously vociferous. "by the powers of poll kelly!" said the raw-boned fellow who had howled the lament over the corpse, "i'd be arter making love to the widow mysel', only it mightn't be altogether dacent before teddy's put out o' the way." "you make love to the widow!" responded the smart-looking florence m'carthy; "to the divil i pitch you, you bouncing bogtrotter! it's myself alone that will have that onor, bekase teddy o'rafferty wished me to take his wife as a legacy. 'it's all i've got, mr. florence,' ~ ~~said he to me one day, 'to lave behind for the redemption of the small trifle i owe you.'" "it aint the like o' either of you that will be arter bamboozling my cousin, mrs. judy o'rafferty, into a blind bargain," said barney o'finn; in whose noddle the whiskey began to fumigate with the most valorous effect. "you're a noble-spirited fellow, barney," said horace eglantine, who was using his best exertions to produce a _row_. "at them again, barney, and tell them their conduct is most indecent." thus stimulated and prompted, barney was not tardy in re-echoing the charge; which, as might have been expected, produced an instantaneous explosion and general battle. in two minutes the company were thrown into the most appalling scene of confusion--chairs and tables upset, bludgeons, pewter pots, pipes, glasses, and other missiles flying about in all directions, until broken heads and shins were as plentiful as black eyes, and there was no lack of either--women screaming and children crying, making distress more horrible. in this state of affairs, bob transit had climbed up and perched himself upon a beam to make observations; while the original fomenter of the strife, that mad wag eglantine, had with myself made our escape through an aperture into the next house, and having secured our persons from violence were enabled to become calm observers of the affray, by peeping through the breach by which we had entered. in the violence of the struggle, poor teddy o'rafferty was doomed to experience another upset before his remains were consigned to the tomb; for just at the moment that a posse of watchmen and night-constables arrived to put an end to the broil, such was the panic of the assailants that in rushing towards the bed to conceal themselves from the _charlies_, they tumbled poor teddy head over heels to the floor of his shed, leaving his head's antipodes sticking up where his head should have been; a ~ ~~circumstance that more than any thing else contributed to appease the inflamed passions of the group, who, shocked at the sacrilegious insult they had committed, immediately sounded a parley, and united to reinstate poor teddy o'rafferty in his former situation. this was the signal for horace and myself to proceed round to the front door, and pretending we were strangers excited by curiosity, succeeded, by a little well-timed flattery and a small trifle to drink our good healths, in freeing the assailants from all the horrors of a watch-house, and eventually of restoring peace and unanimity. it was now past midnight; leaving therefore poor barney o'finn to attend mass, and pay the last sad tribute to his departed relative, on the morning of the morrow we once more bent our steps towards home, laughing as we went at the strange recollections of the wake, the row, and last appearance of teddy o'rafferty.{ } requiescat in pace. as the reader might not think this story complete without gome account of the concluding ceremonies, i have ascertained from barney that his cousin teddy was quietly borne on the shoulders of his friends to the church of st. paneras, where he was safely deposited with his mother- earth, a bit of a bull, by the by; and after the mourners had made three circles round his ashes, and finished the ceremony by a most delightful howl and prayers said over the crossed spades, they all retired peaceably home, moderately laden with the juice of the _crature_. [illustration: page ] the cyprian's ball, or sketches of characters at the venetian carnival. scene.--argyll rooms. ~ ~~ "hymen ushers the lady astrea, the jest took hold of latona the cold, ceres the brown, with bright cytherea, thetis the wanton, bellona the bold; shame-faced aurora with witty pandora, and maia with flora did company bear;" (and many 'tis stated went there to be mated, who all their lives have been hunting the fair. ) blackmantle, transit, eglantine, and crony's visit to the venetian carnival--exhibits--their char-acters drawn from the life--general trinket, the m.c.--crony's singidar anecdote of the great earl of chesterfield, and origin of the debouchettes--the omissions in the wilson memoirs supplied--biographical reminiscences of the amiable mrs. debouchette--harriette and lier sisters--amy--mary--fanny-- julia--sophia--charlotte and louisa--paphians and their paramours--peers and plebeians--the bang bantam--london leda --spanish nun--sparrow hawk--golden pippin--white crow-- brazen bellona--edgeware diana ~ ~~ water lily--white doe--comic muse--queen of the dansysettes--vestina the titan--the red rose--moss rose and cabbage rose--the doldrum stars of erin--wren of paradise-- queen of the amazons--old pomona--venus mendicant--venus callypiga--goddess of the golden locks--mocking bird--net perdita--napoleon venus--red swan--black swan--blue-eyed luna--tartar sultana the bit of rue--brompton ceres-- celestina conway--lucy bertram--water wagtail--tops and bottoms--the pretenders--the old story--lady of the priory-- little white morose--queen of trumps--giovanni the syren, with ileal names "unexed--original portraits and anecdotes of the dukes of m------and d------, marquisses ii------ and ii ----, earls w------, f------, and c------, lords p------, a------, m------, and n------, llonourables b------c, l------s, and f------s--general trinket--colonel caxon--messrs. ii--b--h, r------, d------, and b------, and other innumerables. it was during the fashionable season of the year , when augusta corri, _ci-devant_ lady hawke,{ } shone forth under her newly-acquired title a planet of the first order, that a few amorous noblemen and wealthy dissolutes, ever on the _qui vive_ for novelty, projected and sanctioned the celebrated venetian carnival given at the argyll-rooms under the patronage of her ladyship and four other equally celebrated courtezans. of course, the female invitations were confined exclusively to the sisterhood, but restricted to the planets and stars of cytherea, the carriage curiosities, and fair impures of the most dashing order and notoriety; and never were the revels of terpsichore kept up with more spirit, or graced with a more choice collection of beautiful, ripe, and wanton fair ones. in page of our first volume we have given a brief biographical sketch of her ladyship and her amours. ~ ~~nor was there any lack of distinguished personages of the other sex; almost all the leading _roués_ of the day being present, from lord p******** tom b***, including many of the highest note in the peerage, court calendar, and army list. the elegance and superior arrangement of this cytherean _fête_ was in the most exquisite taste; and such was the number of applications for admissions, and the reported splendour of the preparations, that great influence in a certain court was necessary to insure a safe passport into the territories of the paphian goddess. the enormous expense of this act of folly has been estimated at upwards of two thousand pounds; and many are the dupes who have been named as bearing proportions of the same, from a royal duke to a hebrew star of some magnitude in the city; but truth will out, and the ingenuity of her ladyship in raising the wind has never been disputed, if it has ever been equalled, by any of her fair associates. the honour of the arrangement and a good portion of the expense were, undoubtedly, borne by a broad-shouldered milesian commissary-general, who has since figured among the ton under the quaint cognomen of general trinket, from his penchant for filling his pockets with a variety of cheap baubles, for the purpose of making presents to his numerous dulcineas; a trifling extravagance, which joined to his attachment to _rouge et noir_ has since consigned him to durance vile. the general is, however, certainly a fellow of some address, and, as a master of the ceremonies, deserves due credit for the superior genius he on that occasion displayed. during dinner, crony had been telling us a curious anecdote of the great earl of chesterfield and miss debouchette, the grandmother of the celebrated courtezans, harriette wilson and sisters. "at one of the places of public entertainment at the hague, a very beautiful girl of the name of debouchette, who ~ ~~acted as _limonadière_, had attracted the notice of a party of english noblemen, who were all equally anxious to obtain so fair a prize. intreaties, promises of large settlements, and every species of lure that the intriguers could invent, had been attempted and played off without the slightest success; the fair _limonadière_ was proof against all their arts. in this state of affairs arrived the then elegant and accomplished earl of chesterfield, certainly one of the most attractive and finished men of his time, but, without doubt, equally dissipated, and notorious for the number of his amours. whenever a charming girl in the humbler walks of life becomes the star of noble attraction and the reigning toast among the _roués_ of the day, her destruction may be considered almost inevitable. the amorous beaux naturally inflame the ardour of each other's desires by their admiration of the general object of excitement; until the honour of possessing such a treasure becomes a matter of heroism, a prize for which the young and gay will perform the most unaccountable prodigies, and, like the chivalrous knights of old, sacrifice health, fortune, and eventually life, to bear away in triumph the fair conqueror of hearts. such was the situation of miss debouchette, when the earl of chesterfield, whose passions had been unusually inflamed by the current reports of the lady's beauty, found himself upon inspection that her attractions were irresistible, but that it would require no unusual skill to break down and conquer the prudence and good sense with which superior education had guarded the mind of the fair _limonadière_. to a man of gallantry, obstacles of the most imposing import are mere chimeras, and readily fall before the ardour of his impetuosity; 'faint heart never won fair lady,' is an ancient but trite proverb, that always encourages the devotee. the earl had made a large bet that he would carry off the lady. in ~ ~~england, among the retiring and the most modest of creation's lovely daughters, his success in intrigues had become proverbial; yet, for a long time, was he completely foiled by the fair debouchette. no specious pretences, nor the flattering attentions of the most polished man in europe, could induce the lady to depart from the paths of prudence and of virtue; every artifice to lure her into the snare of the seducer had been tried and found ineffectual, and his lordship was about to retire discomfited and disgraced from the scene of his amorous follies, with a loss of some thousands, the result of his rashness and impetuosity, when an artifice suggested itself to the fertile brain of his foreign valet, who was an experienced tactician in the wars of venus. this was to ascertain, if possible, in what part of the mansion the lady slept; to be provided with a carriage and four horses, and in the dead of the night, with the assistance of two ruffians, to raise a large sheet before her window dipt in spirits, which being lighted would burn furiously, and then raising the cry of fire, the fair occupant would, of course, endeavour to escape; when the lover would have nothing more to do than watch his opportunity, seize her person, and conveying it to the carriage in waiting, drive off secure in his victory. the scheme was put in practice, and succeeded to the full extent of the projector's wishes; but the affair, which made considerable noise at the time, and was the subject of some official remonstrances, had nearly ended in a more serious manner. the brother of the lady was an officer in the army, and both the descendants of a poor but ancient family; the indignity offered to his name, and the seduction of his sister, called forth the retributive feelings of a just revenge; he sought out the offender, challenged him, but gave him the option of redeeming his sister's honour and his own by marriage. alas! that was impossible; the earl was already engaged. a meeting took place, ~ ~~when, reflection and good sense having recovered their influence over the mind of the dissipated lover, he offered every atonement in his power, professed a most unlimited regard for the lady, suggested that his destruction would leave her, in her then peculiar state, exposed to indigence, proposed to protect her, and settle an annuity of two hundred pounds per annum upon her for her life; and thus circumstanced the brother acceded, and the affair was, by this interposition of the seconds, amicably arranged. there are those yet living who remember the fair _limonadière_ first coming to this country, and they bear testimony to her superior attractions. the lady lived for some years in a state of close retirement, under the protection of the noble earl, in the neighbourhood of chelsea, and the issue of that connexion was a natural son, mr. debouchette, whom report states to be the father of harriette wilson and her sisters. 'ere man's corruptions made him wretched, he was born most noble, who was born most free.' --otway. so thought young debouchette; for a more wild and giddy fellow.in early life has seldom figured among the medium order of society. whether the mother of the cyprians was really honoured with the ceremony of the ritual, i have no means of knowing," said crony; "but i well remember the lady, before these her beauteous daughters had trodden the slippery paths of pleasure: there was a something about her that is undefinable in language, but conveys to the mind impressions of no very pure principles of morality; a roving eye, salacious person, and swaggering carriage, with a most inviting condescension, always particularized the elder silk-stocking grafter of chelsea, while yet the fair offspring of her house were lisping infants, innocent and beautiful as playful lambs. debouchette himself was a right jolly fellow, careless of domestic ~ ~~happiness, and very fond of his bottle; and indeed that was excusable, as during a long period of his life he was concerned in the wine trade. to the conduct and instructions of the mother the daughters are indebted for their present share of notoriety, with all the attendant infamy that attaches itself to harriette and her sisters:--and this perhaps is the reason why mrs. rochford, alias harriette wilson, so liberally eulogises, in her memoirs, a parent whose purity of principle is so much in accordance with the exquisite delicacy of her accomplished daughter. as the girls grew up, they were employed, amy and harriette, at their mother's occupation, the grafting of silk stockings, while the junior branches of the family were operative clear starchers, as the old board over the parlour window used to signify, which brummel would facetiously translate into getters up of fine linen, when petersham did him the honour of driving him past the door, that he might give his opinion upon the rising merits of the family, who, like fragrant exotics, were always placed at the window by their judicious parent, to excite the attention of the curious. but, allons" said crony, "we shall be late at the carnival, and i would not miss the treat of such an assemblage for the honour of knighthood." a very few minutes brought transit, eglantine, crony, and myself, within the vortex of this most seductive scene. waltzing was the order of the night-- "endearing waltz! to thy more melting tune bow irish jig and ancient rigadoon; scotch reels avaunt! and country dance forego your future claims to each fantastic toe. waltz--waltz alone both legs and arms demands, liberal of feet and lavish of her hands. hands, which may freely range in public sight, where ne'er before--but--pray 'put out the light.'" a coruscation of bright eyes and beauteous forms shed a halo of delight around, that must have warmed the cyprian's ball ~ ~~the heart and animated the pulse of the coldest stoic in christendom. the specious m. c, general o'm***a, introduced us in his best style, quickly bowing each of us into the graces of some fascinating fair, than whom "not cleopatra on her galley's deck display'd so much of leg or more of neck." for myself, i had the special honour of being engaged to the honourable mrs. j-- c******y, otherwise padden, who, whatever may have been her origin,{ } has certainly acquired the ease and elegance of mrs. padden is said to have been originally a servant-maid at plymouth, and the victim of early seduction. when very young, coming to london with her infant in search of a captain d----- in the d--------e militia, her first but inconstant swain, chance threw her in her abandoned condition into the way of colonel c-----, who was much interested by her tale of sorrow, and more perhaps by her then lovely person, to obtain possession of which, he took a house for her, furnished it, and (as the phrase is) _set her up_. how long the duke's _aide-de-camp_ continued the favourite lover is not of any consequence; but both parties are known to have been capricious in _affaires de cour_. her next acknowledged protector was the light-hearted george d-----d, then a great gun in the fashionable world: to him succeeded an _amorous thane_, the irish earl of f-----e; and when his lordship, satiated by possession, withdrew his eccentric countenance, lord mo--f--d succeeded to the vacant couch. the venetian masquerade is said to have produced a long carnival to this _belle brunette_, who seldom kept _lent_; and who hero met, for the first time, a now noble marquess, then lord y--------, to whose liberality she was for some time indebted for a very splendid establishment; but the precarious existence of such connexions is proverbial, and mrs. padden has certainly had her share of fatal experience. her next paramour was a diamond of the first water, but no star, a certain dashing jeweller, mr. c-----, whose charmer she continued only until kind fortune threw in her way her present constant jack. with the hoy-day of the blood, the fickleness of the heart ceases; and mrs. padden is now in the "sear o' the leaf," and somewhat _passée_ with the town. it does therefore display good judgment in the lady to endeavour, by every attention and correct conduct, to preserve an attachment that has now existed for some considerable time. ~ ~~indeed it is hardly possible to find a more conversational or attractive woman, or one less free from the vulgarity which usually accompanies ladies of her caste. with this fair i danced a waltz, and then danced off to my friend crony, who had been excused a display of agility on the score of age, and from whom i anticipated some interesting anecdotes of the surrounding stars. (see plate.) [illustration: page ] the montagues, five sisters, all fine women, and celebrated as the stars of erin, shone forth on this occasion with no diminished ray of their accustomed brilliancy; mrs. drummond, otherwise h--n dr--y ba--y, me--t--o, or bulkly, the last being the only legal _cognomen_ of the fair, led the way, followed by maria cross, otherwise latouche, matilda chatterton, isabella cummins, and amelia hamilton, all ladies of high character in the court of cytherea, whose amours, were i to attempt them, would exceed in volumes, if not in interest, the chronicles of their native isle. among the most interesting of the fairy group was the beautiful louisa rowley, since married to lord l**c**les, and that charming little rosebud, the captivating josephine, who, although a mere child, was introduced under the special protection of the celebrated mr. b***, who has since been completely duped by the little _intriguante_, as also was hep second lover lord p********? who succeeded in the lady's favour afterwards; but from whom she fled to lord h****t, since whose death, an event which occurred in paris, i hear she has reformed, and is now following the example of an elder sister, by preparing herself for the stage. "who is that dashing looking brunette in the turban, that is just entering the room?" inquired transit, who appeared to be mightily taken with the fair incognita. "that lady, with the mahogany skin and _piquant_ appearance, is the favourite mistress of the poor duke of ma**b****h," responded crony, "and is no other than ~ ~~the celebrated poll-----pshaw! everybody has heard of the queen of the amazons, a title given to the lady, in honour, as i suppose, of his grace's fighting ancestor. poll is said to be a great voluptuary; but at any rate she cannot be very extravagant, that is, if she draws all her resources from her protector's present purse. do you observe that _jolie dame_ yonder sitting under the orchestra? that is the well-known nelly mansell, of crawford-street, called the _old pomona_, from the richness of her _first fruits_. nelly has managed her affairs with no trifling share of prudence, and although in the decline of life, she is by no means in declining circumstances. h**re the banker married her niece, and the aunt's cash-account is said to be a very comfortable expectancy. the _elegante_ waltzing so _luxuriantly_ with h------ b------ h------ is the lovely emma richardson, sometime since called standish or davison, a cytherean of the very first order, and the sister planet to the equally charming ellen hanbury, otherwise bl-----g-----ve, constellations of the utmost brilliancy, very uncertain in their appearance, and equally so, if report speaks truth, in their attachment to either jupiter, mars, vulcan, or apollo. the first is denominated _venus mendicant_, from her always pleading poverty to her suitors, and thus artfully increasing their generosity towards her. sister ellen has obtained the appellation of _venus callipyga_, from her elegant form and generally half-draped appearance in public. do you perceive the swarthy amazon waddling along yonder, whom the old earl of w-----d appears to be eyeing with no little anticipation of delight? that is a lady with a very ancient and most fish-like flavor, odoriferous in person as the oily female esquimaux, or the more _fragrant_ feminine inhabitants of russian tartary and the crimea; she has with some of her admirers obtained the name of _dolly drinkwater_, from her known dislike to any ~ ~~thing _stronger_ than pure french brandy. her present travelling cognomen is mrs. sp**c*r, otherwise _black moll_; and a wag of the day, who is rather notorious for the variety of his taste, has recently insisted upon re-christening her by the _attractive nom de guerre_ of _nux vomica_. the little goddess of the golden locks, dancing with a well-known _roué_, is fanny my*rs, a very efficient partner in the dance, and if report be true not less engaging in the sacred mysteries of cytherea." it would fill the ample page to relate the varied anecdote with which crony illustrated, as he proceeded to describe the scyllo and charybdes of the unwary and the gay; who in their voyage through life are lured by the syrens of sweet voice, and the pyrrhas of sweet lip, the cleopatras of modern times, the conquerors of hearts, and the voluptuous rioters in pleasurable excesses, of those of whom byron has sung,-- "round all the confines of the yielding waist, the strangest hand may wander undisplaced. * * * till some might marvel with the modest turk, if 'nothing follows all this palming work.'" to draw all the portraits who figured in the fascinating scene of gay delight would be a task of almost equal magnitude with the herculean labours, and one which in attempting, i fear some of my readers may censure me for already dwelling too long upon: but let them remember, i am a professed painter of real life, not the inventor or promoter of these delectable _nocte attici_ and depraved orgies; that in faithfully narrating scenes and describing character, the object of the author and artist is to show up vice in all its native deformity; that being known, it may be avoided, and being exposed, despised. but i must crave permission to extend my notice of the cythereans to a few more characters, ere yet the mirth-inspiring notes of the band have ceased to vibrate, or the graceful ~ ~~fair ones to trip it lightly on fantastic toe; this done, i shall perhaps take a peep into the supper-room, drink champagne, and pick the wing of a chicken while i whisper a few soft syllables into the ear of the nearest _elegante_; and then--gentle reader, start not--then----- "the breast thus _publicly_ resign'd to man in _private_ may resist him--if it can." but here the curtain shall drop upon all the fairy sirens who lead the young heart captive in their silken chains; and the _daughters of pleasure_ and the _sons of profligacy_ may practise the mysteries of cytherea in private, undisturbed by the pen of the satirist or the pencil of the humorist. "the scandalizing group in close conference in the left-hand corner, behind lord william lenox and another dashing ensign in the guards, is composed," said crony, "of mrs. nixon, the _ci-devant_ mrs. baring, nugent's old.flame, mrs. christopher harrison, the two sisters, mesdames gardner and peters, and the well-known kitty stock, all minor constellations, mostly on the decline, and hence full of envious jealousy at the attention paid by the beaux to the more attractive charms of the newly discovered planets, the younger sisterhood of the convent." "if we could but get near enough to overhear their conversation," said transit, "we should, no doubt, obtain possession of a few rich anecdotes of the paphians and their paramours." "i have already enough of the latter," said i, "to fill a dozen albums, without descending to the meanness of becoming a listener. amorous follies are the least censurable of the sins of men, when they are confined to professed courtezans. the heartless conduct of the systematic seducer demands indignation; but the trifling peccadillos of the sons of fortune and the stars of fashion may be passed by, without any serious personal exposure, since _time, ~ ~~cash, and constitution are the three practising physicians_ who generally effect a radical cure, without the aid of the satirist. but come, crony, you must give us the _nom de guerre_ of the last-mentioned belles: you have hitherto distinguished all the cythereans by some eccentric appellation; let us therefore have the list complete." "by all means, gentlemen," replied the old beau: "if i must stand godfather to the whole fraternity of cyprians, i think i ought, at least, to have free access to every convent in christendom; but i must refer to my tablets, for i keep a regular entry of all the new appearances, or i should never remember half their designations. mrs. n------has the harmonious appellation of the _mocking bird_, from her silly habit of repeating every word you address to her. mrs. b------is called the _new perdita_, from a royal conquest she once made, but which we have only her own authority for believing; at any rate, she is known to be fond of a _new-gent_, and the title may on that account be fairly her own. mrs. c-----h------ has the honour of being distinguished by the appropriate name of the _napoleon venus_, from the similarity of her contour with the countenance of that great man. the two sisters, mesdames g------and p------, are well known by the flattering distinctions of the red and the black swan, from the colour of their hair and the stateliness of their carriage; and kitty stock has the poetical cognomen of _blue-eyed lima_. now, you have nearly the whole vocabulary of love's votaries," said old crony; "and be sure, young gentlemen, you profit by the precepts of experience; for not one of these frail fair ones but in her time has made as many conquests as wellington, and caused perhaps as much devastation among the sons of men as any hero in the world. but a new light breaks in upon us," said crony, "in the person of mrs. simmons, the _tartar sultana_, whom you may observe conversing with lords h------d and p-----m in the centre of the room. poor n--g--nt the cyprian's ball ~ ~~will long remember her prowess in battle, when the strength of her passion had nearly brought matters to a point, and that not a very tender one; but the swain cut the affair in good time, or might have been cruelly cut himself. messrs. h--h and r--s--w could also give some affecting descriptions of the tartar sultana's rage when armed with jealousy or resentment. her residence, no. , b--k--r-street, has long been celebrated as the three x x x; a name probably given to it by some spark who found the sultana three times more cross than even common report had stated her to be." the night was now fast wearing away, when crony again directed our attention to the right-hand corner of the room, where, just under the orchestra, appeared the elder sister of the notorious harriette wilson seated, and in close conversation with the milesian m. c, o'm--------a, who, according to his usual custom, was dispensing his entertaining anecdotes of all his acquaintance who graced the present scene. "that is amy campbell, otherwise sydenham, &e., &c, but now legally bochsa, of whom harriette has since told so many agreeable stories relative to the black puddings and argyle; however, considerable suspicion attaches itself to harriette's anecdotes of her elder sister, particularly as she herself admits they were not very good friends, and harriette never would forgive amy for seducing the duke of argyle from his allegiance to her. mrs. campbell was for some years the favourite sultana of his grace, and has a son by him, a fine boy, now about twelve years of age, who goes by the family name, and for whose support the kind-hearted duke allows the mother a very handsome annuity. amy is certainly a woman of considerable talent; a good musician, as might have been expected from her attachment to the harpist, and an excellent linguist, speaking the french, spanish, and italian languages with the greatest fluency. in her person she begins to exhibit the ravages of time, is somewhat _embonpoint_, with ~ ~~dark hair and fine eyes, but rather of the keen order of countenance than the agreeable; and report says, that the signior composer, amid his plurality of wives, never found a more difficult task to preserve the equilibrium of domestic harmony. by the side of this fair one, arm in arm with a well-known bookseller, you may perceive harriette kochforte, alias wilson, who, according to her own account, has had as many amours as the grand seignor can boast wives, and with just as little of affection in the _affaires de cour_ as his sublime highness, only with something more of publicity. harriette gives the honour of her introduction into the mysteries of cytherea to the earl of craven; but it is well known that a certain dashing solicitor's clerk then living in the neighbourhood of chelsea, and near her amiable mamma's residence, first engrossed, her attention, and by whom she exhibited increasing symptoms of affection, which being properly engrafted on the person of the fair stockinger, in due time required a release from a practitioner of another profession; an innocent affair that now lies buried deep in an odd corner at the old churchyard at chelsea, without a monumental stone or epitaph to point out the early virtues of the fair cytherean. to this limb of the law succeeded the honourable be-- --y c------n, who was then too volatile and capricious to pay his devotions at any particular shrine for more than a week together. it was this cold neglect of the honourable's that has, perhaps, secured him from mention in her memoirs; since harriette never speaks of her beaux without giving the reader to suppose they were desperately in love with herself: then there was more of the dignified in an affair with an earl, and madame harriette has a great notion of preserving her consequence, although, it must be confessed, she has latterly shown the most perfect indifference to the preservation of character. the the cyprian's ball ~ ~~circumstance which first gave miss wilson her great notoriety was the affair with the young marquis of worcester, then just _come out_, and a willing captive to her artful wiles. so successfully did she inveigle her noble swain, and so completely environ his heart, that in the fulness of his boyish adoration of the fair cytherean, he executed in her favour a certain promise in writing, not a promise to pay, for that might have been of no consequence, nor a promise of settlement, nor a promise to protect, nothing so unsettled,--nothing less did the fair intriguante obtain than a full, clear, and definite promise of marriage, with a sufficient penalty thereunto attached to make the matter alarming and complete, with every appearance on his part to ratify the contract. in this state of things, information reached his grace of b--f--t of his noble heir's intention, who not much relishing the intended honour, or perhaps doubting the permanency of his son's passion (for to question the purity of the lady was impossible), entered into a negotiation with harriette, by which, on condition of her resigning the promise and pledging herself never to see the marquis more on familiar terms, this disinterested woman was to receive eight hundred pounds per annum--so anxious was his grace to prevent a mes-alliance in his family. but, alas for harriette! jealousy for once got the better of her love of gain; her pride was wounded to see a sister flirting with her affianced lord, and in a moment of irritation, she in a most unequivocal manner publicly asserted her right to his person: the gallant yielded, the bond was __null and void, the _promise burnt_, his grace relieved from the payment of eight hundred pounds per annum, and his son the marquis, profiting by past experience, not so green as to renew the former obligation. "my intention is not to pirate the lady's memoirs, and so rob her of the fair gain of her professional ~ ~~experience," said crony, when i mentioned these circumstances to him afterwards; "i only mean to supply certain trifling omissions in the biography of harriette and her family, which the fair narrator has very modestly suppressed. it is but a few months since, that passing accidentally into warwick-court, holborn, to call upon an old friend, a navy lieutenant on half-pay, i thought i recognised the well-known superlative wig of the dandy rochforte, thrust longitudinally forward from beneath the sash of a two pair of stairs window.--can it be possible? thought i: and then again, i asked myself, why not? for the last time i saw him he was rusticating in surrey, beating the balls about in _banco regis_; from which black place he did not escape without a little white-washing: however, he's a full colonel of some unknown corps of south american independents for all that, and was once in his life, although for a very short time, a full cornet, in lincoln stanhope's regiment, the th dragoons, i think it was, and has never clipped his mustachios since, one would imagine, by their length and ferocious appearance. to be brief, i had scarcely placed my glass into the orifice before my imperfect vision, when harriette appeared at the adjoining window, and instantly recognizing an old acquaintance, invited me up stairs. 'times are a little changed,' said she, 'mr. crony, since last we met:' 'true, madam,' i responded; and then to cheer the belle a little, i added, 'but not persons, i perceive, for you are looking as young and as attractive as ever.' the compliment did not seem to please the colonel in the wig, who turned round, looked frowningly, and then twirled the dexter side of his lip wing into a perfect circle. it is not possible that this thing can affect jealousy of such a woman as harriette? thought i: so proceeded with our conversation: and he shortly resumed his polite amusement of spitting upon the children who were ~ ~~playing marbles beneath his window. 'i am really married to that monster, yonder,' said she, in an under tone: 'how do you like my choice?' 'i am not old enough in the gentleman's acquaintance to hazard an opinion on his merits,' quoth i; 'but you are a woman of experience, belle harriette, and should be a good judge of male bipeds, although i cannot say much in favour of your military taste.' 'and you was always a _quiz_, crony,' retorted belle harriette: 'remember my sister mary, who is now mrs. bochsa,{ } how you used to annoy her about her gaudy style of dressing, when we used to foot it at chelsea:--but i there were in all eight sisters of the debouchettes, and three brothers; but only one of the latter is living. of the girls, amy is now mrs. bochsa; mary, married to a nephew of sir richard bo****hs, a great irish contractor; harriette, actually married to cornet rochforte; fanny expired in the _holy keeping_ of the present marquis of h-----; sophia has been raised to the peerage, by the style and title of lady b-----k, and by her subsequent conduct well deserves her elevation; julia, an affectionate girl, clung to the house of coventry through poor tom's days of adversity, and died early, leaving some unprotected orphans; charlotte and louisa, younger sisters, the first now about eighteen and very beautiful, although a little lame, have been educated and brought up by their elder sister, the baroness, and are by her intended for the church--vestals for hymen's altar: at any rate, i hope they will escape the _sacrifices of cytherea_. harriette is now about forty years of age: she was, when at her zenith, always celebrated rather for her tact in love affairs, and her talent at invention, than the soft engaging qualifications of the frail fair, which fascinate the eye and lead the heart captive with delight: her conversational powers were admirable; but her temper was outrageous, with a natural inclination to the satirical:--to sum up her merits at once, she was what a _connoisseur_ would have called a bold fine woman, rather than an engaging handsome one--more of the english bellona than the _venus de medici_. crony's account of the round room and belle harriette's first views of publishing are, i have since learned, strictly correct. there is not a person mentioned in her memoirs, or scarcely one of any note in the court-guide, of whom she has at any time had the slightest knowledge, that have not been applied to repeatedly within the last three years, and received threats of exposure to compel them to submit to extortion. ~ ~~want your assistance.' egad, i dare say, i looked rather comical at this moment, for in truth i was somewhat alarmed at the last phrase. harriette burst into a loud fit of laughter; the colonel drew in his elegant wig, and deigned a smile; while i, involuntarily forcing my hand into the pocket of my inexpressibles, carefully drove the few sovereigns i had up into one corner, fearing the belle harriette had a mighty notion of laying strong siege to them: in this, however, i was agreeably disappointed; for recovering herself, she acknowledged she had perceived my embarrassment, but assured me i need be under no alarm on this occasion, as, at present, she only wanted to borrow a few--ideas: what a relief the last short word afforded! 'i have been writing some sketches of my life,' said she, 'and am going to publish: give me your opinion, crony, upon its merits;' and without more ceremony, she thrust a little packet of papers into my hand, headed 'sketches in the round room at the opera house;' in which all the characters of the opera frequenters were tolerably well drawn, nor was the dialogue deficient in spirit; but the titles were all fictitious--such as my lord red head, for the marquess of h-----d, lord pensiveham, for p------m, and so on to the end of the chapter. having glanced through the contents, i recommended her to colburn, as the universal speculator in paper and print; but his highness is playing _magnifico_, à la murray, in his new mansion, it would seem; for he, as i have since learned, refused to publish. at length, after trying allman and others, belle harriette hit upon stockdale, who having made some bad hits in his time, thought a little _courtesanish_ scandal could not make bad worse. under his superintendence real names were substituted for the fictitious; and it is said, that the choice notes of the lady are interwoven and extended, connected and illustrated, by the same elegant apollo who used to write love letters for mary ann, and ~ ~~love epistles to half a thousand, including bang and the bantum, in the dark refectory of the celebrated mother wood, the lady of the priory, or lisle-street convent." "if such is the case, 'how are the mighty fallen!'" said i.------but let us return to the ball-room. as the night advanced, a few more stars made their appearance in the firmament of beauty; among these, crony pointed out some of the demirespectables, attracted thither either by curiosity or the force of old habit: among these was charles wy--h--m's bit of rue, that herb of grace, the once beautiful mrs. ho--g--s, since closely connected with the whiskered lord p-----, to whose brother, the honourable f------g, her daughter, the elegant miss w--------n, had the good fortune to be early married. in the same group appeared another star of no mean attraction, the honourable mrs. l-----g, whose present husband underwent the ordeal of a crim. con. trial to obtain her person. 'par nobile fratum,' the world may well say of the brothers, p------ and l-----g; while f--------y, with all his eccentricities, has the credit of being a very good husband. three little affected mortals, the misses st--ts, crony introduced by the name of the pretenders, from the assumed modesty and great secrecy with which they carry on their amours. '_pas à pas on va bien loin_,' says the old french proverb, and rightly too," remarked our ancient; "for if you boys had not brought me here, i should never have known the extent of my experience, or have attempted to calculate the number of my female acquaintances." in the supper-room, which opened at four o'clock in the morning, waud had spread forth a banquet every way worthy the occasion: a profuse display of the choicest viands of the season and delicacies of the most costly character graced the splendid board, where the rich juice of the grape, and the inviting ripeness of the dessert, were only equalled by the voluptuous votaries who ~ ~~surrounded the repast. it was now that ceremony and the cold restraint of well regulated society were banished, by the free circulation of the glass. the eye of love shot forth the electric flash which animates the heart of young desire, lip met lip, and the soft cheek of violet beauty pressed the stubble down of manliness. then, while the snowy orbs of nature undisguised heaved like old ocean with a circling swell, the amorous lover palmed the melting fair, and led her forth to where shame-faced aurora, with her virgin gray, the blue-eyed herald of the golden morn, might hope in vain to draw aside the curtain and penetrate the mysteries of cytherea. and now, gentle reader, be ye of the hardy sex, who dare the glories of the healthful chase and haunt the peopled stream of gay delight--or of that lovely race, from which alone man's earthly joys arise, the soft-skinned conquerors of hearts--be ye prudes or stoics, chaste as virgin gold, or cold as alpine snow--confess that i have strictly kept my promise here, nor strayed aside in all my wanderings among the daughters of pleasure, to give pain to worthy bosoms or offend the ear of nicest modesty. pity for the unfortunate, and respect for the feelings of the relatives of the vicious and the dissolute, has prevented the insertion of many anecdotes, with which crony illustrated his sketches of character. enough, it is presumed, has been done to show vice in all its native deformity, without wounding the ear by one immoral or indelicate expression. for the unhappy fair ones who form the principal portraits, it should be remembered they have been selected from those only who are notorious, as belles of the first order, stars of fashion, and if not something indebted to fortune they would have escaped enrolment here. when beauty and poverty are allied, it must too often fall a victim to the eager eye of roving lust; for, even to the titled ~ ~~profligate, beauty, when arrayed in a simple garb of spotless chastity, seems "----fairer she in innocence and homespun vestments spread, than if cerulean sapphires at her ears shone pendent, or a precious diamond cross heaved gently on her panting bosom white. but let the frail remember, that the allurements of wealth and the blandishments of equipage fall off with possession and satiety; to the force of novelty succeeds the baseness of desertion. for a short time, the fallen one is fed like the silk-worm upon the fragrant mulberry leaf, and when she has spun her yellow web of silken attraction, sinks into decay, a common chrysalis, shakes her trembling and emaciated wings in hopeless agony, and then flutters and droops, till death steps in and relieves her from an accumulation of miseries, ere yet the transient summer of youth has passed over her devoted head. bernard blackmantle. [illustration: page ] the philosophy of laughter; or, mr punch in all his glory. thoughts on the philosophy of laughter--bernard blackmantle in search of a wife--first visit to the marigold family-- sketches of the alderman, his lady, and daughter--anecdote of john liston, and the citizen's dinner party--of the immortal mr. punch--some account of the great actor--a street scene, sketched from the life--the wooden drama--the true sublime. [illustration: page ] ~ ~~ you may sing of old thespis, who first in a cart, to the jolly god bacchus enacted a part; miss thalia, or mrs. melpomene praise, or to light-heel'd terpsichore offer your lays. but pray what are these, bind them all in a bunch, compared to the acting of signor punch? of garrick, or palmer, or kemble, or cooke, your moderns may whine, or on each write a book; or mathews, or munden, or fawcett, suppose they could once lead the town as they pleased by the nose; a fig for such actors! tied all in a bunch, mere mortals compared to old deified punch. not chester can charm us, nor foote with her smile, like the first blush of summer, our bosoms beguile, half so well, or so merrily drive caro away, as old punch with his judy in amorous play. kean, young, and macready, though thought very good, have heads, it is true, but then they're not of wood. ~ ~~ be ye ever so dull, full of spleen or ennui, mighty punch can enliven your spirits with glee. not honest jack harley, or liston's rum mug can produce half the fun of his juggity-jug: for a right hearty laugh, tie thorn all in a bunch, not an actor among them like signor punch. --bernard blackmantle. it was the advice of the prophet tiresias to menippus, who had travelled over the terrestrial globe fend descended into the infernal regions in search of content, to be merry and wise; "to laugh at all the busy farce of state, employ the vacant hour in mirth and jest." "the merrier the heart the longer the life," says burton in his anatomy of melancholy. mirth is the principal of the three salernitan doctors, dr. merryman, dr. diet, and dr. quiet. the nepenthes of homer, the bowl of retenus, and the girdle of venus, are only the ancient types of liveliness and mirth, by the free use of which the mind is dispossessed of dulness, and the cankerworm of care destroyed. seneca calls the happiness of wealth bracteata félicitas, tinfoiled happiness, and infelix félicitas, an unhappy felicity. a poor man drinks out of a wooden dish, and eats his hearty meal with a wooden spoon; while the rich man, with a languid appetite, picks his dainties with a silver fork from plates of gold--but, in auro bibitur venenum; the one rinds health and happiness in his pottered jug, while the other sips disease and poison from his jewelled cup. a good laugh is worth a guinea, (to him who can afford to pay for it) at any time; but it is best enjoyed when it comes gratuitously and unexpectedly, and breaks in upon us like the radiant beams of a summer sun forcing its way through the misty veil of an inland fog. i had been paying a morning visit to a wealthy ~ ~~citizen, mr. alderman marigold, and family, at the express desire of my father, who had previously introduced me for the purpose of fixing my--affection --tush--no, my attention, to the very weighty merits of miss biddy marigold, spinster; a spoiled child, without personal, but with very powerful attractions to a poor colebs. two hours' hard fighting with the alderman had just enabled me to retreat from the persecution of being compelled to give an opinion upon the numerous bubble companies of the time, without understanding more than the title of either; to this succeeded the tiresome pertinacity of mrs. marigold's questions relative to the movements, ondits, and fashionable frivolities westward, until, fairly wearied out and disgusted, i sat down a lion exhausted, in the window seat, heartily wishing myself like liston{ } safe out of purgatory; when the sound john liston, the comedian, is in private life not less conspicuous for finished pleasantry and superior manners than he is on the stage for broad humour; but nothing can offend the actor more than an invitation given merely in the expectation of his displaying at table some of his professional excellences. john had, on one occasion, accepted an invitation to dine with a wealthy citizen en famille; the repast over--the wine had circulated--a snug friend proposed the health of mr. liston; and john returned thanks with as much dignity as a minister of state eating white bait at blackwall with the worshipful company of fishmongers. then came the amiable civilities of the lady of the mansion, evidently intended to ingratiate herself with the actor, the better to secure his assent to her request, but not a muscle of the comedian gave the least encouragement. the little citizens, who were huddled round their mamma, and had been staring at the actor in anxious expectation, were growing very impatient. the eldest boy had already recited young norval's speech to lady douglas, by way of prologue; but the actor still continued mute, never for a moment unbending to the smirking encourage-ment of his hostess, or the jolly laugh-exciting reminiscences of his ruby-faced host; as, for instance, "lord, mr. liston, what a funny figure you looked t'other night in moll flaggon!" or, "how you made thorn laugh in tony lumpkin! and then what a fright you was in mrs. cheshire. couldn't you give us a touch just now?" "ay, do, mr. liston, pray do," vociferated a dozen tongues at once, including mamma, the little misses and mastery. "the children have been kept up two hours later than usual on purpose," said the lady mother. "ay, come, my good fellow," reiterated the cit, "take another glass, and then give us some-thing funny to amuse the young ones." this was the finishing blow to liston's offended dignity--to be invited to dinner by a fat fleshmonger, merely to amuse his uncultivated cubs, was too much for the nervous system of the comedian to bear; but how to retreat?" i have it," thought john, "by the cut direct;" rising and bowing, therefore, to the company, as if intending to yield to their entreaties, he begged permission to retire to make some little arrangement in his dress, to personate vanish; when, leaving them in the most anxious expectation for more than half an hour, on ringing the bell, they learned from the servant that mr. liston had suddenly vanished by the street- door, and was, of course, never seen in that direction more. ~ ~~of a cracked trumpet in the street arrested my attention. "i vonder vat that ere hinstrument can mean, my dear!" said mrs. alderman marigold, (advancing to the window with eager curiosity). "it's wery likely some fire company's men marching to a bean-feast, or a freemason's funeral obscenities," replied the alderman. when another blast greeted our ears with a few notes of "see the conquering hero comes," "la, mamma," whined out miss biddy marigold, "i declare, it's that filthy fellow punch coming afore our vindow vith his imperence; i prognosticated how it voud be, ven the alderman patronised him last veek by throwing avay a whole shilling upon his fooleries." "you've no taste for fun, biddy," replied the alderman; at the same time making his daughter and myself a substitute for crutches, by resting a hand upon each shoulder. "i never laid out a shilling better in the whole course of my life. a good laugh beats all the french medicine, and drives the gout out at the great toe. i mean to pension mr. punch at a shilling a veek to squeak before my vindow of a saturday, in preference to paying six guineas for a ~ ~~box to hear all that outlandish squeaking at the hopera." "la, pa, how ungenteel!" said miss biddy; "i declare you're bringing quite a new-sense to all the square, vat vith your hurdy-gurdy vonien, french true-baw-dears, and barrel organ-grinders, nobody has no peace not at all in the neighbourhood." during this elegant colloquy, the immortal mr. punch had reared his chequered theatre upon the pavement opposite, the confederate showman had concealed himself beneath the woollen drapery, and the italian comedian had just commenced his merry note of preparation by squeaking some of those little snatches of tunes, which act with talismanic power upon the locomotive faculties of all the peripatetics within hearing, attracting everybody to the travelling stage, young and old, gentle and simple; all the crowd seem as if magic chained them to the spot, and each face exhibits as much anxiety, and the mind, no doubt, anticipates as much or more delight, than if they were assembled to see charles kemble, young, and macready, all three acting in one fine tragedy. there is something so indescribably odd and ridiculous about the whole paraphernalia of mr. punch, that we are irresistibly compelled to acknowledge the superiority of the lignum vito roscius over the histrionic corps of mere flesh and blood. the eccentricity of this immortal personage, his foreign, funny dialogue, the whim and strange conceit exhibited in his wooden drama, the gratuitous display, and the unrestricted laugh he affords--all combine to make mr. punch the most popular performer in the world. of italian origin, he has been so long domiciled in england, that he may now be considered naturalized by common consent. indeed, i much question, if a greater misfortune could befall the country, than the removal or suppression of mr. punch and his laugh-provoking drolleries:--it would be considered a national calamity; but mirth protect ~ ~~us from such a terrible mishap! another sound from an old cracked trumpet, something resembling a few notes of "arm, arm, ye brave," and an accompaniment by the great actor himself of a few more "tut, tut, tutura, lura, lu's," in his own original style, have now raised excitement to the highest pitch of expectation. the half inflated lungs of the alderman expand by anticipation, and his full foggy breathings upon the window-glass have already compelled me more than once to use my handkerchief to clear away the mist. the assembled group waiting the commencement of his adventures, now demands my notice. what a scene for my friend transit! i shall endeavour to depict it for him. the steady looking old gentleman in the fire-shovel clerical castor, how sagaciously he leers round about him to see if he is likely to be recognised! not a countenance to whom he is known; he smiles with self-complacency at the treat he is about to enjoy; plants himself in a respectable doorway, for three reasons; first, the advantage from the rise of the step increasing his altitude; second, the security of his pockets from attacks behind; and third, the pretence, should any goth to whom he is known, observe him enjoying the scene, that he is just about to enter the house, and has merely been detained there by accident. excellent apologist!--how ridiculous!--excessive delicacy, avaunt! give me a glorious laugh, and "throw (affectation) to the dogs; i'll have none of it." now the farce begins: up starts the immortal hero himself, and makes his bow; a simultaneous display of "broad grins" welcomes his felicitous entrée; and for a few seconds the scene resembles the appearance of a popular election candidate, sir francis burdett, or his colleague, little cam hobhouse, on the hustings in covent garden; nothing is heard but one deafening shout of clamorous approbation. observe the butcher's boy has stopped his ~ ~~horse to witness the fun, spite of the despairing cook who waits the promised joint; and the jolly lamp-lighter, laughing hysterically on the top of his ladder, is pouring the oil from his can down the backs and into the pockets of the passengers beneath, instead of recruiting the parish-lamp, while the sufferers are too much interested in the exhibition to feel the trickling of the greasy fluid. the baker, careless of the expectant owner's hot dinner, laughs away the time until the pie is quite cold; and the blushing little servant-maid is exercising two faculties at once, enjoying the frolics of signor punch, and inventing some plausible excuse for her delay upon an expeditious errand. how closely the weather-beaten tar yonder clasps his girl's waist! every amorous joke of signor punch tells admirably with him; till, between laughing and pressing, poll is at last compelled to cry out for breath, when jack only squeezes her the closer, and with a roaring laugh vociferates, "my toplights! what the devil will that fellow punch do next, poll?" the milkman grins unheedful of the cur who is helping himself from out his pail; and even the heavy-laden porter, sweating under a load of merchandise, heaves up his shoulders with laughter, until the ponderous bale of goods shakes in the air like a rocking-stone. (see plate.) inimitable actor! glorious signor punch! show me among the whole of the dramatis persona in the patent or provincial theatres, a single performer who can compete with the mighty wooden roscius. [illustration: page ] the alderman's eulogium on mr. punch was superlatively good. "i love a comedy, mr. blackmantle," said he, "better than a tragedy, because it makes one laugh; and next to good eating, a hearty laugh is most desirable. then i love a farce still better than a comedy, because that is more provokingly merry, or broader as the critics have it; then, sir, a pantomime beats both comedy and ~ ~~farce hollow; there's such lots of fun and shouts of laughter to be enjoyed in that from the beginning to the end. but, sir, there's one performance that eclipses all these, tragedy, comedy, farce, and pantomime put together, and that is mister punch--for a right-down, jolly, split-my-side burst of laughter, he's the fellow; name me any actor or author that can excite the risibilities of the multitude, or please all ages, orders, and conditions, like the squeaking pipe and mad waggeries of that immortal, merry-faced itinerant. if any man will tell me that he possesses genius, or the mellow affections, and that he can pass punch, 'nor cast one longing, lingering look behind;' then, i say, that man's made of 'impenetrable stuff;' and, being too wise for whimsicality, is too phlegmatic for genius, and too crabbed for mellowness." mark, what a set of merry open-faced rogues surround punch, who peeps down at them as cunningly as "a magpie peeping into a marrow bone; "--how luxuriantly they laugh, or stand with their eyes and mouths equally distended, staring at the minikin effigy of fun and phantasy; thinking, no doubt, "he bin the greatest wight on earth." and, certainly, he has not his equal, as a positive, dogmatic, knock-me-down argument-monger; a dare devil; an embodied phantasmagoria, or frisky infatuation. i have often thought that punch might be converted to profitable use, by being made a speaking pasquin; and, properly instructed, might hold up his restless quarter staff, in terrorem, over the heads of all public outragers of decency; and by opening the eyes of the million, who flock to his orations, enlighten them, at least, as much as many greater folks, who make more noise than he, and who, ~ ~~like him, often get laughed at, without being conscious that they are the subjects of merriment. the very name of our old friend punch inspires us in our social moments. what other actor has been commemorated by the potential cup? is not the sacred bowl of friendship dedicated to the wooden hero? would you forget the world, its cares, vexations, and anxieties, sip of the mantling, mirth-inspiring cordial, and all within is jollity and gay delight. "for punch cures the gout, the cholic, and the phthisic, and it is to every man the very best of physic." honest, kind-hearted punch! i could write a volume in thy praise, and then, i fear, i should leave half thy merits untold. thou art worth a hundred of the fashionable kickshaws that are daily palmed upon us to be admired; and thy good-humoured efforts to please at the expense of a broken pate can never be sufficiently praised. but now the curtain rises, and mr. punch steals from behind his two-foot drapery: the very tip of his arched nose is the prologue to a merry play; he makes his bow to the multitude, and salutes them with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. what a glorious reception does he meet with from an admiring audience! and now his adventures commence--his "dear judy," the partner of his life, by turns experiences all the capricious effects of love and war. what a true picture of the storms of life!--how admirable an essay on matrimonial felicity! then his alternate uxoriousness to the lady, and his fondlings of that pretty "kretur" with the family countenance; his chivalrous exploits on horseback, and mimic capering round the lists of his chequered tilt-yard; his unhappy differences with the partner of his bosom, and her lamentable catastrophe; the fracas with the sheriff's substitute; and his interview with that incomprehensible personage, ~ ~~the knight of the sable countenance, who salutes him with the portentous address of "schalabala! schalabala! schalabala!" his successive perils and encounters with the ghost of the martyred judy; and, after his combat with the great enemy of mankind, the devil himself, "propria marte" his temporary triumph; and, finally, his defeat by a greater man than old lucifer, the renowned mr. john ketch. talk of modern dramas, indeed!--show me any of your dimonds, reynolds, dibdins, or crolys that can compare with punchiana, in the unities of time, place, costume, and action, intricate and interesting plot, situations provokingly comical and effective, and a catastrophe the most appallingly surprising and agreeable. then his combats aux batons are superior even to bradley and blanchard; but the ne plus ultra of his exploits, the cream of all his comicalities, the grand event, is the ingenious trick by which mr. punch, when about to suffer on the scaffold, disposes of the executioner, and frees himself from purgatory, by persuading the unsuspecting hangman, merely for the sake of instruction to an uninitiated culprit, to try his own head in the noose: punch, of course, seizes the perilous moment--runs him up to the top of the fatal beam--mr. john ketch hangs suspended in the air--punch shouts a glorious triumph--all the world backs him in his conquest--the old cracked trumpet sounds to victory--the showman's hat has made the transit of the circle, and returns half-filled with the voluntary copper contributions of the happy audience. the alderman drops his tributary shilling, while his fat sides shake with laughter; even mrs. marigold and the amiable miss biddy have become victims to the vulgar inspiration, and are laughing as heartily as if they were enjoying the grimaces of the first of buffos, signor ambrogetti. and now the curtain falls, and the busy group disperse their several ways, chuckling with delight over the ~ ~~recollections of the mad waggeries of immortal mr. punch. all hail! thou first great mimic chief, physician to the mind's relief; thrice hail! most potent punch. not momus' self, should he appear, could dim the lustre of thy sphere; so hail! all hail! great punch. bernard blackmantle. [illustration: page ] the westminster scholar. reminiscences of former times--lamentations of old crony-- ancient sports and sprees--modern im-provements--hints to builders and buyers--some account of the school and its worthies--recollections of old schoolfellows--sketches of character--the living and the dead. "fast by, an old but noble fabric stands, no vulgar work, but raised by princely hands; which, grateful to eliza's memory, pays, in living monuments, an endless praise." from a poem by a westminster scholar, written during dr. friend's mastership, in . ~ ~~ [illustration: page ] "what say you to a stroll through _thorney island_,{ } this morning?" said old crony, with whom i had been taking a _déjeuné à la fourchette_; "you have indulged your readers with all the whims and eccentricities of eton and of oxford, and, in common justice, you must not pass by the _westminster blacks_."{ } crony had, i learned, been a foundation scholar during the mastership of dr. samuel smith; when the poet churchill, robert lloyd, (the son of the under-master) bonnel thornton, george colman the elder, richard cumberland, and a host of other highly-gifted names, were associated within the precincts of the abbey cloisters. our way towards the abbey ground, so called by the monkish writers; but, since busby's time, more significantly designated by the scholars _birch island.--vide tidier_. black------s from westminster; ruff--s from winchester; and gentlemen from eton.--_old cambridge proverb_. ~ ~~westminster from the surrey side of vauxhall bridge, where crony had taken up his abode, lay through the scene of his earliest recollections; and, not even crockery himself could have been more pathetic in his lamentations over the improvements of modern times. "here," said crony, placing himself upon the rising ground which commands an uninterrupted view of the bank, right and left, and fronts the new road to chelsea, and, the grosvenor property; "here, in my boyish days, used the westminster scholars to congregate for sports and sprees. many a juvenile frolic have i been engaged in beneath the shadowy willows that then o'ercanopied the margin of old father thames; but they are almost all destroyed, and with them disappears the fondest recollections of my youth. upwards, near yonder frail tenement which is now fast mouldering into decay, lived the beautiful gardener's daughter, the flower of millbank, whose charms for a long time excited the admiration of many a noble name, ay, and inspired many a noble strain too, and produced a chivalrous rivalry among the young and generous hearts who were then of westminster. close to that spot all matches on the water were determined; and beneath yon penthouse, many a jovial cup have i partook of with the contending parties, when the aquatic sports were over, in the evening's cool retirement, or seated on the benches which then filled up the space between the trees in front of watermans' hall, as the little public house then used to be called. about half a mile above was the favourite bathing-place; and just over the water below lambeth palace, yet may be seen doo's house, where, from time immemorial, the westminster boys had been supplied with funnies, skiffs, wherries, and sailing-boats. the old mill which formerly stood on the right-hand of the river, and from which the place derived its name, has now entirely disappeared; and in lieu of the ~ ~~green fields and pleasant walks with which this part of the suburbs abounded, we have now a number of square brick-dust tubs, miscalled cottages _ornée_, and a strange-looking turkish sort of a prison called a penitentiary, which from being judiciously placed in a swamp is rendered completely uninhabitable. cumberland-gardens, on the opposite side, was, in former times, in great vogue; here the cits used to rusticate on a summer's evening, coming up the water in shoals to show their dexterity in rowing, and daring the dangers of the watery element to _blow a cloud_ in the fresh air, and ruralise upon the 'margin of old father thames.' [illustration: page ] but where can the westminster boys of the present day look for amusements? there's no snug spot now for a dog-tight or a badger-bait. earl grosvenor has converted all the green lanes into macadamised roads, and covered the turf with new brick tenements. no taking a pleasant toodle with a friend now along the sequestered banks, or shooting a few sparrows or fieldfares in the neighbourhood of the _five chimnies_{ } not a space to be found free from the encroachments of modern speculators, or big enough for a bowling alley or a cricket match. tothill-fields have altogether disappeared; and the wand of old merlin would appear to have waved over and dispersed the most trifling vestiges and recollections of the past. a truce with your improvements!" said crony, combating my attempt to harmonise his feelings; "tell me what increases the lover's boldness and the maiden's tenderness more than the fresh and fragrant air, the green herbage, and the quiet privacy of retired spots, where all nature yields a delightful inspiration to the mind. there where the lovers find delight, the student finds repose, secluded from the busy haunts of men, and yet able, by a few strides, to mingle again at pleasure with the world, the man of since called the five-fields, chelsea; and a favourite resort of the westminster scholars of that time, but now built upon. ~ ~~contemplation turns aside to consult his favourite theme, and having run out his present stock of thoughtful meditation, wheels him round, and finds himself one of the busy group again.{ } as we advance the rogent's-park, formerly called marylebone, is an improve-ment of this nature. it was originally a park, and had a royal palace in it, where, i believe, queen elizabeth occasionally resided. it was disbarked by oliver cromwell, who settled it on colonel thomas harrison's regiment of dragoons for their pay; but at the restoration of charles ii. it passed into the hands of other possessors; from which time it has descended through different proprietors, till, at length, it has reverted to the crown, by whose public spirit a magnificent park is secured to the inhabitants of london. the expense of its planting, &c. must have been enormous; but money cannot be better laid out than on purposes of this lasting benefit and national ornament. the plan and size of the park is in every respect worthy of the nation. it is larger than hyde-park, st. james's, and the greenpark together; and the trees planted in it about twelve years ago have already become umbrageous. the water is very extensive. as you are rowed on it, the variety of views you come upon is admirable: sometimes you are in a narrow stream, closely overhung by the branches of trees; presently you open upon a wide sheet of water, like a lake, with swans sunning themselves on its bosom; by and by your boat floats near the edge of a smooth lawn fronting one of the villas; and then again you catch the perspective of a range of superb edifices, the elevation of which is contrived to have the effect of one palace. the park, in fact, is now belted with groups of these mansions, entirely excluding all sight of the streets. those that are finished, give a satisfactory earnest of the splendid spirit in which the whole is to be accomplished. there will be nothing like it in europe. the villas in the interior of the park are planted out from the view of each other, so that the inhabitant of each seems, in his prospect, to be the sole lord of the surround-ing picturesque scenery. in the centre of the park there is a circular plantation of im-mense circumference, and in the interior of this you are in a perfect arcadia. the mind cannot conceive any thing more hushed, more sylvan, more entirely removed from the slightest evidence of proximity to a town. nothing is audible there except the songs of birds and the rustling of leaves. kensington gardens, beautiful as they are, have no seclusion so perfect as this. ~ ~~in life we cling still closer to the recollections of our infancy; the cheerful man loves to dwell over the scenes and frolics of his boyish days; and we are stricken to the very heart by the removal or change of these pleasant localities; the loss of an old servant, an old building, or an old tree, is felt like the loss of an old friend. the paths, and fields, and rambles of our infancy are endeared to us by the fondest and the purest feelings of the mind; we lose sight of our increasing infirmities, as we retrace the joyous mementos of the past, and gain new vigour as we recall the fleeting fancies and pleasant vagaries of our earliest days. i am one of those," continued crony, "who am doomed to deplore the destructive advances of what generally goes by the name of improvement; and yet, i am not insensible to the great and praiseworthy efforts of the sovereign to increase the splendour of the capital westward; but leave me a few of the green fields and hedgerow walks which used to encircle the metropolis, or, in a short space, the first stage from home will only be half-way out of london. a humorous writer of the day observes, that 'the rage for building fills every pleasant outlet with bricks, mortar,rubbish,and eternal scaffold-poles, which, whether you walk east, west, north, or south, seem to be running after you. i heard a gentleman say, the other day, that he was sure a resident of the suburbs could scarcely lie down after dinner, and take a nap, without finding, when he awoke, that a new row of buildings had started up since he closed his eyes. it is certainly astonishing: one would think the builders used magic, or steam at least, and it would be curious to ask those gentlemen in what part of the neighbouring counties they intend london should end. not content with separate streets, squares, and rows, they are actually the founders of new towns, which in the space of a few months become finished and inhabited. the precincts of london have more the appearance of a newly-discovered colony than ~ ~~the suburbs of an ancient city.{ } and what, sir, will be the pleasant consequences of all this to posterity? instead of having houses built to encumber the earth for a century or two, it is ten to one but they disencumber the mortgagee, by falling down with a terrible crash during the first half life, and, perhaps, burying a host of persons in their ruins. mere paste-board palaces are the structures of the present times, composed of lath and plaster, and parker's cement, a few coloured bricks, a fanciful viranda, and a balcony, embellished within by the _décorateur_, and stuccoed or whitewashed without, to give them a light appearance, and hide the defects of an ignorant architect or an unskilful builder; while a very few years introduces the occupant to all the delightful sensations of cracked walls, swagged floors, bulged fronts, sinking roofs, leaking gutters, inadequate drains, and other innumerable ills, the effects of an originally bad constitution, which dispels any thing like the hopes of a reversionary interest, and clearly proves that without a renovation equal to resurrection, both the building and the occupant are very likely to fall victims to a rapid consumption." in this way did crony contrive to beguile the time, until we found ourselves entering the arena in front of the dean's house, westminster. "here, alone," said my old friend, "the hand of the innovator has not been permitted to intrude; this spot remains unpolluted; but, for the neighbourhood, alas!" sighed crony, "that is changed indeed. the tavern in union-street, for instance: in what a very short time back were the bays-water-fields, there is now a populous district, called by the inhabitants "moscow;" and at the foot of primrose- hill we are amazed by coming upon a large complication of streets, &c. under the name of "portland town." the rustic and primaeval meadows of kilburn are also filling with raw buildings and incipient roads; to say nothing of the charming neighbourhood of st. john's wood farm, and other spots nearer town. ~ ~~where charles churchill, and lloyd, and bonnel thornton used to meet and mix wit, and whim, and strong potation, has sunk into a common pot-house, and is wholly neglected by the scholars of the present time: not that they are a whit more moral than their predecessors, but, professing to be more refined, they are now to be found at the tavistock, or the hummums, at long's, or steven's; more polished in their pleasures, but more expensive in their pursuits." [illustration: page ] as we approached the centre of dean's-yard, crony's visage evidently grew more sentimental; the curved lips of the cynic straightened to an expression of kindlier feeling, and ere we had arrived at the school-door, the old eccentric had mellowed down into a generous contemplatist. "ay," said crony, "on this spot, mr. black mantle, half a century ago, was i, a light-hearted child of whim, as you are now, associated with some of the greatest names that have since figured in the history of our times, many of whom are now sleeping in their tombs beneath a weight of worldly honours, while some few have left a nobler and a surer monument to exalt them with posterity, the well-earned tribute of a nation's gratitude, the never-fading fame which attaches itself to good works and great actions. among the few families of my time who might be styled ''_magni nominis_' in college, were the finches, the drummonds, (arch-bishop's sons), and the markhams. tom steele{ } was on the foundation also, and had much fame in playing davus. the hothams{ } were considered among the lucky hits of westminster; the byngs{ } thought not as lucky as they should have been. mr. drake{ } a descendant of the celebrated sir richard steele, the associate of addison in the spectator, tatler, crisis, &c. sir henry and sir william hotham, admirals in the british navy. viscount torrington, a rear-admiral of the blue. thomas tyrwhitt drake, esq., (i believe) member for agmondesham, bucks. ~ ~~of amersham was one of the best scholars of his time; for a particular act of beneficence, two guineas given out of his private pocket-money to a poor sufferer by a fire, dr. smith gave him a public reward of some books. lord carmarthen{ } here came to the title, on the death of his eldest brother. here too he found the jacksons, and what was more, the jacksons{ } found him. lord foley had, during his stay here, two narrow escapes for his life, once being nearly drowned in the thames, and secondly, by a hack-horse running away with him: the last incident was truly ominous of the noble lord's favourite, but unfortunate pursuits{ }. sir john st. aubyn is here said to have formed his attachments with several established characters in the commercial world, as mr. beckett, and others; which afterwards proved of the highest consequence to his pursuits and success in life. lord bulkley had the credit of being one of the handsomest and best-humoured boys of his time, and so he continued through life. michael angelo taylor{ } was remarkable for his close application, under his tutor hume, and the tutor as remarkable for application to him. hatton, junior. lawyers, if not always good scholars, generally are something better; with much strong practical sense, and a variety of all that "makes a ready man; "hatton was all this, both as to scholarship, and the pertinent application of it. though a nephew of lord mansfield, and bred up under his auspices, he was not more remarkable than his brother george for the love of bullion. his abilities were great, and they would have been greatly thought of, had he been personally less locomotive. "ah, ah," said his uncle, "you'll never prosper till you learn to stay in a place." he replied, "o never fear, sir, do but get me a place; and i'll learn of you to stay in it." the present duke of leeds. dr. cyril jackson, afterwards sub-preceptor to his majesty, george the fourth, and since canon of christ church, oxford. he refused the primacy of ireland; was an excellent governor of his college, and died universally respected at fulpham, in sussex, in . dr. william jackson, his brother, who was bishop of oxford, was also regius professor of greek to that university; he died in . his lordship's attachment to the turf is as notorious as his undeviating practice of the purest principles of honour. it will not excite surprise, that such conduct has not been in such pursuits successful. the member for durham. ~ ~~lord deerhurst (now earl of coventry) had then, as now, very quick parts, and early insight into beautiful composition. whatever good thing he met with, he was always ready with an immediate parallel; latin, greek, or from honesty into english, nothing came amiss to him. he had a quick sense of the ridiculous; and could scout a character at all absurd and suspicious, with as much pleasant scurrility as a gentleman need have. banks always made his own exercises, as his exercises have since made him. he was a diligent and good boy; and though an early arithmetician, and fond of numbers, he was as soon distinguished for very honourable indifference to number one. douglas (now, i believe, marquis of queensberry) was remarkable for the worst penmanship in the school, and the economy of last moments; till then he seldom thought of an exercise. his favourite exercise was in tothill-fields; from whence returning once very late, he instantly conceived and executed some verses, that were the best of his day. on another day, he was as prompt, and thought to have been more lucky than before; when, lo, the next morning he was flogged! for the exercise was so ill written, that it was not legible even by himself. lord maiden was remarkable for his powers of engaging, and he then, as since, made some engagements, which might as well have been let alone. he made an early promise of all he has since performed. he was very fond of dramatic entertainments, and he enacted much; was accounted a good actor; so was his crony, jack wilson, so well known at mrs. hobart's, &c., for his fal de ral tit and for his duets with lady craven, lady a. foley, &c, &c. lord mansfield, then william murray, here began his career. when at school, he was not remarkable for personal courage, or for mental bravery; though one of the stoutest boys of his standing, he was often beat by boys a year or two below him; and though then acute and voluble, his opinions were suppressed and retracted before minds less powerful but more intrepid than his own. of his money allowance he was always so good a manager, ~ ~~that he could lend to him who was in need. the famous exercise which niçois made such a rout about, was in praise of abundance: an english theme on this thesis, from horace-- "_dulce est de magno tollore acervo_. " he was in college; and no man on earth could conjecture that in his own _acervo_ there would ever be aggrandizement, such as it has since occurred. lord stormont at school began his knack of oral imitations, and when a child, could speak quite as well as afterwards; after his uncle, the disgusting pronunciation of the letter o then too infected his language; he made it come to the ear like an a. humorously glancing at this affectation, onslow or stanhope said "murray's horse is an ass." markham, the archbishop of york, made an early display of classical taste, and the diligent cultivation of it. some of his school exercises are extant, and show more than a promise of that refinement and exactness, which afterwards distinguished his performances at christ church. the latin version of the fragment of simonides, as beautiful as any thing in the whole range of poetical imitation, though published in the oxford lachrymo as mr. bournes, is known to be written by mr. markham. at school, too, markham's conversation had a particularity known to distinguish it. war was his favourite topic, and caught, perhaps, from the worthy major, his father, and from his crony webb, afterwards the general. it was apparent upon all occasions; when he was to choose his reading as a private study, in the sixth form, cæsar was his first book; and so continuing through most of his leisure time addicted to this sort of inquiry, the archbishop was afterwards able to talk war with any soldier in england. but, indeed, what is there he could not talk equal to any competitor? to the archbishop markham, and through him to westminster, attach the credit of the good scholarship of the present king. this is little less than a credit to the country. the marquis of stafford had fame for his english exercises; and after saying this of his wednesday nights' themes, let it also be noted, that he had fame for other exercises of old england. he could ride, run, row, and bat better than most of his comtemporaries; in his potations, too, he was rather deep; but though deep, yet clear; and though gentle, yet not dull. at once a most jolly fellow, and the most magnificent of his time,--and so "_ab incepto processerit_." the duke of dorset, then sackville, (since dead) was good-humoured, manly, frank, and passionately fond of various school ~ ~~exercises; as billiards, at the alehouse in union-street, (then perhaps a tavern) and _double-fives_ between the two walls at the school-door. for tothill-fields fame as to cricket, he was yet more renowned: there he was the champion of the town-boys against those in college; and in the great annual match, he had an innings that might have lasted till the time baccelli _run him out_, had not the other side given up the game. as to the school itself, there it was easy to catch him out; though such was his address, that he was seldom caught out. when he was in school, really few boys were there to better purpose; he made several good prose exercises both in english and latin; and, what is rare for a boy of rank, with but small aid from the tutor. at school, he shot and rowed pretty well; and as he could not always pay for his boat in specie, somebody proposed a barter of _tothill-fields game_; but he had a soul above it, and what was more, at his elbow another soul, saying, _carpamus dulcia_, and of my dressing. that friend was lord edward bentinck, whose culinary fame began on the sparrows and fieldfares knocked down about the five chimnies and jenny's whim. at a bill of fare, and the science how dinner should be put before him, he was then, as since, unrivalled; yet more to his good memorial, he knew how a dinner should be put before other people. for one day, as he was beginning to revel in a surreptitious banquet in the bowling-alley, his share of the mess lord edward gave to the relief of want, which then happened to be wandering by the window.--"this praise shall last." old elwes, the late member for berks, may occur, on the mention of want wandering by, though, notwithstanding appearance, he suffered nobody about him to be in such wants as himself. penurious, perhaps, on small objects; in those which are greater, he was certainly liberal almost to prodigality. the hoarding principle might be strong in him, but in the conduct of it he was often generous, always easy. no man in england probably lost more money in large sums, for want of asking for it: for small money, as in farthings to street beggary, few men probably have lost less. what he had not sufficiently cultivated, was the habit of letting money easily go. so far, he was the reverse of charles the second; for on greater occasions, again i say it, he seemed to own the act under the ennobling impulse of systematic generosity, expanding equally in self-denial, and in social sympathy. he was among the most dispassionate and tender-tempered men alive; and, considering ~ ~~all things, it might be reasonable to allot him the meed of meekness upon earth, and of that virtue which seeketh not her own reward. his ruling passion was the love of ease. the beginnings of all this were more or less discernible at school, where lord mansfield gave him the nick-name of jack meggot. his other little particularities were the best running and walking in the school, and the commencement of his fame for riding, which, in the well-known trials in the swiss academy, outdid all competition. worsley, of the board of works, alone divided the palm; he rode more gracefully. elwes was by far the boldest rider. the duke of portland (who died in ) was among the _delicciæ_ of each form at westminster, in all that appertained to temper, the tenderness and warmth of feeling, suavity of approach, and the whole passive power of pleasing. thus much internal worth, tempered with but little of those showy powers which dazzle and seduce, gave early promise that he would escape all intriguing politics, and never degrade himself by the projects of party; for a party-man must always be comparatively mean, even on a scale of vicious dignity; in violence, subordinate to the ruffian; in chicane, below a common town-sharper. he had, happily, no talents for party; he was better used by nature. he seemed formed for the kindliest offices of life; to appreciate the worth, and establish the dignity of domestic duties; to exemplify the hardest tasks of friendship and affinity; to display each hospitable charm. all that he afterwards did for chace price, and lord eduard, appeared as a flower in its bud, in dean's-yard and tothill-fields, with the fruit-woman under the gateway, and the coffee-house then opposite. in his school-exercises, fame is not remembered to have followed any but his wednesday evening themes: some of them were incomparably the best of the standing. in the rest of the school business, said the master to him one day, "you just keep on this side whipping." his smaller habits were none remarkable, except that his diet was rather more blameable in the article of wine. a little too early; a little too much. this, probably, more than any hereditary taint, made him, in immediate manhood, a martyr to the gout. against this, his ancestor's nostrum was tried in vain; the disease would not yield, till it was overborne by abstinence, which, to the praise of the duke's temper, he began and continued, with a splendour of resolution not any where exceeded. ~ ~~the duke had been long estranged from all animal food but fish, and every fermented liquor. according to the old latin distich, the poetry of a water-drinker is said to be short-lived, and not fit to live: was this proverbial doom extended to what was not poetry, it might be checked by the prose of the duke of portland. most of his common letters were among the models of epistolary correspondence. the duke of beaufort{ } exhibited at school more of the rudiments of a country gentleman, than the rudiments of busby; he knew a horse practically, while other boys took it only from description in virgil. _stare loco nescit_, was however his motto; and through all the demesnes adjacent to his little reign, on the water, and in the water, he was well; on horseback he was yet better; and to ride, or tie, on foot, or on horseback, no boy of his time was more ready at every good turn. he loved his friend; and, such were the engaging powers of his very frank and pleasant manner, his friends all loved him. some encumbrances, _solito de more_ of all boys, with the coffee-house, for jellies, fruit, &c, left when he left school, he afterwards discharged with singular éclat. in regard to scholarship, he was by no means wanting; though it must be owned, he wanted always to be better strangers with them. like many other boys, he knew much more than he was aware of; for he had as much aversion to the greek epigrams, as the best critic could have; and in terence, as he could find nothing to laugh, lloyd often raised an opposite emotion. lloyd, had he lived to this time, would have taken terence as a main ingredient in his enjoyments. so benevolent is nature to fit the feelings of man to his destiny. m'donald, afterwards solicitor general, was in college, and had then about him much that was remarkable for good value. the different ranks in college are rather arduous trials of temper; and he that can escape without imputation through them, and be, as it is called, a junior without meanness, and a senior without obduracy, exhibits much early promise, both as to talents and virtue. this early promise was m 'donald's. he was well-respected in either rank, and he deserved it; for he obeyed the time, without being time-serving; he commanded, as one not forgetting what it was to obey. _par negotiis, neque supra_, characterised his scholarship. died in . ~ ~~he had in every form sufficiency, and sometimes eminence. he had more facility in greek than most boys; his english exercises were conspicuous for language and neatness of turn. he was a very uncorrupt boy, and his manners were rather elevated; yet it is not remembered that he lost popularity even with the worst boys in the school; the whole secret of which was _specie minus quam vi_. he was better than he seemed. there was no pride, no offending wish at seclusion. though not so remarkable for book knowledge as his brother sir james, who thus, indeed, was nothing less than a prodigy, yet was m'donald extremely well and very variously read. in miscellaneous information, far more accomplished than any boy of his time. markham, the master, had a high opinion of him; and once, in the midst of strong and favourable prognostics, said, "there was nothing against him but what was for him; rank and connections, and the too probable event of thence advancing into life too forward and too early." markham spoke with much sagacity. the _rosa sera_ is the thing, for safe and spreading efflorescence. well as the wreath might be about m'donald's brow, it had probably been better, if gathered less eagerly, if put on later. cock langford was the son of the auctioneer-- and there never was an inheritance of qualities like it. he would have made as good an auctioneer as his father; a better could not bo. cock langford, so called, from the other auctioneer cock, very early in the school discovered great talents for ways and means; and, by private contract, could do business as much and as well as his father. his exercises were not noted for any excess of merit, or the want of it. he certainly had parts, if they had been put in their proper direction: that was trade. in that he might have been conspicuously useful. as he was in college, and nothing loath in any occasion that led to notice, in spite of a lisp in his speech, he played davus in the phormio; which he opened with singidar absurdity, as the four first words terminate in the letter s, which he, from the imperfection in his speech, could not help mangling. from the patronage of lord orford, mr. langford had one of the best livings in norfolk, £ a year; and afterwards, i understand, very well exemplified the useful and honourable duties of a clergyman resident on his benefice. hamilton. every thing is the creature of accident; as that ~ ~~works upon time and place, so are the vicissitudes which follow; vicissitudes that reach through the whole allotment of man, even to the charm of character, and the qualities which produce it. physically speaking, human nature can redress itself of climate, can generate warmth in high latitudes, and cold at the equator; but in respect to mind and manners, from the law of latitude there is no appeal. man, like the plants that grow for him, has a proper sky and soil: with them to flourish, without them to fade; through either kingdom, vegetable and moral, in situations that are aquatic, the alpine nature cannot live. all this applies to hamilton wasting himself at westminster. "wild nature's vigour working at his root;" his situation should have been accordingly; where he might have spread wide and struck deep. with more than boyish aptitudes and abilities, he should not thus have been lost among boys. his incessant intrepidity, his restless curiosity, his undertaking spirit, all indicated early maturity; all should have led to pursuits, if not better, at least of more pith and moment than the mere mechanism of dead language! this by hamilton (disdaining as a business what as an amusement perhaps might have delighted him) was deemed a dead letter, and as such, neglected; while he bestowed himself on other mechanism, presenting more material objects to the mind. [illustration: page ] exercises out of school took place of exercises within. not that like sackville or hawkins, he had a ball at every leisure moment in his hand; but, preferably to fives or cricket, he would amuse himself in mechanical pursuits; little in themselves, but great as to what they might have been convertible. in the fourth form, he produced a red shoe of his own making. and though he never made a pocket watch, and probably might mar many, yet all the interior machinery he knew and could name. the whole movement he took to pieces, and replaced. the man who is to find out the longitude, cannot have beginnings; better than these. count bruhl, since madge's death, the best watch-maker of his time, did not raise more early wonder. besides this, hamilton was to be found in every daring oddity. lords burlington and kent, in all their rage for porticos, were nothing to him in a rage for pediments. for often has the morning caught him scaling the high pediments of the school-door, and at peril of ins life clambering down, opening the door within, before the boy who kept the gate could come with the key. his evenings set upon no less perils; in pranks with gunpowder; in leaping from unusual heights into the ~ ~~thames. as a practical geographer of london, and heaven only knows how many miles round it, omniscient jackson himself could not know more. all this, surely, was intrinsically right, wrong only in its direction. had he been sent to woolwich, he might have come out, if not a rival of the duke of richmond, then master of the ordnance, at least a first-rate engineer. in economical arts and improvements, nothing less than national, he might have been the duke of bridgewater of ireland. had the sea been his profession, lord mulgrave might have been less alone in the rare union of science and enterprise. but all this capability of usefulness and fair fame, was brought to nought by the obstinate absurdity of the people about him; nothing could wean them from westminster. his grandfather roan, or rohan, an old man who saved much money in rathbone-place, and spent but little of it every evening at slaughter's coffee-house, holding out large promise to property, so became absolute; and absolute nonsense was his conduct to his grandson. he persevered in the school; where, if a boy disaffects book-knowledge, his books are only bought and sold. and after westminster, when the old man died, as if solicitous that every thing about his grave, but poppy and mandragora, should grow downwards, his will declared his grandson the heir, but not to inherit till he graduated at cambridge. to cambridge therefore he went; where having pursued his studies, as it is called, in a ratio inverse and descending, he might have gone on from bad to worse; and so, as many do, putting a grave face upon it, he might have had his degree. but his animal spirits, and love of bustle, could not go off thus undistinguished; and so, after coolly attempting to throw a tutor into the cam--after shaking all cambridge from its propriety by a night's frolic, in which he climbed the sign-posts, and changed the principal signs, he was rusticated; till the good-humour of the university returning, he was re-admitted, and enabled to satisfy his grandfather's will! after that, he behaved with much gallantry in america; and with good address in that very disagreeable affair, the contested marriage of his sister with mr. beresford the clergyman. indeed, through the intercourse of private life he was very amiable. the same suavity of speech, courteous attentions, and general good-nature, he had when a boy, continued and improved: good qualities the more to be prized, as the less probable, from his bold and eager temper, from the turbulence of his wishes, and the hurry of his pursuits. ~ ~~jekyl had in part, when a boy, the same happy qualities which afterwards distinguished him so entirely: in his economy of time, in his arts of arranging life, and distributing it exactly, between what was pleasant and what was grave. with vigorous powers and fair pursuits, the doing one thing at a time is the mode to do every thing. had jekyl no other excellence than this, i could not be surprised when he became attorney-general. "when you got into the place of your ancestor, sir joseph," said the tutor of jekyl to him, "let this be your motto: _et properare loco, et cesare_." "jekyl," said mrs. hobart one day, struck with the same address and exactness, "do you know, if you were a painter, poussin would be nothing to you in the balance of a scene." several of his english exercises, and his verses, will not easily be forgotten. and it will be remembered also, in a laughable way, that he was as mischievous as a gentleman need be; the mobbing a vulgar, the hoaxing a quiz, all the dialect of the thames below chelsea-reach, and the whole reach of every thing, pleasant but wrong, which the school statutes put out of reach, but what are the practice of the wits, and of every gentleman who would live by the statutes. all these were among jekyl's early peculiarities, and raised his fame very high for spirit and cleverness. "so sweet and voluble was his discourse." he was very popular among all the boys of his time. and he had a knack yet more gratifying, of recommending himself to the sisters and cousins of the boys he visited. and he well held up in theory what he afterwards exemplified in fact. for in one of the best themes of the time on this subject, "_non formosus erat, sod erat facundus ulysses_," he was much distinguished. ~ ~~"but the grave has closed upon most of the gay spirits of my earlier time," said crony; "and i alone remain the sad historian. yonder porch leads to the dormitory and school-room.{ } 'there busby's awful picture decks the place, shining where once he shone a living grace.' this school was founded by queen elizabeth in , for the education of forty boys, denominated king's scholars from the royalty of their founders; besides which, the nobility and gentry send their sons thither for instruction, so that this establishment vies with eton in celebrity and respectability. the school is not endowed with lands and possessions specifically appropriated to its own maintenance, but is attached to the general foundation of the collegiate church of westminster, as far as relates to the support of the king's scholars. it is under the care of the dean and chapter of westminster, conjointly with the dean of christ church, oxford, and the master of trinity, cambridge, respect-ing the election of scholars to their respective colleges. the foundation scholars sleep in the dormitory, a building erected from the design and under the superintendence of the celebrated earl of burlington, in the reign of george the first; and in this place the annual theatrical exhibitions take place; the scenery and arrangements having been contrived under the direction of mr. garrick, were presented by archbishop markham, the former master of the school. the king's scholars are distin- guished from the town-boys, or independents, by a gown, cap, and college waistcoat; they have their dinner in the hall, but seldom take any other meal in college; they pay for education and accommodation as the town-boys; eight of them are generally elected at the end of the fourth year to the colleges above-named; they have studentships at oxford, and scholarships at cambridge; the former worth from forty to sixty pounds per annum, but the latter of small beneficial consideration. the scholars propose themselves for the foundation by challenge, and contend with each other in latin and greek every day for eight weeks successively, when the eight at the head of the number are chosen according to vacancies. this contest occasions the king's scholarships to be much sought after, as it becomes the ground-work of reputation, and incites desire to excel. there are four boys who are called bishop's boys, from their being established by williams, bishop of lincoln; they have a gratuitous education, and a small allowance which is suffered to accumulate till the period of their admission into st. john's college, cambridge; they are distinguished by wearing a purple gown, and are nominated by the dean and head- master. what a cloud of recollections, studded with bright and variegated lights, passes before my inward vision! stars of eminence in every branch of learning, science, and public duties, who received their education within those walls; old westminsters, whose fame will last as long as old england's records, and who shall doubt ~ ~~that will be to the end of time? here grew into manhood and renown the lord burleigh, king, bishop of london, the poet cowley, the great dryden, charles montague, earl of halifax, dr. south, matthew prior, the tragedian rowe, bishop hooper, kennet, bishop of peterborough, dr. friend, the physician, king, archbishop of dublin, the philosopher locke, atterbury, bishop of rochester, bourne, the latin poet, hawkins browne, boyle, earl of cork and orrery, carteret, earl of granville, charles churchill, the english satirist, frank nicholls, the anatomist, gibbon, the historian, george colman, bonnel thornton, the great earl of mansfield, clayton mordaunt cracherode, richard cumberland, the poet cowper. these are only a few of the great names which occur to me at this moment; but here is enough to immortalize the memory of the old westminsters." on feasters and feasting. on the attachment of the moderns to good eating and drinking--its consequences and operation upon society-- different description of dinner parties--royal--noble-- parliamentary--clerical--methodistical--charitable-- theatrical--legal--parochial--literary--commercial and civil gourmands--sketches at a side-table, by bernard blackmantle. ~ ~~ "there are, while human miseries abound, a thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, without one fool or flatterer at your board, without one hour of sickness or disgust." --armstrong. in such esteem is good eating held by the moderns, that the only way in which englishmen think they can celebrate any important event, or effect any charitable purpose, is by a good dinner. from the palace to the pot-house, the same affection for good eating and drinking pervades all classes of mankind. the sovereign, when he would graciously condescend to bestow on any individual some mark of his special favour, invites him to the royal banquet, seats him _tète-à-tête_ with the most polished prince in europe; by this act of royal notice exalts him in the public eye, and by the suavity and elegance of his manners rivets his affections and secures his zeal for the remainder of his life. the ministers too have their state dinners, where all important questions are considered before they are submitted to the grand council of the nation. the bishops dine in holy ~ ~~conclave to benefit christianity, and moralize over champagne on the immorality of mankind. the judges dine with the lord chancellor on the first day of term, and try their powers of mastication before they proceed to try the merits of their fellow citizens' causes. a lawyer must eat his way to the bar, labouring most voraciously through his commons dinners in the temple or lincoln's inn halls, before he has any chance of success in common law, common pleas, or common causes in the court of king's bench or chancery. the speaker's parliamentary dinners are splendid spreads for poor senators; but sometimes the feast is infested with rats, whom his majesty's royal rat-catcher immediately cages, and contrives, by the aid of a blue or red ribband, to render extremely useful and docile. your orthodox ministers dine on tithes, turtle, and easter offerings, until they become as sleek as their own velvet cushions, and eke from charity to mankind almost as red in the face from the ruby tint of red port, and the sorrowful recollections of sin and death. the methodist and sectarians have their pious love feasts--bachelor's fare, bread and butter and kisses, with a dram of comfort at parting, i suppose. the deaf, the dumb, the lame, the blind, all have their annual charitable dinnerings; and even the actor's fund is almost entirely dependent on the fund of amusement they contrive to offer to their friends at their annual fund dinner. the church-wardens dine upon a child, and the overseers too often upon the mite extorted from the poor. even modern literature is held in thraldom by the banquetings of modern booksellers and publishers, who by this method contrive to cram the critics with their crudities, and direct the operation of their servile pens in the cutting up of poor authors. at the publisher's club, held at the albion, dr. kitchener and will jerdau rule the roast; here these worthies may be heard commenting with ~ ~~profound critical consistency on culinaries and the classics, gurgling down heavy potations of black strap, and making still heavier remarks upon black letter bibliomania, until all the party are found labouring "_dare pondus idonea fumo_," or, in the language of cicero, it may be justly said of them, "_damnant quod non intelligent_." the magnifico murray has his merry meetings, where new books are made palatable to certain tastes by sumptuous feastings, and a choice supply of old wines. colburn brings his books into notice by first bringing his dinner _coteries_ into close conclave; and longman's monthly melange of authors and critics is a literary statute dinner, where every guest is looking out for a liberal engagement. [illustration: page ] even the booksellers themselves feast one another before they buy and sell; and a trade sale, without a trade dinner to precede it, would be a very poor concern indeed. fire companies and water companies, bubble companies and banking companies, all must be united and consolidated by a good dinner company. your fat citizen, with a paunch that will scarce allow him to pass through the side avenue of temple bar, marks his feast days upon his sheet almanack, as a lawyer marks his term list with a double dash, thus =, and shakes in his easy chair like a sack of blubber as lie recapitulates the names of all the glorious good things of which he has partaken at the annual civic banquet at fishmonger's hall, or the bible association dinner at the city of london tavern: at the mention of white bait, his lips smack together with joy, and he lisps out instinctively blackwall: talk of a rump steak and dolly's, his eyes grow wild with delight; and just hint at the fine green fat of a fresh killed turtle dressed at birch's, and his whole soul's in arms for a corporation dinner. reader, i have been led into this strain of thinking by an excursion i am about to make with alderman marigold and family, ~ ~~to enjoy the pleasures of a sunday ordinary in the suburbs of the metropolis; an old fashioned custom that is now fast giving way to modern notions of refinement, and is therefore the more worthy of characteristic record. bernard blackmantle. [illustration: page b] a sunday ramble to highgate, or, the cits ordinary. bernard blackmantle's first excursion with the marigold family--lucubrations of the alderman on the alterations of the times--sketches and recollections on the road--the past and the present--arrival at the gate house, highgate--the cit's ordinary--traits of character--the water drinker, the vegetable eater, and the punster--tom cornish, the gourmand--anecdote of old tattersall and his beef eater-- young tat. and the turnpike man. ~ ~~"may i never be merry more," said the alderman, "if we don't go a maying on sunday next, and you must accompany us, master blackmantle: i always make a country excursion once a year, to wit, on the first sunday in may, when we join a very jolly party at the gate house, highgate, and partake of an excellent ordinary." "i thought, pa, you would have given up that vulgar custom when we removed westward, and you were elected alderman of the ward of cheap." "ay," said mrs. marigold, "if you wish to act politely to your wife and daughter write to the star and garter at richmond, or the toy at hampton court, and order a choice dinner beforehand for a select party; then we should be thought something of, and be able to dine in comfort, without being ~ ~~_scrowged_ up in a corner by a leadenhall landlady, or elbowed out of every mouthful by a smithfield salesman." "there it is, mr. blackmantle, that's the evil of a man having a few pounds more in his purse than his neighbours--it makes him miserable with his family at home, and prevents him associating with old friends abroad. if you marry my biddy, make these conditions with her--to dispense with all mrs. marigold's maxims on modern manners, and be at liberty to smoke your pipe where, and with whom you please." "i declare, pa, one would imagine you wished mr. blackmantle to lose all his manners directly after marriage, and all respect for his intended bride beforehand." "nothing of the sort, miss sharpwit; but, ever since i made the last fortunate contract, you and your mother have contracted a most determined dislike to every thing social and comfortable--haven't i cut the coger's society in bride lane, and the glee club at the ram in smithfield? don't i restrain myself to one visit a week to the jolly old scugs{ } society in abchurch lane? haven't i declined the chair of the free and easy johns, and given up my command in the lumber troop?--are these no sacrifices? is it nothing to have converted my ancestors' large estate in thames street into warehouses, and emigrated westward to be confined in one of your kickshaw cages in tavistock square? don't i keep a chariot and a chaise for your comfort, and consent to be crammed up in a corner at a concert party to hear some foreign stuff i don't understand? plague take your drives in hyde park and promenades in kensington gardens! give me the society where i can eat, drink, laugh, joke, and smoke blue coat boys. the others are all well-known anacreontic meetings held in the city. ~ ~~as i like, without being obliged to watch every word and action, as if my tongue was a traitor to my head, and my stomach a tyrant of self-destruction." the alderman's remonstrance was delivered with so much energy and good temper, that there was no withstanding his argument; a hearty laugh, at the conclusion, from miss biddy and myself, accompanied by an ejaculation of "poor man, how ill you are used!" from his lady, restored all to good-humour, and obtained the "_quid pro quo_," a consent on their parts to yield to old customs, and, for once in a way, to allow the alderman to have a day of his own. the next morning early an open barouche received our party, the coachman being particularly cautioned not to drive too fast, to afford the alderman an opportunity of _luxuriating_ upon the reminiscences of olden time. as the carriage rolled down the hill turning out of the new road the alderman was particularly eloquent in pointing out and describing the once celebrated tea gardens, bagnigge wells. "in my young days, sir, this place was the great resort of city elegance and fashion, and divided the town with vauxhall. here you might see on a sunday afternoon, or other evenings, two thirds of the corporation promenading with their wives and daughters; then there was a fine organ in the splendid large room, which played for the entertainment of the company, and such crowds of beautiful women, and gay fellows in embroidered suits and lace ruffles, all powdered and perfumed like a nosegay, with elegant cocked hats and swords in their sides; then there were such rural walks to make love in, take tea or cyder, and smoke a pipe; you know, mrs. marigold, you and i have had many a pleasant hour in those gardens during our courting days, when the little naked cupid used to sit astride of a swan, and the water spouted from its beak as high as the ~ ~~monument; then the grotto was so delightful and natural as life, and the little bridge, and the gold fish hopping about underneath it, made it quite like a terrestrial paradise{ }; but about that time dr. whitfield and the countess of huntingdon undertook to save the souls of all the sinners, and erected a psalm-singing shop in tottenham court road, where they assembled the pious, and made wry faces at the publicans and sinners, until they managed to turn the heads without turning the hearts of a great number of his majesty's liege subjects, and by the aid of cant and hypocrisy, caused the orthodox religion of the land to be nearly abandoned; but we are beginning to be more enlightened, mr. blackmantle, and understand these _trading_ missionaries and _bible merchants_ much better than they could wish us to have done. then, sir, the pantheon, in spa fields, was a favourite place of resort for the bucks and gay ladies of the time; and sadler's wells and islington spa were then in high repute for their mineral waters. at white conduit house the jews and jewesses of the metropolis held their carnival, and city apprentices used to congregate at dobney's bowling-green, afterwards named, in compliment to garrick's stratford procession, the jubilee tea-gardens; those were the times to grow rich, mr. blackmantle, when half-a-crown would cover the day's expenditure of five persons, and behave liberally too."--in our way through islington, the alderman pointed out to us the place as formerly celebrated for a weekly consumption of cakes and ale; and as we passed through holloway, informed us that it was in former time equally notorious for its cheese-cakes, the fame of which attracted vast numbers on upon reference to an old print of bagnigge wells, i find the alderman's description of the place to be a very faithful portrait. the pantheon is still standing, but converted into a methodist chapel. ~ ~~the sunday, who, having satiated themselves with pastry, would continue their rambles to the adjacent places of hornsey wood house, colney hatch, and highgate, returning by the way of hampstead to town. the topographical reminiscences of the alderman were illustrated as we proceeded by the occasional sallies of mrs. marigold's satire: "she could not but regret the depravity of the times, that enabled low shop-keepers and servants to dress equal to their betters: it is now quite impossible to enjoy society and be comfortable in public, without being associated with your tallow-chandler, or your butcher, or take a pleasant drive out of town, without meeting your linen-draper, or your tailor, better mounted or in a more fashionable equipage than yourself." "all for the good of trade," said the alderman: "it would be very hard indeed if those who enable others to cut a dash all the week could not make a splash themselves on a sunday; besides, my dear, it's a matter of business now-a-days: many of your kickshaw tradesmen west of temple bar find it as necessary to consult _appearances_ in the park and watch the _new come outs_, as i do to watch the stock market: if they find their customers there in good feather and high repute, they venture to cover another leaf in their ledger; but if, on the contrary, they appear shy, only show of a sunday, and are cut by the nobs, why then they understand it's high time to close the account, and it's very well for them if they are ever able to _strike a balance_." at the conclusion of this colloquy, we had arrived at the gate house, highgate, just in time to hear the landlord proclaim that dinner was that moment about to be served up: the civic rank of the alderman did not fail to obtain its due share of servile attention from boniface, who undertook to escort our party into the room, and having announced the consequence ~ ~~of his guests, placed the alderman and his family at the head of the table. i have somewhere read, "there is as much valour expected in feasting as in fighting; "and if any one doubts the truth of the axiom, let him try with a hungry stomach to gratify the cravings of nature at a crowded ordinary--or imagine a well disposed group of twenty persons, all in high appetite and "eager for the fray" sitting down to a repast scantily prepared for just half the number, and crammed into a narrow room, where the waiters are of necessity obliged to wipe every dish against your back, or deposit a portion of gravy in your pocket, to say nothing of the sauce with which a remonstrance is sure to fill both your ears. most of the company present upon this occasion appeared to have the organs of destructiveness to an extraordinary degree, and mine host of the gate house, who is considered an excellent physiognomist, looked on with trembling and disastrous countenance, as he marked the eager anxiety of the expectant _gourmands_ sharpening their knives, and spreading their napkins, at the shrine of sensuality, exhibiting the most voracious symptoms of desire to commence the work of demolition. a small tureen of mock turtle was half lost on its entrance, by being upset over the leg of a dancing-master, who capered about the room to double quick time, from the effects of a severe scalding; on which the alderman (with a wink) observed, that the gentleman had no doubt caused many a _calf s head to dance_ about in his time, and now he had met with a rich return. "i'll bring an action against the landlord for the carelessness of his waiter." "you had better not," said the alderman. "why not, sir?" replied the smarting son of terpsichore. "because you have only _one leg to stand on_." this sally produced a general laugh, and restored all to good humour. on the appearance of a fine cod's head and shoulders, the ~ ~~rosy gills of marigold seemed to extend with extatic delight; while a dozen voices assailed him at once with "i'll take fish, if you please." "ay, but you don't take me for a fag: if you please, gentlemen, i shall help the ladies first, then myself and friend, and afterwards you may divide the _omnium and scrip_ just as you please." "what a strange animal!" whispered the dancing master to his next neighbour, an old conveyancer. "yes, sir," replied the man of law, "a city shark, i think, that will swallow all our share of the fish." "don't you think, mr. alderman," said a lusty lady on the opposite side of the table, "the fish is rather _high_?" "no, ma'ain, it's my opinion," (looking at the fragments) "the company will find it rather low." "ay, but i mean, mr. alderman, it's not so _fresh_ as it might be." "why the head did whisper to me, ma'am, that he had not been at sea these ten days; only i thought it rude to repeat what was told me in confidence, and i'm not fond of _fresh things_ myself, am i, mrs. marigold? shall i help you to a little fowl, ma'am, a wing, or a merry thought?" "egad! mr. alderman, you are always ready to assist the company with the latter." "yes, ma'am, always happy to help the ladies to a __tit bit: shall i send you the _recorder's nose_? bless my heart, how warm it is! here, joe, hang my wig behind me, and place that calf's-head before me." (see plate.) "very sorry, ma'am, very sorry indeed," said mr. deputy flambeau to the lady next him, whose silk dress he had just bespattered all over; "could not have supposed this little pig had so much gravy in him," as lady macbeth says. "i wish you'd turn that ere nasty thing right round, mr. deputy," growled out a city ~ ~~costermonger, "'cause my wife's quite alarmed for her _grose_ de naples." "not towards me, if you please, mr. deputy," simpered out miss marigold, "because thereby hangs a tail, i.e. (tale)." "that's my biddy's ultimatum," said the alderman; "she never makes more than one good joke a day." "if they are all as good as the last, they deserve the benefit of frequent resurrection, alderman." "why so, mr. blackmantle?" "because they will have the merit of being very funny upon a very grave subject--_jeu d'esprits_ upon our latter end." "could you make room for three more gentlemen?" said the waiter, ushering in three woe-begone knights of the trencher, who, having heard the fatal clock strike when at the bottom of the hill, and knowing the punctuality of the house, had toiled upwards with breathless anxiety to be present at the first attack, and arrived at the end of the second course, _just in time to be too late_. "confound all clocks and clockmakers! set my watch by bishopsgate church, and made sure i was a quarter too fast." "very sorry, gentlemen, very sorry, indeed," said boniface; "nothing left that is eatable--not a chop or a steak in the house; but there is an excellent ordinary at the spaniards, about a mile further down the lane; always half an hour later than ours." "ay, it's a grievous affair, landlord; but howsomdever, if there's nothing to eat, why we must go: we meant to have done you justice to-day--but never mind, we'll be in time for you another sunday, old gentleman, depend upon it; "and with this significant promise the three _hungarians_ departed, not a little disappointed. "those three men are no ordinary customers," said our host; "they have done us the honour to dine here _before_, and what is more, of leaving nothing _behind_; one of them is the celebrated yorkshireman, tom ~ ~~cornish, whom general picton pitted against a hanoverian glutton to eat for a fortnight, and found, at the end of a week, that he was a whole bullock, besides twelve quartern loaves, and half a barrel of beer, ahead of his antagonist; and if the hanoverian had not given up, tom would have eaten the rations of a whole company. his father is said to have been equally gluttonous and penurious, and could eat any given quantity: this person once dining with a member of the society of friends, who was also a scion of elwes' school, after having eat enough for four moderate visitors, re-helped himself, exclaiming, 'you see it's cut and come again with me! 'to which the sectarian gravely replied, 'friend, cut again thou may'st, but come again thou never shalt.'" "ay, that's a very good joke, landlord," said the alderman; "but you know i am up to your jokes: you think these long stories will save your mutton, but there you're wrong--they only give time to take breath; so bring in the sirloin and the saddle of mutton, waiter; and when we've done dinner i'll tell you an anecdote of old tattersall and his beef-eater, which occurred at this house in a former landlord's time. come, mr. blackmantle, let me send you a slice of the sirloin, and tell us what you think of good eating." "that the wit of modern times directs all its rage _ad gulam_; and the only inducement to study is _erudito luxu_, to please the palate, and satisfy the stomach. even my friend ebony, the northern light, has cast off the anchorite, and sings thus jollily: 'the science of eating is old, its antiquity no man can doubt: though adam was squeamish, we're told, eve soon found a _dainty bit_ out.' "we talk of the degeneracy of the moderns, as if men now-a-days were in every respect inferior to their ~ ~~ancestors; but i maintain, and challenge contradiction, that there are many stout rubicund gentlemen in this metropolis that might be backed for eating or drinking with any bacchanalian or masticator since the days of adam himself. what was _offellius bibulus_, the roman parasite, or _silenus ebrius_, or _milo_, who could knock down an ox, and eat him up directly afterwards, compared to tom cornish, or richardson the oyster eater?{ } or what are all these opposed to the oxonian, who, a short time since, went to the swan at bedford, and ordered dinner? a goose being brought, he hacked it in a style at which mrs. glass would have fainted; indeed so wretched was the mutilated anatomy, in appearance, from bad carving, that, being perfectly ashamed of it, he seized the moment when some poor mendicant implored his charity at the window, deposited the remains of the goose in his apron, rang the bell, and asked for his bill: the waiter gazed a moment at the empty dish, and then rushing to the landlord, exclaimed, 'oh! measter, measter, the gentleman eat the goose, bones and all!' and the worthies of bedford believe the wondrous tale to this day." to return to tom cornish, our host informed us his extraordinary powers of mastication were well known, and dreaded by all the tavern-keeping fraternity who had sunday ordinaries within ten miles round london, with some of whom he was a regular annuitant, receiving a trifle once a year, in lieu of giving them a _benefit_, as he terms the filling of his voracious paunch. a story is told of his father, who is said to have kept a very scanty table, that dining one saturday with in , says evelyn in his diary, "one richardson, amongst other feats, performed the following: taking a live coal on his tongue, he put on it a raw oyster; the coal was blown on with a bellows, till it flamed in his mouth, and so remained till the oyster gaped, and was quite boiled." certainly the most simple of all cooking apparatus. ~ ~~his son at an ordinary in cambridge, he whispered in his ear, "tom, you must eat for to-day and to-morrow." "o yes," retorted the half-starved lad, "but i han't eaten for yesterday, and the day before yet, father." in short, tom makes but one hearty meal in a week, and that one might serve a troop of infantry to digest. the squalling of an infant at the lower end of the room, whose papa was vainly endeavouring to pacify the young gourmand with huge spoonfuls of mock-turtle, drew forth an observation from the alderman, that had well nigh disturbed the entire arrangement of the table, and broke up the harmony of the scene "with most admired disorder;" for on the head of the marigold family likening the youngster's noise to a chamber organ, and quaintly observing that they always had music during dinner at fishmongers' hall, the lady mother of the infant, a jolly dame, who happened to be engaged in the shell fish line, took the allusion immediately to herself, and commenced such a furious attack upon the alderman as proved her having been regularly matriculated at the college in thames street. when the storm subsided the ladies had vanished, and the alderman moved an adjournment to what he termed the _snuggery_, a pleasant little room on the first floor, which commanded a delightful prospect over the adjacent country. here we were joined by three eccentric friends of the marigold family, who came on the special invitation of the alderman, mr. peter pendragon, a celebrated city punster, mr. philotus wantley, a vegetable dieter, and mr. galen cornaro, an abominator of wine, and a dyspeptic follower of kitchener and abernethy--a trio of singularities that would afford excellent materials for my friend richard peake, the dramatist, in mixing up a new _monopolylogue_ for that facetious child of whim and wit, the inimitable charles mathews. our first story, while the wine was decantering, proceeded from the ~ ~~alderman, who having been driven from the dinner table somewhat abruptly by the amiable _caro sposa_ of the fish-merchant, had failed in giving us his promised anecdote of old tattersall and his beef-eater. "i have dined with him often in this house," said the alderman, "in my earlier days, and a pleasant, jovial, kindhearted fellow he was, one who would ride a long race to be present at a good joke, and never so happy as when he could trot a landlord, or knock down an argument monger with his own weapons. the former host of the gate house was a bit of a screw, and old tat knew this; so calling in one day, as if by accident, tat sat him down to a cold round of beef, by way of luncheon, and having taken some half ounce of the meat, with a few pickles, requested to know what he had to pay for his eating. 'three shillings, sir,' said the waiter. 'three devils!' ejaculated tat, with strong symptoms of surprise, for in those days three shillings would have nearly purchased the whole round: 'send in your master.' in walks the host, and tat renewed his question, receiving in reply a reiteration of the demand, but accompanied with this explanation, that peck high or peck low, it was all the same price: 'in short, sir,' said the host, 'i keep this house, and i mean the house should keep me, and the only way i find to insure that is to make the short stomachs pay for the long ones.' 'very well,' said tat, paying the demand, 'i shall remember this, and bring a friend to dine with you another day.' at this time tat had in his employ a fellow called oxford will, notorious for his excessive gluttony, a very famine breeder, who had won several matches by eating for a wager, and who had obtained the appellation of tattersall's beef-eater. this fellow tat dressed in decent style, and fixing him by his side in the chaise, drove up to the gate house on a sunday to dine at the ordinary, taking care to be in excellent time, and making a previous appointment with a few friends ~ ~~to enjoy the joke. at dinner will was, by arrangement, placed in the chair, and being well instructed and prepared for execution, was ably supported by tat and his friends: the host, too, who was in excellent humour, quite pleased to see such a numerous and respectable party, apologised repeatedly, observing that he would have provided more abundantly had he known of the intended honour: in this way all things proceeded very pleasantly with the first course, will not caring to make any very wonderful display of his masticatory prowess with either of the _unsubstantials_, fish or soup; but when a fine _aitch-bone_ of beef came before the gourmand, he stuck his fork into the centre, and, unheedful of the ravenous solicitations of those around him requesting a slice, proceeded to demolish the whole joint, with as much celerity as the hyena would the harmless rabbit: the company stared with astonishment; the landlord, to whom the waiters had communicated the fact, entered the room in breathless haste; and on observing the empty dish, and hearing will direct the waiter to take away the bone and bring him a clean plate, was apparently thunder-struck: but how much was his astonishment increased upon perceiving will help himself to a fine young turkey, stuffed with sausages, which he proceeded to dissect with anatomical ability, and by this time the company understanding the joke, he was allowed uninterruptedly to deposit it in his immense capacious receptacle, denominated by old tat the _fathomless vacuum_. hitherto the company had been so completely electrified by the extra-ordinary powers of the glutton, that astonishment had for a short time suspended the activity of appetite, as one great operation of nature will oftentimes paralyze the lesser affections of the body; but, as will became satisfied, the remainder of the party, stimulated by certain compunctious visitings of nature, called cravings of the stomach, gave evident symptoms of ~ ~~a very opposite nature: in vain the landlord stated his inability to produce more viands, he had no other provisions in the house, it was the sabbath-day, and the butchers' shops were shut, not a chop or a steak could be had: here will feigned to join his affliction with the rest--he could have enjoyed a little snack more, by way of finish. this was the climax; the party, according to previous agreement, determined to proceed to the next inn to obtain a dinner; the landlord's remonstrance was perfectly nugatory; they all departed, leaving tat and his man to settle with the infuriated host; and when the bill was brought in they refused to pay one sixpence more than the usual demand of three shillings each, repeating the landlord's own words, that peck high or peck low, it was all the same price." with the first glass of wine came the inspiring toast of "the ladies," to which mr. philotus wantley demurred, not on account of the sex, for he could assure us he was a fervent admirer, but having studied the wise maxims of pythagoras, and being a disciple of the brahma school, abominators of flesh and strong liquors, he hoped to be excused, by drinking the ladies in _aqua pura_.--" water is a monstrous drink for christians!" said the alderman, "the sure precursor of coughs, colds, consumptions, agues, dropsies, pleurisies, and spleen. i never knew a water-drinker in my life that was ever a fellow of any spirit, mere morbid anatomies, starvelings and hypochondriacs: your water-drinkers never die of old age, but melancholy."--"right, right, alderman," said mr. pendragon; "a cup of generous wine is, in my opinion, excellent physic; it makes a man lean, and reduces him to friendly dependence on every thing that bars his way: sometimes it is a little grating to his feelings, to be sure, but it generally passes off with an hic-cup. according to galen, sir, the waters of _astracan_ breed worms in those who taste them; those ~ ~~of _verduri_, the fairest river in macedonia, make the cattle who drink of them black, while those of peleca, in thessaly, turn every thing white; and bodine states that the stuttering of the families of aquatania, about labden, is entirely owing to their being water-drinkers: a man might as well drink of the river styx as the river thames, '_stygio monstrum conforme paludi_,' a monstrous drink, thickened by the decomposition of dead christians and dead brutes, and purified by the odoriferous introduction of gas water and puddle water, joined to a pleasant and healthy amalgamation of all the impurities of the common sewers. 'as nothing goes in so thick, and nothing comes out so thin, it must follow, of course, that no-thing can be worse, as the dregs are all left within.'" "very well, mr. pendragon, very well, indeed," said mr. galen cornaro, an eccentric of the same school, but not equally averse to wine; "'temperance is a bridle of gold; and he who uses it rightly is more like a god than a man.' i have no objection to a cup of generous wine, provided nature requires it--but 'simple diet,' says pliny, 'is best;' for many dishes bring many diseases. do you know john abernethy, sir? he is the _manus dei_ of my idolatry. 'what ought i to drink?' inquired a friend of mine of the surgeon. 'what do you give your horse, sir?' was the question in reply. 'water.' 'then drink water,' said abernethy. after this my friend was afraid to put the question of eatables, lest the doctor should have directed him to live on oats. 'your modern good fellows,' continued john, 'are only ambitious of rivalling a brewer's horse; who after all will carry more liquor than the best of them.' 'what is good to assist a weak digestion?' said another patient. 'weak food and warm clothing,' was the reply; 'not, ~ ~~however, forgetting my _blue pill_.' when you have dined well, sleep well: wrap yourself up in a warm watch-coat, and imitate your dog by basking yourself at full length before the fire; these are a few of the abernethy maxims for dyspeptic patients." i had heard much of this celebrated man, and was desirous of gleaning some more anecdotes of his peculiarities. with this view i laid siege to mr. galen cornaro, who appeared to be well acquainted with the whims of the practitioner. "i remember, sir," said my informant, "a very good fellow of the name of elliot, a bass-singer at the concerts and theatres of the metropolis; a man very much resembling john abernethy in person, and still more so in manner; one who under a rough exterior carried as warm a heart as ever throbbed within the human bosom. elliot had fallen ill of the jaundice, and having imbibed a very strong dislike to the name of doctor, whether musical or medical, refused the solicitations of his friends to receive a visit from any one of the faculty; to this eccentricity of feeling he added a predilection for curing every disease of the body by the use of simples, decoctions, and fomentations extracted from the musty records of old culpepper, the english physician. pursuing this principle, elliot every day appeared to grow worse, and drooped like the yellow leaf of autumn in its sear; until his friends, alarmed for his safety, sent to abernethy, determined to take the patient by surprise. imagine a robust-formed man, sinking under disease and _ennui_, seated before the fire, at his side a table covered with phials and pipkins, and near him his _vade mecum_, the renowned culpepper. a knock is heard at the door. 'come in!' vociferates the invalid, with stentorian lungs yet unimpaired; and enter john abernethy, not a little surprised by the ungraciousness of his reception. 'who are you?' said elliot in thorough-bass, just inclining his head half round to recognize his visitor, ~ ~~without attempting to rise from his seat: abernethy appeared astonished, but advancing towards his patient, replied, 'john abernethy.' 'elliot. oh, the doctor! 'abernethy. no, not the doctor; but plain john abernethy, if you please. 'elliot. ay, my stupid landlady sent for you, i suppose. 'abernethy. to attend a very stupid patient, it would appear. 'elliot. well, as you are come, i suppose i must give you your fee. (placing the gold upon the table.) 'abernethy (looking rather cross.) what's the matter with you? 'elliot. can't you see? 'abernethy. oh yes, i see very well; then tasting some of the liquid in the phials, and observing the source from whence the prescriptions had been extracted, the surgeon arrived at something that was applicable to the disease. who told you to take this? 'elliot. common sense. 'abernethy putting his fee in his pocket, and preparing to depart. good day. 'elliot (reiterating the expression.) good day! why, you mean to give me some advice for my money, don't you? 'abernethy, with the door in his hand. follow common sense, and you'll do very well.' "thus ended the interview between abernethy and elliot. it was the old tale of the stammerers personified; for the professional and the patient each conceived the other an imitator. on reaching the ground-floor the surgeon was, however, relieved from his embarrassment by the communication of the good woman of the house, who, in her anxiety to serve elliot, had produced this extraordinary scene. abernethy laughed heartily--assured her that the patient would do well--wrote a prescription for him--begged ~ ~~he might hear how he proceeded--and learning he was a professional man, requested the lady of the mansion to return him his fee." "ay," said the alderman, "that was just like john abernethy. i remember when he tapped poor mrs. marigold for the dropsy, he was not very tender, to be sure, but he soon put her out of her tortures. and when on his last visit i offered him a second twenty pound note for a fee, i thought he would have knocked me down; asked me if i was the fool that gave him such a sum on a former occasion; threw it back again with indignation, and said he did not rob people in that manner." no professional man does more generous actions than john abernethy; only it must be after his own fashion. "come, gentlemen, the bottle stands still," said mr. pendragon, "while you are running through the merits of drinking. does not rabelais contend that good wine is the best physic?' because there are more old tipplers than old physicians.' custom is every thing; only get well seasoned at the first start, and all the rest of life is a summer's scene. snymdiris the sybarite never once saw the sun rise or set during a course of twenty years; yet he lived to a good old age, drank like a centaur, and never went to bed sober." and when his glass was out, he fell like some ripe kernel from its shell. "i was once an anti-gastronomist and a rigid antisaccharinite; sugar and milk were banished from my breakfast-table, vegetables and puddings my only diet, until i almost ceased to vegetate, and my cranium was considered as soft as a custard; and curst hard it was to cast off all culinary pleasures, sweet reminiscences of my infancy, commencing with our first spoonful of pap, for all young protestants are papists; to this day my heart (like wordsworth's) ~ ~~overflows at the sight of a pap-boat--the boat a child first mans; to speak naughty-cally, as a nurse would say, how many a row is there in the pap-boat--how many squalls attend it when first it comes into contact with the skull! but i am now grown corpulent; in those days i was a lighter-man, and i believe i should have continued to live (exist) upon herbs and roots; but dr. kitchener rooted up all my prejudices, and overturned the whole system of my theory by practical illustrations. "thus he that's wealthy, if he's wise, commands an earthly paradise; that happy station nowhere found, but where the glass goes freely round. then give us wine, to drown the cares of life in our declining years, that we may gain, if heav'n think fitting, by drinking, what was lost by eating: for though mankind for that offence were doom'd to labour ever since, yet mercy has the grape impower'd to sweeten what the apple sour'd." to this good-humoured sally of pendragon succeeded a long dissertation on meats, which it is not _meet_ i should relate, being for the most part idle conceits of mr. galen cornaro, who carried about him a long list of those prescribed eatables, which engender bile, breed the _incubus_, and produce spleen, until, according to his bill of fare, he had left himself nothing to subsist upon in this land of plenty but a mutton-chop, or a beef-steak. what pleased me most was, that with every fresh bottle the two disciples of pythagoras and abernethy became still more vehement in maintaining the necessity for a strict adherence to the theory of water and vegetable economy; while their zeal had so far blinded their recollection, that when the ladies returned from their walk to join us at tea, they were both "_bacchi plenis_," as colman has it, something inclining from ~ ~~a right line, and approaching in its motion to serpentine sinuosities. a few more puns from mr. pendragon, and another story from the alderman, about his friend, young tattersall, employing scroggins the bruiser, disguised as a countryman to beat an impudent highgate toll-keeper, who had grossly insulted him, finished the amusements of the day, which mrs. marigold and miss biddy declared had been spent most delightfully, so rural and entertaining, and withal so economical, that the alderman was induced to promise he would not dine at home again of a sunday for the rest of the summer. to me, at least, it afforded the charm of novelty; and if to my readers it communicates something of character, blended with pleasure in the perusal, i shall not regret my sunday trip with the marigold family and first visit to the gate house, highgate. [illustration: page ] the stock exchange. ~ ~~ have you ever seen donnybrook fair? or in a _caveau_ spent the night? on waterloo's plains did you dare to engage in the terrific fight? has your penchant for life ever led you to visit the finish or slums, at the risk of your pockets and head? or in banco been fixed by the bums? in a smash at the hells have you been, when pigeons were pluck'd by the bone? or enjoy'd the magnificent scene when our fourth george ascended his throne? have you ever heard tierney or canning a commons' division address? or when to the gallery ganging, been floor'd by a rush from the press? has your taste for the fine arte impell'd you to visit a bull-bait or fight? or by rattles and charleys propell'd, in a watch-house been lodged for the night? in a morning at bow-street made one of a group just to bother sage birnie? stood the racket, got fined, cut and run, being fleeced by the watch and attorney? or say, have you dined in guildhall with the mayor and his corporate souls? or been squeezed at a grand civic ball, with dealers in tallow and coals? mere nothings are these, though the range through all we have noticed you've been, when compared to the famed stock exchange, that riotous gambling scene. ~ ~~ the unexpected legacy--bernard blackmantle and bob transit visit capel court--characters in the stocks--bulls, bears and bawds, brokers, jews and jobbers--a new acquaintance, peter principal--his account of the market--the royal exchange--tricks upon travellers--slating a stranger--the hebrew star and his satellites--dividend hunters and paragraph writers--the new bubble companies--project extraordinary--prospectus in rhyme of the life, death, burial, and resurrection company--lingual localisms of the stock exchange explained--the art and mystery of jobbing exposed--anecdotes of the house and its members--flying a tile--billy wright's brown pony--selling a twister--a peep into botany bay--flats and flat-catchers--the rotunda and the transfer men--how to work the telegraph--create a rise-- put on the pot--bang down the market--and waddle out a lame duck. a bequest of five hundred pounds by codicil from a rich old aunt had most unexpectedly fallen to my friend transit, who, quite unprepared for such an overwhelming increase of good fortune, was pondering on the best means of applying this sudden acquisition of capital, when i accidentally paid him a visit in half-moon street. "give me joy, bernard," said bob; "here's a windfall;" thrusting the official notice into my hand; "five hundred pounds from an old female miser, who during her lifetime was never known to dispense five farthings for any generous or charitable purpose; but being about to _slip her wind_ and make a _wind-up_ of her accounts, was kind enough to remember at parting that she had a poor relation, an ~ ~~artist, to whom such a sum might prove serviceable, so just hooked me on to the tail end of her testamentary document and booked me this legacy, before she booked herself inside for the other world. and now, my dear bernard," continued bob, "you are a man of the world, one who knows 'what's what, and that's as high as metaphysic wit can fly.' i am puzzled, actually bewildered what to do with this accumulation of wealth: only consider an eccentric artist with five hundred pounds in his pocket; why it must prove his death-warrant, unless immediate measures are taken to free him from its magical influence. shall i embark it in some of the new speculations? the milk company, or the water company, the flesh, fish, or fowl companies, railways or tunnel-ways, or in short, only put me in the right way, for, at present, i am mightily abroad in that respect." "then my advice is, that you keep your money at home, or in other words, fund it; unless you wish to be made fun of and laughed at for a milksop, or a bubble merchant, or be taken for one of the gudgeon family, or a chicken butcher, a member of the poultry company, where fowl dealing is considered all fair; or become a liveryman of the worshipful company of minors (i.e. miners), where you may be fleeced à la hayne, by legs, lawyers, bankers and brokers, demireps and contractors'; or, perhaps, you ~ ~~will feel disposed to embark in a new company, of which i have just strung together a prospectus in rhyme: a speculation which has, at least, much of novelty in this country to recommend it, and equally interests all orders of society. it is not surprising, we see, that lawyers, bankers, and brokers are found at the bottom of most of the new schemes. their profits are certain, whatever the fate of the gudgeon family. the brokers, in particular, have a fine harvest of it. their charges being upon the full nominal amount of the shares sold, they get twice as much by transferring a single l. share in a speculation, although only l. may have been paid on it, as by the purchase or sale of l. consols, of which the price is l. or, to make the matter plainer to the uninitiated, suppose an individual wishes to lay out l. in the stock-market. if he orders his broker to purchase into the british funds, the latter will buy him about l. three per cent, consols; and the brokerage, at one-eighth per cent, will be about s. but if the same person desires to invest the same sum in the stock of a new mine or rail-road company, which is divided into l. shares, on each of which say l. is paid, and there is a premium of l. (as is the case at this moment with a stock we have in our eye) his broker's account will then stand thus:-- bought shares in the ---- company. first instalment of l. paid £ premium l. per share brokerage £ per cent, on , l. stock which will leave mr. adventurer to pay l. s. to his broker, and to pay l. more on each of his shares, when the------company "call" for it! or, let us reverso the case, and suppose our speculator, having been an original subscriber for shares in the ---- company, and having consequently obtained them for nothing, wishes to sell, finding them at a premium of s. per share, and either fearing they may go lower, or not being able to pay even the first instalment called for by the directors. if he is an humble tradesman, he is perhaps eager to realise a profit obtained without labour, and hugs him-self at the idea of the hundred crowns and the hundred shillings he shall put into his pocket by this pleasant process. away he posts to cornhill, searches out a broker, into whose hands he puts the letter entitling him to the shares, with directions to sell at the current premium. the broker takes a turn round 'change, finds a customer, and the whole affair is settled in a twinkling, by an entry or two in the broker's memorandum-book, and the drawing of a couple of cheques. our fortunate speculator, who is anxiously waiting at batson's the return of his man of business, and spending perhaps s. d. in bad negus and tough sandwiches, on the strength of his good luck, is then presented with a draft on a banker for l. neatly folded up in a small slip of foolscap, containing the following satisfactory particulars:-- sold shares in the------company--nothing paid--prem. s. £ brokerage, / per cent, on , l. stock by cheque he stares wildly at this document, utterly speechless, for five minutes, during which the broker, after saying he shall be happy to "do" for him another time, throws a card on the table, and exit. the lucky speculator wanders into 'change with the account in his hand, and appeals to several jews to know whether he has not been cheated: some abuse him for the insinuation against so "respectable" a man as mr.----- the broker; others laugh in his face; and all together hustle him into the street. he goes home richer by l.. s. d. than when he went out, and finds that a wealthy customer, having called three times in his absence to give him a particular order, had just left the shop in a rage, swearing he would no longer encourage so inattentive a tradesman.-- _examiner_. the life, death, burial, and resurrection company. capital.--one hundred millions shares.--one pound. ~ ~~ in this age of projectors, when bubbles are spread with illusive attractions to bother each head, when bulls, bears, jews, and jobbers all quit capelcourt to become speculators and join in the sport, who can wonder, when interest with intellect clashes, we should have a new club to dispose of our ashes; to rob death of its terrors, and make it delightful to give up your breath, and abolish the frightful old custom of lying defunct in your shroud, surrounded by relatives sobbing aloud? we've a scheme that shall mingle the "grave with the gay," and make it quite pleasant to die, when you may. first, then, we propose with the graces of art, like our parisian friends, to make ev'ry tomb smart; and, by changing the feelings of funeral terrors, remove what remain'd of old catholic errors. our plan is to blend in the picturesque style smirke, soane, nash, and wyatville all in one pile. so novel, agreeable, and grateful our scheme, that death will appear like a sweet summer's dream; and the horrid idea of a gloomy, cold cell, will vanish like vapours of mist from a dell. ~ thus changed, who'll object a kind friend to inhume, when his sepulchre's made like a gay drawing-room a diversified, soothing commixture of trees, umbrageous and fann'd by the perfumed breeze; with alcoves, and bowers, and fish-ponds, and shrubs, select, as in life, from intrusion of scrubs; while o'er your last relics the violet-turf press must a flattering promise afford of success. "lie light on him, earth," sung a poet of old; our earth shall be sifted, and never grow cold; no rude weight on your chest--how like ye our scheme { } where your grave will be warm'd by a process of steam, which will boil all the worms and the grubs in their holes, and preserve from decay ev'ry part but your souls. our cemetery, centred in fancy's domain, shall by a state edict eternal remain to all parties open, the living or dead; or christian, or atheist, here rest their head, in a picturesque garden, and deep shady grove, where young love smiles, and fashion delighteth to rove. to render the visitors' comforts complete, and afford the grieved mourners a proper retreat, the directors intend to erect an hotel, where a _table d'hôte_ will be furnished well; not with the "cold meats of a funeral feast," but a banquet that's worthy a nabob at least; of _lachryma christi_, and fine _vin de grave_, and cordial compounds, a choice you may have. twice a week 'tis proposed to illumine the scene, and to waltz and quadrille on the velvety green; while colinet's band and the opera corps play and dance with a spirit that's quite _con amore_, a committee of taste will superintend the designs and inscriptions to each latter end. ~ ~~ take notice, no cross-bones or skulls are allowed, or naked young cherubims riding a cloud; in short, no allusions that savour of death, nor aught that reminds of a friend's parting breath. the inscriptions and epitaphs, elegies too, must all be poetical, lively, and new; such as never were heard of, or seen heretofore, to be written by proctor, sam. rogers, or moore. in lieu of a sermon, glee-singers attend, who will chant, like the cherubims, praise without end. three decent old women, to enliven the hours, attend with gay garlands and sacred flowers, the emblems of grief--artificial, 'tis true, but very like nature in a general view. lord graves will preside, and vice-president coffin will pilot the public into the offing. the college of surgeons and humane society have promised to send a delightful variety. the visitors all are physicians of fame; and success we may, therefore, dead certainty name. to the delicate nervous, who'd wish a snug spot, a romantic temple, or moss-cover'd grot, let them haste to john ebers, and look at the plan; where the grave-book lies open, its merits to scan. gloves, hatbands, and essence of onions for crying, white 'kerchiefs and snuff, and a cordial worth trying, the attendants have ready; and more--as time presses, no objection to bury you in fancy dresses. our last proposition may frighten you much; we propose to reanimate all by a touch, by magic revive, if a century old, the bones of a father, a friend, or a scold. in short, we intend, for all--but a wife, to bring whom you please in a moment to life; that is, if the shares in our company rise,-- if not 'tis a bubble, like others, of lies. --bernard blackmantle. ~ ~~the recitation of this original _jeu d'esprit_ had, i found, the salutary effect of clearing my friend transit's vision in respect to the _speculation mania_; and being by this time fully accoutred and furnished with the possibles, we sallied forth to make a purchase in the public funds. there is something to be gleaned from every event in this life, particularly by the eccentric who is in search of characteristic matter. i had recently been introduced to a worthy but singular personage in the city, mr. peter principal, stock broker, of the firm of hazard and co.--a man whose probity was never yet called in question, and who, having realized a large property by the most honourable means, was continually selected as broker, trustee, and executor by all his acquaintance. to him, therefore, i introduced my friend bob, who being instantly relieved from all his weighty troubles, and receiving in return the bank receipts, we proceeded to explore the regions of pluto (i.e. the money market), attended by peter principal as our guide and instructor. on our entrance into capel court we were assailed by a motley group of jews and gentiles, inhabitants of lower tartary (i.e. botany bay{ }), who, suspecting we came there on business, addressed us in a jargon that was completely unintelligible either to transit or myself. one fellow inquired if i was a bull,{ } and his companion wished to know if transit was a bear{ }; another eagerly offered to give us _five eighths_, or sell us, at the same price, for the account'{ }; while a fourth thrust his a place so named, without the stock exchange, where the lame ducks and fallen angels of upper tartary assemble when expelled the house, to catch a hint how the puff's and bangs succeed in the private gambling market; when if they can saddle their neighbour before he is up to the variation, it is thought good jobbing. persons that purchase with a view for a rise in the funds. one who sells with a view to a fall in the price of stock. a certain future day, fixed upon by the committee of the stock exchange, for the settlement of _time bargains_--they are usually appointed at an interval of six weeks, and the price of stocks on this given day determines the speculator's gain or loss. ~ ~~copper countenance into my face, and offered to do business with me at a fiddle.{ } "tush, tush," said peter principal to the increasing multitude which now barred our passage, "we are only come to take a look, and watch the operation of the market." "_dividend hunters_{ } i suppose," said a knowing looking fellow, sarcastically, "ear wigging{ }--hey, mr. principal, something good for the pull out{ }? well, if the gentlemen wish to put on the pot, although it be for a pony,{ } i'm their man, only a little rasping,{ } you know." to this eloquent appeal succeeded a similar application from a son of israel, who offered to accommodate us in any way we wished, either for the _call_{l } or _put_{ }; to which friendly offer little principal put his direct negative, and, after innumerable when a broker has got money transactions of any conse- sequence, as there is no risk in these cases, he will fiddle one finger across the other, signifying by this that the jobber must give up half the turn of the market price to him, which he pockets besides his commission. those who suppose by changing stock they get double interest, by receiving four dividends in one year instead of two; but in this they are deceived, as the jobber, when he changes stock, gains the advantage; for instance, if he buys consols at sixty, when he sells out there will be deducted one and a half per cent. for the dividend. when bargains are done privately by a whisper, to conceal the party's being a bull. buying or selling for ready money. pony, , l. giving greater turns to the jobbers than those regulated in the market. _call_. buying to call more at one-eighth or one-fourth above the price on a certain day, if the buyer chooses, and the price is in his favour. _put_. selling to put more to it on a certain day, at one-eighth or one-fourth under the market price. ~ ~~attacks of this sort, we reached the upper end of the court, and found ourselves upon the steps which lead to the regions of upper tartary, (i.e.) the stock exchange. at this moment our friend principal was summoned by his clerk to attend some antique spinster, who, having scraped together another hundred, had hobbled down to annex it to her previous amount of consols. "you must not attempt to enter the room by yourselves," said principal; "but accompany me back to the royal exchange, where you can walk and wait until i have completed the old lady's _job_." while principal was gone to invest his customer's stock, we amused ourselves with observing the strange variety of character which every where presents itself among the groups of all nations who congregate together in this arena of commerce. perhaps a more fortunate moment for such a purpose could not have occurred: the speculative transactions of the times had drawn forth a certain portion of the stock exchange, gamblers, or inhabitants of upper tartary, who, like experienced sharpers of another description, never suffer a good thing to escape them. capel court was partially abandoned for exchange bubbles,{ } and new companies opened a new system of fraudulent enrichment for these sharks of the money market. the speculative mania, which at this time raged with un- precedented violence among a large portion of his majesty's liege subjects, gave the "john bull" a glorious opportunity for one of their witty satires, in which the poet has very humorously described the bubbles of . tune--"run, neighbours, run." run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous projects that amuse john bull; run, take a peep on 'change, for anxious crowds beset us there, each trying which can make himself the greatest gull. no sooner are they puff'd, than a universal wish there is for shares in mines, insurances in foreign loans and fisheries. ~ ~~ no matter where the project lies, so violent the mania, in africa, new providence, peru, or pennsylvania! run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull. few folks for news very anxious at this crisis are, for marriages, and deaths, and births, no thirst exists; all take the papers in, to find out what the prices are of shares in this or that, upon the broker's lists. the doctor leaves his patient--the pedagogue his lexicon, for mines of real monte, or for those of anglo-mexican: e'en chili bonds don't cool the rage, nor those still more romantic, sir, for new canals to join the seas, pacific and atlantic, sir. run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull. at home we have projects too for draining surplus capital, and honest master johnny of his cash to chouse; though t'other day, judge abbott gave a rather sharpish slap at all. and eldon launched his thunder from the upper house. investment banks to lend a lift to people who are undone-- proposals for assurance--there's no end of that, in london; and one amongst the number, who in parliament now press their bills, for lending cash at eight per cent, on coats and inexpressibles. run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull. no more with her bright pails the milkman's rosy daughter works, a company must serve you now with milk and cream; perhaps they've some connexion with the advertising water-works, that promise to supply you from the limpid stream. another body corporate would fain some pence and shillings get, by selling fish at hungerford, and knocking up old billingsgate: another takes your linen, when it's dirty, to the suds, sir, and brings it home in carriages with four nice bits of blood, sir. run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull. ~ when greenwich coaches go by steam on roads of iron railing, sir, how pleasant it will be to see a dozen in a line; and ships of heavy burden over hills and valleys sailing, sir, shall cross from bristol's channel to the tweed or tyne. and dame speculation, if she ever fully hath her ends, will give us docks at bermondsey, st. saviour's, and st. catherine's; while side long bridges over mud shall fill the folks with wonder, sir, and lamp-light tunnels all day long convey the cocknies under, sir. run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull. a tunnel underneath the sea, from calais straight to dover, sir, that qualmish folks may cross by land from shore to shore, with sluices made to drown the french, if e'er they would come over, sir, has long been talk'd of, till at length 'tis thought a monstrous bore. amongst the many scheming folks, i take it he's no ninny, sir, who bargains with the ashantees to fish the coast of guinea, sir; for, secretly, 'tis known, that another brilliant view he has, of lighting up the famous town of timbuctoo with oil gas. run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull. then a company is form'd, though not yet advertising, to build, upon a splendid scale, a large balloon, and send up tools and broken stones for fresh mac-adamizing the new discover'd turnpike roads which cross the moon. but the most inviting scheme of all is one proposed for carrying large furnaces to melt the ice which hems poor captain parry in; they'll then have steam boats twice a week to all the newly-seen land, and call for goods and passengers at labrador and greenland! run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share in all the famous bubbles that amuse john bull, ~ ~~high 'change was a subject full of the richest materials for my friend bob, who, without knowing more of the characters than their exterior appearances of eccentricity and costume exhibited, proceeded to _book_, as he termed it, the leading features. every now and then there was a rush to different parts of the arena, and an appearance of great anxiety among the crowd to catch the attention of a person who flourished a large parchment above their heads with all the pride and importance of a field marshal's baton. this was, i found, no other than the leading agent of some newly projected company, who took this method of _indulging_ the subscribers with shares, or letting the fortunate applicants know how many of these speculative chances the committee had allowed them to possess. the return of little principal afforded me a key to the surrounding group, without which their peculiar merits would have been lost to the world, or have remained individually unknown, like the profit of many of the modern speculations. "you must not suppose," said principal, "that great talents make great wealth here, or that honourable conduct and generous feelings command respect--no such thing; men are estimated upon 'change in proportion to the supposed amount of their property, and rise or fall in the worldly opinion of their associates as prosperity or adversity operates upon the barometer of their fortunate speculations; a lucky hit will cause a dolt to be pointed out as a clever fellow, when, the next turn of the market proving unsuccessful, he is despised and insulted: so much are the frequenters of 'change influenced by the most sordid and mercenary feelings, that almost all of them are the willing dupes of riches and good fortune. however, as you are strangers here, gentlemen, i will introduce you, _entre nous_, to a few of the characters who thrive by the destruction of thousands of their fellow-creatures. the bashaw in black yonder, who rests his elephantic trunk against a pillar of the exchange, with his hands thrust into his breeches pockets, is the hebrew star--the jewish luminary, a very shiloh among the peoples of his own persuasion, and, i am sorry to say, much too potent ~ ~~with the orthodox ministers of george the fourth. the fellow's insolence is intolerable, and his vulgarity and ignorance quite unbearable. he commenced his career in manchester by vending trinkets and spectacle-cases in the streets of that town, from which station he gradually rose to the important occupation of a dealer in _fag ends_, from which he ascended to the dignity of a bill-broker, when, having the command of money, and some wealthy hebrew relatives conveniently distributed over the continent for the transaction of business, he took up his abode in london, and towards the termination of the late war, when a terrible smash took place among some of his tribe, he found means to obtain their confidence, and having secured, by the aid of spies, the earliest foreign intelligence, he rapidly made a colossal fortune in the british funds, without much risk to himself. it is said he can scarcely write his own name, and it only requires a minute's conversation to inform you of the general ignorance of his mind; in short, he is one of hazlitt's men, with only one idea, but that one entirely directed to the accumulation of gold. a few years since some of the more respectable members of the stock exchange, perceiving the thraldom in which the public funds of the country were held by the tricks and manouvres of the jew party, determined to make a stand against them: among these was a highly respected member of parliament, a great sporting character, and a very worthy man. his losses proved excessive, but they were promptly paid. in order to weaken his credit, and, if possible, shake his confidence and insult his feelings, the jew took an opportunity, during high 'change, of telling him, 'dat he had got his cote and vaistcote, and he should very soon have his shirt into de bargain:' in this prophecy, however, mr. mordecai was mistaken; for the market took a sudden turn, and the gentleman alluded to recovered all his losses in a short time, to the great discomfiture ~ ~~of the high priest and the jews. in private life he is equally abrupt and vulgar, as the following anecdote will prove, at his own table: a christian broker solicited some trifling favour, observing, he had granted what he then requested to another member of the house, who was his brother-in-law. 'vary true, vary true,' said solomon gruff, as he is sometimes called, 'but then you do not shleep vid my shister, my boy; dat makes all de differance.' at present this fellow's influence is paramount at most of the courts of europe, at some of which his family enjoy considerable honours; in short, he is the head of the locust tribe, and the leader of that class of speculators whom a witty writer has well described in the following lines, addressed to the landholders: 'the national debt may be esteemed a mass of filth which grows corrupter every day; and in this heap, as always comes to pass, reptiles and vermin breed, exist, decay. 'tis now so huge, that he must be an ass who thinks it ever can be clear'd away: and the time's quickly coming, to be candid, when funded men will swallow up the landed. 'then will these debt-bred reptiles, hungry vermin, fed from the mass corrupt of which i spoke, usurp your place. a jew, a dirty german, who has grown rich by many a lucky stroke, shall rule the minister, and all determined to treat your bitter sufferings as a joke. said i, he shall! it will be nothing new; the treasury now is govern'd by a jew.' [illustration: page ] the tall dandy-looking youth standing near the great man is a scion of the former head of the hebrew family: his father possessed very superior talents, but was too much attached to splendid society to die rich; his banquets were often graced by royalty, and his liberality and honourable conduct proverbial, until misfortune produced a catastrophe that will not bear ~ ~~repeating. the very name of the sire causes a feeling of dislike in the breast of the colossus, and consequently the son is no partaker in the good things which the great man has to dispose of. the three tall jews standing together are brothers, and all members of the stock exchange; their affinity to the high priest, more than their own talents, renders their fortunes promising. observe the pale-faced genteel-looking man.on the right hand side of the arena--that is major g--s, an unsuccessful speculator in the funds, but a highly honourable officer, who threw away the proceeds of his campaigns in the peninsula among the sharks of the stock exchange and the lesser gamblers of st. james's: he has lately given to the world a sketch of his own life, under the assumed name of 'ned clinton, or the commissary,' in which he has faithfully narrated scenes and characters. the little, jolly, fresh-coloured gentleman near him is tommy b--h, a great speculator in the funds, a lottery contractor, and wine merchant, and quite at home in the tea trade. the immense fat gent behind him is called the dinner man and m. c. of vaux hall, of which place tommy b--h holds a principal share; his office is to write lyrics for the lottery, and gunpowder puffs for the genuine tea company, paragraphs for vauxhall, and spirited compositions in praise of spiritless wines: amid all these occupations it is no wonder, considering his bulk, that he invariably falls asleep before the dinner cloth is removed, and snores most mellifluously between each round of the bottle. the sharp-visaged personage to the left of him is the well known count bounce---------"--"excuse me, mr. principal," said i, "but i happen to know that worthy well myself; that is, i believe, sam dixon, the _coper_ of barbican, a jobber in the funds, it would appear, as well as in horses, coaches, and chaises: of the last named article i have had a pretty good specimen from his emporium myself, ~ ~~which, i must ever remember, was at the risk of my life.--"do you observe that stout-looking gentleman yonder with large red whiskers, in a drab surtout, like a stage coachman? that is the marquis of h-----------, one of the most fortunate gamblers (i.e. speculators) of the present day: during the war his lordship acquired considerable sums of money by acting on his priority of political information, his policy being to make one of the party in power, without holding office, and by this means be at liberty to act in the money market as circumstances required: among the _roués_ of the west he has not been less successful in games of chance, until his coffers are crammed with riches; but it must be admitted he is liberal in his expenditure, and often-times generous to applicants, particularly sporting men, who seek his favours and assistance. the little club of sage personages who are mustered together comparing notes, in the corner of the dutch walk, are the paragraph-writers for the morning and evening press; very potent personages here, i assure you, for without their kind operation the public could never be gulled to any great extent. the most efficient of the group is the elegant-looking tall man who has just moved off to consult his patron, the hebrew star, who gives all his foreign information exclusively to the leviathan of the press, of which paper mr. a-----------r is the representative. next to him in importance, information, and talent, is the reporter for the globe and traveller, g--------s m--------e, a shrewd clever fellow, with considerable tact for business. mr. f--------y, of the courier, stands near him on his left; and if he does but little with the stocks, he does that little well. the sandy-haired laddie with the high cheek bones and hawk-like countenance is m'c-----------h, of the chronicle, but a wee bit of a _wastrell_ in stock exchange affairs; and the mild-looking young gentleman who is in ~ ~~conversation with him represents the mighty little man of the morning herald. the rest of the public prints are mostly supplied with stock exchange information by a bandy-legged jew, a very solomon in funded wisdom, who pens paragraphs at a penny a line for the papers, and puts into them whatever the projectors dictate, in the shape of a puff, at per agreement. the knot of swarthy-looking athletic fellows, many of whom are finger-linked together, and wear rings in their ears, are american captains, and traders from the shores of the atlantic. that jolly-looking ruby-faced old gentleman in black, who is laughing at the puritanical tale of his lank brother, alderman shaw, is the celebrated grand city admiral, sir w. curtis, a genuine john bull, considered worth a _plum_ at least, and the author of a million of good jokes. observe that quiet-looking pale-faced gentleman now crossing the arena: from the smartness of his figure and the agility with which he bustles among the crowd, you would suppose him an active young man of about five-and-twenty, while, in fact, about sixty summers have rolled over his head; such are the good effects of temperance, system, and attention to diet. here he is known by the designation of mr. evergreen; a name, perhaps, affixed to him with a double meaning, combining in view the freshness of his age and his known attachment to theatricals, of which pursuits, as a recreation, he is devotedly fond. as a broker, lottery contractor, and a man of business, mr. d----- stands no. one for promptitude, probity, and the strictest sense of honour; wealthy without pride, and learned without affectation, his company is eagerly sought for by a large circle of the literati of the day, with whom, from his anecdotal powers, he is in high repute: on stage affairs he is a living 'biographia dramatica,' and charles mathews, it is said, owes much of his present celebrity to the early advice and persevering friendship of this worthy man. the pair ~ ~~of tall good-looking gentlemen on the french walk are messrs. j. and h------s***h, merchants in the city, and authors at the west end of the town: here they have recently been designated by the title of their last whimsical production, and now figure as messrs. gaiety and gravity, cognomens by no means inapplicable to the temper, feeling, and talent of the witty brothers. but come," said principal, "the 'change is now becoming too full to particularize, and as this is _settling_ day at the stock exchange, suppose we just walk across to the alley, take a look at the market, and see how the _account_ stands."--in passing down saint bartholomew lane, accident threw in our way the respected chief magistrate of the city, john garrett, esq. of whose sire little principal favoured us with some entertaining anecdotes.--"old francis garrett, who began business in the tea trade without cash, but with great perseverance and good credit, _cut up_ at his death for near four hundred thousand pounds, and left his name in the firm to be retained for seven years after his decease, when his posthumous share of the profits was to be divided among his grand-children. as he generally travelled for orders himself, he was proverbial for despatch; and has been known to call a customer up in the morning at four o'clock to settle his account, or disturb his repose in the night, if old francis was determined to make a lamp of the moon, and pursue his route. a very humorous story is related of him. arriving at benson, near henley, on a sunday morning, just as his customer, a mr. newberry, had proceeded to church, old francis was very importunate to prevail upon the servant-maid to call him out, in order that he might proceed to oxford that night: after much persuasion she was induced to accompany him to the church, to point out the pew where her master sat. at their entrance the eccentric figure of the tea-broker caused a general movement of recognition among the congregation; but francis, ~ ~~nothing abashed, was proceeding up the aisle with his cash instead of prayer-book in his hand, when his attention was arrested by the clergyman's text, 'paul we know, and silas we know, but who art thou?' the singular coincidence of the words, added to the authoritative style of the pastor, quite staggered francis garrett, who, however, quickly recovering, made a low bow, and then, in a true business-like style, proceeded to, apologize to the reverend and congregation for this seeming want of respect, adding he was only old francis garrett, of thames-street, the tea broker, whom every body knew, come to settle a small account with his friend mr. newberry. the eccentricity of the man was notorious, and this, perhaps, better than the apology, induced the clergyman to overlook the offence; but the story will long be remembered by the good people of benson, and never fail to create a laugh in the commercial room among the merry society of gentlemen travellers. the son, who has deservedly risen to the highest civic honours, is a worthy and highly honourable man, whose conduct since he has been elected lord mayor reflects great credit upon his fellow citizens' choice."--we had now mounted the steps which lead to the stock exchange, or, as principal, who, though one among them, may be said not to be one of them, observed, we had arrived at the _wolves' den_, "the secret arcana of which place, with its curious intricacies and perplexing paradoxical systems and principles, i shall now," continued our friend, "endeavour to explain; from which exposition the public will be able to see the monster that is feeding on the vitals of the country, while smiling in its face and tearing at its heart, yet cherished by it, as the lacedemonian boy cherished the wolf that devoured him. i am an enemy to all monopolies," said principal, "and this is one of the worst the country is infested with. "a private or exclusive market, that is, a market ~ ~~into which the public have not the liberty or privilege of either going to make, or to see made, bargains in their own persons, is one where the most sinister arts are likely to prevail. the stock exchange is of this description, and accordingly is one where the public are continually gulled out of their money by a system of the most artful and complicated traffic--a traffic calculated to raise the hopes of novices, to puzzle the wits of out-door speculators, and sure to have the effect of diminishing the property of those who are not members of the fraternity.{ } "one of the principles of the stock exchange is, that the public assist against themselves, which is not the less true than paradoxical. it is contrary to the generally-received opinion that stocks should either be greatly elevated or depressed, without some apparent cause: it is contrary to natural inference that they should rise,--not from the public sending in to purchase, or to buy or sell, which however frequently happens. it follows, therefore, that the former is occasioned by the arts of the interested stock-jobbers, and the latter by out-door speculators, who have the market price _banged down_ upon them by those whose business and interest it is to fleece them all they can. in the language of the stock exchange, you must be either a _bull or a bear,_ a _buyer or a seller_: now as it is not necessary you should have one shilling of property in the funds to embark in this speculation, but may just as well sell a hundred thousand pounds of stock as one pound, according to the practice of time bargains, which is wagering contrary to law--so neither party can be compelled to complete their agreement, or to pay whatever the difference of the amount may be upon the stock when the account closes: all transactions the mode of exchanging stock in france is in public. a broker stands in the situation of an auctioneer, and offers it to the best bidder. ~ ~~are, therefore, upon honour; and whoever declines to pay his loss is posted upon a black board, declared a defaulter, shut out of the association, and called by the community a _lame duck_. "it is not a little extraordinary, while the legislature and the judges are straining every nerve to suppress low gambling and punish its professors, they are the passive observers of a system pregnant with ten times more mischief in its consequences upon society, and infinitely more vicious, fraudulent, and base than any game practised in the hells westward of temple bar; but we are too much in the practice of gaping at a gnat and swallowing a camel, or the great subscription-houses, such as white's, brooke's, and boodle's, would not have so long remained uninterrupted in this particular, while the small fry that surround them, and which are, by comparison, harmless, are persecuted with the greatest severity. as there is a natural disposition in the human mind for gambling, and as it is visible to all the world that many men (cobblers, carpenters, and other labourers), by becoming stock-jobbers, are suddenly raised from fortunes of a few pounds to hundreds of thousands, therefore every falling shop-keeper or merchant flies to this disinterested seminary with the same hope: but the jobbers, perceiving their transactions interrupted by these persons intruding, in order to keep them at a distance, formed themselves into a body, and established a market composed of themselves, excluding every person not regularly known to the craft.{ } as the brokers found difficulty always to meet with people that would accommodate them either to buy or sell without waiting in the regular an article in their by-laws expresses, that no new member shall be admitted who follows any other trade or business, or in any wise is subject to the bankrupt laws: at the same time it is curious to observe, that most of them are either _soi-disant_ merchants or shopkeepers. ~ ~~market in the bank, to save themselves time they got accommodated among these gamblers in buying or selling as they wished; at the same time they gave the jobber one-eighth per cent, for such accommodation. as the loss was nothing to the broker, of course this imposition was looked over, because it saved his own time, and did not diminish his own commission.{ } it is clear, therefore, that the stock exchange is a self-constituted body, without any charter, but merely established at the will of the members, to the support of which a subscription is paid by each individual. they are ruled by by-laws, and judged by a committee, chosen from among themselves. this committee, as well as the members, are regularly re-balloted once in every year; of course no person is admitted within the walls of this house who does not regularly pay his subscription. "in this way has the stock market been established and forced from its original situation by a set of jobbers and brokers, who are all, it will be seen, interested in keeping their transactions from the eye of the public. these men being always ready either to buy or sell, renders it easy for the brokers to get their business done, having no trouble but merely stepping into the stock exchange. if a broker wants to buy l. stock, or any other sum, for a principal, the jobber will readily sell it, although perhaps possessing no part of it himself at the time, but will take his chance of other brokers coming to put him in possession of it, and may have to purchase the amount in two or three different transactions,{ } but in doing that he will take care to call the price lower than he sold at.{ } if the system of the private market had tended to lessen the broker's commission, he would have gone or stood any where else to transact business for his principals. this at present only applies to young beginners, but old jobbers, who have enjoyed the system long enough, have been put in pos-session of large fortunes, and are now enabled to buy into or sell out of their own names to the amount of hundreds of thousands. should other brokers not come into the market to sell to him, he is then obliged, at a certain hour of the day, to go among his brethren to get it at the most suitable price possible. this is sometimes the cause of a momentary rise, and what is known by the jobbers turning out bears for the day. a depression some-times takes place on the same principle when they are bulls for a future day, and cannot take stock. ~ ~~after the stock is transferred from the seller to the buyer, instead of the money, he will write you a draft on his banker, although he has no effects to discharge the same till such time as he is put in possession of it also by the broker whom he sold it to; and it sometimes occurs, such drafts having to pass through the clearing-house,{ } the principal is not certain whether his money, is safe till the day following. in this way does the floating stock pass and repass through the stock exchange to and from the public, each jobber seizing and laying his hand on as much as he can, besides the eighth per cent. certain, which the established rule gives in their favour: the price frequently gives way, or rises much more to his advantage, which advantage is lost to the principals, and thrown into the pockets of middle men by the carelessness and indolence of the broker, who will not trouble himself in looking out for such persons as he might do business with in a more direct way.{ } when the stock market was more public, that is, when they admitted the public by paying sixpence a day, competitors for government loans were to be seen in numbers, which enabled ministers to make good bargains for the country{ }; a room situated in lombard-street, where the banking clerks meet for the mutual exchange of drafts. the principal business commences at three o'clock in the afternoon, and the balances are paid and received at five o'clock. query,--when a broker has to buy and sell for two different principals, may he not act as a jobber also, and put the turns into his own pocket? in such cases the jobbers are convenient cloaks to disguise the transaction. the loans taken by boyd and co., goldsmidt, and others, were generally contracted for upon much better terms for the country than those taken by the stock exchange; but as they were contending against what is known by the interests of the house, they all were ruined in their turns, as the jobbers could always depreciate the value of stocks by making sales for time of that they did not possess. ~ ~~but, since the establishment of the present private market, the stock-jobbers have been found to have so much power over the price of stocks, after loans had been contracted for, that real monied men, merchants, and bankers, have been obliged to creep in under the wings of this body of gamblers, and be satisfied with what portion of each loan this junto pleases to deal out to them."--in this way little principal opened the secret volume of the stock exchange frauds, and exposed to our view the vile traffic carried on there by the _flat-catchers of the money market_. in ordinary cases it would be a task of extreme peril for a stranger to intrude into this _sanctum sanctorum_; but as our friend, the broker, was highly respected, we were allowed to pass through unmolested--a favour that will operate in suppressing our notice of certain characters whom we recognized within. it will, however, hardly be credited that in this place, where every man is by profession a gambler, and sharping is the great qualification, so much of their time is devoted to tricks and fancies that would disgrace a school-boy. among these the most prominent is hustling a stranger; an ungenerous and unmanly practice, that is too often played off upon the unsuspecting, who have been, perhaps, purposely invited into the den for the amusement of the wolves. another point of amusement is _flying a tile, or slating_ a man, as the phrases of the stock exchange describe it. an anecdote is told of one of their own members which will best convey an idea of this trick. one who was ever foremost in _slating_ his brothers, or kicking about a new castor, had himself just sported a new hat, but, with prudence which is proverbial among the craft, he would leave his new _tile_ at the counting-house, ~ ~~and proceed to the stock exchange in an old one kept for the purpose: this becoming known to some of the wags, members of the house, they despatched a note and obtained the new hat, which no sooner made its appearance in the house than it was thrown up for general sport; a joke in which none participated more freely than the unsuspecting owner, whose chagrin may be very well conceived, when, on his return to his counting-house from capel-court, he discovered that he had been assisting in kicking his own property to pieces. another trick of these wags is the screwing up a number of pieces of paper longitudinally with a portion of black ink inside them, and lying on the table before some person, whom they will endeavour to engage in serious conversation upon the state of the market, when it is ten to one if he does not roll some of these _twisters_ between his fingers, and from agitation or deep thought on his approaching losses, or the risk of his speculations, blacken his fingers and his face, to the horse-laughical amusement of the by-standers. one of the best among the recent jokes my friend bob has depicted to the life. (see plate.) the fame of mr. wright's brown pony had often reached the ears of his brother brokers, but hitherto the animal himself was personally unknown: to obviate this difficulty, some sportive wight ascertained the stable where the old gentleman usually left his nag during the time he was attending the market, and by a well-executed forgery succeeded in bringing the pony to capel-court, when, without further ceremony, he was introduced into the house during the high bustle of the market, to the no small amusement of the house and the utter astonishment of his owner. there is a new stock exchange established in capel-court, where a number of jews, shopkeepers, and tradesmen assemble, and jobbers who have emigrated from their friends in the upper house, some ~ ~~of whom have either been _ducks_, or have retired out of it on some honourable occasion; but as all is conducted upon honour in this traffic of gambling, these men also set up the principle of honour, on which they risk what has been honourably brought away from their honourable fellow labourers in the principal vineyard: these men stand generally in the alley, and, hearing what is going on in the other market (as they speculate also upon the price established there), they will give advice to strangers who may be on the out-look to make, as they expect, a speedy fortune by dabbling in the stocks. if they find a person to be respectable, they will offer to do business with him on the principle of their brethren, and also exact the one-eighth per cent, as they do, trusting to his honour, that (although they do not know where he lives) he will appear on or before the settling day to balance the account, and pay or receive the difference.{ } these jobbers speculate a great deal upon puts and calls, and will give a chance sometimes for a mere trifle. they have not, like the private market, the public generally to work upon, the by-laws in the stock exchange prohibiting any broker or jobber, being a regular member, from dealing with them, on pain of forfeiting his right to re-enter; but, notwithstanding, some of the brokers, and even the jobbers inside, will run all risks when there appears a good chance of getting a turn on the price in their favour: from this cause, however, the alley, or new stock exchange jobbers, are obliged to gamble more directly with each other; consequently many get thrown to the leeward, and those who stand longest are generally such as have other resources from the trade or there have many lately entered into gambling transactions with these gentlemen, and have taken the profit so long as they were right in their speculations; but as soon as a loss came upon them, knowing they have no black board, they walk themselves coolly away with what they get. ~ ~~occupation they carry on elsewhere. from this place, called by the members of the _house lower tartary, or hell_, the next step of degradation, when obliged to waddle out of the court, is the _rotunda of new botany bay_. here may be seen the private market in miniature; a crowd of persons calling themselves jobbers and brokers, and, of course, a market to serve any person who will deal with them; the same system of _ear-wigging_, nods, and winks, is apparent, and the same _fiddling, rasping_, and attempts at overreaching each other, as in upper tartary, or the den; and of course, while they rasp and fiddle, their principals have to pay for the music: but as no great bargains are contracted here (these good things being reserved for a select few in the private market), the jobbers, who are chiefly of little note, are glad if they can pick up a few shillings for a day's job, by cutting out money stock for servants' and other people's small earnings. here may be seen my lord's footman from the west end of the town, who is a great politician, and knows for a certainty that the stocks will be down; therefore he wants to sell out his l. savings, to get in at less: here also may be some other lord's footman, who has taken a different view of things, and wants to buy; and, although their respective brokers might meet each other, and transact business in a direct way, at a given price, notwithstanding they either do, or they pretend to have given the jobbers the turn,{ } that is, the one sold at one-eighth, and the other bought at one-fourth.--this market, as in the alley, is ruled by the prices established in the private gambling market, which being the case, some will have messengers running to and from this market to see how the puffs and bangs proceed; and if they can saddle their neighbour before he knows the price is changed, it is thought good jobbing. from the stock some act both as jobbers and brokers, and will charge a com-mission for selling their own stock. ~ ~~exchange to the rotunda, every where, it will be perceived, a system of gambling and deception is practised upon the public, and the country demoralized and injured by a set of men who have no principle but interest, and acknowledge no laws but those of gain. [illustration: page ] as this was settling-day, we had the gratification to observe one unfortunate howled out of the craft for having speculated excessively; and not being able or willing to pay his differences, he was compelled to waddle{ }; which he did, with a slow step and melancholy countenance, accompanied by the hootings and railings of his unfeeling tribe, as he passed down the narrow avenue from upper tartary, proclaimed to the lower regions and the world a lame duck those who become ducks are not what are termed true jobbers; they are those who either job or speculate, or are half brokers and half jobbers, and are left to pay out-door speculators' accounts; or if a jobber lend himself to get off large amounts of stock, in cases where the broker does not wish the house to know he is operating, he generally gives him an immediate advantage in the price in a private bargain; this is termed being such-a-one's bawd. the isle of wight. ~ ~~ garden of england! spangle of the wave! loveliest spot that albion's waters lave! hail, beauteous isle! thou gem of perfumed green, fancy's gay region, and enchantment's scone. here where luxuriant nature pours, in frolic mood, her choicest stores, bedecking with umbrageous green and richest flowers the velvet scene, begirt by circling ocean's swell, enrich'd by mountain, moor, and dell; here bright hygeia, queen of health, bestows a gift which bankrupts wealth. the oxford student--reflections on the close of a term--the invitation--arrival at southampton--remarks--the steam boat-- advantages of steam--voyage to the isle of wight-- southampton water--the solent sea and surrounding scenery-- marine villas, castles, and residences--west cowes--its harbour and attractions--the invalid or the convalescent-- the royal yacht club--circular in rhyme--aquatic sports considered in a national point of vieio--a night on board the rover yacht--the progress of navigation--the embarkation--the soldier's wife--sketches of scenery and characters--evening promenaders--excursions in the island, to ryde, newport, shanklin chine, bonchurch, the needle rocks--descriptive poetry--morning, noon, and night-- the regatta--the pilot's review--the race ball--adieu to vectis. the oxford commemoration was just over, and the newdigate laurels graced the brow of the victor; the ~l l~~last concert which brings together the scattered forces of _alma mater_, on the eve of a long vacation, had passed off like the note of the cygnet; the rural shades of christchurch meadows were abandoned by the classic gownsmen, and the aquatic sons of brazen-nose and jesus had been compelled to yield the palm of marine superiority to their more powerful opponents, the athletic men of exeter. the flowery banks of isis no longer presented the attractive evening scene, when all that is beautiful and enchanting among the female graces of oxford sport like the houris upon its velvet shores, to watch the prowess of the college youth: the regatta had terminated with the term; even the high street, the usually well-frequented resort of prosing dons, and dignitaries, and gossiping masters of arts, bore a desolate appearance. now and then, indeed, the figure of a solitary gownsman glanced upon the eye, but it was at such long and fearful intervals, and then, vision-like, of such short duration, that, with the closed oaks of the tradesmen, and the woe-begone faces of the starving _scouts and bed-makers_, a stranger might have imagined some ruthless plague had swept away, "at one fell swoop," two-thirds of the population of rhedycina. it was at this dull period of time, that a poor student, having passed successfully the scylla and charybdis of an oxonian's fears, the great go and little go, and exhausted by long and persevering efforts to obtain his degree, had just succeeded in adding the important academical letters to his name, when he received a kind invitation from an old brother etonian to spend a few weeks with him in the isle of wight, "the flowery seat of the muses," said horace eglantine, (the inviter), "and the grove of hygeia; the delightful spot, above all others, best calculated to rub off the rust of college melancholy, engendered by hard reading, invigorate the studious mind, and divest the hypochrondriac of _la maladie ~ ~~imaginaire!_'" "and where," said bernard blackmantle, reasoning within himself, "is the student who could withstand such an attractive summons? friendship, health, sports, and pleasures, all combined in the prospective; a view of almost all the blessings that render life desirable; the charm that binds man to society, the medicine that cures a wounded spirit, and the cordial which reanimates and brightens the intellectual faculties of the philosopher and the poet; in short, the health-inspiring draught, without which the o'ercharged spirit would sink into earth, a prey to black despondency, or linger out a wearisome existence only to become a gloomy misanthrope, a being hateful to himself and obnoxious to all the world." with nearly as much alacrity as the lover displays when, on the wings of anticipated delight, he hastes to seek the beloved of his soul, did i, bernard blackmantle, pack up my portmanteau, and make the best of my way to southampton, from which place the steam boat conveys passengers, morning and evening, to and from the island. southampton has in itself very little worthy the notice of the lover of the characteristic and the humorous, at least that i discovered in a few hours' ramble. it is a clean well-built town, of considerable extent and antiquity, particularly its entrance gate, enlivened by numerous elegant shops, whose blandishments are equally attractive with the more fashionable _magazines de modes_ of the british metropolis. the accommodations for visitors inclined to bathe or walk have been much neglected, and the vapours arising from its extended shores at low water are, in warm weather, very offensive; but the influx of strangers is, nevertheless, very great, from its being the port most eligible to embark from for either havre de grace, guernsey, jersey, or the isle of wight. the market here is accounted excellent, and from this source the visitors of cowes are principally ~ ~~supplied with fruit, fish, fowl, and delicacies. the steam boat is a new scene for the painter of real life, and the inquisitive observer of the humorous and eccentric. the facility it affords of a quick and certain conveyance, in defiance of wind and tide, ensures its proprietors, during the summer months, a harvest of success. its advantages i have here attempted to describe in verse, a whim written during my passage; and this will account for the odd sort of measure adopted, which i attribute to the peculiar motion of the vessel, and the clanking of the engine; for, as everybody knows, poets are the most susceptible of human beings in relation to local circumstances. the advantages of steam. if adam or old archimedes could wake as from a dream, how the ancients would be puzzled to behold arts, manufactures, coaches, ships, alike impell'd by steam; fire and water changing bubbles into gold. steam's universal properties are every day improving, all you eat, or drink, or wear is done by steam; and shortly it will be applied to every thing that's moving, as an engine's now erecting to write novels by the ream. fine speeches in the parliament, and sermons 'twill deliver; to newspapers it long has been applied; in king's bench court or chancery a doubtful question shiver with an argument already "cut and dried." its benefits so general, and uses so extensive, that steam ensures the happiness of all mankind; we grow rich by its economy, and travel less expensive to the indies or america, without the aid of wind. here we are, then, on board the steam boat, huge clouds of smoke rolling over our heads, and the reverberatory paddles of the engine just beginning to cut the bosom of southampton water. every where the eye of the traveller feasts with delight upon the surrounding scenery and objects, while his cranium is protected from the too powerful heat of a summer's ~ ~~sun by an elegant awning spread from side to side of the forecastle, and under which he inhales the salubrious and saline breezes, enjoying an uninterrupted prospect of the surrounding country. on the right, the marine villas of sir arthur pagett and sir joseph yorke, embowered beneath the most luxuriant foliage, claim the notice of the traveller; and next the antique ruins of netley abbey peep out between the portals of a line of rich majestic trees, bringing to the reflective mind reminiscences of the past, of the days of superstition and of terror, when the note of the gloomy bell reverberated through the arched roofs the funeral rite of some departed brother, and, lingering, died in gentle echoings beneath the vaulted cloisters, making the monkish solitude more horrible; but now, as keate has sung, "mute is the matin bell, whose early call warn'd the gray fathers from their humble beds; no midnight taper gleams along the wall, or round the sculptured saint its radiance sheds." at the extremity of the new forest, and commanding the entrance to the river, the picturesque fort called calshot castle stretches forth, like the martello towers in the bay of naples, an object of the most romantic appearance; and at a little distance from it rises the stately tower of eaglehurst, with its surrounding pavilions and plantations. to the westward is the castle of hurst; and now opens to the astonished traveller's view the wight, extending eastward and westward far as the eye can compass, but yet within its measurement from point to point. ------"here in this delicious garden is variety without end; sweet interchange of hills and valleys, rivers, woods, and plains; now land, now sea, and shores with forests crown'd, rocks, dens, and caves." the coast presents a combination of romantic, pastoral, and marine beauties, that are deservedly the ~ ~~theme of admiration, and certainly no spot of the same extent, in the three kingdoms, perhaps in the world, can boast of such a diversity of picturesque qualities, of natural charms, and local advantages--attractions which have justly acquired for it the emphatic distinction of the garden of england. every where the coast is adorned with cottages or villas, hill or vale, enriched by the most luxuriant foliage, and crowned in the distance by a chain of lofty downs; while in front the coasts of gosport and portsmouth, and that grand naval station for england's best bulwarks, spithead, present a forest of towering masts and streamers, which adds much to the natural grandeur of the scene. as we near cowes we are delighted with a variety of striking objects: the chaste and characteristic seat of norris, the residence of lord henry seymour, massive in its construction, and remarkable for the simplicity of its style and close approximation to the ancient castle. on the brow of the hill the picturesque towers of east cowes castle rise from a surrounding grove, and present a very beautiful appearance, which is materially increased upon nearer inspection by the rapid spread of the deep-hued ivy clinging to its walls, and giving it an appearance of age and solidity which is admirably relieved by the diversity of the lighter foliage. on the other side projects from a point westward cowes castle, the allotted residence of the governor, but now inhabited by the marquis of anglesey and his family, to whose partiality for aquatic sports cowes is much indebted for its increasing consequence and celebrity. the building itself, although much improved of late, is neither picturesque nor appropriate; but the adjoining scenery, and particularly the marine villas of lord grantham and the late sir j. c. hippesley, have greatly increased the beauty of the spot, which first strikes the eye of a stranger in his progress to west cowes from ~ ~~southampton water. the town itself rises like an amphitheatre from the banks of a noble harbour, affording security and convenience for large fleets of ships to ride at anchor safely, or to winter in from stress of weather, or the repair of damages. but here ends my topographical sketches for the present. the inspiring air of "home, sweet home," played by the steward upon the key bugle, proclaims our arrival; the boat is now fast drawing to her moorings at the fountain quay, the boatmen who flock along-side have already solicited the care of my luggage, and the hand of my friend, horace eglantine, is stretched forth to welcome my arrival at west cowes. the first salutations over with my friend eglantine, i could not help expressing my surprise at the sailor-like appearance of his costume. "all the go here, old fellow," said horace; "we must start that long-tailed gib of yours for a nice little square mizen, just enough to cover your beam and keep your bows cool; so bear a hand, my boy, and let us drop down easy to our births, and when properly rigged you shall go on board my yacht, the rover, and we will bear away for the westward. only cast off that sky scraper of yours before the boom sweeps it overboard, and cover your main top with a waterloo cap: there, now, you are cutter rigg'd, in good sailing trim, nothing queer and yawl-like about you." in this way i soon found myself metamorphosed into a complete sailor, in appearance; and as every other person of any condition, from the marquis downwards, adopted the same dress, the alteration was indispensably necessary to escape the imputation of being considered a goth. among the varied sports in which the nobility and gentry of england have at any time indulged, or that have, from the mere impulse of the moment and the desire of novelty, become popular, none have been more truly national and praiseworthy than the establishment of the royal yacht club. the promotion ~ ~~of aquatic amusement combines the soundest policy in the pursuit of pleasure, two points but rarely united; in addition to which it benefits that class of our artizans, the shipwrights, who, during a time of profound peace, require some such auxiliary aid; nor is it less patriotic in affording employment to sea-faring men, encouraging the natural characteristic of britons, and feeding and fostering a branch of service upon which the country must ever rely for its support and defence in time of peril. to the owners it offers advantages and attractions which are not, in other pursuits, generally attainable; health here waits on pleasure,--science benefits by its promotion,--friends may partake without inconvenience or much additional expense,--travel is effected with economy,--and change of scene and a knowledge of foreign coasts obtained without the usual privations and incumbrances attendant upon the public mode of conveyance. by a recent regulation, any gentleman's pleasure yacht may enter the ports of france, or those of any other power in alliance with england, exempted from the enormous exactions generally extorted from private and merchant vessels, as harbour and other dues,--a privilege of no mean consequence to those who are fond of sailing. in addition, there are those, and of the service too, who contend, that since the establishment of the royal yacht club, by their building superior vessels, exciting emulation, and creating a desire to excel in naval architecture, and also by the superiority of their sailing, the public service of the country has been much benefited, particularly as regards our lighter vessels, such as revenue cutters and cruizers. this club, which originated with some gentlemen at cowes in the year , now comprises the name of almost every nobleman and gentleman in the kingdom who keeps a yacht, and is honoured with that of the sovereign, and other members of his family, ~ ~~as its patrons. cowes harbour is the favourite rendezvous; and here in the months of july and august may be seen above one hundred fine vessels built entirely for purposes of pleasure, and comprising every size and variety of rigging, from a ship of three hundred tons burthen to the yawl of only eight or ten. it was just previous to that delightful spectacle, the regatta, taking place, when the roads and town presented an unusually brilliant appearance, that i found myself agreeably seated on board the rover, a cutter yacht of about thirty tons, who, if she was not fitted up with all the superiority of many of those which surrounded me, had at least every comfortable and necessary accommodation for half a dozen visitors, without incommoding my friend horace or his jovial crew. i had arrived at cowes a low-spirited weakly invalid, more oppressed in mind than body; but a few trips with my friend eglantine to sea, on board the rover, and some equally pleasant rambles among the delightful scenery which surrounds the bay of cowes, had in one week's residence banished all symptoms of dispepsia and nervous debility, and set the master of arts once more upon his legs again. some idea of my condition, on leaving _alma mater_, may be obtained by the following effusion of my muse, who, to do her justice, is not often sentimental, unless when sickness presses her too close. the invalid. light-hearted mirth and health farewell, twin sisters of my youthful days, who through life's early spangled dell would oft inspire my humble lays. fancy, cameleon of the mind, the poet's treasure, life, and fame, thou too art fled, with wreath to bind the budding of some happier name. ~ ~~ oppression's sway, or fortune's frown, my buoyant spirits once could bear; but now chimeras press me down, and all around seems fell despair. with fev'rish dreams and frenzied brain, when hecate spreads her veil, i'm crost; my body sinks a prey to pain, and all but lingering hope is lost. with the return of health and spirits, horace insisted i should write the "l'allegro" to this "il penseroso" effusion. so, finding the jade had recovered her wonted buoyancy, i prayed her mount on gayest wing, and having spread her pinions to the sun, produced the following impromptu. the convalescent. welcome, thou first great gift below, hygeian maid, with rosy glow, thrice welcome to my call. let misers hug their golden store, i envy none the servile ore; to me thou art all in all. thou spring of life, and herald fair, whose charm dispels disease and care, and yields a summer joy, all hail! celestial seraph, hail! thou art the poet's coat of mail, his mirth without alloy. there is a prepossessing something in the life of a sailor which improves the natural attachment of englishmen to every thing nautical; so much so, that i never heard of one in my life who was not, after a single trip, always fond of relating his hair-breadth perils and escapes, and of seizing every opportunity to display his marine knowledge by framing his conversation _ship shape_, and decorating his oratory with a few of those lingual localisms, which to a landsman must be almost unintelligible without the aid of ~ ~~a naval glossary. a fortnight's tuition under the able auspices of my friend horace had brought me into tolerable good trim in this particular; i already knew the difference between fore and aft, a gib, a mainsail, and a mizen;could hand a rope, or let go the foresail upon a tack; and having gained the good opinion of the sailing captain, i was fast acquiring a knowledge how to box the binnacle and steer through the needle's eye. but, my conscience! as the dominie says, i could never learn how to distinguish the different vessels by name, particularly when at a little distance; their build and rigging being to my eye so perfectly similar. in all this, however, my friend horace was as completely at home as if he had studied naval architecture at the college; the first glance of a vessel was quite enough for him: like an old sportsman with the pedigree of a horse or a dog, only let him see her, through his glass head or stern, or upon a lee lurch, and he would hail her directly, specify her qualities and speed, tell you where she was built, and who by, give you the date of her register, owner's name, tonnage, length and breadth of her decks, although to the eye of the uninitiated there was no distinguishing mark about her, the hull being completely black, and the rigging, to a rope, like every other vessel of the same class. "for instance," said horace, "who could possibly mistake that beautiful cutter, the pearl? see how she skims along like a swan with her head up, and stern well under the wind! then, look at her length; there's a bowsprit, my boy! full half the measurement of her hull; and her new mainsail looks large enough to sweep up every breath of wind between the sea and the horizon. then only direct your fore lights to her trim; every rope just where it should be, and not a line too much; and when she fills well with a stiff breeze, not a wrinkle in all her canvas from the gib to the gaff topsail. then observe how she dips in the bows, and what a breadth she ~ ~~has; why she's fit for any seas; and if the arrow ever shoots past her, i'll forfeit every shot in my lockers." "avast there! master horace," said our master at the helm, who was an old cowes pilot, and as bluff as a deal sea-boat; "the pearl is a noble sailer; but a bird can't fly without wings, nor a ship run thirteen knots an hour without a good stiff breeze. if the light winds prevail, the arrow will have the advantage, particularly now she's cutter rigged, and has got the marquis's old mainsail up to take the wind out of his eye." "ay, ay," said horace, "you must tell that story to the marines, old boy; it will never do for the sailors." "mayhap, your honours running right a-head with the pearl, and betting your blunt all one way; but, take an old seaman's advice; may i get no more rest than a dog-vane, or want a good _grego_{ } in a winter's watch, if i don't think you had better keep a good look-out for the wind's changing aft; and be ready to haul in your weather-braces, and bear the back-stays abreast the top-br'im, ere the boatswain's mate pipes the starboard-watch a-hoy." "tush, tush, old fellow," said horace, with whom i found lord anglesey's cutter stood a one at lloyd's. "may my mother sell vinegar, and i stay at home to bottle it off, if i would give a farthing per cent, to be ensured for my whole risk upon the grand match! mind your weather roll, master--belay every inch of that. there now; look out a-head; there's the liberty giving chase to the julia, and the jack-o'lantern weathering the swallow upon every tack. his grace of norfolk won't like that; but a pleasure hack must not be expected to run against a thorough-bred racer. there is but one yawl in the club, and that is the little eliza, that can sail alongside a cutter; but then sir george thomas is a tar for all weathers--a true blue jacket--every thing so snug--cawsand rig--no topmasts--all so square and trim, that nothing of his bulk can a watch-coat. ~ ~~beat him." in this way my friend eglantine very soon perfected me in nautical affairs, or, to use his expression, succeeded in putting a "timber head in the ship;" and the first use i made of my newly acquired information was to pen a _jeu d'esprit_, in the way of a circular in rhyme, inviting the members of the royal yacht club to assemble in cowes-roads. the whim was handed about in ms., and pleased more from its novelty than merit; but as it contains a correct list of the club at this period, and as the object of the english spy is to perpetuate the recollections of his own time, i shall here introduce it to the notice of my readers. a circular, addressed to the members op the royal yacht club. come, lads, bend your sails; o'er the blue waters thronging, in barks like the sea-mew that skims o'er the lave; all you to the royal yacht squadron belonging, come, muster at cowes, for true sport on the wave.{ } first our king,{ } heaven bless him! who's lord of the sea, and delights in the sport of the circling wave, commands you attend him wherever ye be, sons of ocean, ye loyal, ye witty, and brave. here anglesey,{ } waterloo's hero, shall greet ye; the club generally assemble in cowes-roads about the middle of july to commence their aquatic excursions, which are continued until after the regatta in august. his majesty is graciously pleased to honour the club by becoming its patron. the marquis of anglesey is a principal promoter of this truly british sport, and resides with his family at cowes castle during the season. the pearl cutter, tons, and the liberty cutter, tons, are both his property. ~ ~~ the pearl, and the liberty, cutters in trim, the welds { } in the arrow and julia too meet ye, the match for eight hundred affording you whim. here grantham{ } his nautilus, steer'd by old hollis, shall cut through the wave like a beautiful shell; and symonds{ } give chase in the yawl the cornwallis, and webster{ } the scorpion manage right well; and williams{ } the younger, and owen{ } his dad, from the shores of beaumaris have run the gazelle; and craven{ } his may-fly wings o'er like a lad that is used to the ocean, and fond of its swell. come, lads, bear a hand--here's sir george hove in sight, with his little eliza{ } so snug and so trim; tan sails, cawsand rigg'd--for all weather she's tight; you must sail more than well, if you mean to beat him. then steady, boys, steady--here's yarborough's{ } falcon, a very fine ship, but a little too large; and here is a true son of neptune to talk on, vice-admiral hope,{ } k.cb. in his barge. joseph and james welds, esqrs., of southampton, the wealthy and spirited owners of the arrow yawl, tons, and the julia, tons. these gentlemen evince the greatest spirit in challenging and sailing any of the club. lord grantham, nautilus, cutter, tons, a new and very fast sailer. owner vessel class tons capt. j. c. symonds, r.n. adm. cornwallis yawl sir godfrey webster scorpion, cutter t. p. williams, esq., hussar, schooner, and the blue-eyed maid, cutter, owen williams, esq. gazelle cutter earl craven may-fly yawl sir george thomas, bart. eliza yawl lord yarborough commodore falcon ship vice-admiral sir w. johnston hope, k.c.b., who is here in one of the admiralty yachts. ~ ~~ come, lads, spread your canvas for health and for pleasure, for both are combined in this true british sport; come, muster in cowes-roads without further leisure, blue jackets and trowsers for dresses at court. see deerhurst{ } his mary sticks to like a lover, and lindegren's{ }dove wings it over the main; powell's { } briton, 'tis very well known, is a rover, in union the pagets{ }must ever remain; here's smith's { }jack o'lantern and chamberlayne's fairy,{ } earl harborough's{ } ann, and f. pake's rosabelle{ } lord willoughby's { } antelope, penleaze's { }mary, and gauntlet's{ }water-sprite sails very well. come, jolly old curtis,{ } bear up in your emma, eight cheerily laden with turtle and port; and melville{ } set sail if you'd scape the dilemma of being too late for our aquatic sport. see norfolk { }already is here in the swallow, and the don giovanni a challenge has sent, which lyons { } accepts, and intends to beat hollow, that is if the londoner should not repent. owner vessel viscount deerhurst mary j. lindegren, esq. dove. j. b. powell, esq. briton right hon. sir a. paget union t. a. smith, jun. esq. jack o'lantern w. chamberlayne, esq. fairy earl of harborough ann f. pare, esq. rosabelle lord willoughby do broke antelope j. s. penleaze, esq. mary captain j. gauntlet water sprite sir william curtis, bart. rebecca maria, yawl, tons. and emma, schooner, tons. lord melville admiralty yacht duke of norfolk swallow yawl captain edmund lyons (the polar navigator) had just launched the queen mab. ~ ~~ but look, what a crowd of fine yachts are arriving! the elizabeth,{ }unicorn,{ } cygnet,{ } and jane,{ } the eliza, sabrina,{ } madora,{ } all striving to beat one another as coursing the main. a fleet of small too, at anchor are riding; the margaret{ } sapphire,{ } the molly,{ } and hind,{ } the orion,{ } and dormouse{ } and janette{ }abiding the time when each vessel shall covet the wind. then, boys, bend your sails, and weigh for our regatta, we've a sylph?{ and a rambler{ } and a merry maid,{ } a syren{ } a cherub{ } a charlotte{ } and at her a corsair( } who looks as if nothing afraid. here the lord of the isles{ } and freebooter rob roy,{ } by a will o' the wisp{ } are led over the deep; j. fleming, esq. elizabeth h. perkins, esq. unicorn, j. reynolds, esq. cygnet hon. william hare jane james maxie, esq. sâbrina h. hopkins, esq. madora hon. william white margaret james dundas, esq. sapphire lieutenant-colonel harris charming molly capt. herringham, r.n. hind james smith, esq. orion . p. peach, esq. dormouse capt. c. wyndham, r.n. janette r. w. newman, esq. sylph j. h. durand, esq. jolly rambler joseph gulston, esq. merry-maid t. lewin, esq. syren t. challen, esq. cherub john vassall, esq. charlotte corbett, esq. corsair colonel seale lord of the isles w. gaven, esq. rob roy e. h. dolatield, esq. will o' the wisp and the highland lass{ } blushes a welcome of joy, as alongside the wombwell{ } she anchors to sleep. here the donna del lago{ } consorts with rostellan,{ } to the new grove,{ } lord nelson{ } louisa { } attends, galatea{ } runs a harrie{ } in chase of the erin,{ } and here with the club list my circular ends. owner vessel class tons lieut.-gen. mackenzie highland lass yawl t. harman, esq. wombivell cutter s. halliday, esq. lady of die lake yawl marquis of thoruond rostellan schooner john roche, esq. new grove cutter reverend c. a. north lord nelson cutter arch. swinton, esq. louisa yawl c. r. m. talbot, esq. galatea schooner sir r. j. a. kemys harrier schooner t. allen, esq. erin schooner ~ ~~ "a right merrie conceit," said horace, "and a good-humoured jingle that must be gratifying to all mentioned, and will serve as a record of the present list of the yacht club to future times. we must petition the commodore to enter you upon the ship's books as poet-laureate to the squadron: you shall pen lyrics for our annual club-dinner at east cowes, compose sea-chants for our cabin jollifications, sing the praises of our wives and sweethearts, and write a congratulatory ode descriptive of our vessels, crews, and commanders, at the end of every season; and your reward shall be a birth on board any of the fleet when you choose a sail, and a skin-full of grog whenever you like to command it. so come, old fellow, give us a spice of your qualifications for your new office; something descriptive of the science of navigation, from its earliest date to the perfection of a first-rate man of war." ~ ~~ the progress of navigation, an original song; dedicated to the members of the royal yacht club. in the first dawn of science, ere man could unfold the workings of nature, or valued dull gold; ere yet he had ventured to dare ocean's swell, or could say by the moon how the tides rose and fell; a philosopher seated one day on the brink of the silvery margin thus took him to think: "if on this side the waters are girted by land, what controls the wide expanse, i'd fain understand." thus buried in thought had he ponder'd till now, but a beautiful nautilus sail'd to and fro; just then a sly breeze raised the curls from his eyes, and he woke from a dream to extatic surprise. o'er his head a huge oak spread a canopy round, whose trunk being hollow, he levell'd to ground; with a branch form'd a mast, and some matting a sail, and thus rudely equipp'd dared the perilous gale; of the winds and the waves both the mercy and sport, his bark was long tost without guidance to port, and the storms of the ocean went nigh to o'erwhelm, when the tail of the dolphin suggested a helm. ry degrees, the canoe to a cutter became, and order and form newly-moulded the same, ropes, rigging, and canvas, and good cabin room, a bowsprit, a mizen, a gib, and a boom. from the cutter, the schooner, brig, frigate arose; till britons, determined to conquer their foes, built ships like to castles, they call'd men of war, the fame of whose broadsides struck terror afar. now boldly, philosophy aided by skill, bent his course o'er the blue waters sailing at will, but dubious the track, for as yet 'twas unknown how to steer 'twixt the poles for a north or south zone, ~ ~~ till the magnet's attraction, by accident found, taught man how the globe he could traverse around; new worlds brought to light, and new people to view, and by commerce connected turk, christian, and jew. all this while, father neptune lay snug in his bed, till he heard a sad riot commence o'er his head, folks firing, and fighting, and sailing about, when his godship popp'd up just to witness the rout; it happen'd in one of those actions to be when europe combined fought the isle of the sea, and, as usual, were conquer'd, sunk, fired, or run, that old neptune acknowledged each briton his son. "from this time," said his godship, "henceforth, be it known, little england's the spot for the ocean-king's throne; and this charter i grant, and enrol my decree, that my brave sons, the britons, are lords of the sea." "there's nothing like a good song," said horace, "for conveying information on nautical subjects, or promoting that national spirit which is the pride and glory of our isle. i question if the country are not more indebted to old charles dibdin for his patriotic effusions during the late war, than to all the psalm-singing admirals and chaplains of the fleet put together. i know that crab gambier, and the methodist privateers who press all sail to pick up a deserter from the orthodox squadron, do a great deal of mischief among our seamen; for as corporal trim says, 'what time has a sailor to palaver about creeds when it blows great guns, or the enemies of his country heave in sight? a sailor's religion is to perform his duty aloft and do good below; honour his king, love his girl, obey his commander, and burn, sink, and destroy the foes of his country.' here we have an occasional exhibition of this sort on board the depot vessel in the harbour, when the _bethel_ flag ~ ~~is hoisted, and the voice of the puritan is heard from east cowes to eaglehurst; as if there were not already conventicles enough on shore for those who are disposed to separate themselves from the established church, without the aid of a floating chapel, furnished by the government agent to subvert the present order of things. on this point, you know, i was always a liberal thinker, but a firm friend to the church, as being essential to the best interests of the state. an old college chum of ours, who has been unusually fortunate in obtaining ecclesiastical preferment, thought proper to send me a friendly lecture in one of his letters the other day on this subject, to which i returned the following answer, and put an end to his scruples, as i think, for ever: i have entitled it the universalist. 'to a friend who questioned the propriety of his religious opinions. 'you ask what creed is mine? and where i seek the lord in holy prayer? what sect i follow? by what rule, perhaps you mean, i play the fool? i answer, none; yet gladly own i worship god, but god alone. no pious fraud or monkish lies shall teach me others to despise; whate'er their creed, i love them all, so they before their maker fall. the sage, the savage, and refined, on this one point are equal blind: shall man, the creature of an hour, arraign the all-creative power? or, by smooth chin, or beard unshaved, decree who shall or not be saved? presumptuous priests, in silk and lawn, may lib'ral minds denounce with scorn; the reason's clear--remove the veil, their trade and interest both must fail. ~ i hold that being worse than blind, where bigotry usurps the mind; and more abhor him who for pelf, denouncing others, damns himself. look round, observe creation's work, from afric's savage to the turk; through polish'd europe turn your eye, to where the sun of liberty on western shores illumes the wave, that flows o'er many a patriot's grave; as varied as their skin's the creed, by which they hope they shall succeed in presence of their god, to prove their claim to his eternal love; a claim that must and will have weight, no matter what their creed or state. by modes of faith let none presume to fix his fellow-creature's doom.'" "a truce with religion, horace," said i; "it is a controversy that generally ends in making friends foes, and foes the most implacable of persecutors: with the one it shuts out all hope of reconciliation, with the other breeds a war of extermination; so come, lad, leave theology to the fathers--we that have liberal souls tolerate all creeds. more hollands, steward: here's a glass to all our college acquaintance, not forgetting grandmamma and the pretty nuns of saint clement's. where the deuce is all that singing we hear above, steward?" "on board the transport, your honour." "ay, i remember, i saw the poor devils embark this morning, and a doleful sight it was--one hundred of my fellow-creatures, in the prime of life, consigned to an early grave, transported to the pestilential climate of sierre leone: inquire for them three months hence, and you shall find them--not where they will find you--but where whole regiments of their predecessors have been sacrificed, on the unhealthy shores--victims to the false policy of holding what is worse than useless, and of enslaving the original owners of the soil. ~ ~~liquor, and the reflection of their desperate fortunes, have driven them mad, and now they give vent to their feelings in a forced torrent of wild mirth, in which they would bury the recollections of those they are parted from for ever. on the beach this morning i witnessed a most distressing scene: wives separated by force from their husbands, and children torn from the fond embraces of parents whose parting sighs were all they could yield them on this side the grave. 'push off the boat, and, officer, see that no women are permitted on board,' said the superintending lieutenant of the depot, with a voice and manner hard and unfeeling as the iron oracle of authority. my heart sickened at the sight, and the thrilling scream of a widowed wife, as she fell senseless on the causeway, created an impression that my pitying muse could not resist recording. 'the soldier's wipe. 'there's a pang which no pencil nor pen can express, a heart-broken sigh which despondency breathes, when the soul, overcharged with oppressive distress, of the tear of relief the sad bosom bereaves. 'twas thus on the shore, like a statue of grief, the wife of the soldier her babe fondly press'd; not a word could she utter, no tear gave relief, but sorrow convulsively heaved her soft breast. now nearer she presses--now severed for life the waves bear the lord of her bosom from view; distraction suspends the red current of life, and she sinks on the beach as he sighs out adieu.'" "zounds, old fellow, how sentimental you are growing!" said horace: "you must read these pathetic pieces to the marines; they will never do for the sailors. here, steward, bear a hand, muster the crew aft, and let us have a tune, jack's alive, malbrook, or the college hornpipe;" an order that was quickly carried into execution, as most of the ~ ~~men on board i found played some wind instrument, the effect of which upon the stillness of the water was enchantingly sweet. during the occasional rests of the band, horace sung one of those delightful melodies, written in imitation of moore, for which he was celebrated when a boy at eton. the evening tide. tune--" the young may moon." whither so fast away, my dear? the star of eve is bright and clear, and the parting day, as it fades away, to lovers brings delight, my dear: then 'neath night's spangled veil, my dear, come list t' the young heart's tale sincere; yon orb of light, so chaste and bright, love's magic yields within her sphere. then through the shady grove, my love, let's wander with the cooing dove, till the starry night, to morning's light, shall break upon our wooing, love. as life's young dream shall pass, my love, together let us gaily row, and day by day, in sportive play, enjoy life's meeting gloss, my love. [illustration: page ] it was on one of those warm evenings in the month of july, when scarcely a zephyr played upon the wanton wave, and the red sun had sunk to rest behind the castle turrets, giving full promise of another sultry day, that our little band had attracted a more than usual display of promenaders on the walk extending from the fort point to the marine hotel. with the report of the evening gun, or, as horace termed it, the _admiral's grog bell_, we had quitted the cabin, and mustering our little party upon deck, suffered the rover to drift nearer in shore with the tide, that we might enjoy the gratifying spectacle of more closely observing the young, the beautiful, and the ~ ~~accomplished _elegantes_ who traversed to and fro upon the beach to catch the soft whispers of the saline air. at the castle causeway a boat had just landed a group of beautiful children, who appeared clinging round a tall well-formed man, in a blue jacket and white trowsers, resting a hand upon each of two fine boys dressed in a similar style: he walked on, with a slight affection of lameness, towards the castle entrance, preceded by three lovely little female fairies, who gambolled in his path like sportive zephyrs.--"there moves one of the bravest men, and best of fathers, in his majesty's dominions," said horace--"the commander of the pearl." "what," said i, "the marquis of anglesey?" "the same--who here seeks retirement in the bosom of his family, and without ostentation enjoys a pleasure, which, in its pursuit, produces permanent advantage to many, and enables others, his friends and relations, to participate with him in his amusements. we are much indebted to the marquis for the promotion of this truly british sport, who with his brothers, sir charles and sir arthur, were among the first members of the royal yacht club. the group of blue jackets to the left, whom the marquis recognised as he passed, consist of that merry fellow, sir godfrey webster, who lias a noble yacht here, the scorpion; the commander of the sabrina, james manse, esq. another jovial soul; the two williams's, father and son, who have both fine yachts in our roads; sir charles sullivan; and the polar navigator, captain lyons, who has just launched a beautiful little boat called the queen mab, with whom he means to bewitch the don giovanni of london." "who is that interesting female leaning over the railings in front of the gothic house, attended by a dark pensive-looking swain, with a very intelligent countenance? methinks there is an air of style about the pair that speaks nobility; and yet i have observed ~ ~~they appear too fond of each other's society to be fashionables." "that is the delightful lady f. l. gower and her lord: i thought you would have recognised that star instantly, from the splendid picture of her by lawrence, which hangs in the stafford gallery at cleveland-house. the elegant group pacing the lawn in front of the castellated mansion, on this side of lord gower, is the amiable countess of craven and her family: the earl, that generous and once merry-hearted soul, i lament to hear, is a victim to the gout; but it is hoped a few trips on board the may-fly will restore him to health, and the enjoyment of his favourite pursuit." "by my soul, horace," said i, "here comes a splendid creature, a very divinity, my boy: i' faith just such a woman as might melt the heart of a corsair." "by my honour you have hit the mark exactly," replied eglantine, "for she is already the corsair's bride, and corbett feels, as he ought to do, not a little proud of his good fortune. the raven-haired graces accompanying that true son of neptune, sir george thomas, are daughters of the baronet, and, report says, very accomplished girls. now by all that's fascinating and charming, hither comes the beautiful miss seymour, mrs. fitzherbert's _protégé_, and his majesty's little pet--an appellation i have often heard him salute her by. the magnificent-looking belle by her side is a relation, the charming mrs. seymour, acknowledged to be a star of the first magnitude in female attractions. the three portly-looking gentlemen whose grog-blossomed visages speak their love of the good things of this world are the admirals scott and hope, and that facetious of all funny senators, sir isaac coffin. if you are an admirer of the soft and the sentimental, of the love-enkindling eye, and madonna-like expression of countenance, observe that band of arcadian shepherdesses in speckled dresses yonder--bristol diamonds of the first and purest ~ ~~water, i assure you; and their respected father, the wealthy proprietor of miles's-court, bristol, may well be delighted with his amiable and beauteous daughters. the little dapper-looking man in the white hat yonder is the liberal, good-tempered duke of norfolk; and the dashing _roué_ by his side, the legitimate heir to his title, is the earl of surrey, whose son, the young baron of mowbray, follows hand in hand with captain wollaston, an old man-of-war's man, who sails the swallow cutter. the female group assembled in front of the king's-house are the minor constellations from east cowes, and the congregated mixture of oddities who grace the balconies of the pavilion boarding-house comprise every grade of society from the oxford invalid to the retired shopkeeper, the messieurs _newcomes_ of the island." "a rich subject for a more extended notice," said i, "when on some future occasion i visit margate or brighton, where the diversity of character will be more numerous, varied, and eccentric than in this sequestered spot." as the evening advanced, the blue-eyed maid of heaven spread forth her silvery light across the glassy surface of the deep, yielding a magic power to the soul-inspiring scene, and, by reflection, doubling the objects on the sea, whose translucent bosom scarcely heaved a sigh, or murmured forth a ripple on the ear; and now, amid the stillness of the night, we were suddenly amused with the deep-sounding notes of the key-bugle reverberating over the blue waters with most harmonious effect. "we are indebted to that mad wag, ricketts, for this unexpected pleasure," said horace; "he is an amateur performer of no mean talent, and delights in surprising the visitors in this agreeable manner." "rover, a-hoy," hailed a voice from the shore; off went our boat, and on its return brought an accession to our party of half a dozen right merry fellows, among whom was that choice spirit, henry day, whose facetious powers of oratory and whim are ~ ~~universally esteemed, and have often afforded us amusement, when enjoying an evening among the eccentrics of london and the brilliants of the press, who assemble for social purposes at the wrekin. the days are too well known and respected as a family of long standing in the island to require the eulogy of the english spy, but to acknowledge their hospitality and kindness he penned the following tribute ere he quitted the shores of vectis. love, law, and physic. in vectis' isle three happy days by any may be seen: first, james, who loves by social ways to animate mirth's scene; an honest lawyer, henry, next with speech and bottle plies you; and when by fell disease perplex'd, charles physics and revives you. "love, law, and physic," here combine to claim the poet's praise: may fortune's sunbeams ever shine on three such worthy days. a few more songs and a few more grogs brought on the hour of ten; and now our friends having departed to their homes, horace and myself took a turn or two upon deck, smoked out our cigars, conjured up the reminiscences of our school-boy days, and having spent a few moments in admiration of the starry canopy which spread its spangled brightness over our heads, we sought again the cabin, drank a parting glass to old friends, turned into our births, and soon were cradled by the motion of the vessel into sweet repose. the events of the former evening, the novelty of the scene, and, above all, the magnificence of nature, as she appeared when viewed from sea, in her diurnal progress through the transition ~ ~~of morning, noon, and night, all inspired my muse to attempt poetic sketches of the character of the surrounding island scenery. a delightful pleasure i have endeavoured to convey to my readers in the following rhymes. morning in the isle of wight. when o'er the foreland glimmering day just breaks above the eastern lulls, and streaks of gold through misty gray dispels night's dark and vap'rous chills; then, when the landsman 'gins to mow the perfumed crop on grounds above, and sailors chant the "yeo, heave yeo," then young hearts wake to life and love. when still and slow the murmuring swell of ocean, rising from his throne, o'erleaps the beach, and matin's bell to prayer invites the college drone; then, when the pennant floats on high, and anchor's weigh'd again to rove, and tuneful larks ascend the sky, then young hearts wake to life and love. when, by unerring nature's power, creation breaks the spell of night, and plants their leaves expand and flow'r, and all around breathes gay delight; then when the herdsman opes his fold to let the merry lambkin rove, and distant hills are tipt with gold, then young hearts wake to life and love, ~ ~~ noon in the isle of wight. when toiling 'neath meridian sun the boatman plies the lab'ring oar, and sportive nymphs the margin shun of ocean's pebble-parched shore; then when beneath some shadowy cliff, o'er-hanging wood, or leafy vale, the trav'ller rests, haul'd up the skiff, then lovers breathe their am'rous tale. when nature, languid, seems to rest, nor moves a leaf, or heaves a wave, and zephyrs sleep, by sol caress'd, and sportive swallows skim the lave; then, when by early toil oppress'd, the peasant seeks the glen or dale, enjoys his frugal meal and rest, then lovers breathe their am'rous tale. when close beneath the forest's pride the upland's group of cattle throng, and sultry heat dissevers wide the feather'd host of tuneful song; then when a still, dead, settled calm o'er earth, and air, and sea prevail, and lull'd is ev'ry spicy balm, then lovers breathe their am'rous tale. ~ ~~ evening in the isle of wight. when twilight tints with sober gray the distant hills, and o'er the wave the mellow glow of parting day crimsons the shipwreck'd sailor's grave; then when the sea-bird seeks the mast, and signal lights illume the tower, and sails are furl'd, and anchors cast, then, then is love's delicious hour. when o'er the beach the rippling wave breaks gently, heaving to and fro, like maiden bosoms, ere the knave of hearts has ting'd their cheek with woe; then, when the watch their vigils keep, and grog, and song, and jest have power to laugh to scorn the peril'd deep, then, then is love's delicious hour. when cynthia sheds her mystic light in silv'ry circles o'er the main; and hecate spreads her veil of night o'er hearts that ne'er may meet again; then, anna, blest with thee, i stray 'mid scenes of bliss--through nature's bower; while eve's star guides us on our way, then, then is love's delicious hour. it has often been observed by inquisitive travellers, that in most of our country villages not only the three best houses are inhabited by the lawyer, the parson, and the doctor, but three-fourths of the whole property of the place is generally monopolized by the same disinterested triumvirate: however true the satire ~ ~~may be in a general sense, it certainly does not apply to cowes, where the liberal professions are really practised by liberal minds, and where the desire to do good outweighs the desire to grow rich. but the good people of cowes are not without their nabobs; for instance, the eastern shores of the river are under the dominion of lord henry seymour and mr. nash, who there rule over their humble tenantry with mild paternal sway. on the western side, the absolute lords of the soil are messrs. bennett and ward: the first, like other great landed proprietors, almost always an absentee; and the last somewhat greedy to grapple at every thing within his reach. "who does that fine park and mansion belong to?" said a stranger, surveying northwood from the summit of the hill. "king george," replied the islander. "and who owns the steam-boats, which i now see arriving?" "king george," reiterated the fellow. "and who is the largest proprietor of the surrounding country?" "king george." "indeed!" said the stranger, "i was not aware that the crown lands were so extensive in the wight. have you much game?" "ees, ees." "and who is the lord of the manor?" "king george." "and these new roads i see forming, are they also done by king george?" "ees, ees, he ought to gi' us a few new ones, i think; bekase ize zure he's stopped up enou of our old ones." "what, by some new inclosure act, i suppose?" "naye, naye, by some old foreclosure acts, i expect." "why, you do not mean to say that our gracious sovereign is a money-lender and mortgagee?" "no; but our ungracious king be the', and a money-maker too." "fellow, take care; you are committing treason against the lord's anointed." "ees, ees, he be a 'nointed one, zure enou," retorted the fellow, laughing outright in the traveller's face. "sirrah," said the offended stranger, "i shall have you taken before a justice." "ees, ees, ize heard o' them ere chaps at east cowes, but ize ~ ~~not much respect for 'em." "not care for the magistrate!" "lord love you,--you be one of the mr. newcome, ize warrant me; why, we've gotten no zuch animal here, nothing o' sort nearer as newport; and lawyer day can out-talk the best of them there, whenever he likes." "there must be some mistake here," said the stranger, cooling a little of his choler: "did you not tell me, fellow, that the king of england owned all the land here, and the steam-boats, and the manor, and the town, and the people, and-----------." "hold, hold thee there," said the islander; "i said, king george; and here he comes, in his four-wheeled calabash, and before he undertakes to give us any more new roads, i wish he'd set about mending his own queer ways" however strong the current of prejudice may run against squire ward in the island, among a few of the less wealthy residents, it must be admitted, that he is hospitable even to a proverb, a sincere and persevering friend, and a liberal master to his tenantry: the christmas festivities at northwood, when the poor are plentifully regaled with excellent cheer, smacks of a good old english custom, that shall confer upon the donor lasting praise, and hand down his name to posterity with better chance of grateful remembrance than all his mine of wealth can purchase; there are some well authenticated anecdotes in circulation of george ward, which prove that he has, with all his eccentricities, "a tear for pity, and a hand, open as day, to melting charity." to his enterprising spirit cowes is indebted for much of its present popularity, the facility of travelling to and from the island being greatly aided by the steamboats (his property) from portsmouth and southampton; but much yet remains to be done by the inhabitants themselves, if they wish to secure their present high partronage, and increase with succeeding seasons the number of their visitors. the promenade, admirably situate for the enjoyment of the sea ~ ~~breeze, and the delightful spectacle of a picturesque harbour filled with a forest of beautiful pleasure yachts, is of an evening generally obstructed by the assemblage of a juvenile band of both sexes, of the very lowest description, who render it utterly impossible for the delicate ear of female propriety to hazard coming in contact with their boisterous vulgarities. the beautiful walk round the castle battery is wholly usurped by this congregated mass of rabble; and yet the appointment of a peace-officer, a useful animal i never once saw at cowes, would remove the objection, and preserve a right of way and good order among the crowd that would at least render it safe, if not pleasant, to traverse the extended shore. the visit of their royal highnesses the duke and duchess of cambridge to john nash, esq. the eminent architect, at east cowes castle, gave a new lustre to the enchanting scene, and afforded the english spy a favourable opportunity for completing his sketches of the scenery and character of the island. among the festivities which the presence of the royal visitors gave birth to, the most attractive and delightful was the grand _déjeuné a la fourchette_, given at st. lawrence by the commodore of the yacht club, the right honourable lord yarborough. the invitations to meet the royal party were very general, including all of note and respectability on the island, and extending to the number of six hundred persons, for whom a most liberal and princely banquet was prepared upon the lawn of a delightful cottage, near his seat of appuldurcombe. the spot selected for this entertainment was situated under a bold line of cliffs, extending in a semicircular form for above a mile in length, and inclosing one of the most romantic of nature's variegated scenes, abounding with hill, and dale, and rich umbrageous foliage, delightfully increased by the inspiring freshness of the sea breeze, and the unbroken view of the channel in front, and ~ ~~rendered still more attractive and picturesque by the numerous tents and temporary pavilions which had been erected for the accommodation of the visitors, spreading over a line of ground like an encampment in the pyrenees, a similitude of feature that was more powerfully increased when the well-concerted echo of the signal bugles resounded from hill to hill, and the cannon's loud report, from the battery beneath, reverberating through the surrounding hill and dale, proclaimed for many a mile the gladsome tidings of the approach of royalty. the scene was, beyond description, magnificent; the assemblage of fashionables included a long list of noble and distinguished persons, who, on the approach of the duke and duchess, congregated upon an eminence, immediately opposite the entrance to the lawn, and by their loyal cheers, and smiles, and birthday suits, gave honest welcome to their monarch's brother, and in the fulness of their hearty zeal, paid a grateful tribute to their absent king. the ungenial state of the morning's weather had prevented many of the yachts from coming round, but a few jolly hearts had weathered the needles, and displayed their loyalty by decorating their vessels with all the colours of all the nations of the world. at an appointed signal the tents were thrown open, and the royal party having retired to the pavilion, the company sat down to an entertainment, where a profusion of choice wines and viands covered the extended line; then commenced the interchange of bright eyes and soft sayings, and the rosy blush of maiden beauty tinged the cheek of many a sylphic form as the accomplished beau challenged the fair to wine with him, and many a heart from that day's sportive scene shall date the first impression of the soveieign passion which blends with life's red current all of happiness or misery here below. the repast over, the company again met the royal party and promenaded on the lawn, and while thus ~ ~~engaged, a new delight was prepared for them--a scene not less congenial than peculiar to the english character, and one which may well uplift that honest pride of country which ever animates a briton's heart. the tables being again replenished, the peasantry of the surrounding districts were admitted and regaled with unrestricted hospitality. and round the gay board cheerful industry shone, in a pureness and brightness to wealth oft unknown; 'twas a feast where a monarch might wish to preside, for the cottager's comfort's his country's pride; and benevolence smiled on the heart-moving scene, and music and beauty enlivened the green, while the labourer, gratefully raising the glass, gave his king, then his donor, his dame, and his lass. the commodore's liberality is proverbial; he had sold his old yacht, the falcon, and the new vessel was not likely to be launched this season, yet he would not forego the pleasure of a grand fête, and as it could not be given on board his own ship, according to annual custom, he seized upon this opportunity of the royal visit to unite loyalty and friendship under one banner, and it must be recorded, that he displayed an excellence of arrangement which left no wish ungratified. an excursion round the island, sailing in a westerly direction, is one of most delightful amusement to a lover of the picturesque; the circuit is nearly eighty miles, every where presenting new features of the most beautiful variety and romantic scenery, a voyage we made in the rover in about eight hours. clearing sconce point, which is the first object worthy notice from cowes, you perceive the cottage, battery, and residence of captain farrington on the rise of the hill, and beyond are gurnet and harness bays closely succeeding one another, the shores above being well diversified with foliage and richly cultivated grounds. from this station the coast gradually sinks towards newtown river, where the luxuriant woods of swainton are perceived rising in the distance, crowned by ~ ~~shalfleet church and a rich country as far as calbourne, the landscape bounded by a range of downs which stretch to the extremity of the island. the coast at hamsted, the farm estate of john nash, esq. presents a very bold outline, and approaching yarmouth, which has all the appearance of an ancient french fort, the view of the opposite point, called norton, is very picturesque, presenting a well-wooded promontory, adorned with numerous elegant residences; from this spot the coast begins to assume a very bold, but sterile aspect, composed of steep rugged slopes, and dull-coloured earthy cliffs, till the attention of the voyager is suddenly arrested by the first view of the needle rocks, situate at the termination of a noble promontory called freshwater cliffs, which extend along a line of nearly three miles, and at a part called mainbench are six hundred feet above the sea level, in some places perpendicular, and in others overhanging the ocean in a most terrific manner; at the extreme point, or needles, is the light-house, where the view of the bays and cliffs beneath is beyond description awfully sublime, and the precipices being covered with myriads of sea-fowl of all description, who breed in the crannies of the rocks, if called into action by the report of a gun fill the air with screams and cries of most appalling import; the grandeur of the scene being much increased by the singularly majestic appearance of the needle rocks, rearing their craggy heads above the ocean, and giving an awful impression of the storms and convulsions which must have shaken and devoured this once enormous mass. their present form bears no resemblance to their name, which was derived from a spiral rock, about one hundred and twenty feet high, that fell in the year , and left the present fragments of its grandeur to moulder away, like the base of some proud column of antiquity. on the opposite coast is hurst castle, a circular fort, built by henry ~ ~~the eighth; and on the north side of the promontory is alum bay, the most beautiful and unique feature of the sea cliffs of albion. for about a quarter of a mile from the needles the precipice is one entire glare of white chalk, which curves round to, and is joined by a most extraordinary mixture of vertical strata, composed of coloured sands and ocherous earths blending into every variety of tint, and so vivid and beautiful in colour, that they have been not unfrequently compared to the prismatic hues of the rainbow. it was on this spot the fomone, a frigate of fifty guns, returning home, after an absence of three years, with some persian princes on board, in june, , struck upon the rocks and went to pieces: the appearance of a wreck, in such an extraordinary situation, must have formed a combination of grand materials for the painter, that would be truly sublime. at saint catherine's, in the cliffs, is the gloomy ravine called blackgang chine, which should be visited by the traveller at sunset, when the depth of shade materially increases the savage grandeur of its stupendous and terrific effect. tradition reports, that the awful chasm beneath was formerly the retreat of a gang of pirates, from which it derived its name. the total absence of vegetation, and the dusky hue of the soil, combined with the obvious appearance of constant decay, the dismembered fragments, and the streamlet to which it owes its origin, falling perpendicularly over a ledge of hard rock from above seventy feet high, producing a wild echo in the cavity beneath, all conspire to render it the most striking and astonishing of nature's wildest works. the view off the sand rock presents the tasteful marine villas of sir willoughby gordon and mrs. arnold, whose well-cultivated grounds and rich plantations reach down to the sea shore. saint lawrence brings to view the romantic cottage of lord yarborough, succeeded by steep hill, the lovely retreat of the late earl dysart; ~ ~~the romantic flank of saint boniface down, and in the distance the fairy land of bonchurch, whose enchanting prospects and picturesque scenery have so often called forth the varied powers of the painter and the poet, where sportive nature, clothed in her gayest vest, presents a diversified landscape, abounding with all the delightful combinations of rural scenery, of rich groves, and dells, and meads of green, and rocks, and rising grounds; streams edged with osiers, and the lowing herd spread over the luxuriant land. as you approach east end, you perceive an extensive scene of devastation, caused by the frequent landslips near to luccombe chine, and the romantic chasm of shanklin, from which spot sandown comes next in view, and sailing under the towering culver cliffs we arrive at the eastern extremity of the island. at bimbridge a very dangerous ledge spreads out into the sea, and gaining brading haven the old church tower of saint helen's proclaims you are fast gaining upon that delightful watering-place, the town of ryde, whose picturesque pier, shooting forth into the ocean, and covered with groups of elegant visitors, forms an object of the most pleasing description. from this point the whole line of coast to cowes wears a rich and highly-cultivated appearance, being divided into wood, arable, and pasture lands, diversified by the villas of earl spencer, mr. g. player, and mr. fleming, when, having passed wooten creek, the next object is norris castle; and now, having cleared the point, you are once more landed in safety at the vine key, and my old friend, mrs. harrington, whose pleasant countenance, obliging manners, and good accommodation, are the universal theme of every traveller's praise, has already made her best curtsy to welcome you back to cowes. the regatta was, indeed, a glorious scene, when the harbour was literally filled with a forest of masts and streamers, the vessels of the royal yacht ~ ~~club spread forth their milk white canvas to the gale, many of those who were riding at anchor being decorated from head to stem, over-mast, with the signal colours of most of the squadron and the ensigns of the different nations. on the shore, and round the castle battery, the congregated groups of lovely females traversed to and fro, and the witchery of blight eyes and beauteous faces upon the manly hearts of the sons of neptune must have been magically triumphant. the pearl beat the arrow, and the julia the liberty,--thus equalizing the victory between the contending parties. the procession of the pilot boats, about forty in number, was a very animated scene; and in the sailing match of the succeeding day, our little craft, the rover, came in second, and received the awarded prize. the race ball at east cowes gave the young and fair another opportunity of riveting their suitors' chains, and the revels of terpsichore were kept up with spirit until the streaking blush of golden morn shone through the dusky veil which hecate spreads around the couch of drowsy night. but the day of parting was at hand; the last amusement of the time was a match made between captain lyon and a mr. davey, of london, to sail their respective yachts, the queen mab and the don giovanni, upon the challenge of the last mentioned, a stipulated distance, for a sum of two hundred guineas--an affair which did not, to use a sporting phrase, _come off well_, for the don most ungallantly refused to meet his fair opponent; and being wofully depressed in spirits, either from apprehension of defeat, or sea sickness, or some such fresh water fears, the little queen was compelled to sail over the course alone to claim the reward of her victory. and now the sports of the season being brought to a conclusion, and the rough note of old boreas and the angry groanings of father neptune giving token of approaching storms, i bade farewell to vectis, my ~ ~~friend horace transporting me in his yacht to southampton water. reader, if i should appear somewhat prolix in my descriptions, take a tour yourself to the island, visit the delightful scenery with which it abounds, participate in the aquatic excursions of the place, and meet, as i have done, with social friends, and kind hearts, and lovely forms, and your own delightful feelings will be my excuse for extending my notice somewhat beyond my usual sketchy style. farewell to vectis. blest isle, fare thee well! land of pleasure and peace, may the beaux and the belles on thy shores still increase: how oft shall my spirit, by absence opprest, revisit thy scenes, and in fancy be blest, in the magic of slumber still sport on thy wave, and dream of delights that i waken to crave. farewell, merry hearts! fare ye well, social friends! adieu! see the rover her canvas unbends; land of all that is lovely for painting or verse, farewell! ere in distance thy beauties disperse, now calshot is passed, now receding from view, once more, happy vectis, a long, last adieu. [illustration: page ] portsmouth in time of peace. ~ ~~ where now are the frolicsome care-killing souls, with their girls and their fiddlers, their dances and bowls? where now are the blue jackets, once on our shore the promoters of merriment, spending their store? where now are our tars in these dull piping times? laid up like old hulks, or enlisted in climes where the struggle for liberty calls on the brave, the peruvians, the greeks, or brazilians to save from the yoke of oppression--there, britons are found dealing death and destruction to tyrants around; for wherever our tars rear the banner of fame, they are still the victorious sons of the main. a trip to portsmouth on board the medina steam-boat--the change from war to peace--its consequences--the portsmouth greys--the man of war's man--tom tackle and his shipmate-- lamentation of a tar--the hero cochrane--an old acquaintance--reminiscences of the past--sketches of point- street and gosport beach--naval anecdotes--"a man's like a ship on the ocean of life." "bear a hand, old fellow!" said horace eglantine one morning, coming down the companion hatchway of the rover: "if you have any mind for a land-cruise, let us make portsmouth to-day on board the steamer, while our yacht goes up the harbour to get her copper polished and her rigging overhauled." in earlier days, while yet the light-heartedness of youth ~ ~~and active curiosity excited my boyish spirit, i had visited portsmouth, and the recollection of the scenes i then witnessed was still fresh upon my memory. the olive-branch of peace now waved over the land of my fathers; and while the internal state of the country, benefited by its healing balm, flourished, revived, invigorated and prosperous, portsmouth and gosport, and such like sea-ports, were almost deserted, and the active bustle and variety which but now reigned among their inhabitants had given way to desolation and abandonment: at least such was the account i had received from recent visitors. i was, therefore, anxious from observation to compare the present with the past; and, with this view, readily met the invitation of my friend horace eglantine. the voyage from cowes to portsmouth on board the steam-boat, performed, as it now is, with certainty, in about an hour and a half, is a delightful excursion; and the appearance of the entrance to the harbour from sea, a most picturesque and imposing scene. the fortifications, which are considered the most complete in the world, stretching from east to west, on either side command the sea far as the cannons' power can reach. nor is the harbour less attractive, flanked on each side by the towns of gosport and portsmouth, and filled with every description of vessel from the flag-ship of england's immortal hero, nelson, which is here moored in the centre, a monument of past glory, to the small craft of the trader, and the more humble ferry-boat of the incessant applicant, who plys the passenger with his eternal note of "common hard, your honour." one of my companions on board the medina was an old man of war's man, whose visage, something of the colour and hardness of dried salmon, sufficiently indicated that the possessor had weathered many a trying gale, and was familiar with all the vicissitudes of the mighty deep. with the habitual roughness of ~ ~~his manners was combined a singular degree of intelligence, and he evinced a disposition to be communicative, of which i found it very agreeable to avail myself. on approaching the harbour, my attention was arrested by the sight of a number of boats rowed by men arrayed in a grotesque uniform of speckled jackets, whose freights, to judge from appearances, must have been of no common weight, as the rowers seemed compelled to use a degree of exertion little inferior to that employed by galley-slaves. i inquired of my nautical mentor who these men were, and in what description of service they were occupied. "them, master," replied he, releasing the quid from his mouth, and looking with his weather-eye unutterable things; "they are the _portsmouth greys_." my countenance spoke plainly enough that this reply had by no means made me _au fait_ to the subject of my question, and my informant accordingly proceeded--"shiver my timbers, mate, they are as rum a set, them boat's crews, as ever pulled an oar--chaps as the public keeps out of their own pocket for the public good; and it's been but just a slip, as one may say, between the cup and the lip, as has saved a good many on 'em from being run up to the yard-arm. some on 'em forgot to return things as they _found_ rather too easy, and some, instead of writing their own name, _by mistake_ wrote somebody's else's; so government sent 'em here, at its own charge, to finish their _edication_. you see the _floating academy_ as is kept a purpose for 'em," said he, pointing to the receiving-hulk for the convicts at this station, which was lying in the harbour: "them as is rowing in the boats," added the talkative seaman, "has been a getting stones, and ballast, and such like, for the repairs of the harbour; they does all the rough and dirty jobs as is to be done about the works and place--indeed, we calls 'em the _port admiral's skippers_." i now fully understood the import of the term _portsmouth greys_, which had before been an enigma to ~ ~~me; and comprehended that the unhappy beings before me were of the ill-fated children of suff'ring and sin, with conscience reproaching and sorrow within; bosoms that mis'ry and guilt could not sever, hearts that were blighted and broken for ever: where each, to some vice or vile passion a slave, shared the wreck of the mind, and the spirit's young grave. whose brief hist'ry of life, ere attain'd to its prime, unfolded a volume of madness and crime, such as leaves on the forehead of manhood a stain which tears over shed seek to blot out in vain; a stain which as long as existence will last, embitt'ring the future with thoughts of the past. i might have indulged much longer in these reflections, but my musing mood was interrupted by the medina reaching her destination, and we disembarked safely at portsmouth point. [illustration: page ] on landing, the worthy veteran, who had, by his confabulation during the voyage, claimed, in his own opinion, a right of becoming my companion for a time, a privilege which, in such a scene, and at such a place, it will easily be believed i was not averse from granting him, proceeded along with me _carpere iter comités parati_, up point street, and at one of the turnings my friend made a sudden stop. "my eyes!" he exclaimed, "may i perish, but that is my old messmate, tom tackle. many's the can of flip we've scuttled while on board the _leander_ frigate together; and when we were obliged to part convoy and go on board different ships, there was above a little matter of brine about both our eyes." at this moment tom tackle came up with us: the warmth of affection with which his old shipmate had spoken of him had interested me not a little in his favour, and his mutilated frame spoke volumes in behalf of the gallantry he had displayed in the service of his country. one eye was entirely ~ ~~lost; one coat-sleeve hung armless by his side; and one vanished leg had its place superseded by a wooden substitute. i gazed upon the "unfortunate brave" with mingled pity and veneration; yet, so true is the observation of the ancient, "_res sunt humanæ flobilo ludibrium_" that is, human feelings and affairs are a singular compound of the ludicrous and the lamentable, that i could not avoid giving way to my mercurial disposition, and congratulating my fellow-voyager on the ease with which he had recognized his old comrade by his present remaining half. "lord help your honour!" said he, "a seaman's weather-gauge is made for squalls--foul weather or fair--in stays or out of trim--sailing all right before the wind, or coming up under jury-masts; he's no tar that cannot make out an old friend at a cable's length, and bring to without waiting for signals of distress. shiver my timbers, if i should not know my old messmate here while there's a timber rib left in his hulk, or a shoulder-boom to hang a blue jacket on. but, my toplights, tom!" continued he, "where's all the girls, and the tiddlers, and the jews, and bumboat-women that used to crowd all sail to pick up a spare hand ashore? not a shark have i seen in the harbour, and all the old grog-shops with their foul-weather battens up and colours half-mast." "all in mourning for mr. nap, shipmate," said tom; "we've had no fun here since they cooped him up on board the bellerophon, and stowed him away at st. helena. all the jews have cut and run, and all the bumboat-women retired upon their fortunes; the poor landlords are most of them in the bilboes at winchester: and as for a pretty girl--whew!--not such an article to be had at point now, either for love or money: and all this comes of the peace--shiver my odd forelight! mate, if it lasts much longer, it will be the ruin of the navy. ~ ~~~how i long to hear the sound of the boatswain's whistle once more! 'up hammocks, boys--clear the decks, and prepare for action! 'that's the way to live and be merry; then the music of a good broadside pouring into an enemy's under-works, and cutting her slap in two between wind and water--that's glory, my christian! may i never taste grog again, if we are not all ruined by the peace. there's only one fighting fellow left of the old stock of commanders, and they have turned him out of the navy lest he should infect the psalm-singers. look out a-head there, shipmate; d'ye see that fine frigate, the peranga, now lying oft' spithead, and can you ever forget basque roads and the gallant cochrane? i just got a glimpse of his figure head t'other morning, coming up point here; so i hauled to and threw my shattered hulk slap across his headway, lowering my top-gallants as i passed round under his bows. 'officer,' said he, 'you and i should know one another, methinks.' 'success attend your honour,' said i; 'do you remember your master-gunner when you captured the spanish galleon, who carried away a spar or two in the action?' 'what, tom tackier said he: 'heaven help thee, lad! i'd give the bounty of a good boat's crew if i could put you into sailing-trim and commission again; but here, officer, is something to drink to old acquaintance with, and if you can find your way on board the peranga to-morrow, i'll take care they don't throw you over the ship's side before you have had a skinfull of grog: 'so seizing fast hold of my single tin with both his grappling-irons, i thought he would have shook it out of the goose-neck at parting; and when i went on board next day, he treated me like a port-admiral, and sent me on shore with every cranny well-filled, from my beef-tub to my grog-bucket, and put a little more of the right sort o' stuff" in my jacket pockets to pay harbour dues with. that's the commander for me! and now i hear, after having taken ~ ~~and destroyed all the spanish king's navy, he's off to give the grand signor a taste of his quality. my forelights! how i should like to see him with his double rows of grinders wide open, bearing down upon a whole fleet of mussulmen--there'd be weeping, and wailing, and gnashing o' teeth among the turks! i wouldn't give my wooden pin for the whole of the grand sultan's flotilla. but come, shipmate, may i never want 'bacca, if we don't drink his health, and that 'ere gemman you've taken in tow shall join us, if he likes." i was too much amused to desire to part company just yet, and the good-humoured tars perceiving my bent, linked themselves to each arm, and in this way, laughing at the curiosity we provoked, did our party reach the middle of point-street, and brought ourselves to anchor under the head of old admiral benbow, where tom assured us we should be supplied with the best of grog and ship-stores of the first quality. horace had proceeded to escort some ladies, whom he met with on board the steamboat, to the house of a friend in the high-street, where i had appointed to meet him in the space of an hour. sitting myself down therefore with my two jovial associates, i determined to humour the frolic which had brought me into the society of such eccentric characters. "shiver my timbers! jem," said the one-legged mariner, "but you never make any inquiries after betsy bluff, among your other old friends. it's true, the wench has got spliced again, to be sure; but then, you know, she waited three years, and had the log-books overhauled first." "ay, ay, tom, so they say she did; but i never believed 'em: howsomedever, that wasn't the worst of it; for having got my will and my power in her possession, she drew all my pay and prize-money, and when at last i got home from an enemy's keeping, i had not a shot left in the locker to keep myself. but the mischief did not end even there, for she disgraced me, ~ ~~and the british flag, by marrying a half-starved tailor, and setting him up in the sally port with the money that i had been fighting the enemies of my country for. may i never get groggy again, if i couldn't have forgiven her freely if she'd taken some honest-hearted fellow, like yourself, in tow, who had got disabled in the service, or consorted with a true man of war's man, all right and tight; but to go and lash herself alongside of such a crazy land lubber as this ninth degree of manhood--may i never taste 'bacca again if bet's conduct is bearable! she's no wife of mine, tom; and when i go to pieces, a wreck in this world, may i be bolted into old belzy's caboose if she shall be a copper fastening the better for jem buntline!" during the recital of this story the countenance of the old tar assumed a fiery glow of honest indignation, and when he had finished the tale, his fore lights gave evident signs that his heart had been long beating about in stormy restlessness at the remembrance of his wife's unfaithfulness. "cheer up, messmate," said tom; "i see how the land lies. come, fill your pipe, and i'll sing you the old stave i used to chant on saturday nights, when we messed together on board the leander. a man's like a ship on the ocean of life, the sport both of fair and foul weather, where storms of misfortune, and quicksands of strife, and clouds of adversity gather. if he steers by the compass of honour, he'll find, no matter what latitude meets him, a welcome in every port to his mind, and a friend ever ready to greet him. if love takes the helm in an amorous gale, of the rocks of deception beware, steer fairly for port, and let reason prevail, and you're thus sure to conquer the fair. for the bay of deceit keep a steady look out, steer clear of the shoals of distress, ~ ~~ yet ever be ready to tack and about when the black waves of misery press. like a vessel, digest out in all colours, d'ye see, are the virtues and vices of life: blue and red are the symbols of friendship and glee, white and black of ill-humour and strife. true worth, like true honour, is born of no clime, but known by true courage and feeling, where power and pity in unison chime, and the heart is above double dealing." [illustration: page ] "ay, tom, now you're on the right tack--a good song, and a jovial friend, and let the marines blubber about love and lullaby, it'll never do for the sailors. as we are overhauling old friends, do you remember charley capstan, the coxswain's mate of the leander v "shiver my timbers, but i do; and a bit of tough yarn he was, too: hard as old junk without, and soft as captain's coop meat within. wasn't i one of the crew that convoyed him up this very street when returning from a cruise off the straits, we heard that charley's old uncle had slipt his cable, and left him cash enough to buy out and build a ship of his own? that was a gala, messmate! there was charley, a little fat porpoise, as round as a nine-pounder, mounted on an eighteen gallon cask of the real jamaica, lashed to a couple of oars, and riding astride, on his messmates' shoulders, up to the point. then such a jolly boat's crew attended him, rigged out with bran new slops, and shiners on their topmasts, with the leander painted in front, and half a dozen fiddlers scraping away 'jack's alive,' and all the girls decked out in their dancing dresses, with streamers flying about their top-gallants, and loose nettings over their breastworks--that was a gala, messmate! and didn't charley treat all point to the play that night, and engage the whole of the gallery cabin for his own friends' accommodation; and when the reefers in the hold turned saucy, didn't you and two or three more ~ ~~drop down upon 'em, and having shook the wind out of their sails, run up the main haliards again, without working round by the gangway?" "right, tom, right; and don't you remember the illumination, when we stuck up ten pound of lighted candles round the rim of the gallery before the play began, and when jane shore was in the midst of her grief, charley gave the signal, and away they went, like a file of marines from a double broadside, right and left, tumbling about the ears of the reefers and land lubbers in the chicken coops below? those were the days of glory, messmate, when old jack junk, who had never seen a play before, took it all for right down arnest matter o' fact; and when poor mrs. shore came to ask charity of that false-hearted friend of hers, what was jealous of her, and fell down at the door, overcome by grief and hunger, poor jack couldn't stand it no longer; so after suffering the brine to burst through the floodgates of his heart, till he was as blind as our chaplain to sin, he jumped up all at once, and made for the offing, blubbering as he went, 'may i be blistered, if ever i come to see such cruel stuff as this again!' then didn't stephen collins, and kelly, and maxfield, the three managers, come upon deck, and drink success to the leander's crew, out of a bucket of grog we had up for the purpose, and the ould mare of portsmouth sent his compliments to us, begging us not to break our own necks or set fire to the playhouse? another glass, jem, to the crew of the leander: don't you remember the ducking ould mother macguire, the bum-boat woman, received, for bringing paw-paw articles on board, when we came in to refit?" "may i never want 'bacca, if i shall ever forget that old she crocodile! wasn't it her that brought that sea-dragon, bet bluff, on board, and persuaded me to be spliced to her? shiver her timbers for it!" "avast there! messmate," said tom: "when you ~ ~~can't skuttle an enemy, it's best to sail right away from her hulk before she blows up and disables her conqueror. may i never get groggy, if i shall ever forget the joke between you and the old sheenie, when you threatened to throw him overboard for selling you a dumb time-keeper. 'blesh ma heart,' said the jew, while his under works shook like a cutter's foresail going about, 'how could you expect de vatch to go well, ven de ship vas all in confushion?' an excuse that saved him from sailing ashore in a skuttle-bucket." "have you weathered gosport lately?" inquired jem: "there used to be a little matter of joviality going forward there upon the beach in war time, but i suppose it's all calm enough now." "all ruined by the peace; and all that glorious collection of the kings and queens of england, and her admirals and heroes, which used to swing to and fro in the wind, when every house upon the beach was a grog-shop, are past, vanished, or hanging like pirates in tatters; the sound of a fiddle never reaches their ears; and the parlour-floors, where we used to dance and sing till all was blue, are now as smooth and as clean as the decks of lord nelson's flag ship, the victory, which lies moored in our harbour, like a greenwich pensioner, anchored in quiet, to drop to pieces with old age. you may fire a nine-pounder up the principal street at noon-day now and not hurt any body; and if the peace lasts much longer, horses may graze in their roads, and persons receive pensions for inhabiting the vacant houses." the period within which i had promised to join horace eglantine had now elapsed. it was no easy task to separate myself from my nautical friends, and the amusement they had afforded me demanded some acknowledgment in return; calling, therefore, for a full bowl of punch, we drank success to the british navy, toasted wives and sweethearts, honoured our gracious king, shook ~ ~~hands at parting, like old friends, and having promised to renew my acquaintance before i left portsmouth, i bade adieu to jolly jem buntline and what remained of his noble messmate, the lion-hearted tom tackle. [illustration: page ] evening, and in high spirits. a scene at long's hotel. ~ ~~ sketches of character--fashionable notorieties--modern philosophy--the man of genius and the buck--"a short life and a merry one "--a short essay on--john longs--long corks --long bills--long credits--long-winded customers--the ancients and the moderns, a contrast by old crony. ye bucks who in manners, dress, fashion, and shiny, so often have hail'd me as lord of your gang-- "o lend me your ears!" whilst i deign to relate the cause of my splendour, the way to be great; my own chequered life condescend to unfold, and give a receipt of more value than gold; reveal t' ye the spot where the graces all dwell, and point out the path like myself to excel. --pursuits of fashion. only contrive to obtain the character of an eccentric, and you may ride the _free horse_ round the circle of your acquaintance for the remainder of your life. if my readers are not by this time fully satisfied of my peculiar claims to the appellation of an _oddity_, i have no hopes of obtaining pardon for the past whims and fancies of a volatile muse, or anticipating patronage for the future wanderings of a restless and inquisitive humorist. but my bookseller, a steady, persevering, inflexible sort of personage, whose habits of business are as rigid as a citizen of the last century, or a puritan of the cromwell commonwealth, has lately suffered the marble muscles of his frigid countenance to unbend with a sort of mechanical ~ ~~inclination to an expression of--what shall i say--lib--lib--liberality; no, no, that will never do for a bookseller--graciousness--ay, that's a better phrase for the purpose; more characteristic of his manner, and more congenial to my own feelings. well, to be plain then, whenever a young author can pass through an interview with the headman of the firm without hearing any thing in the shape of melancholy musings, serious disappointments, large numbers on hand, doubtful speculation, and such like pleasant innuendoes, he may rest satisfied that his book is selling well, and his publisher realizing a fair proportion of profit for his adventurous spirit. i am just now enjoying that pleasant gratification, the reflection of having added to my own comforts without having detracted from the happiness of others. in short, my scheme improves with every fresh essay, and my friend bob transit, who has just joined me in a bottle of iced claret at long's, has been for some minutes busily engaged in booking mine host and his exhibits; while i, under pretence of writing a letter, have been penning this introduction to a chapter on fashion and its follies, annexing thereunto a few notes of characters, that may serve to illustrate that resort of all that is exquisite and superlative in the annals of high ton. "evening, and in high spirits," --a scene worthy of the acknowledged talent of the artist, and full of fearful and instructive narrative for the pen of the english spy. seated snugly in one corner of long's new and splendid coffee-room, we had resolved on our entering to depart early; but the society we had the good fortune to be afterwards associated with might have tempted stronger heads than those of either bob transit the artist, or bernard blackmantle the moralist. [illustration: page ] "waiter, bring another bottle of iced claret, and tell long to book it to the king's lieutenant." "by the honour of my ancestry," said the honourable lillyman lionise, "but i am devilishly cut already." ~ ~~"you do well, mighty well, sir, to swear by the honour of your ancestors; for very few of your modern stars have a ray of that same meteoric light to illumine their own milky way." "that flash of your wit, lieutenant, comes upon one like the electric shock of an intended insult, and i must expect you will apologize." "then i fear, young valiant, you will die of the disease that has killed more brave men than the last twenty years' war." "and what is that, sir, may i ask?" "expectation, my jewel! i've breakfasted, dined, supped, and slept upon it for the last half century, and am not one step higher in the army list yet." "but, lieutenant, let me observe that--that--" "that we are both pretty nigh bosky, and should not therefore be too fastidious in our jokes over the bottle." enter waiter. "the claret, gentlemen. mr. long's compliments, and he requests permission to assure you that it is some of the late duke of queensberry's choice stock, marked a one." "which signifies, according to long's edition of cocker, that we must pay double for the liqueur. come, lionise, fill a bumper; and let us tails of the lion toast our caput, the sovereign, the first corinthian of his day, and the most polished prince in the world." "tiger, tiger,"{ } ejaculated a soft voice in the adjoining box; "ask tom who the trumps are in the next stall, and if they are known here, tell them the honourable thomas optimus fills a bumper to their last toast." since the death of the earl of barrymore, tom has succeeded to the "vacant chair" at long's; nor is the tiger mercury the only point in which he closely resembles his great prototype. ~ ~~a smart, clever-looking boy of about fifteen years of age darted forward to execute the honourable's commands; when having received the requisite information from the waiter, he approached the lieutenant and his friend, and with great politeness, but no lack of confidence, made the wishes of his master known to the _bon vivants_; the consequence was, an immediate interchange of civilities, which brought the honourable into close contact with his merry neighbours; and the result, a unanimous resolution to make a night of it. at this moment our _tête-à-tête_ was interrupted by the appearance of old crony, who, stanch as a well-trained pointer to the scent of game, had tracked me hither from my lodgings; from him i learned the lieutenant was a fellow of infinite jest and sterling worth; a descendant of the o'farellans of tipperary, whose ancestry claimed precedence of king bryan baroch; a specimen of the antique in his composition, robust, gigantic, and courageous; time and intestine troubles had impaired the fortunes of his house, but the family character remained untainted amid the conflicting revolutions that had convulsed the emerald isle. enough, however, was left to render the lieutenant independent of his military expectations: he had joined the army when young; seen service and the world in many climates; but the natural uncompromising spirit which distinguished him, partaking perhaps something too much of the pride of ancestry, had hitherto prevented his soliciting the promotion he was fairly entitled to. like a majority of his countrymen, he was cold and sententious as a laplander when sober, and warm and volatile as a frenchman when in his cups; half a dozen duels had been the natural consequence of an equal number of intrigues; but although the scars of honour had seared his manly countenance, his heart and person were yet devoted to the service of the ladies. fame had trumpeted forth his prowess in the wars of ~ ~~venus, until notoriety had marked him out an object of general remark, and the king's lieutenant was as proud of the myrtle-wreath as the hero of waterloo might be of the laurel crown. but see, the door opens; how perfumed, what style! long bows to the earth. what an exquisite smile! such a coffee-house visitor banishes pain: while optimus rising, cries "welcome, joe hayne! may you never want cash, boy--here, waiter, a glass; lieutenant, you'll join us in toasting a lass. i'll give you an actress--maria the fair." "i'll drink her; but, tom, you have ruined me there. by my hopes! i am blown, cut, floor'd, and rejected, at the critical moment, sirs, when i expected to revel in bliss. but, here's white-headed bob, my prime minister; he shall unravel the job. and if jackson determines you've not acted well, i'll mill you, tom optimus, though you're a swell." "sit down, joe; be jolly--'twas carter alone that has every obstacle in your way thrown. nay, never despair, man--you'll yet be her liege; but rally again, boy, you'll carry the siege." thus quieted, joe sat him down to get mellow; for joe at the bottom's a hearty good fellow. "have you heard the report," said optimus, "that harborough is actually about to follow your example, and marry an actress? ay, and his old flame, mrs. stonyhewer, is ready to die of love and a broken heart in consequence." "just as true, my jewel, as that i shall be gazetted field-marshal; or that you, mr. optimus, will be accused of faithfulness to lady emily. our young friend here, the rich commoner, has given currency to such a variety of common reports, that the false jade grows bold enough to beard us in our very teeth." "why, zounds! lieutenant," said lionise, "how very sentimental you are becoming." "it's a way of mine, jewel, to appear singular in some sort of society." ~ ~~"and satirical in all, i'll vouch for you, lieutenant;" said optimus. "by jasus, you've hit it! if truth be satire, it's a language i love, although it's not very savoury to some palates." "will the duke marry the banker's widow, joel that's the grand question at tattersall's, now your match with maria's off, and earl rivers's greyhounds are disposed of. only give me the office, boy, in that particular, and i'll give you a company to-morrow, if money will purchase one; and realize a handsome fortune by betting on the event." "then i'll bet cox and greenwood's cash account against the commander-in-chief's, that the widow marries a beau-clerc, becomes in due time duchess of st. alban's, and dies without issue, leaving her immense property as a charitable bequest to enrich a poor dukedom; and thus, having in earlier life degraded one part of the peerage, make amends to the butes, the guildfords, and the burdetts, by a last redeeming act to another branch of the aristocracy." "at it again, lieutenant; firing ricochet shot, and knocking down duck and drake at the same time." "sure, that has been the great amusement of my life; in battle and abroad i have contrived to knock down my share of the male enemies of my country; in peace and at home i've a mighty pleasant knack of winging a few female bush fighters." "but the widow, my dear fellow, is now a woman of high { } character; has not the moral marquis of hertford undertaken to remove all ------and disabilities? and did he not introduce the lady to the fashionable world at his own hotel, the piccadilly (peccadillo) guildhall? was not the fête at holly grove attended by h.r.h. the duke of york, and mrs. c--y, and all the virtuous portion of our nobility? and has she not since been admitted to the parties at the duke of "query--did mr. optimus mean _high_ as game is _high_? ~ ~~devonshire's, and what is still more wonderful, been permitted to appear at court, and since, in the royal presence, piously introduced to the whole bench of bishops?" "by jasus, that's true; and i beg belle harriette's pardon. but, i well remember, i commanded the cityguard in the old corn-market, dublin, on the very night her reputed father, jolly jack kinnear, as the rebels called him, contrived to wish us good morning very suddenly, and took himself off to the sate of government." i shall be obliged to entertain the world with a few of her eccentricities some day or other; the ghost of poor ralph wewitzer cries loudly for revenge. the sapient police knight, when he _secured the box of letters_ for his patroness, little suspected that they had all been _previously copied_ by lieutenant terence o'farellan of the king's own. a mighty inquisitive sort of a personage, who will try his art to do her justice, spite of "leather or prunella." the party was at this moment increased by the arrival of lord william, on whose friendly arm reposed the berkley adonis--"_par nobile fratrum_." "give me leave, lieutenant," said his lordship, "to introduce my friend the colonel." "and give me leave," whispered optimus, "to withdraw my friend hayne, for 'two suns shine not in the same hemisphere.'" "the man that makes a move in the direction of the door makes me his enemy," said the lieutenant, loudly. and the whole party were immediately seated. hitherto, my friend crony and myself had been too pleasantly occupied with the whim, wit, and anecdote of the lieutenant, to pay much attention to the individuality of character that surrounded the festive board; but, having now entered upon our second bottle, the humorist commenced his satirical sketches.-- "holding forth to the gaze of this fortunate time the extremes of the beautiful and the sublime." ~ ~~"suppose i commence with the pea-green count," said crony. "i know the boy's ambition is notoriety; and an artist who means to rise in his profession should always aim at painting first-rate portraits, well-known characters; because they are sure to excite public inquiry, thus extending the artist's fame, and securing the good opinion of his patrons by the gratification of their unlimited vanity. the sketch too may be otherwise serviceable to the rising generation; the mr. greens and newcomes of the world of fashion, if they would avoid the sharks who infest the waters of pleasure, and are always on the anxious _look-up_ for a nibble at a new 'come out.' "the young exquisite's connexion with the fancy, or rather with the lowest branch of that illustrious body, the bruising fraternity and their boon companions, had been, though not an avowed, a real source of jealousy to many of his dear bosom friends at long's hotel, from the moment of the count's making his _début_, '_imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remote_,' into the fashionable world. that he would be ultimately floored by his milling _protégés_ it did not require the sagacity of a conjurer to foresee; nor was it likely that the term of such a catastrophe would be so tediously delayed, as to subject any one who might be eager to witness its arrival to that sickness of the heart which arises from hope deferred. but this process for scooping out the silver (or foote) ball, as he has since been designated, by no means suited the ideas of the worthies before alluded to. the learned scriblerus makes mention of certain _doctors_,{ } frequently seen at white's in his day, of a modest and upright appearance, with no air of overbearing, and habited like true masters of arts in black and white only. they were justly styled, says the above high authority, a cant phrase for dice, ~ ~~subtiles and graves, but not always irrefragabiles, being sometimes examined and, by a nice distinction, divided and laid open. the descendants of these doctors still exist, and have not degenerated, either in their numbers or their merits, from their predecessors. they take up their principal residence in some well-known mansions about the neighbourhood of the court, and many of the gentlemen who honoured the count with their especial notice on his _entrée_ into public life are understood to be familiarly acquainted with them. now could they have only instilled into the young gentleman a wish to be introduced to these doctors, or once prevailed upon him to take them in hand for the purpose of deciding what might be depending upon the result of the investigation; nay, could they even have spurred him on to an exhibition of his tactics, in manoeuvring 'those party-colour'd troops, a shining train, drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain;' they could have so delightfully abridged the task which to their impatient eyes appeared to be much too slow in executing, could have spared their dear friend so much unnecessary time and labour in disencumbering himself of the superfluity of worldly dross which had fallen to his share. a little _cogging, sleeving, and palming_; nay, a mere spindle judiciously planted, or a few long ones introduced on the weaving system, could have effected in one evening what fifty milling matches, considering the 'glorious uncertainty' attaching to pugilistic as well as legal contests, might fail to accomplish. by this method, too, the person in whom they kindly took so strong an interest would, even when he had lost every thing, have escaped the imputation of having dissipated his property. it would have been comfortably distributed in respectable dividends among a few gentlemen of acknowledged talent, instead of floating in air like the leaves of the ~ ~~sibyl, and alighting in various parts of the inner and outer ring; now depositing a few cool hundreds in the pockets of a sporting priestley bookseller, or the brother of a westminster abbott; now contributing a small modicum to brighten the humbler speculations of the dean-street casemen, or the battersea gardener. "but to this conclusion horatio would not come. he was good for backing and betting on pugilists, but on the turf he would do little, and at the tables nothing. his zealous friends had therefore no chance in the way they would have liked best; but being men of the world, and knowing, like gay's bear, that 'there might be picking ev'n in the carving of a chicken,' they did not disdain to make the most in their power by watching the motions of his hobby, and if this was not a sufficient prize to furnish much cause for exultation, it was at least one that it would have been unwise to reject. "a contemporary writer has exerted to the utmost the very little talent he possesses to represent the peagreen's uniform resistance to all the temptations of cards and dice, as a proof of his possessing a strength of mind and decision of character rarely found in young men of his fortune and time of life. in the elegant language of this apologist, the count, by this prudent abstinence, 'has shown himself not half so green as some supposed, and the sharps, and those who have tried on the grand mace with him, have discovered that he was no flat.' how far this negative eulogium may be gratifying to the feelings of the individual on whom it is bestowed, i will not say; in my character of english spy i have been under the necessity of carefully observing this fortunate youth, _depuis que la rose venait d'eclore_, in other words, from the time that he became, or rather might ~ ~~have become, his own master; and i should certainly not attribute his refraining from the tables to any superior strength of mind: indeed, it would be singular if such a characteristic belonged to a man whose own hired advocate could only vindicate his client's heart at the expense of his head. pope tells us, that to form a just estimate of any one's character, we must study his ruling passion; and by adopting this rule, we shall soon obtain a satisfactory clew both to the exquisite count's penchant for the prize-ring, and his aversion to the _hells_. some persons exhibit an inexplicable union of avarice and extravagance, of parsimony and prodigality--something of this kind is observable in the gentleman in question. but self predominates with him in all; and being joined to rather alow species of vanity, and a strong inclination to be what is vulgarly called _cock of the walk_, it has uniformly displayed itself in an insatiate thirst for notoriety. now pugilists, from the very nature of their profession, must be public characters; while the gamester, to the utmost of his power, does what he does 'by stealth, and blushes to find it fame.' to be the patron of some noted bruiser, to bear him to the field of action in your travelling barouche, accompanied by tom crib the xx champion, tom spring the x champion, jack langan and tom cannon the would-be champions, and lily white richmond, is sure to make your name as notorious, though perhaps not much more reputable, than those of your associates; but the man who, like 'the youth that fired the ephesian dome,' aims at celebrity alone, in frequenting the purlieus of the gaming-house only 'wastes his sweetness on the desert air.' moreover, the members of the ebony clubs being compelled to assume the appearance, and adopt the manners, insensibly imbibe too much of the feelings of gentlemen, to be likely to pay, to the most passive _pigeon_ that ever submitted to _rooking_, the cap in hand homage rendered by a ~ ~~practitioner within the pins and binders of the prize-ring to the swell who takes five pounds worth of benefit tickets, or stands a fifty in the stakes for a milling match. "these motives seem to me sufficient to have prompted the count's predominating attachment to the prize-ring and its heroes, which, however, having as i have before remarked, been viewed with no favourable eye by some of his comrades, his recent ill-luck at warwick could hardly be expected to escape the jests and sarcasms of his bottle companions." "'fore god," said optimus, "this backing of your man against the black diamond has been but a bad spec. out heavyish i suppose, ay, joe?" count. why, a stiffish bout, i must confess; and what's more, i'm not by any means without my suspicions about the correctness of the thing. optimus. what, cross and jostle work again? a second edition of virginia water? but i thought you felt assured that cannon would not do wrong for the wealth of windsor castle? count. true, i did feel so, and others confirmed me in my assurance, but i believe i was wofully mistaken; and curse me if i don't think they were all in the concern of doing me. optimus. was not there a floating report about the bargeman receiving a thousand to throw it over? count. something of the sort; but don't believe it. two bills for five hundred, but so drawn that they could not be negotiated. i shall certainly, said the count, give notice to the stake-holders not to give up the battle-money for the present. optimus. pshaw! that will never do. a thing of that nature must be done at the time. besides, cannon stood two hundred in his own money, and says he will freely pay his losses. count. a pretty do that, when he had a cheque ~ ~~of mine for the sum he put down. but i've stopped payment of that at my banker's. optimus. and will as surely be obliged to revoke that order, as well as to give up disputing the stakes. no, no, joe; get out of the business now as you can, and cut it. i always thought and told you, that i thought your man had no chance. but his going to fight so out of condition, in a contest where all his physical powers were necessary, does look as if you had been put in for a piece of ready made luck. but what could you expect? can any good thing come out of nazareth? that a gentleman can patronize such fellows! count. i am still of opinion that the spirit of national courage is much promoted-------- optimus. spirit of a fiddle-stick! nonsense, man; that card will win no trick now. you, like others might have thought so once; but you have seen enough by this time to know that the system is on altogether a different tack; that its stanchest upholders and admirers are bullies, sharpers, pickpockets, pothouse keepers, coachmen, fradulent bankrupts, the jon bee's and big b's, and all the lowest b's of society in station and character, whose only merit, if such it can be called, is the open disclaiming of any thing like honour or principle. and after having been a patron of such a set of wretches, you will end by becoming, according to circumstances, the object of their vulgar abuse, or the butt of their coarse ridicule. "the latter, i understand,"said lord william, "is pretty much the case already. a friend of mine was telling me, that one of the precious brotherhood, on hearing that joe meant to dispute his bets, asked what better could be expected from a foote-mam out of place?" "no more of that, hal, if thou lovest him," exclaimed optimus, who immediately perceived, by his ~ ~~countenance, that the last hit had been too hard. much more has been said upon this affair than it is worth. let us change the subject. "by my conscience," exclaimed the lieutenant, "and here's an excellent episode to wind up the drama with, headed, 'the foote ball's farewell to the ring:' i'll read it you, with permission, and afterwards, colonel, you shall have a copy of it for next sunday's 'age;' it will save the magnanimous little b., your accommodating editor, or his locum tenens, the fat gent, the trouble of straining their own weak noddles to produce any more soft attempts at the scandalous and the sarcastic. "by the honour of my ancestry," rejoined the gloucestershire colonel, "do you take me for a reporter to the paper in question?" "why not?" said the lieutenant, coolly: "if you are not a reporter and a supporter too, my gallant friend, by the powers of poll kelly but you are the most ill-used man in his majesty's dominions!" "sir, i stand upon my honour," said the colonel, petulantly. "by the powers, you may, and very easily too," whispered o'farellan, in a side speech to his left hand companion; "for it has been trodden under foote by others these many months. to be plain with you, colonel, there are certain big whispers abroad, that you and your noble associate, the amiable yonder, with that beautiful obliquity of vision, which is said to have pierced the heart of a northern syren, are the joint telegraphs of the age. sure no man in his senses can suspect messieurs the conducteurs of knowing any thing of what passes in polished life, or think-- "ah, my dear wewitzer," said belle harriet, now mrs. goutts, speaking to the late comedian, of some female friend, "she has an eye! an eye, that would pierce through a deal board." "by heavens," said wewitzer, "that must be then a gimhlet eye." ~ ~~of charging them with any personal knowledge of the amusing incidents they pretend to relate, beyond a certain little wanton's green room _on dits_, or the chaste conversations of the blushless naiads who sport and frolic in the cytherian mysteries which are nightly performed in the dark groves of vauxhall. take a word of advice from an old soldier, colonel: it is worse than leading a forlorn hope to attempt to storm a garrison single handed; club secrets must be protected by club laws, for 'tis an old eton maxim, that tales told out of school generally bring the relater to the block. but my friend stanhope will no doubt explain this matter with a much better grace when he comes in contact with the tale-bearer." "hem," instinctively ejaculated horace c-----t, the once elegant apollo of hyde park, "thereby hangs a tale; 'tis a vile age, and the sooner we forget it, the better--i am for love and peace." "i.e. a piece" responded the lieutenant. horace smiled, and continued, "come, tom duncombe, i'll give our mutual favourite, the female giovanni. lads, fill your glasses; we toast a deity, and one, too, who has equal claims upon most of us for the everlasting favours she has conferred." "'fore gad, lieutenant," simpered out lord william, squaring himself round to resume the conversation with the veteran, "if you do not mind your hits, we must positively cut. my friend, the colonel, will certainly set his blacks{ } upon you, and i shall be obliged to speak to little magnanimous, the ex-brummagem director, to strike off a counterfeit impression of you in his scandalous sunday chronicle, 'pon honour, i must." a very curious tradition is connected with a certain castle near gloucester, which foretells, that the family name shall be extinct when the race of the blacks* cease to be peculiar to the family; a prophecy that i think not very likely to be fulfilled, judging by the conduct of the present race of representatives. * a species of danish blood-hound, whose portraits and names are carved in the oaken cornice of one of the castle chambers. ~ ~~"the divil a care," said the lieutenant, laughingly; "to arms with you, my lord william; my fire engine will soon damp the ardour of little magnanimous, and an extra dose of tom bish's compounds put his friend, the fat gent, where his readers have long been, in sweet somniferous repose. but zounds, gentlemen, i am forgetting the count, whose pardon i crave, for bestowing my attention on minor constellations while indulged with the overpowering brilliancy of his meteoric presence." "the 'farewell to the ring,'" vociferated the count. "come, lieutenant, give us the episode: i long to hear all my misfortunes strung together in rhyme." "by the powers, you shall have it, then; and a true history it is, as ever was said or sung in church, chapel, or conventicle, with only one little exception--by the free use of poetic license, the satirist has fixed his hero in a very embarrassing situation--just locked him up at radford's steel hotel in carey street, chancery lane, coning over a long bill of john long's, and a still longer one of the lawyers, with a sort of codicil, by way of refresher, of the house charges, and a smoking detainer tacked on to its tail, by hookah hudson, long enough to put any gentleman's pipe out. [illustration: page ] there's the argument, programme, or fable. now for the characters; they are all drawn from the life by the english spy (see plate), under the amusing title of 'morning, and in low spirits, a scene in a lock-up house;' a very appropriate spot for a lament to the past, and "'tis past, and the sun of my glory is set. how changed in my case is the fortune of war! with no money to back, and no credit to bet, no more in the fancy i shine forth a star. ~ ~~ "accursed be the day when my bargeman i brought to fight with jos. hudson!--the thought is a sting. i sighing exclaim, by experience taught, farewell to tom cannon, farewell to the ring! "by the blackwater vict'ry made drunk with success, endless visions of milling enchanted my nob; i thought my luck in: so i could do no less than match 'gainst the streatham my white-headed bob. "i've some reason to think that there, too, i was done; for it oft has been hinted that battle was cross'd: but i well know that all which at yately i won, with a thousand _en outre_ at bagshot i lost. "at warwick a turn in my favour again appear'd, and my crest i anew rear'd with pride; hudson's efforts to conquer my bargeman were vain, i took the _long odds_, and i floor'd _the flash side_. "but with training, and treating, and sparring, and paying for all through the nose, as most do in beginning their fancy career, i am borne out in saying, i was quite out of pocket in spite of my winning. "so when bob fought old george, being shortish of money, and bearing in mem'ry the bagshot affair, in my former pal's stakes i stood only _a pony_, (which was never return'd, so i'm done again there). "to be perfectly safe, on the old one i betted; for the knowing ones told me the thing was made right: if it had been, a good bit of blunt i'd have netted; but a double x spoilt it, and bob won the fight. ~ ~~ "but the famed stage of warwick, and ward, were before me-- i look'd at tom cannon, and thought of the past; i was sure he must win, and that wealth would show'r o'er me, so, like richard, i set all my hopes on a cast; "and the die was soon thrown, and my luck did not alter-- i was floor'd at all points, and my hopes were a hum; i'm at tattersall's all but believed a defaulter, and here, in a spunging house, shut by a bum. "'mid the lads of the fancy i needs must aspire to be quite _au fait_; and i have scarcely seen of mills half a score, ere i'm fore'd to retire-- o thou greenest among all the green ones, pea green! "and what have i gain'd, but the queer reputation of a whimsical dandy, half foolish, half flash? to bruisers and sharpers, in high and low station, a poor easy dupe, till deprived of my cash. "all you who would enter the circle i've quitted, reflect on my fate, and think what you're about: by brib'ry betray'd, or by cunning outwitted, in the fancy each novice is quickly clean'd out. "for me it has lost its attractions and lustre; the thing's done with me, and i've done with the thing: the blunt for my bets i must manage to muster, then farewell to tom cannon, farewell to the ring!" the reading of this morceau produced, as might have been expected, considerable merriment on the ~ ~~one hand, and some little discussion upon the other; the angry feelings of the commander in chief and his pals overbalancing the mirthful by their solemnly protesting against the exposure of the secrets of the prison house, which, in this instance, they contended, were violently distorted by some enemy to the modern accomplishment of pugilism. in a few moments all was chaos, and the stormy confusion of tongues, prophetk: of the affair ending in a grand display and milling catastrophe; the apprehensions of which induced john long, and john long's man, to be on the alert in removing the service, _en suite_, of superb cut glass, which had given an additional lustre to the splendour of the dessert. the arrival of other characters, and the good humour of the count, joined to a plentiful supply of soda water and iced punch, had, however, the effect of cooling the malcontents, who had no sooner recovered their wonted hilarity, than old crony proceeded to particularize, by a comparison of the past with the present, interspersing his remarks with anecdotes of the surrounding group. "these are your modern men of fashion," said crony; "and the specimen you have this day had of their conduct and pursuits an authority you may safely quote as one generally characteristic. 'to support this new fashion in circles of _ton_. new habits, new thoughts, must of course be put on; taste, feeling, and friendship, laid by on the shelf, and nothing or worshipp'd, or thought of, but--self.' [illustration: page ] "it was not thus in the days of our ancestors: the farther we look back, the purer honour was. in the days of chivalry, a love promise was a law; the braver the knight, the truer in love: then, too, religion, delicacy, sentiment, romantic passion, disinterested friendship, loyalty to king, love of country, a thirst for fame, bravery, nay, heroism, characterized ~ ~~the age, the nation, the noble, the knight, and esquire. mercy! what 'squires we have now-a-days! at a more recent date, all was courtliness, feeling, high sentiment, proud and lofty bearing, principle, the word inviolable, politeness at its highest pitch of refinement: lovers perished to defend their ladies' honour; now they live to sully it: the nobility and the people were distinct in dress and address; but, above all, amenity and good-breeding marked the distinction, and the line was unbroken. now, dress is all confusion, address far below par, amenity is a dead letter, and as to breeding, it is confined to the breeding of horses and dogs, except when law steps in to encourage the breeding of disputes; not to mention the evils arising from crossing the old breed; nor can we much wonder at it, when we reflect on the altered way of life, the change of habits, and the declension of virtue, arising from these very causes. 'each hopeful hero now essays to start to spoil the intellect, destroy the heart, to render useless all kind nature gave, and live the dupe of ev'ry well dress'd knave; to herd with gamblers, be a blackleg king, and shine the monarch of the betting ring.' "men of family and fashion, in those golden days, passed their time in courts, in dancing-rooms, and at clubs composed of the very cream of birth and elegance. you heard occasionally of lord such-a-one being killed in a duel, or of the baronet or esquire dying from cold caught at a splendid _fête_, or by going lightly clad to his magnificent vis-à-vis, after a select masquerade; but you never read his death in a newspaper from a catarrh caught in the watch-house, from & fistic fight, or in a row at a hell--things now not astonishing, since even men with a title and a name of rank pass their time in the stable, at common hells, at the fives-court--the hall of infamy; in the watch-house, the justice-room, and make the finish in ~ ~~the fleet, king's bench, or die in misery and debt abroad. in the olden times, a star of fashion was quoted for dancing at court, for the splendour of his equipages, his running footmen and black servants, his expensive dress, his accomplishments, his celebrity at foreign courts, his fine form, delicate hand, jewels, library, &c. &c. now fame (for notoriety is so called) may be obtained by being a greek, or pigeon, by being mistaken for john the coachman, when on the box behind four tits; by being a good gentleman miller, by feeding the fancy, standing in print for crim. con., breaking a promise of marriage once or twice, and breaking as many tradesmen as possible afterwards; breaking the watchman's head on the top of the morn; and lastly, breaking away (in the skirmish through life) for calais, or the low countries. there is as much difference between the old english gentleman and him who ought to be the modern representative of that name, as there is between a racer and a hack, a fine spaniel and a cross of the terrier and bull dog. in our days of polish and refinement, we had a lord stair, a sedley, a sir john stepney, a sir william hamilton, and many others, as our ambassadors, representing our nation as the best bred in the world; and by their grace and amiability, gaining the admiration of the whole continent. we had, in remoter times, our lords bolingbroke, chesterfield, and lyttleton, our steele, &c, the celebrated poets, authors, and patterns of fashion and elegance of the age. we had our argyle, 'the state's whole thunder form'd to wield, and shake at once the senate and the field.' we had our virtuosi of the highest rank, our rich and noble authors in abundance. the departed byron stood alone to fill their place. the classics were cultivated, not by the learned profession only, but by the votaries of fashion. now, our greek scholars are of ~ ~~another cast.{ } in earlier days the chivalrous foe met his opponent in open combat, and broke a lance for the amusement of the spectators, while he revenged his injuries in public. now, the practice of duelling{ } has become almost a profession, and the privacy with which it is of necessity conducted renders it always subject to suspicion (see plate); independent of which, the source of quarrel is too often beneath the dignity of gentlemen, and the wanton sacrifice of life rather an act of bravado than of true courage.{ } "adeipe nunc danaûm insidiai, et----ab uno, disce omnes!" the greek population of the fashionable world comprises a very large portion of society, including among its members names and persons of illustrious and noble title, whose whole life and pleasure in life appears to "rest upon the hazard of a die." the modern greek, though he cannot boast much resemblance to achilles, ajax, patroclus, or nestor, is, nevertheless, a close imitator of the equally renowned chief of ithaca. to describe his person, habits, pursuits, and manners, would be to sketch the portrait of one or more _finished roués_, who are to be found in most genteel societies. the mysteries of his art are manifold, and principally consist in the following rules and regulations, put forth by an old member of the corps, whose conscience returned to torture him when his reign of earthly vice was near its close. elements of greeking. . a greek should be like a mole, visible only at night. . he should be a niggard of his speech, and a profligate with his liquor, giving freely, but taking cautiously. . he must always deprecate play in public, and pretend an entire ignorance of his game. . he must be subtle as the fox, and vary as the well-trained hawk; never showing chase too soon, or losing his pigeon by an over eager desire to pluck him. . he must be content to lose a little at first, that he may thereby make a final hit decisive. . he must practise like a conjuror in private, that his slippery tricks in public may escape observation. palming the _digits_ requires no ordinary degree of agility. . he must secure a confederate, who having been pigeoned, has since been enlightened, and will consent to decoy others to the net. . he should have once held the rank of captain, as an introduction to good society, and a privilege to bully any one who may question his conduct. . he must always put on the show of generosity with those he has plucked--that is, while their bill, bond, post obit, or other legal security is worth having. ~ ~~ . he should be a prince of good fellows at his own table, have the choicest wines for particular companies, and when a grand hit cannot be made, refuse to permit play in his own house; or on a decisive occasion, let his decoy or partner pluck the pigeon, while he appears to lose to some confederate a much larger sum. . he must not be afraid to fight a duel, mill & rumbustical green one, or bully a brother sharper who attempts to poach upon his preserves. . he must concert certain signals with confederates for _working the broads_ (i.e. cards), such as fingers at whist: toe to toe for an ace, or the left hand to the eye for a king, and so on, until he can make the fate of a rubber certain. on this point he must be well instructed in the arts of _marked cards, briefs, broads, corner bends, middle ditto, curves, or kingston bridge_, and other arch tricks of _slipping, palming, forcing_, or even _substituting_, whatever card may be necessary to win the game. such are a few of the elements of modern greeking, contained in the twelve golden rules recorded above, early attention to which may save the inexperienced from ruin. [illustration: page ] elements of duelling. "the british code of duel," a little work professing to give the necessary instructions for _man-killing according to honour_, lays down the following rules as indispensable for the practice of principals and seconds in the pleasant and humane amusement of shooting at each other. " . to choose out a snug sequestered spot, where the ground is level, and no natural, terrestrial, or celestial line presenting itself to assist either party in his views of sending his opponent into eternity. . to examine the pistols; see that they are alike in quality and length, and load in presence of each other. . to measure the distance; ten paces of not less than thirty inches being the minimum, the parties to step to it, not from it. . to fire by signal and at random; it being considered unfair to take aim at the man whose life you go out to take. . not to deliver the pistols cocked, lest they should go off un-expectedly; and after one fire the second should use his endeavours to produce a reconciliation. . if your opponent fire in the air, it is very unusual, and must be a case of extreme anguish when you are obliged to insist upon another shot at him. . three fires must be the ultimatum in any case; any more reduces duel to a conflict for blood," says the code writer; "if the parties can afford it, there should be two surgeons in attendance, but if economical, one mutual friend will suffice; the person receiving the first fire, in case of wound, taking the first dressing. . it being always understood that wife, children, parents, and relations are no impediment with men of very different relative stations in society to their meeting on equal terms." the _consistency, morality, justice, and humanity of this code, i leave to the gratifying reflection of those who have most honourably killed their man_. ~ ~~ 'for, as duelling now is completely a science, and sets, the old bailey itself at defiance; now hibernians are met with in every street, 'tis as needful to know how to shoot as to eat.' the following singular challenge is contained in a letter from sir william herbert, of st. julian's, in monmouthshire, father-in-law to the famous lord herbert, of cherbury, to a gentleman of the name of morgan. the original is in the british museum. "sir--peruse this letter, in god's name. be not disquieted. i reverence your hoary hair. although in your son i find too much folly and lewdness, yet in you i expect gravity and wisdom. "it hath pleased your son, late at bristol, to deliver a challenge to a man of mine, on the behalf of a gentleman (as he said) as good as myself; who he was, he named not, neither do i know; but if he be as good as myself, it must either be for virtue, for birth, for ability, or for calling and dignity. for virtue i think he meant not, for it is a thing which exceeds his judgment: if for birth, he must be the heir male of an earl, the heir in blood of ten earls; for, in testimony thereof, i bear their several coats. besides, he must be of the blood royal, for by my grandmother devereux i am lineally and legitimately descended out of the body of edward iv. if for ability he must have a thousand pounds a year in possession, a thousand pounds more in expectation, and must have some thousands in substance besides. if for calling and dignity, he must be knight or lord of several seignories in several kingdoms, a lieutenant of his county, and a counsellor of a province. "now to lay all circumstances aside, be it known to your son, or to any man else, that if there be any one who beareth the name of gentleman, and whose words are of reputation in his county, that doth say, or dare say, that i have done unjustly, spoken an untruth, stained my credit and reputation in this matter, or in any matter else, wherein your son is exasperated, i say he lieth in his throat, and my sword shall maintain my word upon him, in any place or province, wheresoever he dare, and where i stand not sworn to observe the peace. but if they be such as are within my governance, and over whom i have authority, i will for their re-formation chastise them with justice, and for their malaport misdemeanour bind them to their good behaviour. of this sort, i account your son, and his like; against whom i will shortly issue my warrant, if this my warning doth not reform them. and so i thought fit to advertise you hereof, and leave you to god. "i am, &c. "wm. herbert." ~ ~~"the art of fencing formerly distinguished the gentleman, who then wore a sword as a part of his dress. he is now contented with a regular stand-up fight, and exhibits a fist like a knuckle-bone of mutton--hard, coarse, and of certain magnitude. the bludgeon hammer-headed whip, or a vulgar twig, succeeds the clouded and amber-headed cane; and instead of the snuff-box being rare, and an article of parade, to exhibit a beauty's miniature bestowed in love, or that of a crowned head, given for military or diplomatic services, all ranks take snuff out of cheap and vulgar boxes, mostly of inferior french manufacture, with, not unfrequently, indecent representations on them; or you have wooden concerns with stage coaches, fighting-cocks, a pugilistic combat, or an ill-drawn neck and neck race upon them. the frill of the nobleman and gentleman's linen once bore jewels of high price, or a conceit, like a noted beauty's eye, set in brilliants less sparkling than what formed the centre. now, a fox, a stag, or a dog, worthily occupies the place of that enchanting resemblance. in equitation, we had sir sydney meadows, a pattern and a prototype for gentlemen horsemen. the melton hunt now is more in vogue, and the sons of our nobility ride like their own grooms and postboys--ay, and dress like them too. autrefois, a man of fashion might be perceived ere he was seen, from a reunion ~ ~~of rich and costly perfumes. now, snuff and tobacco, the quid, the pinch, and the cigar, announce his good taste. the cambric pocket-handkerchief was the only one known in the olden times. the belcher (what a name! ) supplies its place, together with the bird's eye, or the colours of some black or white boxer. an accomplished man was the delight of all companies in former times. an out and outer, one up to every thing, down as a nail or the knocker of newgate, a trump, or a trojan, now carry the mode of praise; one that can _patter flash, floor a charley, mill a coal-heaver_, come coachey in prime style, up to every rig and row in town, and down to every move upon the board, from a nibble at the club to a dead hit at a hell; can swear, smoke, take snuff, lush, play at all games, and throw over both sexes in different ways--he is the finished man. the attributes of a modern fine gentleman are, to have his address at his club, and his residence any where; to lounge, laugh, lisp, and loll away the time from four to eight, when having dressed, eat his olives, he goes to almack's if he can, or struts into fop's alley at the opera in boots, in defiance of decency or the remonstrance of the door-keepers; talks loud to be noticed; and having handed some woman of fashion to her carriage, gets in after her without invitation, and, as a matter of course, behaves rudely in return; makes a last call at the club in his way home to learn the issue of the debate, and try his luck at french hazard or fleecing a novice. (see plate.) [illustration: page ] if his fortune should be one thousand per annum, his income may be extended to five, by virtue of credit and credulity. if he comes out very early in life, say eighteen, he will scarcely expect to be visible at twenty-four; but if he does not appear until he is twenty-one, and then lives all his days, he may die fairly of old age, infirmity, and insolvency, at twenty-six. his topographical knowledge of town is bounded by the fashionable ~ ~~directory, which limits his recognition, on the north, by oxford-street, on the east, by bond-street, on the south, by pall mall, and on the west, by park-lane. ask him where is russell square, and he stares at you for a rustic; inquire what authors he reads, and he answers weatherbey and rhodes; ask what are their works, and he laughs outright at your ignorance of the 'racing calendar,' 'annals of sporting,' 'boxiana,' and 'turf remembrancer;' question his knowledge of science, it consists in starch _à la brummel_{ }; of mathematics, in working problems on the cards; of algebra, in calculating the long odds, or squaring the chances of the dice; he tells you, his favourite book is his betting account, that john bull is the only newspaper worth reading, and that you must never expect to be admitted into good society if the cut of your coat does not bear outward proofs of its being fabricated either in saint james's street or bond street; that the great requisites are _confidence, indifference, and nonchalance_; as, for instance, george wombwell being thrown out of his tilbury on high gate hill, when driving captain burdett, and both being dreadfully bruised, george is picked when brummel fell into disgrace, he devised the starched neckcloth, with the design of putting the prince's neck out of fashion, and of bringing his royal highness's muslin, his bow, and wadding, into contempt. when he first appeared in this stiffened cravat, tradition says that the sensation in st. james's-street was prodigious; dandies were struck dumb with envy, and washerwomen miscarried. no one could conceive how the effect was produced--tin, card, a thousand contrivances were attempted, and innumerable men cut their throats in vain experiments; the secret, in fact, puzzled and baffled every one, and poor dandy l------d died raving mad of it; his mother, sister, and all his relations waited on brummel, and on their knees implored him to save their kinsman's life by the explanation of the mystery; but the beau was obdurate, and l------d miserably perished. when brummel fled from england, he left this secret a legacy to his country; he wrote on a sheet of paper, on his dressing-table, the emphatic words, "starch is the man." ~ up by a countryman, when he inquires, very coolly, if 't'other blackguard is not quite dead:' his amours are more distinguished by their number than attractions, and the first point is, not attachment, but notoriety; the lady always being the more desirable, in proportion to the known variety of her gallants; that of all the pleasures of this life, there is nothing like a squeeze at court (see plate), or being wedged into a close room at a crowded rout. [illustration: page ] a ruffian was never thought of by our forefathers; the exquisite was; but he was more sublimated than the exquisite of the nineteenth century. the dandy is of modern date; but there is some polish on him--suppose it be on his boots alone. shape and make are attended to by him; witness the cumberland corset, and his making what he can of every body. then, again, he must have a smattering of french, and affect to be above old england. when he smokes, he does it from vanity, to show his _écume de mer_ pipe. he may have a gold snuff-box and a little diamond pin; and when he swears, he lisps it out like a baby's lesson. sometimes (not often) he plays upon the guitar; and the peninsular war may have made a man of him, and a linguist too; but he is far below the ancient exquisites (who touched the lute, the lyre, and violoncello). and he is an egotist in every thing--in gallantry, in conversation, in principle, and in heart. nor has the deterioration of the gentleman been confined to england only--polite and ceremonious france has felt her change. the revolution brought in coarse and uncivilised manners. the awkward and unsuccessful attempt at spartan and roman republican manners; the citizen succeeding to monsieur; the blasphemous, incredulous, atheistical principles instilled into the then growing generation of all classes; the system of equality, subversive of courtliness, and the obliging attentions and suavities of society, poisoned at once the source ~ ~~of morals and of manners; for there can be nothing gentlemanlike in atheism, radicalism, and the level, ling system. to this state of things succeeded a reign of terror, assassination, and debauchery; and lastly, a military despotism, in which the private soldier rose to the marshals baton; a groom in the stables of the prince of condé saw himself ennobled; peers and generals had brothers still keeping little retail shops; and a drum-boy lived to see his wife--a washerwoman, or fish vender--a duchess (madame lefevre). how can we expect breeding from such materials? bayonets gave brilliancy to the imperial court; and the youth of the country were all soldiers, without dreaming of the gentleman, except in a low bow and flourish of the hat; a greater flourish of self-praise, and a few warm, loose, and dangerous compliments to the fairer sex, became more than even the objects of their passion, but less so of their attentions and prepossessing assiduities. this military race taught us to smoke, to snuff, to drink brandy, and to swear; for although john bull never was backward in that point, yet st. giles's and not st. james's, was the _rendezvous_ for those who possessed that brutal and invincible habit. these were not amongst the least miseries and curses which the war produced; and they have left such mischievous traces behind them, that the mature race in france laugh at the old court, and at all old civil and religious principles, whilst our demoralized youth play the same game at home. and if a bolingbroke or a chesterfield was now to appear, he would be quizzed by all the smokers, jokers, hoaxers, glass-cockers, blacklegs, and fancy-fellows of the town, amongst whom all ranks are perfectly lost, and morality is an absolute term. o tempora! o moses! (as the would-be lady sckolard said.) nor does moses play second best in these characters of the day. moses has crept into all circles; from the ring to the peerage and baronetage, the stage, the ~ ~~race-course; and our clubs are tinged with the israelitish: they may lend money, but they cannot lend a lustre to the court, or to the gilded and painted saloons of the _beau monde_. the style of things is altered; we mean not the old style and new in point of date, but in point of brilliancy in the higher circles. our ancestors never bumped along the streets, with a stable-boy by their side, in a one-horse machine, which is now the _bon ton_ in imitation of our gallic neighbours, whose equipage is measured by their purse. where do you now see a carriage with six horses, and three outriders, and an _avant courier_, except on lord mayor's day? yet how common this was with the nobility _d'autrefois_. two grooms are no longer his grace's and my lord's attendants, but each is followed by one groom in plain clothes, not very dissimilar from the man he serves. do we ever see the star of nobility in the morning, to guard him who has a right to it from popular rudeness and a confusion of rank? all is now privacy, concealment, equality in exterior, musty and meanness: not that the plain style of dress would be exceptionable, if we could say in verity-- 'we have within what far surpasseth show.' but the lining is now no better (oftentimes worse) than the coat. our principles and our politeness are on a par--at low-water mark. the tradesman lives like the gentleman, and the nobleman steps down a degree to be, like other people, up to all fashionable habits and modern customs; whilst the love for gain, at the clubs, on the turf, in the ring, and in private life, debases one part of society, and puts down the other, which becomes the pigeon to the rook. whilst all this goes on, the press chronicles and invents follies for us; and there are men stupid enough to glory in their depravity, to be pleased with their own deformity of mind, body, or dress, of their affectations, ~ ~~and their leading of a party. there is something manly in the yacht club, in a dexterously driving four fleet horses in hand, in reining in the proud barb, and in gymnastic exercises: but the whole merit of these ceases, when my lord (like him of carroty beard) becomes the tar without his glory, and wears the check shirt without the heart of oak--when the driver becomes the imitator of the stage and hackney box--when the rider is the unsuccessful rival of the jockey; and the frequenter of the gymnastic arena becomes a bruiser, or one turning strength into money, be the bet or the race what it may. 'shades of our ancestors! whose fame of old in ev'ry time the echoing world has told! whose dauntless valour and heroic deeds, each british bosom yet enraptur'd reads! deeds, which in ev'ry country, clime, and age, have fill'd the poet's and historian's page; of ev'ry muse the theme, and ev'ry pen: ye i invoke! and ye, my countrymen, if british blood yet flows within your veins, if for your country aught of love remains, o make your first, your chief, your only care, that which first rais'd and made you what you were.'" [illustration: page ] cheltonian characters. a trip to the spas. chapter i. ~ ~~ bernard blackmantle and bob transit pay a visit to the chelts--privileges of a spy--alarm at chelten-him--the rival editors--the setting of a great son--how to sink in popularity and respect--a noble title--an old flame-- poetical _jeu d'esprit_, by vinegar penn--muriatic acid--an attorney-general's opinion on family propensities given without a fee!!--the cheltenham dandy, or the man in the cloak, a sketch from the life-noble anecdote of the fox- hunting parson--bury-ing alive at berkeley--public theatricals in private--"a michaelmas preachment," by an honest reviewer--a few words for ourselves--the grand marshall--interesting story of a former m. c. "oh, i've been to countries rare; seen such sights, 'twould make you stare." [illustration: page ] "that last chapter of yours, blackmantle, on john long and john long's customers, will long remain a memorial of your scrutinizing qualifications, and, as i think, will prevent your taking your port, punch, pines, or soda-water in bond-street for some time to come, lest 'suspicion, which ever haunts the guilty mind,' should in the course of conversation convict you; and then, my dear fellow, you would certainly go off pop like the last-mentioned article in the above reference to the luxuries of long's hotel." ~ ~~"bravo, bob transit!" said i; "this comes mighty well from you, sir, my _fidus achates_.--'_a bon chat bon rat_'--the _fidus and audax_ satirists of the present times. and who, sir, dares to doubt our joint authority? are we not the very spies o' the age? 'joint monarchs of all we survey; our right there is none to dispute.' from the throne to, the thatched cottage, wherever there is character, 'there fly we,' and, on the wings of merry humour, draw with pen and pencil a faithful portraiture of things as they are; not tearing aside the hallowed veil of private life, but seizing as of public right on public character, and with a playful vein of satire proving that we are of the poet's school; 'form'd to delight at once and lash the age.' at this season of the year fashion cries out of town; so, pack up, master robert, and let us to chelt's retiring banks, where beaux and beauties throng, to drink at spas and play rum pranks, that here will live in song. what cheltenham was, is no business of ours; what it is, as regards its buildings, salubrious air, and saline springs, its walks, views, libraries, theatre, and varieties, my friend williams, whose shop at the corner of the assembly rooms is the grand lounge of the literati, will put the visitor into possession of for the very moderate sum of five shillings. but, reader, if you would search deeper into society, and know something of the whim and character of the frequenters and residents of this fashionable place of public resort, you must consult the english spy, and trace in his pages and the accompanying plates of his friend bob transit the faithful likenesses of the scenes and persons who figure in the maze of fashion, ~ ~~or attract attention by the notoriety of their amours, the eccentricity of their manners, or the publicity of their attachments to the ball or the billiard-room, the card or the hazard-table, the turf or the chase; for in all of these does cheltenham abound. from the _cercle de la basse to the cercle de la haute_, from the nadir to the zenith, 'i know ye, and have at ye all'--ye busy, buzzing, merry, amorous groups of laughter-loving, ogling, ambling, gambling cheltenham folk. 'a chiel's among ye taking notes, and faith, he'll print them.' to spy out your characteristic follies, ye sons and daughters of pleasure, have we, bernard blackmantle and robert transit, esquires, travelled down to cheltenham to collect materials for an odd chapter of a very odd book, but one which has already established its fame by continued success, and, as i hope owes much of its increasing prosperity to its characteristic good-humour; so, without more preface, imagine a little dapper-looking fellow of about five feet something in altitude, attended by a tall sharp-visaged gentleman in very spruce costume, parading up and down the high-street, cheltenham--lounging for a few minutes in williams's library--making very inquisitive remarks upon the passing singularities--and then the little man most impertinently whispering to his friend with the quixotic visage, book him, bob--when out comes the note book of both parties, and down goes somebody. afterwards see them popping into this shop, and then into the other, spying and prying about--occasionally nodding perhaps to a london actor, who shines forth here a star of the first magnitude; john liston, for instance, or tyrone power--then posting off to the well walks, or disturbing the peaceful dead by ambling over their graves in search of humorous epitaphs--making their way down to the berkeley kennel in north-street (see plate), ~ ~~or paying a visit to the paphian divinities at the oakland cottages under the cleigh hills--trotting here and there--making notes and sketches until all cheltenham is in a state of high excitement, and the rival editors of the chronicle and journal, messrs. halpine and judge, are so much alarmed that they are almost prepared to become friends, and unite their forces for the time against the common enemy. [illustration: page ] imagine such an animated, whispering, gazing, inquiring scene, as i have here presented you with a slight sketch of, and, reader, you will be able to form some idea of the first appearance of the english spy and his friend the artist, among the ways and walks of merry cheltenham. then here 'at once, i dedicate my lay to the gay groups that round me swarm, like may-bees round the honied hive, when fields are green, and skies are warm and all in nature seems alive.' time was, a certain amorous colonel carried every thing here, and bore away the belle from all competitors; the hunt, the ball, the theatre, and the card-party all owned his sovereign sway; although it must be admitted, that, in the latter amusement, he seldom or ever hazarded enough to disturb his financial recollections on the morrow. but time works wonders--notoriety is of two complexions, and what may render a man a very agreeable companion to foxhunters and frolicsome lordlings, is not always the best calculated to recommend him in the eyes of the accomplished and the rigid in matters of moral propriety. but other equally celebrated and less worthy predilections have been trumpeted forth in courts and newspapers, until the fame of the colonel has spread itself through every grade of society, and, unlike that wreath which usually decks the gallant soldier's brow, a cypress chaplet binds the early gray, and makes admonitory signal of the ill-spent past. the wrongs of an injured ~ ~~and confiding husband, whose fortunes, wrecked by the false seducer, have left him a prey to shattered ruin, yet live in the remembrance of some honest cheltenham hearts; and although these may feel for the now abandoned object of his illicit passion, there are but few who, while they drop a tear of pity as she passes them daily in the street, do not invoke a nobler feeling of indignation upon the ruthless head of him who forged the shafts of misery, and pierced at one fell blow the hearts of husband, wife, and children! what father that has read maria's hapless tale of woe, and marked the progress of deceptive vice, will hereafter hazard the reputation of his daughters by suffering them to mix in cheltenham society with the branded seducer and his profligate associates? gallantry, an unrestricted love of the fair sex, and a predilection for variety, may all be indulged in this country to any extent, without betraying confidence on the one hand or innocence upon the other, without outraging decency, or violating the established usages of society. while the profligate confines his sensual pleasures with such objects as i allude to within the walls of his harem, the moralist has no right to trespass upon his privacy; it is only when they are blazoned forth to public view, and daringly opposed to public scorn, that the lash of the satirist is essentially useful, if not in correcting, at least in exposing the systematic seducer, and putting the inexperienced and the virtuous on their guard against the practice of profligacy. it is the frequency and notoriety of such scenes that has at last alarmed the chelts, who, fearing more for their suffering interests than for their suffering fellow-creatures, begin to murmur rather loudly against the berkeley adonis, representing that the town itself suffers in respectability and increase of visitors, by its being known as the rendezvous of the bloods and blacks of berkeley. the truth of this assertion may be gathered from the ~ ~~following _jeu d' esprit_, only one among a hundred of such squibs that have been very freely circulated in cheltenham and the neighbourhood within the last year. 'news from cheltenham. 'the season runs smartly in cheltenham's town, the gossips are up, and the colonel is down; he has taken the place of the famous old gun { } that exploded last year, and created some fun. were no lives then lost? some say, yes! and some, no! the report even shook the old walls of glasgow.{ } and the bushe was found out to be no safe retreat, for in love, as in war, you may chance to be beat; and a hell-shaming fellow can never be reckon'd, whate'er he may publish, a capital second.' "but now having had our fling at his vices, let us speak of him more agreeably; for the fellow hath some qualifications which, if humour suit, enables him to shine forth a star of the first magnitude among _bons vivants_ and sporting characters, who ride, amble, and vegetate upon the banks of the chelt. such is his love of hunting, a pleasure in which he not only indulges himself, but enables others, his friends, to participate with him, by keeping up a numerous stud of thirty well trained horses, and a double pack of fox-hounds, that no appropriate day may be lost, nor any opportunity missed, of pursuing the sports of the chase. this is as it should be, and smacks of that glorious spirit which animated his ancestors; although the violence of his temper will sometimes break out even here, in the field, when some young and forward nimrod, unable to restrain his fiery steed, _o'er-caps_ the hounds, or crosses the scent. as the chelts are, or have been, greatly benefited by the hounds being kept alternately during the hunting months between a good-morrow to you, captain gun. miss glasgow, divine perfection of antique virgin purity! what could the poet mean by this allusion? ~ ~~cheltenham and gloucester, they must at least feel some little gratitude to be due to the man who is the cause of such an increase of society, and consequent expenditure of cash. but, say they, we lose in a fourfold degree; for the respectable portion of the fashionable visitants have of late cut us entirely, to save their sons and daughters from pollution and ruin, by association or the force of example. 'tis not in the nature of the english spy rudely to draw aside the curtain, even to expose the midnight revelries and debaucheries, of which he possesses some extraordinary anecdotes; events, which, if recorded here, would, in the language of the poet, 'give ample room, and verge enough, the characters of hell to trace; how through each circling year, on many a night, have severn's waves re-echoed with affright the shrieks of (maids) through berkeley's roofs that ring.' "but let these tales be told hereafter, as no doubt they will be, by the creatures who now pander to vice, when the satiated and the sullen chief sinks into decay, or cuts from his emaciated trunk the filthy excrescences which, like poisonous fungus, suck the sap of honour and of life. the colonel hath had many trials in this life, and much to break down a noble and a proud spirit. in earlier days, a question of birthright, while it cut off one entail, brought on another, which entailed a name, not the ancient gift of a monarch, but one still more ancient, and, according to dodsley's chronology of the kings of england, the origin of british sovereignty itself--a '_filius nullius,_' a title that left it open to the wearer to have established his own fame, and to have been the architect of a nobler fortune; for 'who nobly acts may hold to scorn the man who is but nobly born.' "had the colonel acted thus, there is little doubt but long ere this the kind heart of his majesty would have ~ ~~warmed into graciousness as he reflected upon the untoward circumstances which removed from the eldest born of an ancient house the honours of its armorial bearings; the _engrailed bar_ might have been erased from the shield, and the coronet of nobility have graced the elder brother, without invading the legal designation or claims of the legitimate younger; but i sing of a day that is gone and past, of a chance that is lost, and a die that's cast. and even now, while i am sermonizing on late events but too notorious, the busy hum of many voices buzzes a tale upon the ear that sickens with its unparalleled profligacy; but the english spy, the faithful historian of the present times, refuses to stain his pages by giving credit to, or recording, the imputed profligate connexion. adieu, _monsieur_ the colonel; fain would i have passed you by without this comment; but your association with the black spirits of the 'age'{ } has placed you upon a pedestal, the proper mark for satire to shoot her barbed arrows at. "but let us take a turn down the high street; and as i live here comes an old flame of the colonel's, miss r*g*rs, who is now turned into mrs. e***n, and who, it is said, most wickedly turned her pen, and pointed the following _jeu d'esprit_ against her late protector, when he was laid up by a serious accident, which happened to his knee after the more serious loss of a--_foote_. "a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind" says pope; and it would appear so from the intimacy which subsists between the colonel and his jackall bunn, the would-be captain, who it is said is the _filius nullius_ of old ben bunn the _conveyancer_, not of legal title or estate by roll of parchment, but of the very soil itself. lord w. lennox, too, no doubt, prides himself upon the illegitimate origin of his ancestry; and the publisher of the infamous scandals manufactured in the quadrant is also of the same kidney, being the reputed natural son of jolly old bardolph jennyns. what the remaining portion of the coterie spring from, the gents and bs., the sensitive nose of a sensible man will very easily discover. ~ ~~ 'to cupid's colonel help, ye people all; he's missed his _footing_, 'pride has had a fall;' the knee's uncapp'd, the calf laid open quite, the foote presents the most distressing sight; its form so perfect, pity none were nigh, with warning voice to guard from injury. waltzers! your peerless partner view, the gallant gay lothario quite _perdu; sans foote_ to rest upon, his claims deny'd to take a birth by english nobles' side. let him to cheltenham, 'tis not to go far; he's sure to find a _seat--on irish car_.' "i am told, but i cannot discover the allusion myself, that miss b*g*rs was prompted to this effusion of the satiric muse by the green-eyed monster, jealousy, observe that machine yonder, rumbling up the street like an irish jaunting-car, that contains the numerous family of m***r, the vinegar merchant, whose lady being considered by the chelts as lineally descended from the tartar race, they have very facetiously nicknamed muriatic acid. the mad wag with the sandy whiskers yonder, and somewhat pleasant-looking countenance, is a second-hand friend of the colonel's; mark how he is ogling the young thing in the milliner's shop through the window: his daily occupation, making assignations, and his nightly amusement, a new favourite. a story is told of his father, a highly respected legal character in the emerald isle, that, on being asked by a friend why his son had left the country, replied, 'by jasus, sir, it was high time: sure i am there's enough of the family left behind. is not his lady in a _promising_ way, and both his female servants, and those of two or three of his friends, and are not both mine in a similar situation? zounds, sir, if he had remained here much longer, there would not have been a single female in the whole country. however, 'good wine, they say, needs no bushe,' so i shall leave him unmarked by his family cognomen, lest this ~ ~~should be taken as a puff-card of his capabilities, and thereby add to the list of his cytherean exploits. in a late affair, when the colonel was called out (but did not come), sir patrick beat about the bushe for him very judiciously, and by great skill in diplomacy enabled his friend to come off second best. but here comes one who stands at odds with description, and attracts more notice in cheltenham than even the colonel, his companions, and all the metropolitan visitory put together. if i was to lend myself to the circulation of half the strange tales related of him by the chelts, i could fill a small-sized volume; but brevity is the soul of wit, and the eccentric mackey, with all his peculiarities and strange fancies for midnight mastications, has a soul superior to the common herd, and a 'heart and hand, open as day, to melting charity.' it is strange, 'passing strange,' that one so rich and fond of society, and well-descended withal, should choose thus to ape the ridiculous; a man, too, if report speaks truly, of no ordinary talents as a writer on finance, and an expounder of the solar system. vanity! vanity! what strange fantasies and eccentric fooleries dost thou sometimes fill the brain of the biped with, confining thy freaks, however, to that strange animal--man. the countenance of our eccentric is placid and agreeable, and, provided it was cleared of a load of snuff, which weighs down the upper lip, might be said to be, although in the sear o' the leaf, highly intellectual; but the old scotch cloak, the broad-brimmed hat of the covenanter, the loose under vest, the thread-bare coat shaking in the wind, like the unmeasured garment of the scarecrow, and the colour-driven nankeens, grown short by age and frequent hard rubbings; then, too, the flowing locks of iron gray straggling over the shoulders like the withered tendrils of a blighted vine--all conspire to arrest the attention of an inquisitive eye; yet the chelts know but little ~ ~~about his history, beyond his being a man of good property, the proprietor of the vittoria boarding-house, inoffensive in manners, obliging in disposition, and intelligent in conversation. his great penchant is a midnight supper, stewed chicken and mushrooms, or any other choice and highly-seasoned dish; to enjoy which in perfection, he hath a maiden sleeping at the foot of his bed ready to attend his commands, which, it is said, are communicated to her in a very singular way; no particle of speech being used to disturb the solemn silence of the night, but a long cane reaching downwards to the slumbering maid, by certain horizontal taps against her side, propelled forward by the hand of the craving _gourmand_, wakes her to action, and the banquet, piping-hot from the stew-pan, smokes upon the board, unlike a vision, sending up real and enchanting odoriferous perfumes beneath his olfactory organs. extraordinary as this account may appear, it is, i believe, strictly true, and is the great feature of the eccentric's peculiarities, all the minor whims and fancies being of a subordinate and uninteresting nature. i shall conclude my notice of him by relating an action that would do honour to a king, and will excuse the eccentric with the world, although his follies were ten times more remarkable. during the suspension of payments by one of the cheltenham banks, and when all the poorer class of mechanics and labourers were in a most piteous situation from the unprecedented number of one pound provincial notes then in circulation, mr. mackey, to his eternal-honour be it related, and without the remotest interest in the bank, stepped nobly forward, unsolicited and unsupported, gave to all the poor people who held the one pound notes the full value for them, reserving to himself only the chance of the dividend. ye berkeleys, ducies, lennoxes, cravens, hammonds, bushes, molineauxes, and coventrys, and all the long list of cheltenham gay! ~ ~~show me an action like this ye have done--a spirit so noble, when did you display?--do you see that rosy-gilled fellow coming this way, with a hunting-whip in his hand? in costume, more like a country horse-dealer than a country clergyman; yet such he was, until the bishop of the diocese removed the clerical incumbrance of the cassock, to give the wearer freer license to indulge his vein for hunting, coursing, cock-fighting, and the unrestricted pleasures of the table and the bottle. a good story is told of him and his friend, the colonel, who, having invited some unsophisticated farmer to partake of the festivities of the castle, laid him low with strong potations of _black strap_, and in that state had him carried forth to the stable-yard, where he was immured up to his neck in warm horse-dung, the pious ex-chaplain reading the burial-service over him in presence of the surviving members of the hunt." "who the deuce is that pleasant-looking fellow," said bob, "who appears to give and gain the _quid pro quo_ from every body that passes him?" "that, my dear fellow, is the grand marshal of all the merry meetings here, and a very gentlemanly, jovial, and witty fellow; just such a man as should fill the office of master of the ceremonies, having both seen and experienced enough of the world to know how to estimate character almost at a first interview; he is highly and deservedly respected. there is a very affecting anecdote in circulation respecting his predecessor, the detail of which i much regret that i have lost; but the spirit of the affair was too strongly imprinted upon my memory to be easily obliterated. he had, it appears, loved a beauteous girl in early life, and met with a reciprocal return; but the stern mandate of parental authority prevented their union. the lover, almost broken-hearted, sought a distant clime, and, after years of peril, returned to england, bringing with him a wife. the match had been one ~ ~~of interest, and they are seldom those of domestic bliss. it proved so here--he became dissipated, and squandered away the property he had possessed himself of by marriage. in this situation, he collected together the wreck of his fortunes, and retired to cheltenham, where his amiable qualities and gentlemanly conduct endeared him to a large circle of acquaintance, and, in the end, he was induced to accept the situation of master of the ceremonies. time rolled on, and his former partner being dead, he was, from his volatile and thoughtless disposition, again plunged in difficulties, and imprisoned for debt. the circumstance became known to her at whose shrine in early life he had vowed eternal devotion: with a still fond recollection of him, who alone had ever shared her heart, she hastened to the spot, and, being now a wealthy spinster, paid all his debts and released him from durance. gratitude and love both pointed out the course for the obliged m. c. to pursue; but, alas! there is nothing certain in the anticipations of complete happiness in this life. the lady fell suddenly sick, and died on the very day they were to have been married, leaving him sole executor of her property. the calamitous event made such a deep impression upon a feeling mind, already shaken by trouble and disease, that finding his prospects of bliss again blighted without a chance of recovery, he fell into a state of despondency, and was, within a week, laid a corpse by the side of his first love. at the post-office,--purposely placed out of the way by the sagacious chelts to give strangers the trouble of making inquiries,--i received the following whim from the same witty pen who wrote me, anonymously, an inauguration ode to commence my second volume with." "who is this whimsical spirit in the clouds?" said bob. "ay, lad," i retorted, "that's just the inquiry i have been making for the last eight months: ~ ~~although it would appear we have--_ad interim_--been running, riding, racing, rowing, and sailing together in various parts of the kingdom, you perceive, bob, there are more spies than ourselves at work. however, this must be some protecting geni who hovers over our heads and fans the air on silken wing, wafting zephyr-like the ambrosial breeze, where'er our merry fancies stray. anon, 'we'll drink a measure the table round;' and if we forget the 'honest reviewer,' may we lose all relish for a racy joke, and be forgotten ourselves by the lovers of good fellowship and good things." "which we never shall be," said bob; "for those eccentric _tomes_ of ours must and will continue to amuse a laughter-loving age, when we are booked inside and bound for t'other world." there was not a little egotism, methought, about friend transit's eulogy; but as every parent has a sort of poetical licence allowed him in praising his own bantlings, perhaps the patronage bestowed by the public upon the english spy may excuse a little vanity in either the author or the artist. "but you are the great magician o' the south yourself, bernard," continued transit, "and will you not use your power, you who can 'call spirits from the vasty deep'" "true, bob; i can call, but will they come when i shall command? however, let us retire to our inn, and after dinner we'll chant his lay; and if he dances not to the music of his own metre, then hath he no true inspiration in him, and is a poet without vanity, a _vara avis_ who delighteth not in receiving the reward of merit; so on, old fellow, to our quarters, where we will 'carve the goose, and quaff the wine,' and wish our sprite were here to dine-- we'd give him hearty cheer; a welcome such as hand and heart to kindred spirits should impart, where friendship reigns sincere.' ~ ~~we would punish him for sending his odes to us without sending his family cognomen therewith. have we not done him immortal honour--placed him in front of our second volume like a golden dedication, and what is more, selected him from many a pleasant whim, to stand by our side; the only associate who can claim one line engrafted on to the never-ending fame of the english spy?--but to the 'preachment;' let us have another taste of his quality." a second ode to bernard blackmantle, esq. or a michaelmas-day preachment. by an honest reviewer. "_iterumque, iterumque vocabo_."--ancient classics. "'tis a lucky day, boy, and we'll do goods on't." --winter's tale. "ours is the skie, where at what fowle we please our hawks shall flie." --anon. ay, here i come once more, great sir, out of pure love to minister some golden truths to thee; faustus ye're not, nor frankenstein, yet, being up to trap, i ween you'll need a sprite like me. eve watch'd you closely, my young squire, since at vol. two i cool'd the ire that left a little stain; and therefore wonder not, sweet spy, since both of us at follies fly, your "tonson comes again." ~ ~~ this is the day of michaelmas. many would say, ay, "let that pass" as a forgotten thing. not so with us, our rent we pay, and do we not, on quarter-day, our taxes to the king? since, then, "our withers are unwrung," and we need wish no blister'd tongue to creditors and duns, let's carve the goose, and quaff the wine, and toast september twenty-nine, nor mark how fast time runs. we've clone the same; that is, we've quaffd, and sung, and danced, and drunk, and laugh'd, when we were half seas over; i don't mean tipsy, bless you, no! but when we pass'd, like dart from bow, cowes roads on board the rover. so pipe all hands; for though no gale from sea-wash'd shores distend our sail, we'll man a vessel here. this room's our ship; this wine's our tide; and the good friends we sit beside, the messmates of our cheer. ay, this looks well; now till the glass to king, to country, and our lass, and all of pluck and feather; that done around, and nothing loth, since we are "learned thebans" both, we'll have some talk together. you've been to cheltenham, i find, and, zounds! you really ride the wind, to bath and worcester too; to south'ton and the isle of wight, as if increase of appetite with every new dish grew. ~ but it was really _infra dig_. spite of your old horse and new gig, you did not, some fine morn, drive up to malcolm ghur, d'ye see,{ } and leave two pretty cards for me and sir john barleycorn. we would have been your chorus, sir, or, an' you pleased, your trumpeter, and _lioned_ you about; have shown you every pretty girl, and every _nouvelle_ quadrille twirl, and every crowded rout. at eight o' morns have call'd you down, (what would they say of that in town?) to swallow pump-room water; at eight o' nights have call'd you up, (our grandams used just then to sup), to 'gin the dinner slaughter. have whisk'd you o'er to colonel b's, or drove you up to captain p's, dons unto cheltenham steady. but i forget the world, good lack, have play'd enough with such a pack of great court-cards already. malcolm ghur, one of the very prettiest of the many pretty newly-erected mansions that give a character to the environs of cheltenham. to its proprietor do i owe much for hospitality; a merrier man, withal, dwells not in my remembrance; he is of your first-rate whist players, though he rarely now joins in the game. as the chaplain of the county-lodge of f. m. he is much distinguished; and, at the dinners of the friendly brothers--which are luxurious indeed, and all for the "immortal memory" of william, king of that name, and whose portrait ornaments their reading- room--who better than he can "set the table in a roar"? ~ ~~ have set you down at ten pound whist with a-------y, and the _au fait_ list,{ } turning your nights to days; or, somewhat wiser, bid you mix where less expensive are odd tricks, and where friend r-------n plays.{ } have made you try a double trade, by clapping you in masquerade, to jaunt at fancy-balls; you would have seen some merry sights on two or three particular nights, in good miss-----------'s halls.{ } you could have gone as harlequin, or clad yourself in zamiel's skin, your tending spirits we; or "peeping tom" may be more apt, since all are in your record clapp'd we send to coventry. colonel a------y, certainly tho first whist player of the rooms. if he ever drilled a company of raw recruits half as well as he manages a handful of bad cards, he must have been the very admirable crichton of soldiership. mr. r------n, a facetious and good-humoured son of erin; true as clock-work to the board of green cloth, though he has been an age making a fortune from it. among the most fashionable amusements of cheltenham are the fancy-balls, given by two or three of the principal sojourners in that place, of card-playing, scandal, freemasonry, and hot water--god knows how many are in the latter ingredient! the most splendid i recollect was given by colonel---------, or rather miss---------, whose _protégé_ he married; touching which alliance, there is a story of some interest and much romance. of that, as pierce egan says very wittily in every critique, "of that anon." there certainly was some fun and humour displayed by a few of the characters on the particular evening i mention; the two best performers were a reverend gentleman as one of russell's waggoners, inimitably portrayed, and captain b. a-----e, not the author of "to day," but his brother, as an indian prince. the dress, appearance, and language to the life. ~ ~~ yet still you've shown us, my smart beau, things that we should and should not know, vide the oakland cots. bernard blackmantle, learned spy, don't you think hundreds will cry fie, if you expose such plots? you should have told them as i do, and yet i love your hunters too, that nothing is so vile as strutting up and down a street, dirt-spatter'd o'er from head to feet, in the horse-jockey style. _ne sutor ultra crep_, should tell these red-coats 'tis a paltry swell, such careless customs backing; if they must strut in spurs and boots, for once i'd join the chalk recruits, and shout, "use turner's blacking." howe'er, push on--there are of all, good, bad, high, low, and short, and tall, that seek from you decrees. fear not, strike strong--you must not fly-- we will have shots enough--i'm by, a mephistopheles. there surely is much and offensive vanity in the practice adopted by many members of the b. h. of appearing on the pro-menades and in the rooms of cheltenham, bespattered o'er with the slush and foam of the hunting field. every situation has its decent appropriations, and one would suppose comfort would have taught these nimrods a better lesson. it is pardonable for children to wear their valentines on the th of february, or for a young ensign to strut about armed _cap à pie_ for the first week of his appointment; but the fashion of showing off in a red jerkin, soiled smalls, mudded boots, and blooded spurs, is not imitable: there is nothing of the old manhood of sport in it; foppery and fox-hunting are not synonymous. members of the b. h. look to it; follow no leader in this respect. or, if you must needs persevere, turn your next fox out in the ball-room, and let the huntsman's horn and the view halloo supersede the necessity of harps and fiddle-strings. ~ ~~ we'll learn and con them each by heart, set them in note books by our art, each lord, and duke, and tailor. from dr. s------{ } to peter k------, u------, o------, and i------, and e-----, and a------, down to the ploughman naylor.{ } then let them sow their crop of cares, their flowers, their weeds, their fruit, their tares, not looking ere they leap. we, like the folks in jamie's book{ } will i' the dark sharp up our hook, and, my own barnard, reap. dr. s---------e, a very singular, but a very hearty kind of caleb quotem. he has been soldier, and sailor, doctor, and, i believe, divine. he is as well known at the best parties as the wells and the market-house. he gives feasts fit for the gods at home, and invariably credits his neighbours' viands as being jove's nectar or the fruits of paradise, so as to him they be not forbidden. short commons could not upset his politeness. his anecdotes have a spice of the old courtier about them; but the line old _chanson à boire_, from gammar gurton's needle, "back and side go bare, go bare, both foot and hand go cold; but belly, god send good ale enough, whether it be new or old;" he really gives beautifully, and with a spice of the olden time quite delightful. mr. naylor, of the plough hotel; an excellent boniface, a good friend, and a merry companion. as a boy, i recollect him keeping the castle at marlborough; at "frisky eighteen," i have contributed to his success at the crown at portsmouth; and i now, older, and it may be, a little wiser grown, patronize him occasionally at cheltenham. vide hogg's brownie of bodsbeck. a trip to the spas. ~ ~~ chapter ii. the spas--medicinal properties--interesting specimens of the picturesque--"spasmodic affections from spa waters"-- grotesque scripture--the goddess hygeia--humorous epitaph-- characters in the high street--traveller's hall, or sketches in the commercial room at the bell inn, cheltenham. "for walks and for waters, for beaux and for belles, there's nothing in nature to rival their wells." inquisitive traveller, if you would see the well-walks in perfection, you must rise early, and take a sip of the saline aperients before you taste of the more substantial meal which the _plough_-man. naylor, or the cheltenham _bell_-man, or the _shep-herd_ of the _fleece_, will be sure to prepare for your morning mastication. fashion always requires some talismanic power to draw her votaries together, beyond the mere healthful attractions of salubrious air, pleasant rides, romantic scenery, and cheerful society; and this magnet the chelts possess in the acknowledged medicinal properties of their numerous spas, the superior qualities of which have been thus pleasantly poetized:-- "they're a healthful, and harmless, and purgative potion, and as purely saline as the wave of the ocean, whilst their rapid effects like a---- ----hush! never mind; we'll leave their effects altogether behind." in short, if you wish to obtain benefit by the drinking of the waters, you must do it _dulcius ex ipso fonte_, as my lord bottle-it-out's system, the nobleman who originally planned the well-walks, of sending it home ~ ~~to the drinkers in bed, has long since been completely exploded; while, on the other hand, its rapid effects have been very faithfully delineated by my friend transit's view of the royal wells, as they appeared on the morning of our visitation, presenting some very interesting specimens of the picturesque in the cruikshank style, actually drawn upon the spot, and affording to the eye of a common observer the most indubitable proofs of the active properties of the sulphate of soda, and oxide of iron, and gases, that none but the muse of a byron would attempt to describe in the magic of sound, lest it made a report ere he'd quitted the ground; and poets are costive, as all the world knows, and value no fame that smells under their nose. "would you like to take off a glass of the waters, sir?" said a very respectable-looking old lady to my friend transit, who was at that moment too busily engaged in taking off the water-drinkers to pay attention to her request. "there's a beautiful contortion!" exclaimed bob; sketching a beau who exhibited in his countenance all the horrors of cholera, and was running away as fast as his legs could carry him. "see, with what alacrity the old gentleman is moving off yonder, making as many wry faces as if he had swallowed an ounce of corrosive sublimate--and the ladies too, bless me, how their angelic smiles evaporate, and the roseate bloom of their cheeks is changed to the delicate tint of the lily, as they partake of these waters. what an admirable school for study is this! here we can observe every transition the human countenance is capable of expressing, from a ruddy state of health and happiness, to one of extreme torture, without charging our feelings with violence, and knowing that the pains are those of the patient's own seeking, and the penalties not of any long duration." in short, my friend bob furnished, instanter, the subject of "spasmodic affections from, ~ ~~spa waters," (see plate); certainly one of his most spirited efforts. [illustration: page ] but we must not pass by the elegant structure of montpelier spa, the property of pearson thompson, esquire, whose gentlemanly manners, superior talents, and kind conduct, have much endeared him to all who know him as an acquaintance, and more to those who call him their friend. passing on the left-hand side of the upper well-walk, we found ourselves before this tasteful structure, and were much delighted with the arrangement of the extensive walks and grounds by which it is surrounded:--a health-inspiring spot, and as we are told, "where thompson's supreme and immaculate taste has a paradise form'd from a wilderness waste; with his walks rectilineous, all shelter'd with trees, that shut out the sunshine and baffle the breeze, and a field, where the daughters of erin{ }may roam in a fence of sweet-brier, and think they're at home." the sherborne spa, but recently erected, is indeed a very splendid building, and forms a very beautiful object from the high-street, from which it is plainly seen through a grove of trees, forming a vista of nearly half a mile in length, standing on a gentle eminence, presenting on both sides gravelled walks, with gardens and elegant buildings, that display great taste in architecture. the pump-room is a good specimen of the grecian ionic, said to be correctly modelled from the temple on the river ilissus at athens, and certainly is altogether a work worthy of admiration. the grotesque colossal piece of sculpture which crowns the central dome, as well as the building, has been wittily described by the author of the "cheltenham mail." the great number of irish families who reside and congregate at cheltenham fully justifies the poet's particular allusion to the fair daughters of erin. ~ ~~ "and then lower down, in fine leckampton stone, we've the fane of _ilissus_ in miniature shown; and crown'd with hygeia--a bouncer, my lud! and as plump, ay, as any princess of the blood, carved in stone, but a good imitation of wood: with her vest all in plaits, like some ancient costume, but or roman or grecian, i'm loth to presume, so i cannot be _poz_ yet i blush to confess, that her limbs are shown off in a little undress; whilst the goddess herself, _en bon point_ as she is, with her curls _à la grecque_, and but little _chemise_, is so plump and so round, my dear sir, it is plain, she must bring _the robust_ into fashion again." coming back through the churchyard from alstone spa, we discovered the following humorous epitaph. "here lies john ball; an unfortunate fall, by crossing a wall, brought him to his end." peace to his manes! but, with such a notice above him to excite attention, it is well he hears not, or ten times a clay his sleep might be sadly disturbed. once more we are in the high street, where i shall just sketch two or three singularities, without which my notice of the eccentrics of cheltenham might be deemed imperfect. the dashing knight coming this way on horseback, with his double-pommelled saddle, is a well-known cheltenham resident, whose love of the good things of this world induced him to look into the kitchen for a helpmate, and he found one, who not only supplies his table with excellent dishes, but also furnishes the banquet with a liberal quantity of sauce. the group of _roués_ to the right, standing under the portico (i suppose i must call it) to the rooms, is composed of that good-humoured fellow ormsby, who sometimes figures here as an amateur actor, and, whether on or off the stage, is generally respected for the amiable qualities of his heart. the ~ ~~gentleman with the _blue bauble_ round his neck is, or was, a lieutenant-colonel, and still loves to fire a great gun now and then, when he gets into the trenches before seringapatam; but i must leave others to unriddle the character, while i pay my respects to another military hero, who is no less famous among the chelts for his attachment to the stage--lieutenant-colonel b*****ll, of whom it would be difficult for any one who knew him to speak disrespectfully. sir john n****tt and his son, who are here called the inseparables, finish the picture upon this spot, with the exception of my old friend the jack of trumps, r*l*y, whose arch-looking visage i perceive peeping out like the first glance of a court card in the rear of a bad hand; but let him pass: the mirror of the english spy reflects good qualities as well as bad ones, and i should not do him justice if i denied him a fair proportion of both. descending to observe the eccentrics in a more humble sphere, who can pass by the dandy candy man with his box of sweetmeats, clean in person as a new penny, and his sturdy figure most religiously decorated with lawn sleeves, and a churchman's _tablier_ in front; while his ruddy weather-beaten countenance, and hairy foraging cap, give him the appearance of a scotch presbyterian militant in the days of the covenanters. then, too, his wares cure all diseases, from a ravaging consumption to a frame-shaking hooping cough; and not unlikely are as efficacious as the nostrums of the less mundivagant professors of patent empiricism. of all men in the world your coach _cad_ has the quickest eye for detecting a stranger; and who but sam spring, the box-book keeper of drury lane, whose eternal bow has grown proverbial, could ask an impudent question with more politeness than mr. court, the _chargé de affaires_ in the high street, for the conflicting interests of half a hundred coach proprietors "do you travel to-day, sir?--very happy to send for your luggage--go by the early coach, sir?--our porter ~ ~~shall call you up, only let me put you down at our office." thus actually bowing you into his book a week before you had any serious intention of travelling, by the very circumstance of reminding you of the mode by which you intend to reach home. i could add to these sketches a few singularities among the trading brotherhood of the chelts; but we may meet again: and after all it would, perhaps, be considered invidious to point out the honest tradesman to public notice, merely because he has caught something of the eccentricities of his betters, or, like them, is led away by the force of example. errata. in chapter i, page , contents, dele hi, and for penn, read pun. the man in the cloak, noble anecdote of, instead of the fox* hunting parson,--printer. traveller's hall. ~ ~~ sketches in the commercial room at the bell inn, cheltenltam--the traveller's ordinary--trade puns--bolton trotters and trottees--song, all the booksellers--curious sporting anecdote of a commercial man--song, the knight of the saddle bags--private theatricals in public--visit to the oakland cottages, a night scene. an invitation to dine with the traveller to a london house in the paper and print line, yclept booksellers, introduced the english spy and his friend, the artist, to the scene here presented (see plate). [illustration: page ] reader, if you wish to make a figure among the chelts and be thought any thing of, you will, of course, domicile at the plough; but if your object is a knowledge of life, social conversation, a great variety of character, and a never-failing fund of mirth and anecdote, join the gentleman travellers who congregate at the bell or the fleece, where you will meet with merry fellows, choice viands, good wine, excellent beds, and a pretty chambermaid into the bargain. your commercial man is often a fellow of infinite jest, a travelling vocabulary of provincial knowledge, and a faithful narrator of the passing events of the time. who can speak of the increasing prosperity, or calculate upon the falling interests of a town, so well as your flying man of business the moment he enters a new place he expects the landlord to be ready, cap in hand, to welcome him; he first sees his horse into a stall, and lectures the ostler upon the art of rubbing him down--orders boots to ~ ~~bring in his travelling bags or his driving box, and bids the waiter send the chambermaid to show him his bed-room--grumbles that it is too high up, has no chimney in the apartment, or is situate over the kitchen or the tap-room--swears a tremendous oath that he will order his baggage to be taken to the next house, and frightens the poor girl into the giving him one of the best bed-apartments, usually reserved for the coffee-room company. returning below, he abuses the waiter for not giving him his letters, that have been waiting his arrival a week, before he went up stairs--directs boots to be ready to make the circuit of the town with him after dinner, carrying his pattern-books, perhaps half a hundred-weight of birmingham wares, brass articles, or patterns of coffin furniture; and having thus succeeded in putting the whole house into confusion, only to let them know that the brummagem gentleman has arrived on his annual visit to the chelts, with a new stock of every thing astonishing in the brass line, he places himself down at a side table, to answer to his principals for being some days later on his march than they had concluded--remits a good sum in bills and acceptances, and adds thereunto a sheet of orders, that will suffice to keep the firm in good temper for a week to come: sometimes, indeed, the postscript contains a hint of an expected "whereas," or strong suspicions of an act of insolvency, but always couched in the most consolatory terms, hoping the dividend will turn out to be better than present circumstances might lead them to expect. in his visits to his customers he is the most courteous, obliging fellow imaginable; there is no trouble he thinks too much if he is likely to obtain his last account and a fresh order; then, too, his generosity is unbounded: he invites the tradesman to take wine with him at his inn, inquires kindly after all the family, hopes business is thriving, makes an offer of ~ ~~doing any thing for him along the road, and bows himself and his pattern-cards out of the shop, with as much humility and apparent sense of obligation as the most expert courtier could put on when his sovereign deigns to confer upon him some special mark of his royal favour. it is at his inn alone that his independence breaks forth, and here he often assumes as much consequence as if he was the head of the firm he represents, and always carried about him a _plum_ at least in his breeches pocket. this is a general character, and one, too, formed upon no slight knowledge of commercial men; but with all this, the man of the world will admire them and seek their company; first, that his accommodations are generally better, and the charges not subject to the caprice of the landlord; and, secondly, for the sake of society; for what on earth can be more horrible than to be shut up in a lone room, a stranger in a provincial town, to eat, drink, and pass the cheerless hour, a prey to solitude and _ennui_? but there is sometimes a little fastidiousness about these _knights of the saddle-bag_, in admitting a stranger to hob and nob with them; to prevent a knowledge, therefore, of our pursuits, my friend bob was instructed, before entering the room, to sink the arts, and if any inquisitive fellow should inquire what line he travelled in, to reply, in the print line; while your humble servant, it was agreed, should represent some firm in the spring trade; and thus armed against suspicion, we boldly marched into the commercial-room just as the assembled group of men of business were sitting down to dinner, hung our hats upon a peg, drew our chairs, uninvited, to the table, fully prepared to feel ourselves at home, and do ample justice to the "bagmen's banquet." the important preliminary point settled, of whom the duty of chairman devolved on, a situation, as i understood, always filled in a commercial room by ~ ~~the last gentleman traveller who makes it his residence, we proceeded to business. the privilege of finding fault with the dinner, which, by the by, was excellent, is always conceded to the ancients of the fraternity of traders; these gentlemen who, having been half a century upon the road, remember all the previous proprietors of the hotel to the fifteenth or twentieth generation removed, make a point of enumerating their gracious qualities upon such occasions, to keep the living host and representative _up to the mark_, as they phrase it. for instance--the old buck in the chair, who was a city tea broker, found fault with the fish: "there vas nothing of that ere sort to be had good but at billingsgate, where all the best fish from all the vorld vas, as he contended, to be bought cheaper as butcher's meat." the result of which remark induced the young wags at the table to finish a very fine brill, without leaving him a taste, while he was abusing it. "this soup is not like friend birch's," said mr. obadiah pure, a gentleman in the drug line; "it hath a watery and unchristianlike taste with it." "ay," replied a youngster at the bottom of the table, with whom it appeared to be in request, "i quake for fear while i am eating it, only i know there can be no drugs in it, or you would not find fault with a customer." "thou art one of the newly imported, friend," replied mr. pure, "and art yet like a young bear, with all thy troubles to come." "true," said the wag, "thou may be right, friend; but i shall not be found a _bruin_ with thy materials for all that." this sally put down the drug merchant for the rest of the dinner-time. "you had better take a little fish or soup before they are cold," said the chairman, to a bluff-looking beef-eater at his back, who was arranging his papers and samples. "sir, i never eat warm wittals, drink hot liquors, wear a great coat, or have my bed warmed." "the natural heat of your ~ ~~constitution, i suppose, excuses you," said i, venturing upon a joke. "sir, you had better heat your natural meal, while it is hot, without attempting to heat other people's tempers," was the reply; to which bob retorted, by saying, "it was quite clear the gentleman was not mealy-mouthed." "this beef smells a little of hounslow heath," said a jeweller's gentleman, on my right. "why so, sir?" was inquired by one who knew him. "because it has hung rather too long to be sightly." "you should not have left out the chains in that joke, sam," said his friend; "they would have linked it well together, and sealed the subject." "who takes port?" inquired the chairman. "i must sherry directly after dinner, gentlemen," said one. "what," retorted the company, "boxing the wine bin! committing treason, by making a sovereign go farther than he is required by law. fine him, mr. chairman." "gentlemen, it is not in my power; he is a bottle conjuror, i assure you, 'a good man and true;' he only retires to bleed a patient, and will return instanter." "happy to take a glass of wine with you, sir." "what do you think of that port, sir?" "excellent." "ay, i knew you would say so; the house of barnaby blackstrap, brothers, and company, of upper thames street, have always been famous for selling wines of the choicest vintage. do me the honour, sir, of putting a card of ours in your pocket: i sent this wine into this house in jennings's time, for the grand dinner, when the first stone of the new rooms over the way was laid, and john kelly, the proprietor, took the chair. you are lucky, sir, in meeting me here; they always pull out an odd bottle from the family bin, marked a-- , when i visit them." "yes, and some _odd sort_ of wine at any other time," grumbled out a queer-looking character at a side table opposite. "that's nothing but spleen, mr. sable," said the knight of the ruby countenance: "you and i have met occasionally at this house together now for three and twenty years; and although i never ~ ~~come a journey without taking an order from them, i thank heaven, i never knew you to receive one yet: many a dead man have we seen in this room, but none of them requiring a coffin plate to tell their age, and very few of them that were like to receive the benefit of resurrection." "i shall book you inside, mr. blackstrap,'' replied sable, "for joking on my articles of trade, which is contrary to the established usage of a commercial room." "do any thing you like but bury me," said the _bon vivant_." gentlemen, as chairman, it is my duty to put an end to all grave subjects. will you be kind enough to dissect that turkey?" "i don't see the bee's wing in this port, mr. blackstrap, that you are bouncing about," said a london traveller to a timber-merchant. "no, sir," said the humorist, "it is not to be seen until you are a deal higher in spirits; the film of the wing is seldom discernible in such mahogany-coloured wine as this." "sir, i blush like rose wood at your impertinence." "ay, sir, and you'll soon be as red as logwood, or as black as ebony, if you will but do justice to the bottle," was the reply. "there is no being cross-grained with you," said the timber-merchant. "not unless you cut me," retorted blackstrap, "and you are not sap enough for that." "gentlemen," continued the facetious wine-merchant, "if we do not get a little fruit, i shall think we have not met with our dessert; and although there may be some among us whose principals are worth a plum, there are very few of their representatives, i suspect, who will offer any objections to my reasons." thus pleasantly apostrophised, the fruit made its appearance, and with it a fresh supply of the genuine oporto, which our merry companion, blackstrap, called "his _old particular_." one of his stories, relative to a joke played off upon the bolton trotters, by his friend sable, the travelling undertaker, is too good to be lost. in lancashire the custom of hoaxing is called ~ ~~_trotting_, and in many instances, particularly at bolton, is still continued, and has frequently been played off upon strangers with a ruinous success. sable had, it would appear, taken up his quarters at a commercial inn, and, as is usual with travellers, joined the tradesmen in the smoking room at night to enjoy his pipe, and profit, perhaps, by introduction in the way of business. the pursuit of the undertaker and dealer in coffin furniture was no sooner made generally known, than it was unanimously agreed to trot him, by giving him various orders for articles in his line, which none of the parties had any serious intention of paying for or receiving. with this view, one ordered a splendid coffin for himself, and another one for his wife; a third gave instructions for an engraved plate and gilt ornaments; and a fourth chose to order an elegant suite of silver ornaments to decorate the last abode of frail mortality: in this way the company were much amused with the apparent unsuspecting manner of sable, who carefully noted down all their orders, and pledged himself to execute them faithfully. the bolton people did not fail to circulate this good joke, as they then thought it, among their neighbours, and having given fictitious names, expected to have had additional cause for exultation when the articles arrived; but how great was their surprise and dismay, when in a short time every order came, directed properly to the person who had given it! coffins and coffin-plates, silk shrouds and velvet palls, and all the expensive paraphernalia of the charnel-house were to be seen carried about from the waggon-office in bolton, to be delivered at the residences of the principal inhabitants. many refused to receive these mementoes of their terrestrial life, and others denied having ever ordered the same. sable, however, proved himself too _fast a trotter_ for the bolton people; for having, by the assistance of the waiter, obtained the true description of his ~ ~~customers on the night of the joke, and finding they were most of them wealthy tradesmen, he very wisely determined to humour the whim, and execute the orders given, and in due course of time insisted upon payment for the same. thus ended the story of the bolton trotters, which our merry companion concluded, by observing, that it put an end to sporting, in that way, for some time; and by the chagrin it caused to many of the trottees, distanced them in this life, and sent them off the course in a galloping consumption.{ } "there's honour for you," said sable, "civilized a _a bolton definition_.--when the bolton canal was first pro-posed, the athenians (for that bolton is the athens of lancashire no one can doubt) could not well understand how boats were to be raised above the level of the sea. a lock to them was as incom-prehensible as locke on the human understanding. a celebrated member of a celebrated trotting club was amongst the number of those who could not comprehend the mystery. unwilling to appear ignorant upon a question which formed the common topic of conversation, he applied to a scientific gentleman in the neighbourhood for an accurate description of a lock. it happened that the man of science had on one occasion been a _trottee_, and was glad to have an opportunity of retaliation. "a lock," said he, "is a quantity of sawdust congealed into boards, which, being let down into the water in a perpendicular slope- level, raises it to the declivity of the sea above!"--" eh?" said the athenian, "what dun yo' say?" the gentleman repeated his description, and the worthy boltonian recorded every word in the tablet of his memory. sometime afterwards he had the honour of dining with some worshipful brothers of the quorum, men as profoundly ignorant of the law as any of the unpaid magistracy need to be, but who, having seen canals, knew well enough what locks were. our athenian took an early opportunity of adverting to the proposed "cut," and introduced his newly-acquired learning in the following terms: "ah! measter fletcher, it's a foine thing a lock; yo' know'n i loike to look into them theere things; a lock is a perpendicular slop level, which, being let into the sea, is revealed into boards, that raises it to the declivity of the sea above!"--as it is the province and privilege of the ignorant to laugh at a greater degree of ignorance than their own, it may be supposed that their worships enjoyed a hearty laugh at the expense of their attic brother. ~ ~~whole district of english barbarians by one action, and, what is more, they have never ventured to trot with any one of our fraternity since." the conversation now took a turn relative to the affairs of trade; and if any one had been desirous of knowing the exact degree of solvency in which the whole population of the county of gloucester was held by these flying merchants and factors, they might easily have summed up the estimate from the remarks of the company. they were, however, a jovial party; and my friend bob and myself had rarely found ourselves more pleasantly circumstanced, either as regarded our social comforts, or the continued variety of new character with which the successive speakers presented us. as the evening approached our numbers gradually diminished, some to pursue their journeys, and others to facilitate the purposes of trade. the representative of the house of blackstrap and co., his friend sable, the timber merchant, our inviter the bookseller, and the two interlopers, remained fixed as fate to the festive board, until the chairman, and scarce any one of the company, could clearly define, divide, and arrange the exact arithmetical proportions of the dinner bill. after a short cessation of hostilities, during which our commercial friends despatched their london letters, and bob and the english spy, to escape the suspicion of not having any definable pursuit, emigrated to the high street; we returned to our quarters, and found the whole party debating upon a proposition of the bon vivants, to have another bottle, and make a night of it by going to the theatre at half price; a question that was immediately carried, _nemine contradicente_. mr. margin, our esteemed companion, who represented the old established house of sherwood and co., was known to sing a good stave, and what was still more attractive, was himself a child of song--one of the inspired of the nine, who, at the anacreontic club, held in ivy lane, would often amuse ~ ~~the society with an original chant; "whose fame," as blackstrap expressed it, "had extended itself to the four corners of the island, wherever the sporting works of sherwood and co., or the travelled histories of the messrs. longmans, have found readers and admirers." "gentlemen," said mr. margin, "my songs are all of a local nature; whims written to amuse a meeting of the trade for a dinner at the albion or the london, when the booksellers congregate together to buy copyrights, or sell at a reduced price the refuse of their stock. but, such as it is, you shall have it instanter." all the booksellers; a new song, by a london traveller. tune--family pride--irish air. first, longmans are famous for travels, will sherwood for sporting and fun, old ridgway the science unravels how politic matters are done. the ponderous tomes of deep learning, the heavy, profound, and the flat, by baldwin and cradock's discerning, are cheaper by half to come at. baines deals out to methodist readers cant, piously strung into rhyme; while rivingtons, 'gainst the seceders, with church and king hatchard will chime. john murray's the lords' own anointed, i mean not indeed to blaspheme, but the peers have him solely appointed to sell what their highnesses scheme. ~ ~~ colburn defies day and martin to beat him with " real japan;" if puffing will sell books, 'tis certain, he'll rival the bookselling clan. catechisms for miss and for master, for ladies who're fond oft, romance, sheriff whittaker publishes faster than booksellers' porters can dance. operatives, mechanics, combiners, knight and lacey will publish for you; they'll tickle ye out of your shiners, by teaching the power o' the screw. an architect looks out for taylor, a general egerton seeks; tommy tegg at the trade is a railer, but yet for a slice of it sneaks. richardson furnishes india with all books from europe she buys; near st. paul's, in old harris's window, the juveniles look for a prize. cadell is scotch ebony's factor, collecting the news for blackwood; john miller 's the man for an actor, america 's done him some good. the newmans of fam'd leadenhall in very old novels abound; while kelly, respected by all, as sheriff of london is found. will simpkin supplieth the trade from his office in stationers' court; and stockdale too much cash has made by publishing harriette 's report. ~ ~~the english spy antiquarians seek arch of cornhill; joe butterworth furnishes law; and major his pockets will fill by giving to walton _éclat_. where, with old parson ambrose, the legs once in gothic hall pigeons could fleece, there, hurst and co. now hang on pegs the fine arts of rome and of greece. john ebers with opera dancers is too much engaged for to look how the bookselling business answers, and publishes only "ude's cook." hookham and carpenter both are as cautious as caution can be; while andrews, nor chapple, a sloth are in trade, both as lib'ral as free. billy sams is a loyal believer, and publishes prints by the score; but his likeness, i will not deceive her, of chester _is not con amore_. if the world you are ganging to see, its manners and customs to note, in the strand, you must call upon leigh, where you'll find a directory wrote. cincinnatus like, guiding the plough, on harding each farmer still looks; clerc smith is the man for a bow, and his shop is as famous for books. _facetiæ_ collectors, give ear, who with mack letter spirits would deal; if rich in old lore you'd appear, pay a visit to priestley and weale. ~ ~~ there's ogle, and westley, and black, with mawman, and kirby, and cole, and souter, and wilson--alack! i cannot distinguish the whole. for robins, and hunter, and poole, and evans, and scholey, and co. would fill out my verse beyond rule, and my pegasus halts in the bow. the radicals all are done up; sedition is gone to the dogs; and benbow and cobbett may sup with their worthy relations the hogs. so here i will wind up my list with underwood, callow, and highley; who bring to the medicals grist, by books on diseases wrote dryly. just one word at parting i crave-- if italian, french, german, or dutch, to bother your noddle you'd have, send to berthoud, or treuttel and wurtz, or zotti, or dulau, or bohn, but they're all very good in their way; bossange, bothe, boosey and son, all expect _monsieur jean_ bull to pay. "a right merrie conceit it is," said blackstrap, "and an excellent memoranda of the eminent book-sellers of the present time." "ay, sir," continued the veteran; "all our old ballads had the merit of being useful, as well as amusing. there was 'chevy chase, and 'king john and his barons,' and 'merry sherwood,' all of them exquisite chants; conveying information to the mind, and relating some grand historical fact, while they charmed the ear. but ~ ~~your modern kickshaws are all about 'no, my love, no,' or 'sigh no more, lady,' or some such silly stuff that nobody cares to learn the words of, or can understand if they did. i remember composing a ballad in this town myself, some few years since, on a very strange adventure that happened to one of our commercial brethren. he had bought an old hunter at bristol to finish his journey homeward with, on account of his former horse proving lame, and just as he was entering cheltenham by the turnpike-gate at the end of the town, the whole of the berkeley hunt were turning out for a day's run, and having found, shot across the road in full cry. away went the dogs, and away went the huntsmen, and plague of any other way would the old hunter go: so, despite of the two hundred weight of perfumery samples contained in his saddle-bags, away went delcroix's deputy over hedge and ditch, and straight forward for a steeple chase up the cleigh hills; but in coming down rather briskly, the courage of the old horse gave way, and down he came as groggy before as a chelsea pensioner, smashing all the appendages of trade, and spilling their contents upon the ground, besides raising such an odoriferous effluvia on the field, that every one present smelt the joke.--but you shall have the song." the knight of the saddle-bags; a true relation of a traveller's adventure at cheltenham. tune--the priest of kajaga. a knight of the saddle-bags, jolly and gay, rode near to blithe cheltenham's town; his coat was a drab, and his wig iron-gray, and the hue of his nag was a brown. ~ ~~ from bristol, through glo'ster, the merry man came; and jogging along in a trot, on the road happ'd to pass him, in pursuit of game, of berkeley's huntsmen a lot. tally-ho! tally-ho! from each voice did resound; hark forward! now cheer'd the loud pack; sir knight found his horse spring along like a hound,' for the devil could not hold him back. away went sly reynard, away went sir knight, with the saddle-bags beating the side of his horse, as he gallop'd among them in fright; 'twas in vain that the hunt did deride. now up the cleigh hills, and adown the steep vale, crack, crack, went the girths of his saddle; sir knight was dismounted, o piteous tale! in wasjies the fishes might paddle. as prostrate he lay, an old hound that way bent gave tongue as he pass'd him along; which attracted the pack, who thus drawn by the scent, would have very soon ended his song. for o! it was strange, but, though strange, it was true! with perfumery samples, his bags with essences, musks, and rich odours a few, he had joined peradventure the nag's. the field took the joke in good-humour and jest; sir knight was invited to dine at the plough the same day, where a fine haunch was dress'd, and naylor gave excellent wine. from that time, 'raong the chelts, has a knight of the bag been look'd on as a man of spirit; for who but a knight could have hunted a nag so laden, and come off with merit? ~ ~~a visit from two of the commercial gentlemen of the fleece gave blackstrap another opportunity of showing off, which he did not fail to avail himself of in no very measured paces, by ridiculing the rival house, and extending his remarks to the taste of the frequenters. to which one of them replied, "mine host of the fleece is no 'wolf in sheep's clothing,' but a right careful good shepherd, who provides well for his flock; and although the fleece hangs over his door, it is not symbolical of any fleecing practices within." "ay," said the other, defending his hotel; "then, sir, we live like farmers at a harvest-home, and sleep on beds of down beneath coverings of lamb's wool; and our attendant nymphs of the chamber are as beautiful and lively as arcadian shepherdesses, and chaste as the goddess diana." "very good," retorted blackstrap; "but you know, gentlemen, that the beaux of this house must be better off for the belle. we will allow you of the fleece your rustic enjoyments, seeing that you are country gentlemen, for your hotel is certainly out of the town." a good-natured sally that quickly restored harmony, and called forth another song from the muse of blackstrap. health, competence, and good-humour. let titles and fame on ambition be shed, or history's page of great heroes relate; the motto i'd choose to encircle my head is competence, health, and good-humour elate. ~ ~~ the chaplet of virtue, by friendship entwined, sheds a lustre that rarely encircles the great; while health and good-humour eternally find a competence smiling on every state. no luxuries seeking my board to encumber, contented receiving what providence sends; age brightens with pleasure, while virtue may number competence, health, and good-humour as friends. then, neighbours, let's smile at old chronos and care; still shielded with honour, we're fearless of fate: with the sports of the field and the joys of the fair, we've competence, health, and good-humour elate. at the conclusion of this fresh specimen of our chairman's original talent, it was proposed we should adjourn to the theatre, where certain fashionable amateurs were amusing themselves at the expense of the public. "sir, i dislike these half and half vagabonds," said blackstrap, with one of his original gestures, "who play with an author before the public, that they may the more easily play with an actress in private. yon coxcomb, for instance, who buffoons brutus, with his brothers, are indeed capital brutes by nature, but as deficient of the art histrionic as any biped animals well can be. i remember a very clever artist exhibiting a picture of the colonel and his mother's son, augustus, with a captain austin, in the exhibition of the royal academy for the year , in the characters of brutus, marc antony, and julius cæsar, which caused more fun than anything else in the collection, and produced more puns among the cognoscenti than any previous work of art ever gave rise to. the romans were such rum ones--brutus was a black down-looking biped, with gray whiskers, and a growl upon his lip; marc antony, without the remotest mark of the ancient hero about him; and ~ ~~cassius looked as if he had been cashiered by the commander of some strolling company of itinerants for one, whose placid face could neither move to woe, nor yield grimace; and yet they were all accounted excellent likenesses, perfect originals, like wombwell's bonassus, only not quite so natural." during this rhapsody of blackstrap's, transit on the one side, and the english spy on the other, endeavoured to restrain the torrent of his satire by assuring him that the very persons he was alluding to were the amateurs on the stage before him; and that certain critical faces behind him were paid like the painter, of whom he had previously spoken, to produce flattering portraits in print, and might possibly make a satirical sketch of the bon vivant at the same time; an admonition that had not the slightest effect in abridging his strictures upon amateur actors. but as the english spy intends to finish his sketches on this subject, in a visit to the national theatres, he has until then treasured up in his mind's stores the excellent and apposite, though somewhat racy anecdotes, with which the comical commercial critic illustrated his discourse. the "liquor in, the wit's out," saith the ancient proverb; and, although my "spirit in the clouds" had already hinted at the dangerous consequences likely to result from a visit to the "oakland cottages," yet such was the flexibility of my friend transit's ethics, his penchant for a spree, and the volatile nature of his disposition, when the ripe falerian set the red current mantling in his veins, that not all my philosophy, nor the sage monitions of blackstrap, nor thought, nor care, nor friendly intercession could withhold the artist from making a pilgrimage to the altar of love. for be it known to the amorous beau, these things are not permitted to pollute the sanctity of the sainted chelts; but in a snug convent, situate a full mile and a half from cheltenham, at the extremity ~ ~~of a lane where four roads meet, and under the cleigh hills, the lady abbess and the fair sisters of cytherea perform their midnight mysteries, secure from magisterial interference, or the rude hand of any pious parochial poacher. start not, gentle reader; i shall not draw aside the curtain of delicacy, or expose "the secrets of the prison-house:" it is enough for me to note these scenes in half tints, and leave the broad effects of light and shadow to the pencils of those who are amorously inclined and well-practised in giving the finishing------touch. but to return to my friend transit. bright luna tipt with silvery hue the surrounding clouds, and o'er the face of nature spread her mystic light; the blue concave of high heaven was illumined by a countless host of starry meteors, and the soft note of philomel from the grove came upon the soul-delighted ear like the sweet breathings of the eolian harp, or the celestial cadences of that heart-subduing cherub, stephens; when we set out on our romantic excursion. reader, you may well start at the introduction of the plural number; but say, what man could abandon his friend to such a dangerous enterprise? or what moralists refuse his services where there was such a probability of there being so much need for them? but we are poor frail mortals; so a truce with apology, or prithee accept one in the language of moore: "dear creatures! we can't live without them, they're all that is sweet and seducing to man; looking, sighing, about and about them, we dote on them, die for them, do all we can." to be brief: we found excellent accommodation, and spent the night pleasantly, free from the sin of single blessedness. many a choice anecdote did the paphian divinities furnish us with of the _gay well-known_ among the chelts; stories that will be told again and again over the friendly bottle, but must not be recorded ~ ~~here. whether transit, waking early from his slumbers, was paying his devotions to venus or the water-bottle, i know not; but i was awoke by him about eight in the morning, and heard the loud echo of the huntsman's hallo in my ear, summoning me to rise and away, for the sons of nimrod had beset the house; information which i found, upon looking through the window, was alarmingly true, but which did not appear either to surprise or affright the fair occupants of the cottages, who observed, it was only some of the "berkeley hunt going out," (see plate), who, if they did not find any where else, generally came looking after a brush in that neighbourhood. [illustration: page ] "then the best thing we can do," said transit, "is to brush off, before they brush up stairs and discover a couple of poachers among their game." this, however, the ladies would by no means admit, and the huntsmen quickly riding away, we took our chocolate with the lady abbess and her nuns, made all matters perfectly pleasant, saluted the fair at parting, and bade adieu to the oakland cottages. upon our return to our inn, we received a good-humoured lecture from blackstrap, who was just, as he phrased it, on the wing for bristol and bath, "where" said he, "if you will meet me at old matthew temple's, the castle inn, i will engage to give you a hearty welcome, and another bottle of the old particular;" a proposition that was immediately agreed to, as the route we had previously determined upon. one circumstance had, during our sojourn in the west, much annoyed my friend transit and myself; we had intended to have been present at the doncaster race meeting for , and have booked both the betting men and their betters. certainly a better bit of sport could never have been anticipated, but we were neither of us endowed with ubiquity, and were therefore compelled to cry content in the west when our hearts and inclinations were in the ~ ~~north. "if now your 'spirit in the clouds,' your merry unknown, he that sometimes shoots off his witty arrows at the same target with ourselves, should archly suspect that old tom whipcord was not upon the turf, i would venture a cool hundred against the field, that we should have a report from him, 'ready cut and dried,' and quite as full of fun and whim as if you had been present yourself, master bernard, aided and assisted by our ally, tom whipcord of oxford." "heaven forgive you, blackmantle, for the sins you have laid upon that old man's back! you are not content with working him hard in the 'annals' every month, but you must make him mount the box of some of the short stages, and drive over the rough roads of the metropolis, where he is in danger of having his wheel locked, or meeting with a regular upset at every turn." though bob has given sufficient proofs of his spirit in danger, i certainly never suspected him to be possessed of the spirit of divination, and yet his prophetic address had scarcely concluded before boots announced a parcel for bernard blackmantle, esq. forwarded from london, per favour of mr. williams. and, heaven preserve me from the charge of imposing upon my reader's credulity! but, as i live, it was his very hand--another sketch by my attendant sprite, "the spirit in the clouds," and to the very tune of transit's anticipations, and my wishes. a familiar epistle to bernard blackmantle, esq., humorous description of doncaster races, the great st. leger, horses, and characters, in . by an honest reviewer, alias "the spirit in the clouds."{ } "all hail, great master! grave sir, hail! i come to answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task ariel, and all his quality. prospero. why, that's my spirit! shakspeare--tempest. "good morrow to my worthy masters; and a merry christmas to you all!"--the bellman. "mendiei, mimi, balatrones."--hor. "mimics, beggars, and characters of all sorts and sizes." --free translation. my good mr. spy, will you not exclaim, mercy upon us! here is a text and title as long and as voluminous as a modern publication, or the sermon of the fox-hunting parson, who, when compelled to see last number of the spy, part xxi. p. . ~ ~~preach on a saint's day, mounted the pulpit in his sporting toggery, using his gown as "a cloak of maliciousness?" but have patience, sweet spy; be kindly-minded, dear bernard: like john of magna charta memory, "i have a thing to say;" and do now be a good attentive hubert to hear me out. "indeed, since you have inspirited, if not inspired me, by the 'immortal honour' of dubbing me your 'associate,' i were wanting in common gratitude not to attempt, by the return of moon, for i believe that luminary, like your numbers, comes out new every fourth week, to convey to you the swellings-over of my gratitude for the kind and fine things you have been pleased to cheer me with; although even yet, though the time will come, i can neither withdraw my vizor, nor disclose my 'family cognomen.' [illustration: page ] it was true, and joy it was 'twas true, that we were at rowings, sailings, feastings, and dancings together, but how comes it we were not at the great racings together? that neither you, nor your ministers, they who, "----correspondent to command, perform thy spiriting gently----" were at the grand muster of the north, the doncaster meeting? bernard, i tell thee all the world was there; from royalty and loyalty down to the dustman and democracy. then such "sayings and doings," a million of hooks could hardly have had an eye to all. you have read of the confusion of tongues, of "babel broke loose," of the crusaders' contributory encampment peopled by dozens of nations; you have seen the inside of a patent theatre on the first night of a christmas pantomime, or mingled in an opera-house masquerade; have listened to a covent-garden squabble, a billingsgate commotion, or a watch-house row; but in the whole course of your life, varied as ~ ~~it has been, active as it has proved, you never have, never could have experienced any thing at all to eclipse or even to equal the "hey, fellow, well met" congregatory musters, and the "beautiful and elegant confusions" of doncaster town in the race week of (september) eighteen hundred and twenty-five! i am not, however, about to inflict upon you a "list of the horses," nor "the names, weights, and colours of the riders;" but i cannot help thinking that the english spy will not have quite completed his admirable gallery of portraits, and his unique museum of curiosities for the benefit and delight of posterity, if he omit placing in their already splendid precincts two or three heads and sketches, which the genius of notoriety is ready to contribute as her own, and which to pass over would be as grievous to miss, as mrs. waylett's breeches,{ } characters at the haymarket theatre, or a solution of euclid by one of dr. birkbeck's "operatives." allow me, then, who am not indeed "without vanity," once more to "stand by your side," or rather for you, and to attempt, albeit i have not your magic pencil, another taste of my quality, by dashing off _con amore_ the lions of the north. there frequently occur circumstances in a younker's life which lie never, in all his after career, forgets. i remember a very worthy and a very handsome old gentlewoman, the wife of an eminent physician, once being exceedingly wroth, it was almost the only time i ever knew her seriously angry, because a nephew of hers asserted all women were, what in the vulgate is called "knock-knee'd," and almost threatened to prove the contrary. had she lived in our days, the truth, almost on any evening on our stage, might be ascertained, and i fear not at all to the satisfaction of the defender of her sex's shape. nature never intended women to wear the breeches, and the invention of petticoats was the triumph of art. why will eve's daughters publicly convince us they are not from top to toe perfect? ~ ~~as, however, some that attend my sitting are quite as difficult to manage as the conspirators of prospero's isle, it may be as well if, like ariel, i sing to them as i lay on the colours of identification. bear in mind still, that i am a "spirit in the clouds," and, therefore, there can be nothing of "_michin malachi_" in my melody. i love a race-course, that i do; but then, good folks, it is as true, only don't blab, i tell it you, i can't love all its people; for though i'm somewhat down and fly, is slang gone out, sweet mister spy? of trade with them i am as shy as jumping from a steeple. yet what with fashion's feather'd band, and pawing steeds, and crowded stand; its sights are really very grand, which to deny were sin. but then, though fast the horses run, few gain by "clone," and "done," and "done," for what a damper to the fun! those "only laugh who win." oh! what a mixture must we greet in rooms, at inns, on turf, in street; be "hand and glove" with all we meet, old files, and new-bronzed faces! with marquis, lord, and duke, and squire, we now keep up the betting fire; and then the guard of the "highflyer" we book at northern races.{ } a song would be no song at all without notes; i must there-fore try a few. i can assure you they are not mere humming ones. _allons_--"all is not gold that glitters," neither is it all "prunella" that blows a horn upon the stern of a coach. the "york highflyer" i really am not to go down gratis "next jour-ney" for puffing it is a good coach, and the guard is a good guard, and he ventured a "good bit" of money on the léger, and was "floored," for "cleveland" was a slow one. however, it didn't balk his three days' holiday, nor spoil his new coat, nor blight his nosegay. i saw him after his defeat, looking as rosy as pistol, and heard him making as much noise as one; "nor malice domestic nor foreign levy" could hurt him. ~ ~~ look in that room,{ } judge for yourself; see what a struggle's made for wealth, what crushings, bawlings for the pelf, 'twixt high heads and low legs. that is lord k----,{ } and that lord d-----,{ } that's gully{ }; yon's fishmonger c;{ } a octree-man that; that, harry lee,{ } who stirr'd mendoza's pegs. or walk up stairs; behold yon board, rich with its thrown-down paper hoard, but oh! abused, beset, adored by wine-warm'd folks o' nights. the playing cog, the paying peer, pigeon and greek alike are here; and some are clear'd, and others clear; ask bayner,{ } and such wights. the new subscription room; where down stairs more than the "confusion of tongues" prevails, and above a man's character, if in-sured, would go under the column of "trebly hazardous." it is really a pity that hone-racing should appear so close a neighbour to gambling as it does at doncastor. my men of letters are not merely alphabet men, but bona fide characters of consideration upon the turf. i confess lord kennedy is a bit of a favourite of mine, ever since i saw him so good-natured at the pigeon-shooting matches at battersea; and greatly rejoiced was i to find him unplucked at the more desperate wagerings of the north. he really is clever in the main, and no subject for st. luke's, though he depends much on a bedlamite. gulley, crock-ford, and bland, need no character; and every body knows harry lee fought a pluck battle with old dan. but it is "box harry" with fighters now. poor rayner of c. g. t.--hundreds at one fell swoop! all his morning's winnings gone in one evening's misfortune. let him think on't when next he plays "the school of reform." ~ ~~ nay, thick as plagues of egypt swarm these emblems of the devil's charm, when the fall'n angel works a harm to eve's demented brood; worse than of famish'd shark the maw, worse than snake's tooth, or tiger's claw, the gambler's fish{ } spits from its maw hell's poison-filled food! but, halt! who're they so deep in port, who jostle thus the dons of sport, with all th' assumed airs of court, from which indeed they are? but not from court of carlton, nor james's court, nor any one; but where "the fancy" used to run to see the creatures spar. the one's a diamond, that you see, but yet a black one i agree, and in the way of chancery a smart ward in his time; the other he's from vinsor down, and though a great gun in that town, has lately been quite basted brown, and gone off--out of time.{ } the spotted ball now, worse in its woe-causing than the apple of ida, is disgorged from a splendidly gilded fish. what a pity it is that the eternal vociforators of "red wins, black loses," et vice versa, could not be turned into jonahs, and their odd fish into a whale, and let all be cast into the troubled waters (without a three days' redemption) they brew for others! "there never were such times." x xs, in the ring, and failures in the fives court, overcome us now without our special wonder; for boxers are become betters to extents that would make the fathers of the p.r. bless themselves and bolt. cannon and ward were, however, both on the right side, and the nods with which they honoured their old acquaintance were certainly improvements upon the style of the academy for manners in saint martin's street. ~ ~~ look, here's a bevy; who but they! just come to make the poor tykes pay the charge of post-horses and chay, that brought them to some tune; lo! piccadilly goodered laughs, as when some novice, reeling, quaffs his gooseberry wine in tipsy draughts, at his so pure saloon.{ } good gracious, too! (oh, what a trade can oyster sales at night be made!) here swallowing wine, like lemonade, sits mrs. h's man{ }! and by the loves and graces all, by vestris' trunks, maria's shawl, there trots the nun herself, so tall, a flirting of a fan, and blushing like the "red, red rose," with paly eyes and a princely nose, and laced in nora crinas clothes, (cool, like a cucumber,) with beaver black, with veil so green, and huntress boots 'neath skirt quite clean, she looks diana's self--_a quean_, in habit trimm'd with fur. and mr. wigelsworth he flew,{ } and miss and mistress w. to bow and court'sy to the new arrival at their boy; "lightly tread, 'tis hallow'd ground." i dare not go on; you have been before me, bernard: (vide vol. i. p. , of spy). but really it will be worth while for us to look in on goodered some fine morning, say three, a.m., when he gets his print of memnon home, to which, at sheardowns, he was so liberal as to subscribe. he will discourse to you of the round table! "if i stand here, i saw him."--shakespeare, hamlet. the host of the black boy at doncastor, who really pro- vided race ordinaries in no ordinary way. ~ ~~ though he was black, yet she was fair; and sure i am that nothing there with that clear nymph could aught compare, or more glad eyes employ. but where there is, after all, but little reason in many of the scenes witnessed at the period i quote, why should i continue to rhyme about them? let it therefore suffice, that with much of spirit there was some folly, with a good deal of splendour an alloy of dross, and, with real consequence, a good deal of that which was assumed. like a showy drama, the players (there was a goodly company in the north), dresses (they were of all colours of the rainbow), and decorations (also various and admirable), during the time of performance, were of the first order; but that over, and the green and dressing rooms displayed many a hero sunk into native insignificance, and the trappings of tamerlane degenerated to the hungry coat of a jeremy diddler (and there were plenty of "raising the wind" professors at doncaster), or the materiel of the king and queen of denmark to the dilapidated wardrobe of mr. and mrs. sylvester daggerwood. _mais apropos de le drame, monsieur l'espion_, what is your report of our theatres? have you seen the monkeys? are they not, for a classic stage, grand, ----those happiest smiles that play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know what guests were in her eyes, which parted thence as pearls from diamonds dropt. in brief, her room would be a rarity most beloved, if all could so become it." shakespeare, a little altered. i would just say here, that if any disapprove of my picture of the lady, they may take bernard blackmantle's ~ ~~_magnifique, et admirable_? do they not awake in you visions of rapturous delight, as you contrast their antics and mimicry, their grotesque and beautiful grimaces, their cunning leers, with the eye of garrick, the stately action of kemble, the sarcasm of cooke, the study of henderson, the commanding port of siddons, the fire of kean, the voice of young, the tones of o'neill? when you see them, as the traveller dampier has it, "dancing from tree to tree over your head," and hear them "chattering, and making a terrible noise," do you not think of lord chesterfield, and exclaim, "a well-governed stage is an ornament to society, an encouragement to wit and learning, and a school of virtue, modesty, and good manners?" do you not feel, when you behold the flesh and blood punch and man-monkey of covent garden theatre "twist his body into all manner of shapes," or "monsieur gouffe," of the surrey, "hang himself for the benefit of mr. bradley," that we may pay our money, and "see, and see, and see again, and still glean something new, something to please, and something to instruct;" and, lastly, in a fit of enthusiasm, exclaim, "to wake the soul by tender strokes of art, to raise the genius and to mend the heart, to make mankind in conscious virtue bold, live o'er each scene, and be what they behold;" for this great jocko's self first leap'd the stage; for this was puffd in ev'ry well-bribed page, from evening "courier" down to sunday "age!"{ } it is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original. that the beings who banish legitimate performers should puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!" but "the world is still deceived by ornament." ~ ~~but charles kemble pays well on occasions, and gold would make "hyperion" of a "satyr." seriously, mr. blackmantle, the town is overrun with monkeys; they are as busy, and as importunate, as lady montague's boys on may day, or the guy fawkes representatives on the fifth of november. they are "here, there, and every where," and the baboon monopolists of exeter 'change and the tower are ruined by the importation:--a free trade in the article with the patentees of our classic theatres, as the purchasing-merchants, has done the business for mr. cross and the beef-eaters. like the athenian audience, the "thinking people" of england are more pleased with the mimic than the real voice of nature; and the four-footed puggys of the brazils, like the true pig of the grecian, are cast in the shade by their reasoning imitator! in short, not to be prosy on a subject which has awakened poetry and passion in all, hear, as the grave-diggers say, "the truth on't."{ } when winter triumph'd o'er the summer's flame, and c. g. opened, punchinello came; each odd grimace of monkey-art he drew, exhausted postures and imagined new: the stage beheld him spurn its bounded reign, and frighten'd fiddlers scraped to him in vain; his seven-leagued leaps so well the fashion fit, that all adore him--boxes, gallery, pit,{ } it is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original. that the beings who banish legitimate performers should puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!" but "the world is still deceived by ornament." one dr. samuel johnson has something like this, but then his lines were in praise of a "poor player," of a man who wasted much paper in writing dramas now thought nothing of. this is his doggrel. ~ ~~but i must have done. christmas will soon be here, and "i have a journey, sirs, shortly to go" to be prepared for its delights, and to fit myself for its festivities; and yet i am unwilling, acute bernard, merry echo, cheerful eglantine, correct transit, to "shake hands and part," without tendering the coming season's congratulations; so if it like you, dear spies o' the time, i will, like the swan, go off singing. marching along with berried brow, and snow flakes on his "frosty pow," see father christmas makes his bow, and proffers jovial cheer; about him tripping to and fro, picking the holly as they go, and kiss-allowing misletoe, his merry elves appear. then broach the barrel, fill the bowl, and let us pledge the hearty soul, though swift the waning minutes roll, and time will stay for none; lads, we will have a gambo still, for though we've made the foolish feel, and shamed the sinner in his ill, our withers are unwrung. "when learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes first rear'd the stage, immortal skakspeare rose; each change of many-colour'd life he drew, exhausted worlds, and then imagined new; existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, and panting time toil'd after him in vain: his powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd, and unresisted passion storm'd the breast." ~ ~~ no poison in the cup have ye, in all your travell'd history, pour'd for the hearty, good, and free; this will your book evince: so "here's the king!"fill, fill for him, then for our country, to the brim; with it, good souls, we'll sink or swim. huzzah! 'tis gall'd jades wince! but now, adieu; o'er hill and plain i scud, ere we shall meet again; meantime, all prosp'rous be your reign, and friends attend in crowds; before your splendid course is o'er, and blackmantle shall please no more, you'll know, though yet i'm doom'd to soar, your spirit in the clouds.{ }" november, . adieu, thou facetious sprite, and may the graybeard time tread lightly on thy buoyant spirits! meet thee or not hereafter, thou shalt live in my remembrance a cherished name, long as memory holds her influence o'er the eccentric mind of bernard blackmantle. here, too, must transit and myself take a farewell of merry cheltenham, ever on the wing for novelty: our sketches have been brief, but full of genuine character; nor can they, as i hope, be considered in any instance as violating our established rule--of being true to nature, without offending the ear of chastity, or exciting aught but "a. word to the wise," &c. get honest "tom whipcord" to take you by his hand on valentine's night to the "noctes" muster of the _sporting annals_ gents. you will know me by a brace of "bleeding hearts" in my plaited neckerchief, and a blue bunch of ribbons in my sinister side, as big as the herald newspaper, the gifts of my lady-love. ~ ~~the approving smile of the lovers of mirth, and the patrons of life's merriments. we had intended to have drawn aside the curtain of the theatre and the castle, and have shown forth to the gaze of the public the unhallowed mysteries which are sometimes performed there; but reflection whispered, that morality might find more cause to blush at the recital than her attendants would benefit by the exposure; and is is lamentably true, that some persons would cheerfully forfeit all claim to respectability of character for the honour of appearing in print, depicted in their true colours, as systematic and profligate seducers. to disappoint this infamous ambition, more than from any fear of the threatened consequences, we have left the sable colonel and his dark satellites to grope on through the murky ways of waywardness and intrigue, without staining our pages with a full relation of their heartless conduct, since to have revived the now forgotten tales might have given additional pain to some beauteous victims whose fair names have dropped into lethe's waters, like early spring flowers nipped by the lingering hand of slow-paced winter; or, in other instances, have disturbed the repose of an unsuspecting husband, or have stung the aged heart of a doting parent--evils we could not have avoided, had we determined upon rehearsing the love scenes and intrigues of certain well-known cheltenham amateurs. adieu, merry chelts! we're for quitting our quarters; adieu to the chase, to thy walks and thy waters, to thy hunt, ball, and theatre, and card tables too, and to all thy gay fair ones, a long, long adieu! blackmantle and transit, the spy and his friend, through gloucester and bristol, to bath onward bend. to show how amused they have been in your streets, they give you, at parting, this man of sweetmeats; a character, famous as mackey, the dandy, the london importer of horehound and candy; the cheapest of doctors, whose nostrums dispense a cure for all ills that affect taste or sense, i doubt not quite as good as one half your m.d.'s, though sweet is the physic and simple the fees; this, at least, you'll admit, as we dart from your view that our vignette presents you with a sweet adieu! a visit to gloucester and berkeley. sketches on the mood--singular introduction to an old friend--a tithe cause tried--a strange assemblage of witnesses--traits of character--effects of the farmers' success--an odd cavalcade--rejoicings at berkeley. ~ ~~the road from cheltenham to gloucester affords a good view of the cotswold and stroudwater hills, diversified by the vales of evesham, gloucester, and berkeley, bounded on the east by the severn, and presenting in many situations a very rich picturesque appearance. we are not of the dull race who dwell on musty records and ancient inscriptions, or travel through a county to collect the precise date when the first stone of some now moss-crowned ruin was embedded in the antique clay beneath. let the dead sleep in peace; we are not _anti-queer-ones_ enough to wish the mouldering reliques of our ancestors arrayed in chronological order before our eyes, nor do we mean to risk our merry lives in exploring the monastic piles and subterranean vaults and passages of other times. no; our office is with the living, with the enriched gothic of modern courts, and the finished corinthian capitals of society, illustrating, as we proceed, with choice specimens of the rustic and the grotesque; now laughing over our wine with the tuscan bacchanal, or singing a soft tale of love in the ear of some chaste daughter of the composite order; ~ ~~trifling perhaps a little harmless badinage with a simple ionic, or cracking a college joke with a learned doric; never troubling our heads, or those of our readers, about the origin or derivation of these orders, whether they came from early greece or more accomplished home; or be their progenitors of saxon, norman, danish, or of anglo-saxon character, we care not; 'tis ours to depict them as they at present appear, leaving to the profound topographers and compilers of county histories all that relates to the black letter lore of long forgotten days. gloucester is proverbial for its dulness, and from the dirty appearance of the streets and houses, was, by my friend transit, denominated the black city; a designation he maintained to be strictly correct, since it has a cathedral, a bishop, and a black choir of canonicals, and was from earliest times the residence of a black brotherhood of monks, whose black deeds are recorded in the black letter pages of english history; to which was added another confirmatory circumstance, that upon our entrance it happened the assizes for the county had just commenced, and the black gowns of banco regis, and of the law, were preparing to try the blacks of gloucestershire, out of which arose a black joke, that will long be remembered by the inhabitants of berkeley, and the tenantry of the sable colonel. we had made our domicile at the ham inn, by the recommendation of our cheltenham host, where we met with excellent accommodations, and what, beside, we could never have anticipated to have met with in such a place, one of the richest scenes that had yet presented itself in the course of our eccentric tour. the unusual bustle that prevailed in every department of the inn, together with a concatenation of sounds now resembling singing and speaking, and the occasional scraping of some ill-toned violins above our heads, induced us to make a few inquisitive ~ ~~remarks to mine host of the ham, that quickly put us in possession of the following facts. it appeared, that a suit respecting the right of the vicar of berkeley to the great tithes of that town had been long pending in the court of chancery, in which the reverend was opposed to his former friend, the colonel, the churchwardens of berkeley, and the whole of the surrounding tenantry. now this cause was, by direction of the lord chancellor, to be tried at these assizes, and, in consequence, the law agents had been most industrious in bringing together, by subpoena, all the ancient authorities of the county, the aged, the blind, and the halt, to give evidence against their worthy pastor; and as it is most conducive to success in law, the keeping witnesses secure from tampering, and in good-humour with the cause, the legal advisers had prepared such festive cheer at the bam, for those of the popular interest, as would have done honour to the colonel's banquet at the castle. such was the information we obtained from our host, to whose kind introduction of us to the lawyers we were afterwards indebted for a very pleasant evening's amusement. we were ushered into the room by one of the legal agents as two gentlemen from london, who, being strangers in the place, were desirous of being permitted to spend their evening among such a jovial society. the uproarious mirth, and rude welcome, with which this communication was received by the company, added to the clouds of smoke which enveloped their chairman, prevented our immediate recognition of him; but great and pleasant indeed was our surprise to find the most noble, the very learned head of the table, to be no other than our old eton _con._ little dick gradus, to whose lot it had fallen to conduct this action, and defend the interests of the agriculturalists against the mercenary encroachments of the church militant. this was indeed no common cause; and the greatest difficulty ~ ~~our friend gradus had to encounter was the restricting within due bounds of moderation the over-zealous feelings of his witnesses. it was quite clear a parson's tithes, if left to the generosity of his parishioners, would produce but a small modicum of his reverence's income. the jovial farmer chuckled with delight at the prospect of being able to curtail the demands of his canonical adversary. "measter carrington," said he, "may be a very good zort of a preacher, but i knows he has no zort of business with tithing my property; and if zo be as the gentleman judge will let me, gad zooks! but i will prove my words, better than he did the old earl's marriage, when he made such a fool of himsel' before the peers in parliament." "that's your zort, measter tiller," resounded from all the voices round the table. "let the clergy zow for themselves, and grow for themselves, as the varmers do; what a dickens should we work all the week for the good of their bodies, when they only devote one hour in the whole seven days for the benefit of our zouls?" "that's right, measter coppinger," said some one next to the speaker; "you are one hundred years of age, and pray how many times have you heard the parson preach?" "i never zeed him in his pulpit in the whole courze of my life; but then you know that were my fault, i might if i would; but i'ze been a main close attendant upon the church for all that: during the old earl's lifetime, i was a sort of deputy huntsman, and then the parson often followed me; and when i got too old to ride, i was made assistant gamekeeper, and then i very often followed the parson; so you zee i'ze a true churchman, every inch of me; only i don't like poaching, and when his reverence wants me to help him sack his tithes, old jack coppinger will tell him to his head, he may e'en carry the bag himself." "a toast from the chair! let's hear the lawyer' zentiments on this zubject," said another; with which request gradus complied, by giving, "may he who ~ ~~ploughs and plants the soil reap all its fruits!" "ay, measter gradus, that is as it should be," reiterated a farmer on his right, "zo i'll give you, 'the varmers against the parsons,' and there's old tom sykes yonder, the thatcher, he will give you a zong about the 'tithe pig and the tenth child,' a main good stave, i do azzure you." a request which the old thatcher most readily complied with, to the great delight of all present; for independent of his dialect, which was of the true rich west-country character, there was considerable wit and humour in the song, and an archness of manner in the performer, that greatly increased the good-humour of the society. in this way the evening was spent very pleasantly; and as the cause was to come on the first thing on the ensuing morning, transit and myself determined to await the issue, anticipating that, if our merry-hearted companions, the rustics, should be successful, there would be no lack of merriment, and some exhibition of good sport both for the pen and pencil. we had strayed after breakfast to view the cathedral, which is very well worthy the attention of the curious, and certainly contains some very ancient relics of the great and the good of earliest times. on our return, the deafening shouts of the multitude, who were congregated outside the sessions house, proclaimed a favourable verdict for the farmers, who, in the excess of their joy at having beaten their reverend adversary, gave loose to the most unrestrained expressions of exultation: a messenger was immediately despatched to berkeley to convey, express, the glad tidings; and the head farmers of the parish, with whom were the church-wardens, determined to commemorate their victory by roasting a bullock whole on the brow of the hill which overlooked their vicar's residence, and for the preparation of which festivity they also sent their instructions. the next grand point was, how to ~ ~~convey the witnesses, who were very numerous, to the scene of action, a distance of eighteen miles. to have despatched them in post-chaises, could they have found a sufficient number in gloucester, was neither in accordance with economy, nor with the wishes of the parties themselves, who were very anxious to have a grand procession, and enjoy themselves as they went along in smoking, singing, drinking, and proclaiming their triumph to their neighbours and friends. mine hostess of the ram, with every female in her establishment, had been, from the moment the verdict was given to the departure of the group, busily engaged in making large blue favours, of the colonel's colour, to decorate the hats of the visitors, until mr. boots arrived with the dismaying intelligence, that not another yard of riband, of the colour required, could be obtained in all the city of gloucester. with equal industry and perseverance the host himself had put in requisition every species of conveyance that he could muster, which was calculated to suit the views of the parties, and form a grand cavalcade; without much attention to the peculiar elegance of the vehicles, to be sure, but with every arrangement for social comfort. it had been decided that my friend transit and myself should accompany richard gradus, esq. the solicitor to the fortunate defendants, in a post coach in front, preceded by four of mine host's best horses, with postillions decorated with blue favours, and streamers flying from the four corners of the carriage; and now came the marshalling of the procession to follow. [illustration: page ] one of the colonel's hay vans had been supplied with seats, lengthwise, in which the first division of farmers placed themselves, not, however, forgetting to take in a good supply of ale and pipes with them; next in order was one of the old-fashioned double-bodied stages, which had not been cleaned, or out of the coach-yard, for twenty years before, and both in the ~ ~~inside and on the roof of which the more humble rustics and farmers' labourers were accommodated: this vehicle was drawn by four cart horses, of the roughest description; the rear of the whole being brought up by a long black funeral hearse, with three horses, unicorn fashion, on the roof of which the men sate sidewise, while the interior was, by gradus's orders, well filled with casks of the best gloucester ale. about a dozen of the farmers, on horseback, rode by the side of the vehicles; and in this order, with the accompaniment of a bugle in the hay van, and a couple of blind fiddlers scraping on the centre of the roof of the hearse, did we sally forth in most grotesque order, amid the joyous acclamations of the multitude, on our way to berkeley, every countenance portraying exultation and good-humour, and every where upon the road meeting with a corresponding welcome. a more humorous or whimsical procession cannot well be imagined, men, animals, and vehicles being perfectly unique. by the time we had reached our destination, the potent effects of the gloucester ale, added to the smoking and vociferous expressions of joy that attended us throughout, had left very few of our rustic friends without the visible and outward signs of their inward devotions to the jolly god. on our arrival near to berkeley, we were met by crowds of the joyous inhabitants, and proceeded onward to the spot selected for the festive scene, where we found the bullock already roasting on the top of the hill, and where also they had pitched a tent, and brought some small cannon, with which they fired a _feu de joie_ on our arrival, taking special care to point their artillery in the direction of the vicar's residence. on the opposite side of the road was the church; and it is not a little singular, that the steeple, belfry, and tower are completely detached from the body of the building. the vicar, dreading the riotous joy of his parishioners upon ~ ~~this occasion, had locked up the church, and issued his mandate to the wardens to prevent a merry peal; but these persons insisting that as the church was detached from the belfry, the vicar had no authority over it, they directed the ringers to give them a triple bob major, which canonical music was merrily repeated at intervals, to the great dismay of the parson, who, over and above the loss he was likely to sustain in his future interests, had by this defect suffered under a legal expenditure of some thousands of pounds. the colonel did not show, perhaps from prudential motives of respect to his old friend, but his agents were well instructed in their duty, and there was no lack of a plentiful supply of provision and ale for his tenantry to make right merry with. thus ended our trip to berkeley, where, after taking a view of the castle on the following morning, and surveying the delightful scenery with which that most ancient building is surrounded, we bade adieu to our friend gradus, and mounted the cheltenham coach, as it passed through, on our way to bristol. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] a day in bristol. a glance at the bristolians--their pursuits and characteristics--the london mail--a walk to the hot wells and clifton--blackmantle and transit start for the territories of king bladud. ~ ~~the worthy bristolians must not feel offended if we pass them by rather briefly; had ours been a tour of business, connected with commercial pursuit instead of a search after whim and character, we should no doubt have found materials enough to have filled a dozen chapters; but such pursuits are foreign to the eccentric volumes of the english spy, whose sole aim is humour, localized, and embracing characteristic scenes. such is the above sketch, which struck transit and myself, as we took a stroll down bridge-street while our breakfast was preparing at the white hart; it was a bit of true life, and cannot fail to please: but, after all, bristol resembles london so closely, at least the ~ ~~eastern part of the metropolis, that although we saw much that would have been worthy the attention of the antiquary and the curious in their several churches and museums, or might, with great advantage, have been transferred to the note book of the topographer, yet we met with none of that peculiar whimsical character that distinguishes the more fashionable places of resort. the sole object of the bristolians is trade, and every face you meet with has a ledger-like countenance, closely resembling the calculating citizen of london, whose every thought is directed to the accumulation of wealth, by increased sales of merchandize, or the overreaching his neighbour in taking the first advantage of the market. [illustration: page ] the arrival of the london mail, which comes in about ten o'clock in the morning, afforded transit another opportunity of picking up what little of character there was to be found. at bristol there is always a great anxiety to obtain the london news and price current; so much so, that the leading merchants and others assemble in front of the post-office, which also joins the exchange, to wait the arrival of the mail (see plate), and receive the letters of advice which are to regulate their concerns. it is but justice to add, there is no place in the kingdom of the same distance to which the conveyance is quicker, and the facility of delivery more promptly attended to. after breakfast we took a stroll round the docks, and then bent our steps towards the heights, and along the delightful walk which leads to the hot wells and clifton. to attempt a just description of the magnificent and romantic scenery which surrounds clifton, as it is viewed from the downs, would occupy more space than our limits will allow us to devote to the beauties of landscape; and would, besides, interfere with an intention which transit and myself have in view at some future period of our lives, namely, the making a topographical and characteristic tour through the united kingdoms, which being divided into counties, ~ ~~and embracing not only the historical and the picturesque, will be enlivened by all the humorous vagaries, eccentric characters, and peculiar sports of each, written in a colloquial style; and embracing the lingual localisms, proverbs, and provincialisms of the inhabitants: thus producing a humorous but most correct view of the present state of society and manners. the materials for such a work have gradually presented themselves during the progress of the present eccentric volumes; but, as our object here has been good-humoured satire joined to comic sketches of existing persons and scenes, more in the way of anecdote than history, we hope to meet with the same kind friends in a more extended work, among those who have journeyed onwards with us through two years--pleasantly we must suppose, by their continued support; and profitably, we are gratefully bound to acknowledge, to all parties interested. an early dinner at clifton, and a pleasant walk back by the terrace-road, brought us once more into the busy streets of bristol, where after sauntering away the time until five o'clock, we mounted a bath coach, and started forwards with a fresh impetus, and much promise of amusement, to explore the territories of king bladud. [illustration: page ] [illustration: page ] sketches in bath. ~ ~~ first view of the elegant city--meeting with old blackstrap --domicile at the castle tavern--matthew and mrs. temple worthy characters--sportsmans hall--bath heroes of the turf the ring, and the chace--portraits and peculiarities drawn from the life. may i ne'er flutter in the thoughtless train with fashion's elves, the giddy, and the vain; may i ne'er stroll again with milsom swells to tully's shop, or lounge with pump-room belles; may i no more to sidney gardens stray, if, bath, i wrong thee in my hum'rous lay. court of king blad', where crescents circling rise above each other till they reach the skies; and hills o'er-topping with their verdant green the abbey church, are in the distance seen: ~ ~~where inns invite ye, and where lodgings smile a ready welcome to some grecian pile; where chairmen wait ye, ready to attend and box ye up upon your latter end; where summer breezes on hygeia wait, and cards and fashion hold their courts of state. hither we're come to bath, to spy and tell what reigning follies mark the beau and belle; what stars eccentric move within thy sphere, or who's the greatest lion of the year. "have at ye all," we satirists give no quarter; yet shall our mirth prove grateful as bath water. the distant appearance, or first glimpse of the city of bath, is enough to impress a stranger with the most favourable opinions of the place. the regularity of the streets, and the tasteful character of the architecture of the principal buildings, are certainly superior to that of any other place of public resort in england; added to which, there is an attention to cleanliness apparent in the costume of the lower classes that is not so conspicuous in other places. "blest source of health! seated on rising ground, with friendly hills by nature guarded round; from eastern blasts and sultry south secure, the air's balsamic, and the soil is pure." surrounded by delightful scenery, and guarded from the piercing north winds by the hilly barriers of nature, the spot seems above all others best calculated to restore the health of the valetudinarian, whose constitution has become shattered and infirm by a course of fashionable dissipation, or a lengthened residence in the pestilential climates of the indies. "sweet bath! the liveliest city of the land; where health and pleasure ramble hand in hand, where smiling belles their earliest visit pay, and faded maids their lingering blooms delay. delightful scenes of elegance and ease! realms of the gay, where every sport can please." ~ ~~thus sings the bath poet, bayly; who, if he is somewhat too servile an imitation of moore in his style, has certainly more of originality in his matter than generally distinguishes poems of such a local nature. one of the greatest characters in the city of bath was the worthy host of our hotel, the castle; at whose door stood the rubicund visage of our cheltenham friend, blackstrap, ready to give us a hearty welcome, and introduce us to matthew temple, who making one of his best bows, led the way into the coffee-room, not forgetting to assure us that mistress temple, who was one of the best women in the world, would take the greatest care that we had every attention paid to our commands and comforts; and, in good truth, honest matthew was right, for a more comely, good-humoured, attentive, kind hostess exists not in the three kingdoms of his gracious majesty george the fourth. in short, mrs. temple is the major-domo of the castle, while honest matthew, conscious of his own inability to direct the active operations of the garrison within doors, beats up for recruits without; attends to all the stable duty and the commissariat, keeps a sharp look-out for new arrivals by coach, and a still sharper one that no customer departs without paying his bill; and thus having made his daily bow to the inns and the outs, honest matthew retires at night to take his glass of grog with the choice spirits who frequent sportsman's hall, a snug little smoking room on the left of the gateway, where the heroes of the turf and the lads of the fancy nightly assemble to relate their sporting anecdotes, sing a merry chaunt, book the long odds, and blow a friendly cloud in social intercourse and good fellowship. i do not know that it matters much at what end of bath society i commence my sketches; and experience has taught me, that the more fashionable frivolities of high life seldom present the same opportunity for the ~ ~~study of character, which is to be found in the merry, open-hearted, mirthful meetings of the medium classes and the lower orders. the pleasure we had felt in blackstrap's society at cheltenham, induced us to engage him to dine in the coffee-room, with our early friends heartly and eglantine, both of whom being then at bath, we had invited to meet us, in the expectation that dick gradus, having arranged his legal affairs at berkeley, would, by the dinner hour, arrive to join such a rare assemblage of old eton _cons_--a gratification we had the pleasure to experience; and never did the festive board resound with more pleasant reminiscences from old friends: the social hour fled gaily, and every fresh glass brought its attendant joke. heartly and eglantine had, we found, been sufficiently long in bath to become very able instructors to transit and myself in all that related to the haute class, and old barnaby blackstrap was an equally able guide to every description of society, from the mediums down to the strange collections of vagrant oddities which are to be found in the back janes and suburbs of the city of bath. it has been well said, in a spirited reply to the reverend mr. ek--r--s--l's illiberal satire, entitled "the bath man," that "london has its divisions of good and bad sets as well as bath; nay, every little set has its lower set; bank looks down contemptuously upon wealth; those who are asked to carlton palace cut the muligatawny set; the ancient aristocracy call law-lords and _parvenues_ a bad set; and so downward through the whole scale of society, from almack's to a sixpenny hop, 'still in the lowest deep a lower deep,' and human pride will ever find consolation that there is something to be found beneath it. plain men, accustomed to form their notions of good and evil on more solid foundations than grades of fashionable distinctions, will not consent to stigmatize as bad any class of society because there may happen to ~ ~~be a class above it." and what better apology could we desire for our eccentric rambles through every grade of bath society? with us every set has its attractions, and i have known my friend transit cut a nobleman and half a dozen honourables for the delightful gratification of enjoying the eccentricities of a beggars' club, and being enabled to sketch from the life the varied exhibition of passion and character which such a meeting would afford him. it will not, therefore, create any surprise in my readers, that our first evening in bath should have been devoted to the social pipe; the pleasant account blackstrap gave us of the sporting party, in matthew temple's snuggery, induced us to adjourn thither in the evening, where we might enjoy life, smoke our cigars, join a little chaffing about the turf and the ring, sip our punch and grog, enjoy a good chaunt, and collect a little character for the pages of the english spy. to such as are fond of these amusements, most heartily do i recommend a visit to the sporting parlour at the castle, where they will not fail to recognise many of the jovial characters represented in the opposite page; and as old time pays no respect to worth and mellow-hearted mortals, but in his turn will mow down my old friend matthew and his merry companions, i am desirous to perpetuate their memory by a song, which will include all of note who upon this occasion joined the festive scene. [illustration: page ] sportsman's hall. a scene at the castle. ~ ~~ come all you gay fellows, so merry and witty, ye somerset lads of the elegant city, ye sons of the turf who delight in a race, and ye nimrods of bath who are fond of the chase; come join us, and pledge us, like true brothers all, at old matthew temple's, the castle and ball. will partridge, the father of sports, in the chair, with honest george wingrove will welcome you there, while handy, who once on two horses could ride, and merry jack bedford will meet you beside; then for sport or for spree, or to keep up the ball, we've an excellent fellow, you'll own, in bill hall. ~ ~~ captain beaven, a yeoman of merry renown, will keep up the joke with the gay ones from town, while, if you'd go off in a canter or speed, you've only to take a few lessons with mead; then sharland can suit every beau to a t, so haste to the castle, ye lovers of glee. sweet margerim, clerk of the course, will be found with any young sportsman to trot o'er the ground, though his honesty, since at wells races 'twas tried, it must be admitted, has bolted aside; the newcombe's are good at all sports in the ring, while, like chanticleer, hunt the cocker will sing. jack langley, the fam'd 'squire western of bath, a jolly fox-hunter, who's fond of a laugh, with mellow tom williams, of brewers a pair, are the bacchanals form'd for to banish dull care; then haste to the castle, ye true merry sprites, where the song, and the chase, and the fancy delights. give a host more to name of the jovial and free, that my song would extend till to-morrow d'ye see: but a truce to particulars; take them all round, there's nothing in bath like themselves to be found; where harmony, friendship, and mirth can combine, the pleasures of life with kind hearts and good wine. and in good truth, there is no place within the dominions of king bladud, where the social man can find more cheerful companions, the sporting man more kindred spirits, and the lovers of the characteristic and the humorous meet with a greater variety of genuine eccentricity, unalloyed with any baser or offensive material. matthew temple himself is a great original, pure somerset, perfectly good-natured, ever ready to oblige, and although for many years the commander-in-chief of the castle, is yet in all the chicanery of his ~ ~~ profession, and the usual obtrusiveness of a landlord, as unlike the generality of his brethren as a raw recruit is to an effective soldier. old master william partridge is also worthy of notice as the father of the turf, and then if you would ride to hounds, no man in bath can mount you better, or afford you such good corn, great attentions, and a warm stall for a prime hack. rich in anecdote, and what is still better, with a charitable purse and a worthy heart, there are few men who have earned for themselves more respect in this life, or deserve it better, than william handy, esq. the once celebrated equestrian, who having realized a handsome competency, retired, some years since, to bath, to enjoy his _otium cum dignitate_: here, at an advanced age, with all the spirits of youth, and a lively interest in every thing relating to sporting, you will meet with the character i have described; and, take my word for it, will not be disappointed in the likeness. among the bon vivants of sportsmans' hall i must not omit that care-killing soul captain beaven, whose easy flow of good-humour and love of good sport is not less conspicuous than his love for a pretty lass, and his delight in a good song and a cheerful glass. honest george wingrove, a wealthy baker, and the patriarch of the room, will never prove a crusty customer, i am sure; and if that good-looking fellow mead, the riding-master, does sometimes "o'erstep the modesty of nature" in his mode of addressing his pupils, adopting the familiar style of addressing them by their christian name--as, for instance, "set upright, sally; more forward, eliza; keep your rein-hand more square, ellen;" and soon; he hath, however, yet many good points that amply compensate for this perverseness of habit. among the genuine good ones, the real thing, as the sporting phrase has it, not a biped in bath beats tom williams, who, agreeable to our eton gradus, is good at every thing: a more jovial, worthy-hearted, respected soul breathes not within the merry court of king bladud, and very ~ ~~few there that can rival him in a good horse, a long run, or as a lively companion. tom is married to the sister of bartley, the comedian, and carries with him into private life the estimation which ever attends him in public. for a rum story, a bit of real life, or a roguish joke, who shall excel jack bedford? and then, if your honour would knock the balls about, why "jack's the lad" to accommodate you. and little bill hall, who keeps the kingston billiard-rooms, will be most happy to make his best bow to you without any view to the mace. but, i' faith, i am sketching away here in sportsman's hall at old matthew temple's, and could continue so to do for another chapter; forgetting, as transit says, that we have yet to traverse the whole city of bath through, spying into the vagaries and varieties of the more polished, and taking a slight occasional glance at the lowest grade of society, in order to diversify and keep up the chiaroscuro of our pictures. [illustration: page ] merry reader, for such i hope thou art, we have now travelled on for nearly two years together; and many a varied scene in life's pilgrimage have we set before you, from the gilded dome of royalty to the humble shed of the emeralder; but our visit to bath will afford you a richer treat than aught that has yet preceded it. it was when the party broke up at temple's, and that was not before the single admonition of old father time had sounded his morning bell, that a few _bon vivants_ of the castle, accompanied by the english spy and his merry friends, sallied forth in quest of strange adventure; for it must be admitted, that in the elegant city "candles and ladies' eyes oft shine most bright, when both should be extinguish'd for the night." a fancy ball at the upper rooms on this night had attracted all the elegance, fashion, and beauty to be found within the gay circle of pleasure, and thither ~ ~~we bent our steps, having first provided ourselves with the necessary introductions. the scene above all others in the fascination of gay life and the display of female charms is a fancy ball; a species of entertainment better suited to the modest character of our countrywomen than the masquerade, and, in general, much better liked in this country, where the masked entertainment, unless in private, is always avoided by females of rank and character. one of the most amusing scenes which first presented itself to our notice on approaching the entrance to the rooms was the eager anxiety and determined perseverance of the liveried mercuries and bath dromedaries, alias chairmen, to procure for their respective masters and mistresses a priority of admission; an officious zeal that was often productive of the most ludicrous circumstances, and, in two or three instances, as far as indispensable absence from the pleasures of the night could operate, of the most fatal effects. a well-known city beau, who had been at considerable expense in obtaining from london the splendid dress of a greek prince, was completely upset and rolled into the kennel by his chairmen running foul of a sedan, in which lord molyneaux and his friend lord ducie had both crammed themselves in the dress of tyrolese chieftains. the countess of d--------, who personated psyche, in attempting to extricate herself from an unpleasant situation, in which the obstinacy of her chairmen had placed her, actually had her glittering wings torn away, unintentionally, from her shoulders by the rude hand of a bath rustic, whose humanity prompted him to attempt her deliverance. old lady l--------, in the highest state of possible alarm, from feeling her sedan inclining full twenty degrees too much to the right, popped her head up, and raising the top part of the machine, screamed out most piteously for assistance, and on drawing it back ~ ~~again, tore off her new head-dress, and let her false front shut in between the flap of the chair, by which accident, all the beautiful parisian curls of her ladyship were rendered quite flat and uninteresting. an old gentleman of fortune, who was suffering under hypochondriacal affection, and had resolved to attempt sir john falstaff, received the end of a sedan pole plump in his chest, by which powerful application he was driven through the back part of the machine, and effectually cured of "_la maladie imaginaire_" by the acuteness of a little real pain. the flambeau of a spruce livery servant setting fire to the greasy tail of a bath chairman's surtout produced a most awkward _rencontre_, by which a husband and wife, who had not been associated together for some years, but were proceeding to the ball in separate chairs, were, by the accidental concussion of their sedans in a moment of alarm, actually thrown into each other's arms; and such was the gallantry of the gentleman, that he marched into the ball-room bearing up the slender frame of his heretofore forsaken rib, to whom he from that time has become reunited. the lady mayoress of the city was excessively indignant on finding her preeminence of _entrée_ disputed by the wife of a bristol butcher; while the chair of the master of the ceremonies was for some time blocked in between the sedans of two old tabbies, whose expressions of alarm, attempts at faintings, and little flights of scandal, had so annoyed the poor m. c. that when he entered the ball-room, he felt as irritable as a tantalized lover between two female furies. in short, the scene was rich in amusement for the group of merry hearts who had left the castle in quest of adventure; and while we were enjoying the ludicrous effects produced by the jostling of the sedans, my friend transit had sketched the affair in his usual happy style, and designated it thus: ~ ~ the battle of the chairs. "the chairs are order'd, and the moment comes, when all the world assemble at the rooms." illustration: page ] for the ball-room itself, it was the most splendid scene that the magic power of fancy could devise. the variety of characters, the elegance of the dresses, and the beauty of the graceful fair, joined to their playful wit and accomplished manners, produced a succession of delights which banished from the heart of man the recollection of his mortal ills, and gave him, for the passing time, a semblance of elysian pleasures. the rooms are admirably calculated for this species of entertainment, and are, i believe, the largest in england; while the excellent regulations and arrangements adopted by the master of the ceremonies to prevent any of those unpleasant intrusions, too often admitted into mixed assemblies, deserved the highest commendation. it is from scenes of this description that the writer on men ~ ~~and manners extracts his characters, and drawing aside from the mirth-inspiring group, contemplates the surrounding gaieties, noting down in his memory the pleasing varieties and amusing anecdotes he has there heard; pleasantries with which at some future time he may enliven the social circle of his friends, or by reviving in print, recall the brightest and the best recollections of those who have participated in their gay delights. "in this distinguish'd circle you will find many degrees of man and woman kind." and as i am here "life's painter, the very spy o' the time," i shall endeavour to sketch a few of the leading bath characters; most of the gay well-known being upon this occasion present, and many an eccentric star shining forth, whose light it would be difficult to encounter in any other circle. the accompanying view of the rooms by transit will convey a correct idea of the splendour of the entertainment, and the fascinating appearance of the assembled groups. "ranged on the benches sit the lookers-on, who criticise their neighbours one by one; each thinks herself in word and deed so bless'd, that she's a bright example for the rest. numerous tales and anecdotes they hatch, and prophesy the dawn of many a match; and many a matrimonial scheme declare, unknown to either of the happy pair; much delicate discussion they advance, about the dress and gait of those who dance; one stoops too much; and one is so upright, he'll never see his partner all the night; one is too lazy; and the next too rough; this jumps too high, and that not high enough. thus each receives a pointed observation, not that it's scandal--merely conversation." a three months' sojournment at bath had afforded my friend eglantine an excellent opportunity for ~ ~~estimating public character, a science in which he was peculiarly well qualified to shine; since to much critical acumen was joined a just power of discrimination, aided by a generosity of feeling that was ever enlivened by good-humoured sallies of playful satire. to horace eglantine, i may apply the compliment which cleland pays to pope--he was incapable of either saying or writing "a line on any man, which through guilt, through shame, or through fear, through variety of fortune, or change of interest, he would ever be unwilling to own." it too often happens that the cynic and the satirist are themselves more than tinged with the foibles which they so severely censure in others. "you shall have a specimen of this infirmity," said horace, "in the person of peter paul pallet; a reverend gentleman whom you will observe yonder in the dress of a chinese mandarin. some few years since this pious personage took upon himself the task of lashing the prevailing follies of society in a satire entitled bath characters, and it must be admitted, the work proves him to have been a fellow of no ordinary talent; but an unfortunate amour with the wife of a reverend brother, which was soon after made public, added to certain other peculiarities and eccentricities, have since marked the satirist himself as one of the most prominent objects for the just application of his own weapon." come hither, paul pallet, your portrait i'll paint: you're a satirist, reverend sir, but no saint. but as some of his characters are very amusing, and no doubt very correct portraits of the time, , my readers shall have the advantage of them, that they may be the better able to contrast the past with the present, and form their own conclusions how far society has improved in morality by the increase of methodism, the influx of evangelical breathings, or the puritanical pretensions of bible societies. i shall pass by his description of the club; gaming ever was ~ ~~and ever will be a leading fashionable vice, which only poverty and ruin can correct or cure. the clergy must, however, be greatly delighted at the following picture of the cloth, drawn by one of their holy brotherhood. "the bath church," says the satirist, "is filled with croaking ravens, chattering jays, and devouring cormorants; black-headed fanatics and white-headed 'dreamers of dreams;' the aqua-fortis of mob politics, and the mawkish slip-slop of modern divinity; rank cayenne pepper, and genuine powder of post!" really a very flattering description of our clerical comforters, but one which, i lament to say, will answer quite as well for , with, perhaps, a little less of enthusiasm in the composition, and some faint glimmerings of light opposed to the darkness of bigotry and the frauds of superstition. methodism is said to be on the wane--we can hear no better proof that true religion and good sense are coming into fashion. the sketch of mrs. vehicle, by the same hand, is said to have been a true copy of a well-known female gambler; it is like a portrait of sir joshua reynolds, a picture worthy of preservation from its intrinsic merits, long after the original has ceased to exist: how readily might it be applied to half a score card-table devotees of the present day! "observe that _ton_ of beauty, mrs. vehicle, who is sailing up the passage, supported like a nobleman's coat of arms by her amiable sisters, the virtuous widow on one side, and the angelic miss speakplain on the other. by my soul! the same roses play upon her cheeks now that bloomed there winters ago, the natural tint of that identical patent rouge which she has enamelled her face with for these last twenty years; her gait and presence, too, are still the same--_vera incessa patuit dea_; she yet boasts the enchanting waddle of a dutch venus, and the modest brow of a tower-hill diana. ah, jack, would you but take a few lessons from my old friend ~ ~~at the science of shuffle and cut, you would not rise so frequently from the board of green cloth, as you now do, with pockets in which the devil might dance a saraband without injuring his shins against their contents. why, man, she is a second breslaw with a pack; i have known her deal four honours, nine trumps to herself three times in the course of one rubber, and not cut a higher card to her adversary than a three during the whole evening. sensible of her talents, and of the impropriety of hiding them in a napkin, she chose bath, independence, and her own skill in preference to a country parsonage, conjugal control, and limited pin-money. her _caro sposo_ meanwhile retired to his living; and now blesses himself on his escape from false deals, odd tricks, and every honour but the true one." one more sketch, and i have done; but i cannot pass by the admirable portrait of a bath canonical, "jolly old dr. mixall, rosy as a ripe tomata, and round as his own right orthodox wig, 'with atlantean shoulders, fit to bear the weight of mightiest monarchies!' awful and huge, he treads the ground like one of bruce's moving pillars of sand! what a dark and deep abyss he carries before him--the grave insatiate of turtle and turbot, red mullet and john dories, haunches and pasties, claret, port, and home-brewed ale! but his good-humour alone would keep him at twenty stone were he to cease larding himself for a month to come; and when he falls, may the turf lie lightly on his stomach! then shall he melt gently into rich manure; 'and fat be the gander that feeds on his grave.'" "but now for the moderns," said horace; "for the enchanting fair, 'whose snow-white bosoms fascinate the eye, swelling in all the pride of _nudity_; ~ ~~ the firm round arm, soft cheek, and pouting lip, and backs exposed below the jutting hip; to these succeed dim eyes, and wither'd face», and pucker'd necks as rough as shagreen cases, but whose kind owners, hon'ring bladud's ball, benevolently show their little all.'" but i must not particularize here, as i intend sketching the more prominent personages during a morning lounge in milsom-street; when, appearing in their ordinary costume, they will be the more easily recognised in print, and remain a more lasting memorial of bath eccentrics, sketches in bath--chapter ii. ~ ~~ well-known characters in the pump-room taking a sip with king bladud--free sketches of fair game--the awkward rencontre, or mr. b------and miss l.--public bathing or stewing alive--sober thoughts--milsom-street swells--a visit to the pig and whistle, avon-street--of the buff club. to the pump-room we went, where the grave, and the gay, and the aged, and the sickly, lounge time away; where all the choice spirits are seen making free with the sov'reign cordial, the true _eau de vie_. [illustration: page ] the _déjeuné_ over, the first place to which the stranger in bath is most desirous of an introduction is the pump-room; not that he anticipates restoration to health from drinking the waters, or imagines the virtues of immortality are to be found by immersion in the baths; but if he be a person of any condition, he is naturally anxious to _show off_ make his bow to the gay throng, and, at the same time, elucidate the exact condition of bath society. if, however, he is a mere plebeian in search of novelty, coupling pleasure with business, or an invalid sent here by his doctors to end his days, he is still anxious, while life remains, to see and be seen; to observe whom he can recognise among the great folks he has known in the metropolis, or perchance, meet consolation from some suffering fellow citizen, who, like himself, has been conveyed to bath to save his family the misery of seeing him expire beneath his own roof. "what an admirable variety of character does this scene present," said transit, who, on our first ~ ~~entrance, was much struck with the magnificence of the rooms, and still more delighted with the immense display of eccentricities which presented themselves. "i must introduce you, old fellow," said eglantine, "to a few of the oddities who figure here. the strange-looking personage in the right-hand corner is usually called dick solus, from his almost invariably appearing abroad by himself, or dangling after the steps of some fair thespian, to the single of whom he is a very constant tormentor. mrs. egan of the theatre, 'who knows what's what,' has christened him mr. dillytouch; while the heroes of the sock and buskin as invariably describe him by the appellation of shake, from an unpleasant action he has both in walking and sitting. the sour-visaged gentleman at this moment in conversation with him is the renowned peter paul pallet, esq., otherwise the reverend mr. m-----------. behind them appears a celebrated dentist and his son, who has attained the rank of m.d., both well known here by the titles of the grand duke of tusk-aney and count punn-tusk-y, a pair of worthies always on the lookout for business, and hence very constant attendants at the promenade in the pump-room. the old gentleman in the chintz morning-gown hobbling along on crutches, from the gout, is a retired vinegar merchant, the father of a chancery m.p., of whom the bath wags say, 'that when in business, he must always have carried a sample of his best vinegar in his face.'" at this moment old blackstrap advanced, and requested permission to introduce to our notice jack physick, an honest lawyer, and, as he said, one of the cleverest fellows and best companions in bath. jack had the good fortune to marry one of the prettiest and most attractive actresses that ever appeared upon the bath stage, miss jamieson, upon which occasion, the wags circulated many pleasant _jeux d'esprits_ on the union of "love, law, and physic." the arrival of a very pompous gentleman, who appeared to ~ ~~excite general observation, gave my friend eglantine an opportunity of relating an anecdote of the eccentric, who figures in pultney-street under the cognomen of the bath bashaw. "there," said horace, "you may see him every morning decorated in his flannel _robe de chambre_ and green velvet cap, seated outside in his balcony, smoking an immensely large german pipe, and sending forth clouds of fragrant perfume, which are pleasantly wafted right or left as the wind blows along the breakfast tables of his adjoining neighbours. this eccentric was originally a foundling discovered on the steps of a door in rath, and named by the parochial officers, parish: by great perseverance and good fortune he became a hambro' merchant, and in process of time realized a handsome property, which, much to his honour and credit, he retired to spend a portion of among the inhabitants of this city, thus paying a debt of gratitude to those who had protected him in infancy when he was abandoned by his unnatural parents. the little fellow yonder with a military air, and no want of self-conceit, is a field-officer of the bath volunteers, adjutant captain o'donnel, a descendant from the mighty king bryan baroch, and, as we say at eton, no _small beer man_, i assure you." "who is that gigantic fellow just entering the rooms'?" said heartly. "that is long heavisides," replied eglantine, "whom handsome jack and two or three more of the bath wits have christened, in derision, mr. light-sides, a right pleasant fellow, quite equal in intellect and good-humour to the altitude of his person, which, i am told, measures full six feet six." "gentlemen," said the facetious blackstrap, "here comes an old lady who has paid dearly for a bit of the brown, lately the relict of the late admiral m'dougal, and now fresh at seventy the blooming wife of a young spark who has just attained the years of discretion, at least, as far as regards ~ ~~pecuniary affairs; for before leading the old lady into church, she very handsomely settled three thousand per annum upon her adonis, as some little compensation to his feelings, for the rude jests and jeers he was doomed to bear with from his boon companions." "eyes right, lads," said eglantine; "the tall stout gentleman in a blue surtout and white trowsers is general b---------." "pshaw! never mind his name," said heartly; "what are his peculiarities?" "why--imprimis, he has a lovely young female commander in chief by his side--is a great reader with a very little memory. a very good story is told of him, that i fear might be applied with equal justice to many other great readers; namely, that some wags having at different times altered the title-page, and pasted together various leaves of a popular scotch novel, they thus successfully imposed upon the general the task of reading the same matter three times over--by this means creating in his mind an impression, not very far from the truth, that all the works of the great unknown bore a very close similitude to each other; an opinion which the general is said to maintain very strenuously unto this hour. of all the characters in the busy scene of life which can excite a pleasurable sensation in the close observer of men and manners, is your gay ancient, whether male or female; the sprightly evergreens of society, whose buoyant spirits outlive the fiery course of youth, while their playful leafage buds forth in advanced life with all the freshness, fragrance, and vigour of the more youthful plants. such," said eglantine, "is the old beau yonder, my friend curtis, who is here quaintly denominated the everlasting. [illustration: page ] the jolly bacchanalian, who accompanies him in his morning's lounge, is charles davis, a right jolly fellow, universally respected, although, it must be admitted, he is a _party_ man, since in a ~ ~~show of hands, charles must always, unfortunately, be on one side." a promenade up and down the room, and a visit to the goddess hygeia, for such, i suppose, the ancient matron who dispenses the healing draught must be designated, gave us an opportunity of observing the fresh arrivals, among whom we had the pleasure to meet with an old naval officer, known to heartly, a victim to the gout, wheeled about in a chair, expecting, to use his own sea phrase, to go to pieces every minute, but yet full of spirits as an admiral's grog bottle, as fond of a good joke as a fresh-caught reefer, and as entertaining as the surgeon's mate, or the chaplain of the fleet. "i say, master heavtly," said the captain, "the frigate yonder with the brown breast works, and she with the pink facings, look something like privateers. my forelights, master heartly, but if i had the use of my under works, i should be for firing a little grape shot across their quarters to see if i could not bring them into action!" "and i will answer for it, they would not show any objection to lie alongside of you, captain," said eglantine, "while you had got a shot left in your locker. mere cyprian traders, captain, from the gulf of venus, engaged in gudgeon bawling, or on the lookout for flat fish. the little craft, with the black top, is called the throgmorton; and the one alongside the ormsby of berkeley is the pretty lacy, a prime frigate, and quite new in the service. if you have a mind to sail up the straits of cytherea, captain, i can answer for it we shall fall in with a whole fleet of these light vessels, the two sisters; the emery's; the yawl, thomson; that lively little cutter, jackson; the transports, king and hill; the lugger, lewis; and the country ship, the lady grosvenor, all well found, and ready for service, and only waiting to be well manned. a good story is just now afloat about the lacy, who, being recently taken up for private trade by commodore bowen, was ~ ~~discovered to be sailing under false colours. it appears, that during the commander's absence a dashing enemy, the captain of the hussar, a man of war, had entered the cabin privately, and having satisfied himself of the state of the vessel, took an opportunity to overhaul the ship's stores, when drinking rather freely of some choice love~age, a cordial kept expressly for the commodore's own use, he was unexpectedly surprised by the return of the old commander on board; and in making his escape through the cabin window into a boat he had in waiting, unfortunately left his time-piece and topmast behind. this circumstance is said to have put the commodore out of conceit with his little frigate, who has since been paid off', and is now chartered for general purposes." at this little episode of a well-known bath story, the captain laughed heartily, and transit was so much amused thereat, that on coming in contact with the commodore and the captain in our perambulations, he furnished the accompanying sketch of that very ludicrous scene, under the head of the bath beau and frail belle, or mr. b------and miss l-----. an excellent band of music, which continues to play from one to half past three o'clock every day during the season, greatly increases the attraction to the rooms, and also adds much to the cheerfulness and gaiety of the scene. we had now nearly exhausted our materials for observation; and having, to use transit's phrase, booked every thing worthy of note, taken each of us a glass of the bath water, although i confess not swallowing it without some qualmish apprehensions from the recollection of the four lines in anstey's bath guide. "they say it is right that for every glass, a tune you should take that the water may pass; so while little tabby was washing her rump, the ladies kept drinking it out of the pump." ~ ~~a very pleasant piece of satire, but somewhat, as i understand, at the expense of truth, since the well from which the water in the pump room is obtained is many feet below the one that supplies the baths; situation certainly assists the view of the satirist. i ought not to pass over here the story told us by our old friend blackstrap, respecting the first discovery of these waters by bladud, the son of lud hudibras, king of britain; a fabulous tale, which, for the benefit of the city all true bathonians are taught to lisp with their horn book, and believe with their creed, as genuine orthodox; and on which subject my friend horace furnished the following impromptu. oh, lud! oh, lud! that hogs and mud{ } should rival sage m.d.'s; and hot water, in this quarter, cure each foul disease. "throw physic to the dogs, i'll have none on't,'" said horace: "if hot water can effect such wonders, why, a plague on all the doctors! let a man be content to distil his medicine fresh from his own teakettle, or make his washing copper serve the double purpose for domestic uses and a medicated bath. 'but what is surprising, no mortal e'er view'd any one of the physical gentlemen stew'd. from the day that king bladud first found out these bogs, and thought them so good for himself and his hogs, not one of the faculty ever has tried these excellent waters to cure his own hide; though many a skilful and learned physician, with candour, good sense, and profound erudition, obliges the world with the fruits of his brain, their nature and hidden effects to explain.' see the fabulous account alluded to in warner's history of bath, where bladud is represented to have discovered the properties of the warm springs at beechen wood swainswick, by observing the hogs to wallow in the mud that was impregnated therewith, and thus to have derived the knowledge of a cure for 'tis leprous affection. ~ ~~but _allons_, lads," said horace, "we are here to follow the fashion, and indulge in all the eccentricities of the place; to note the follies of the time, and depict the chief actors, without making any personal sacrifice to correct the evil. our satire will do more to remove old prejudices when it appears in print, aided by bob transit's pencil, than all our reasonings upon the spot can hope to effect, although we followed mr. m'culloch's economy, and lectured upon decency from break of day to setting sun. in quitting the pump-room we must not, however, omit to notice the statue of beau nash, before which transit appears, in _propria personæ_, sketching off the marble memento, without condescending to notice the busts of pope and newton, which fill situations on each side; a circumstance which in other times produced the following epigram from the pen of the witty earl of chesterfield. "the statue plac'd the busts between adds satire to the strength; wisdom and wit are little seen, but folly at full length." such is the attachment of man to the recollections of any thing associated with pleasure, that it is questionable if the memory of old joe miller is not held in higher estimation by the moderns than that of father luther, the reformer; and while the numerous amusing anecdotes in circulation tend to keep alive the fame of nash, it is not surprising that the merry pay court to his statue, being in his own dominions, before they bow at the classic shrine of pope, or bend in awful admiration beneath the bust of the greatest of philosophers. "'twas said of old, deny it now who can, the only laughing animal is man." and we are about to present the reader with a right merry scene, one, too, if he has any fun in his composition, or loves a good joke, must warm the cockles ~ ~~of his heart. who would ever have thought, in these moralizing times, when the puritans are raising conventicles in every town and village, and the cant of vice societies has spread itself over the land, that in one of our most celebrated places of fashionable resort, there should be found baths where the young and the old, the beauteous female and the gay spark, are all indiscriminately permitted to enjoy the luxurious pleasure together. that such is the case in bath no one who has recently participated in the pleasures of immersion will dispute, and in order to perpetuate that gratification, bob transit has here faithfully delineated the scene which occurred upon our entering the king's bath, through the opening from the queen's, where, to our great amusement and delight, we found ourselves surrounded by many a sportive nymph, whose beauteous form was partially hidden by the loose flannel gown, it is true; but now and then the action of the water, produced by the continued movements of a number of persons all bathing at the same time, discovered charms, the which to have caught a glimpse of in any other situation might have proved of dangerous consequences to the fair possessors. the baths, it must be admitted, are delightful, both from their great extent and their peculiar properties, as, on entering from the queen's bath you may enjoy the water at from to degrees, or requiring more heat have only to walk forward, through the archway, to obtain a temperature of . the first appearance of old blackstrap's visage floating along the surface of the water, like the grog-blossomed trunk of the ancient bardolph, bound up in a welsh wig, was truly ludicrous, and produced such an unexpected burst of laughter from my merry companions, that i feared some of the fair naiads would have fainted in the waters from fright, and then heaven help them, for decency would have prevented our rushing to their assistance. the notices to prevent gentlemen ~ ~~from swimming in the baths are, in my opinion, so many inducements or suggestions for every young visitor to attempt it. among our mad wags, horace eglantine was more than once remonstrated with by the old bathing women for indulging in this pleasure, to the great alarm of the ladies, who, crowding together in one corner with their aged attendants, appeared to be in a high state of apprehension lest the loose flannel covering that guards frail mortality upon these occasions should be drawn aside, and discover nature in all her pristine purity--an accident that had very nearly happened to myself, when, in endeavouring to turn round quickly, i found the water had disencumbered my frame of the yellow bathing robe, which floated on the surface behind me. [illustration: page ] one circumstance which made our party more conspicuous, was, the rejection of the welsh wigs, which not all the entreaties of the attendant could induce any of the wags to wear. the young ladies disfigure themselves by wearing the black bonnets of the bathing women; but spite of this masquerading in the water, their lovely countenances and soul-subduing eyes, create sensations that will be more easily conceived than prudently described. a certain facetious writer, who has published his "walks through bath," alluding to this practice, speaks of it as having been prohibited in the fifteenth century. how long such prohibition, if it ever took place, continued, it is not for me to know; but if the bath peripatetic historian had made it his business to have seen what he has described, he would have found, that the practice of bathing males and females together in _puris naturalibus_ was still continued in high perfection, in spite of the puritans, the vice society, or the prohibition of bishop beckyngton.{ } it appears, that about the middle of the fifteenth century it was the custom for males and females to bathe together, in puris naturalibus, which was at length prohibited by bishop beckyngton, who ordered, by way of distinction, the wearing of breeches and petticoats; this indecency was suppressed, after considerable difficulty, at the end of the sixteenth century, (quere, what indecency does our author of the "walks through bath" mean? the incumbrance of the breeches and petticoats, we must imagine). it also seems, that about it was the fashion for both sexes to bathe together indiscriminately, and the ladies used to decorate their heads with all the advantages of dress, as a mode of attracting attention and heightening their charms. the husband of a lady in one of the baths, in company with beau nash, was so much enraptured with the appearance of his wife, that he very im-prudently observed, "she looked like an angel, and he wished to be with her." nash immediately seized him by the collar, and threw him into the bath; this circumstance produced a duel, and nash was wounded in his right arm: it however had the good effect of establishing the reputation of nash, who shortly after became master of the ceremonies. ~ ~~ "you cannot conceive what a number of ladies were wash'd in the water the same as our maid is: how the ladies did giggle and set up their clacks all the while an old woman was rubbing their backs; oh! 'twas pretty to see them all put on their flannels, and then take the water, like so many spaniels; and though all the while it grew hotter and hotter, they swam just as if they were hunting an otter. 'twas a glorious sight to behold the fair sex all wading with gentlemen up to their necks, and view them so prettily tumble and sprawl in a great smoking kettle as big as our hall; and to-day many persons of rank and condition were boil'd, by command of an able physician." from the baths we migrated to the grand promenade of fashion, milsom street, not forgetting to take a survey of the old abbey church, which, as a monument of architectural grandeur without, and of dread monition within, is a building worthy the attention of the antiquarian and the philosopher; while perpetuating the remembrance of many a cherished name to worth, to science, and to virtue dear, the artist and the amateur may derive much gratification from examining the many excellent ~ ~~pieces of sculpture with which the abbey abounds. but for us, gay in disposition, and scarcely allowing ourselves time for reflection, such a scene had few charms, unless, indeed, the english spy could have separated himself from the buoyant spirits with which he was attended, and then, wrapt in the gloom of the surrounding scene, and given up to serious contemplation, the emblems of mortality which decorate the gothic pile might have conjured up in his mind's eye the forms of many a departed spirit, of the blest shades of long-lost parents and of social friends, of those who, living, lent a lustre to the arts, of witty madcaps frost-bitten by the sable tyrant death, nipped in the very bud of youth, while yet the sparkling jest was ripe upon the merry lip, and the ruddy glow of health upon the cheek gave earnest of a lengthened life------but, soft! methinks i hear my reader exclaim, "how now, madcap, moralizing mr. spy? art thou, too, bitten by the desire to philosophize, thou, 'the very spy o' the time,' the merry buoyant rogue who has laughed all serious scenes to scorn, and riding over hill, and dale, and verdant plain upon thy fiery courser, fleet as the winds, collecting the cream of comicalities, and, beshrew thee, witling, plucking the brightest flowers that bloom in the road of pleasure to give thy merry garland's perfume, and deck thy page withal, art thou growing serious? then is doomsday near; and poor, deserted, care-worn man left unprotected to the tempest's rage!" not so, good reader, we are still the same merry, thoughtless, laughing, buoyant sprite that thou hast known us for the last two years; but the archer cannot always keep his bow upon the stretching point; so there are scenes, and times, and fancies produced by recollective circumstances and objects, which create strange conceits even in the light-hearted bosom of the english spy. such was the train of reflections which rushed in ~ ~~voluntarily upon my mind as i noted down the passing events of the day, a practice usual with me when, retiring from the busy hum of men, i seek the retirement of my chamber to commit my thoughts to paper. i had recently passed through the depository where rest the remains of a tender mother--had sought the spot, unnoticed by my light-hearted companions, and having bedewed with tears of gratitude her humble grave, gave vent to my feelings, by the following tribute to a parent's worth. my mother's grave. beneath yon ivy-mantled wall, in a lone corner, where the earth presents a rising green mound, all of her who lov'd and gave me birth lies buried deep. no trophied stone, or graven verse denotes the spot: her worth her epitaph alone, the green-sward grave her humble lot. how silent sleep the virtuous dead! for them few sculptured honours rise, no marble tablet here to spread a fame--their every act implies. no mockery here, nor herald's shield, to glitter o'er a bed of clay; but snow-drops and fresh violets yield a tribute to worth pass'd away. tread lightly, ye who love or know en life's young road a parent's worth, who yet are strangers to the woe of losing those who gave you birth, ~ ~~ who cherish'd, fondled, fed, and taught from infancy to manhood's pride, directing every opening thought, teaching how reason's power should guide. ye rich and bold, ye grave and gay, ye mightiest of the sons of men, wealth, honours, fame shall sink away, and all be equalized again; save what the sculptor may pourtray, and any tyrant, fool, or knave who has the wealth, may in that way his name from dull oblivion save; that is, he may perpetuate his worthlessness, his frauds, and crimes; no matter what his tomb relate, his character lives with the times. shade of my parent! couldst thou hear the voice of him, thine only child, implore thy loss with filial tear, and deck thy grave with sonnets wild, 'twould all thy troubles past repay, thy anxious cares, thy hopes and fears, to find as time stole life away, thy mem'ry brighten'd with his years. yes, sacred shade! while mem'ry guides this ever wild eccentric brain, while reason holds or virtue chides, still will i pour the filial strain. "what," said my old friend horace eglantine, after reading this tribute to parental worth, "bernard blackmantle moralizing; our spy turned ~ ~~monody-maker, writing epitaphs, and elegies, and odes to spirits that have no corporal substance, when there are so many living subjects yet left for his merrier muse to dwell upon? come, old fellow, shake off this lethargy of the mind, this vision of past miseries, and prepare for present merriments. 'the streets begin to fill, the motley throng to see and to be seen, now trip along; some lounge in the bazaars, while others meet to take a turn or two in milsom-street; some eight or ten round mirvan's shop remain, to stare at those who gladly stare again.' in short, my dear fellow, we are all waiting your company to join the swells in milsom-street; where, i have no doubt, you will find many a star of fashion, whose eccentricities you will think justly entitles him to a niche in your gallery of living characters. 'lords of the creation, who, half awake, adorn themselves their daily lounge to take; each lordly man his taper waist displays, combs his sweet locks, and laces on his stays, ties on his starch'd cravat with nicest care, and then steps forth to petrify the fair.' such, for instance, is that roué yonder, the very prince of bath fops, handsome jack, whose vanity induces him to assert that his eyebrows are worth one hundred per annum to any young fellow in pursuit of a fortune: it should, however, be admitted, that his gentlemanly manners and great good-nature more than compensate for any little detractions on the score of self-conceit. what the son is, the father was in earlier life; and the old beau is not a little gratified to observe the estimation in which his son is held by the fair sex, on account of his attractive person and still more prepossessing manners. "you have heard of peagreen hayne's exploits at burdrop park; and here comes the proprietor of the ~ ~~place, honest tom calley, as jovial a true-hearted english gentleman as ever followed a pack of foxhounds, or gloried in preserving and promoting the old english hospitalities of the table: circumstances, the result of some hard runs and long odds, have a little impaired the family exchequer; however the good wishes of all who know him attend him in adversity. but the clouds which have for a time obstructed his sunshine of mirth are fast wearing away, and when he shall return to the enjoyment of his patrimonial acres, he will be sure to meet a joyous welcome from all surrounding him, accompanied with the heartfelt congratulations of those to whom in bath he is particularly endeared. the smart little fellow driving by in his cabriolet is beau burgess, a single star, and one of no mean attraction among the fair spinsters, who can estimate the merits and admire the refulgence of ten thousand sovereign attendant satellites. [illustration: page ] bath is, perhaps, now the only place in the kingdom where there is yet to be found a four-in-hand club; a society of gentlemen jehus, who formerly in london cut no inconsiderable figure in the annals of fashion, and who, according to our mode of estimating the amusements of the gay world, were very unfairly satirized, seeing, that with the pursuit of pleasure was combined the additional employment of a large number of mechanics, and a stimulus given, not only to the improvement of a noble breed of horses, but to the acquirement of a knowledge, the perfection of which in the metropolis is particularly necessary to the existence of the peripatetic pleasures of his majesty's subjects. here we have colonel allen, who puts along a good team in very prime style, and having lately been spliced to a good fortune, is a perfect master in the _manage_-ment of the bit. "squire richards is, also, by no means a contemptible knight of the ribbons, only he sometimes measures ~ ~~his distance a little too closely; a practice, which if he does not improve upon, may some day, in turning a corner, not bring him off right. 'a follower of the buxton school and a true knight of the throng,' says old tom whipcord in the annals of sporting, 'must not expect to drive four high-bred horses well with an opera-glass stuck in his right ogle.' a bit of good advice that will not only benefit the squire if he attends to it, but perhaps save the lives of one or two of the bath pedestrians. the leader of the club, who, by way of distinction from his namesake the colonel, is designated scotch allen, is really a noble whip, putting along four horses in first-rate style, all brought well up to their work, and running together as close and as regular as the wheels of his carriage. the comical little character upon the strawberry pony is the bath adonis; a fine specimen of the irish antique, illustrated with a beautiful brogue,and emblazoned with a gold coat of arms. the amours of old b-----------in bath would very well fill a volume of themselves; but the anecdote i gave you in the pump-room of little lacy and her paramour will be sufficient to show you in what estimation he is held by the ladies." "give me leave to introduce you to a raer fellow," said heartly; "an old friend of mine, who has all his lifetime been a wholesale dealer in choice spirits, and having now bottled off enough for the remainder of his life, is come to spend the evening of his days in bath among the bon vivants of the elegant city, enjoying the tit bits of pleasure, and courting the sweet society of the pretty girls. by heavens! boys, we shall be found out, and you, mr. spy, will be the ruin of us all, for here comes our old sporting acquaintance, charles bannatyne, with his jackall at his heels, accompanied by that mad wag oemsby, the cheltenham amateur of fashion, and the gallant little lieutenant valombre, who having formerly made a rich capture of spanish dollars, is perhaps upon the look-out here ~ ~~for a frigate well-laden with english specie, in order to sail in consort, and cruize off the straits of independence for life. well, success attend him," said heartly; "for he well deserves a good word whether at sea or on shore. the military-looking gentleman yonder, who is in close conversation with that rough diamond, ellis, once a london attorney, is the highly-respected colonel fitzgerald, whom our friend transit formerly caricatured under the cognomen of colonel saunter, a good-humoured joke, with which he is by no means displeased himself." "but, my dear fellows," said transit, "if we remain fixed to this spot much longer, we shall have the eyes of all the _beau monde_ upon us, and stand a chance of being pointed at for the rest of the time that we remain in bath." a piece of advice that was not wholly unnecessary, for being personally known to a few of the sporting characters, our visit to the elegant city had spread like wildfire, and on our appearance in milsom-street, a very general desire was expressed by the beaux to have a sight of the english spy and his friend transit, by whose joint labours they anticipated they might hereafter live to fame. one of the most remarkable personages of the old school still left to bath is the celebrated captain mathews, the author of "a short treatise on whist," and the same gentleman who at an early period of life contested with the late r. b. sheridan, upon lansdowne, for the fair hand of the beauteous miss lindly, the lady to whom the wit was afterwards married. in this way did my pleasant friends heartly and eglantine continue to furnish me with brief notices of the most attractive of the stars of fashion who usually lounge away the mornings in milsom-street, exchanging the familiar nod and "how d'ye do?" and holding sweet discourse among their fragrant selves upon the pursuits of the _haute classe_, the merits of the last new novel, or the fortune of the last unmarried feminine ~ ~~arrival. to these may be added reminiscences of the last night's card-table and remarks upon the balls at the rooms; for "two musical parties to bladud belong, to delight the old rooms and the upper; one gives to the ladies a supper, no song, and the other a song and no supper." "the _jolie_ dame to the right," said horace, "is the mother of england's best friend, the secretary for the foreign department, george canning, a man to whom we are all indebted for the amalgamation of party, and the salvation of the country the clerical who follows immediately behind mrs. hunn is a reverend gentleman whose daughters both recently eloped from his house on the same morning attended by favoured lovers to bind with sacred wreaths their happy destinies at the shrine of hymen." we had now reached the bottom of the street again, after having made at least a dozen promenades to and fro, and were on the point of retiring to our hotel to dress for dinner, when heartly directed my attention to a dashing roue, who, dressed in the extreme of superlative style, was accompanied by a beautiful piece of fair simplicity in the garb of a puritan. "that," said my friend, "is the beautiful miss d**t--one of the faithful, whom the dashing count l***c***t has recently induced to say ay for life: thus gaining a double prize of no mean importance by one stroke of good luck--a fine girl and a fine fortune into the bargain." i must not forget our friend the consulting surgeon h***ks, or omit to notice that in bath the faculty are all distinguished by some peculiar title of this sort, as, the digestive physician, the practical apothecary, and the operative chemist; a piece of quackery not very creditable to their acknowledged skill and general respectability. at dinner we were again joined by our facetious ~ ~~friend blackstrap, who, to use his own phraseology, having made "a good morning's work of it," hoped he might be permitted to make one among us, a request with which we were most willing to comply. in the evening, after the bottle had circulated freely, some of our party proposed a visit to the theatre, but as bath theatricals could not be expected to afford much amusement to london frequenters of the theatres royal, transit suggested our sallying forth for a spree;" for," said he, "i have not yet booked a bit of true life since i have been in bath. the pump-room, the bathers, and the swells in milsom-street, are all very well for the lovers of elegant life; but our sporting friends and old college chums will expect to see a genuine touch or two of the broad humour of bath--something suburban and funny. cannot you introduce us to any thing pleasant of this sort!" said transit, addressing blackstrap: "perhaps give us a sight of the interior of a snug convent, or show us where the bath wonderfuls resort to carouse and sing away their cares."--"it is some years since," said blackstrap, "that in the company of a few merry wags, i paid a visit to the buff-club in avon-street: but as you, gentlemen, appear disposed for a little fun, if you will pledge yourselves to be directed by me, i will undertake to introduce you to a scene far exceeding in profligacy and dissipation the most florid picture which our friend transit has yet furnished of the back settlements in the holy-land." with this understanding, and with no little degree of anticipatory pleasure, did our merry group set forth to take a survey of the interior of the long room at the pig and whistle in avon-street. of the origin of this sign, blackstrap gave us a very humorous anecdote: the house was formerly, it would appear, known by the sign of the crown and thistle, and was at that time the resort of the irish traders who visited bath to dispose of their linens. one of these emeralders ~ ~~having lost his way, and being unable to recollect either the name of the street or the sign of his inn, thus addressed a countryman whom he accidentally met: "sure i've quite forgotten the sign of my inn." "be after mentioning something like it, my jewel," said his friend. "sure it's very like the pig and whistle," replied the enquirer. "by the powers, so it is:--the crown and thistle, you mean;" and from this mistake of the emeralder, the house has ever since been so designated. upon our visit to this scene of uproarious mirth, we found it frequented by the lowest and most depraved characters in society; the mendicants, and miserable of the female sex, who, lost to every sense of shame or decency, assemble here to indulge in profligacies, the full description of which must not stain the pages of the english spy. [illustration: page ] as a scene of low life, my friend transit has done it ample justice, where the portraits of lady grosvenor as one of the cyprian frequenters is designated, the toad in a hole, and lucy the fair, will be easily recognised. a gallon of gin for the ladies, and a liberal distribution of beer and tobacco for the males, made us very welcome guests, and insured us, during our short stay, at least from personal interruption. it may be asked why such a house is licensed by the magistracy; but when it is known that characters of this sort will always be found in well-populated places, and that the doors are regularly closed at eleven o'clock, it is perhaps thought to be a measure of prudence to let them continue to assemble in an obscure part of the suburbs, where they congregate together under the vigilant eye of the police, instead of being driven abroad to seek fresh places of resort, and by this means increase the evils of society. the next morning saw my friend transit and myself again prepared to separate from our friends heartly and eglantine, on our way to worcester, ~ ~~where we had promised to pay a visit to old crony on our road back to london. reader, if our sketches in bath are somewhat brief, remember we are ever on the wing in search of novelty, and are not disposed to stay one day longer in any place than it affords fresh food for pen and pencil in the characters we have sketched we disclaim any thought of personal offence; eccentrics are public property, and must not object to appear in print, seeing that they are in the journey through life allowed to ride a free horse, without that curb which generally restrains the conduct of others but i must here take my farewell of the elegant city of that attractive spot of which bayley justly sings "in this auspicious region all mankind (whate'er their taste) congenial joys may find; here monied men may pass for men of worth; and wealthy cits may hide plebeian birth. here men devoid of cash may live with ease, appear genteel, and pass for what they please." waggeries at worcester. ~ ~~the meeting with an old friend at worcester induced us to domicile there for the space of three days, during which time i will not say we were laid up with lavender, but certainly near enough to scent it. most of our worcester acquaintance will however understand what is meant by this allusion to one of the pleasantest fellows that ever commanded the uncivil customers in the castle, since the time of the civil wars. the city is perhaps as quiet a dull place as may be found within his majesty's dominions, where a cannon-ball might be fired down the principal street at noon-day without killing more than the ruby-nosed incumbent of a fat benefice, a superannuated tradesman, or a manufacturer of crockery-ware. no stranger should, however, pass through the place without visiting the extensive china works of messrs. flight and barr, to which the greatest facility is given by the proprietors; and the visit must amply repay any admirer of the arts. a jovial evening, spent with our old friend of the castle, had ended with a kind invitation from him to partake of a spread at his hotel on the following morning; but such was the apprehensions of transit at the idea of entering this mansion of the desolate, from being troubled with certain qualmish remembrances of the previous night's debauch, that not all my intreaties, nor the repeated messages of the worthy commander of the castle, could bring our friend transit to book. ~ ~~to those who know my friend john, and there are few of any respectability who do not both know and admire him, his facetious talent will require but little introduction. lavender is what a man of the world, whose business it has been to watch over the interests of society, should be, superior in education and in mind, to any one i ever met with filling a similar situation: the governor of the castle is a companion for a lord, or to suit the purposes of justice, instantly metamorphosed into an out and outer, a regular knowing cove, whose knowledge of flash and the cant and slang used by the dissolute is considered to be superior to that of any public officer. a specimen of this will be found in the following note, which a huge fellow of a turnkey brought to my bedside, and then apologised for disturbing me, by pleading the governor's instructions. "queer coves, "i hope you have left your dabs,{ } and nobs,{ } all right: perhaps prime legs{ } is queer in the oration-box{ } from a too frequent use of the steamer{ } last darky.{ } i make this fakement{ } to let you know i and morning spread are waiting. steel-hotel, yours, &c. june , . lockit." [illustration: page ] my readers will very readily conceive that with such a companion we were not long in tracing out what little of true life was to be found in worcester, and certainly one of the pleasantest scenes in which we participated was a visit to the subscription bowling alley, where, in the summer time, the most respectable of the inhabitants of worcester meet every evening beds. heads. cruikshank.. cranium. a pipe. night. a note. ~ ~~for recreation; and a right pleasant company we found them. the caleb quotem of the society, dr. davis, united in one person all the acquirements of the great original: he not only keeps the time of the city, but keeps all the musicians of the place in time; regulates the watch and the watches, and plays a solo _à la dragonetti_ upon the double bass. sam swan is another choice spirit, who sings a good chant, lives well respected, and sails down the stream of time as pleasantly as if he was indeed a royal bird. an old burdettite, will shunk, recognised in us a partizan of the government candidate at one of the westminster elections: "but, sir," said will, "politics and i have nearly parted; for you must know, i am tolerably _well breeched_, and can fairly say i am hand and glove with all the first nobility in the kingdom." a truth to which captain corls readily assented by explaining that master william shunk was a first-rate glover, and considered worth a plum at least: "in short, sir," said the captain, "he is a nabob here, and brings to my mind some of the eastern princes with whom i have met during my campaigns in the east." the very mention of which exploit induced our friend the governor to tip us the office, and the joke was well humoured until silver powell, who they say comes from norfolk, interrupted our travels in india, with, "captain, can't you see that ere athlantic fellow, the governor, is making fun of you to amuse his london friends." a hint that appeared to strike the captain very forcibly, for it struck him dumb. a good-humoured contest between honest joe shelton, and probert the school-master, elicited some very comical exposures in the way of recriminations. joe, it would appear, is an artist in economy; and an old story about a lobster raised joe's ire to its height, and produced the lex taliones on probert, ~ ~~whose habits of frugality wanted his competitor's humour to make them pass current. transit, who had been amusing himself with sketching the characters, had become acquainted with a sporting reverend, whose taste for giblets had proved rather expensive; and who was most desirous of appearing in print: a favor merry stephen godson, the lawyer, requested might also be extended to him." "ay," said john portman, "and if you want a character for your foreground rich in colour, my phiz is much at your service; and here's george brookes, the radical, to form a good dark object in the distance." in this way the evening passed off very pleasantly. our friend had made the object of our visit to the bowling alley known to some few of his intimates, circumstance that i have no doubt rather operated to prevent a display of some of those good-humoured eccentricities with which it is not unfrequently marked. upon my return to town, i received a farewell ode from my spirit in the clouds, evidently written under a misconception that the english spy was about to withdraw himself for a time, from his sketches on men and manners, when in fact, although his labours will here close with the completion of a second volume, his friends will find, that he is most desirous of still engaging their attentions in a new form, attended not only by all his former associates, but uniting in his train the brightest and the merriest of all the choice spirits of the age. bernard blackmantle to his readers. to prevent a misconception, and do himself justice, the author of the english spy feels it necessary to state, that in every instance the subjects for the plates illustrating this work have been furnished by his pen, and not unfrequently, the rough ideas have ~ ~~first emanated from his own pencil; while he states this fact to prevent error, he is most anxious to acknowledge the great assistance he has derived from the inimitable humour and graphic skill in the execution of the designs, by his friend robert transit. [illustration: page ] a short ode at parting, from his "spirit in the clouds" to the english spy. ~ ~~ prospero. now does my project gather to a head; my charms crack not; my spirits obey: ----how's the day? ariel. on the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, you said our work should cease. --shakspkare's tempest. so fare you well; i have left you commands. ibid.--as you like it. "'tis true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true," that though on fairest winds we flew, i in the clouds, beneath them you, we still must parted be; and that, e'en whilst the world still hung on what you wrote, and what i sung, enamour'd of our double tongue, exits my bernard b-----. well, all great actors must have pause, when toiling in a patriot cause, and ere another scene he draws, new characters to cast, ~ ~~ secure of having played his part, as nature dictates, from the heart, 'tis fair before another start, he brush up from the last. but how will humbugs of the age, (i don't mean mr. b.'s dull page,) crow that they scape satiric rage, and get off in whole skins; how will dramatic fools rejoice! no more is heard great bernard's voice, and that, heav'n knows, there is a choice, their flummery begins.{ } but go your ways; it may be wise, to let these puny, pestering flies buzz about people's ears and eyes, a season or two longer; there must be evil mixed with good, a bottom to the clearest flood, and let them stand where others stood, till shown who is the stronger. then, fortune-hunting squires of bath, fine as the burmese jewell'd rath,{ } pray totter o'er your bond-street path, a respite short is yours. i speak of would-be actors (male and female), vain and incompetent managers, flippant and unequal critics, puffed and translating authors, in short, of all before and behind the curtain who have injured, or may injuro, the legitimate drama. let the theatres, like our trade, be free, and monopoly thrive not, and for their success the spirit will ever pray; at present, it is "a mad world, my masters;" and i am afraid mr. rayner with his long and set speeches, as chairman of thomas's shakspeareans, will not mend the matter. we note this to him in a friendly way; seeing, that he is a worthy fellow, and a clever caliban, and really loves shakspeare next to newmarket and doncaster. the burmese carriage is certainly a curious machine of indian workmanship; but it is, we should fancy, mere outside--fine to look at, but a "rum one to go," like the be-togged, be-booted, be-spurred, furred, and cloaked half pays, fortune-hunters, gentlemen with the brogue, &c. that pay their court so assiduously to mrs. dolland's cheesecakes and mr. heaviside's quadrilles. but the world is often ornament caught. ~ ~~ and daughter-selling mothers, still lure the young boys, their eyes may kill, to wed your flesh and blood, and fill your purse, and pay your tours. ye london blacks, ye cheltenham whites,{ } ye turners of the days to nights, make, make the most of all your flights, whilst i and bernard doze; but still be sure, by this same token, we still shall sleep with one eye open{ } and the first hour our nap is broken, you'll pay for't through the nose. there are indeed "black spirits and white spirits" of all sorts and sizes, at all times and places; and a well-cut coat and a white satin dress are frequently equally dangerous glossings to frail and cunning mortality within. to be sure, we have brought down the "tainted wethers of dame nature's flock" with the double barrels of wit and satire, right and left; but like mushrooms or mole-hills, they are a breeding, increasing species, and it will be only a real battue of sharp-shooting that will destroy the coveys. nevertheless, "i have a rod in pickle, their------------------" i declare the spirit is growing earthly. the bristol men "down along," sleep, they say, in this way and hence is it rare for jew or gentile, turk or infidel, to get the blind side of them. some of them, however, have ere now been done brown, and that too by being too fanciful and neat in their likings. these tales of the sleepers of an eye are too good to be lost; they shall be bound up in the volume of my brain, hereafter to be perused with advantage. at present, "i hear a voice thou canst not hear; i see a hand thou canst not see; it calls to me from yonder sphere, it points to where my brethren be." ~ when that time comes, and come it must, for what we say is not pie-crust, to yield to every trifling thrust, england shall see some fun. like "eagles in a dove-cote," we both rooks and pigeons will make flee, whilst every cashless company shall, laugh'd at, "cut and run." thus telling painted folly's sect, what they're to look to, what expect, my farewell words i now direct to thee, migrating spy; that done, deliver'd all commands, i man a cloud-ship with brave hands, and sail to (quitting mortal lands), my parlour in the sky. bernard, farewell; may rosy health companion'd by that cherub wealth, be constant to you, like myself, your own departing spirit. not that you're going to die; no, no, you'll only take a nap or so; but yet i wish you, 'fore you go, these blessings to inherit. bernard, farewell; pray think of me, when you ride earth, or cross the sea; on both, you know, i've been with thee, and sung some pretty things; great spy, farewell; when next you rise to make of fools a sacrifice, you'll hear, down-cleaving from the skies, the rustle of my wings. january, . ~ ~~ bernard blackmantle and bob transit, [illustration: page ] the end. tom brown at oxford thomas hughes ( - ) [illustration: ] [illustration: ] with illustrations by sydney p. hall new york: john w. lovell company worth street, corner mission place publishing history first serialized ending in circa in macmillan's magazine (mentioned by the author in his preface, and chapter contains the author's footnote indicating that at least part of this chapter was not written earlier than ) first published in volume book form by cambridge, london (british library) nd edition published by macmillan & co., cambridge & london (british library) published by ticknor & fields, boston (library of congress) may have been serialized by ticknor & fields in (parts offered on amazon.com by an antique bookseller) published by ticknor & fields, boston (library of congress) published by macmillan & co. (british library) published by harper bros., new york (british library) published by harper bros., new york (library of congress & british library) published by unknown, new york (library of congress) published by macmillan & co., new york (library of congress) french translation published in paris with added name girardin, jules marie alfred who is possibly the translator(?) (british library) published circa - by john w. lovell, new york (ebook transcriber's scanned copy) published by porter & coates, philadelphia (ebook transcriber's proofreading copy) published by macmillan, london & new york (library of congress) published by lovell, coryell & co., new york (library of congress) published in two volumes with tom brown's school days (british library) published by t. nelson & sons (british library) published by s.w. partridge & co., london (british library) published as part of a five volume set entitled victorian novels of oxbridge life, christopher stray editor, thoemmes, bristol (british library) * * * * * (transcriber's notes: notice the author's name does not appear on the title page or on the cover, and in fact it is only given as t. hughes at the end of his preface and nowhere else. sydney hall, - , did portraits, newspaper and magazine illustrations, but oddly enough there are none to be found in the lovell produced book, though the porter & coates edition has one unattributed woodcut) printed and bound by donohue & henneberry, chicago (transcriber's note: donahue & henneberry were in business - doing book binding and printing for the cheap book trade at various addresses in chicago's business district known as the loop, mostly on dearborn street.) * * * * * tom brown at oxford by thomas hughes author of "tom brown's school days" philadelphia: porter & coates (transcriber's note: the date is penciled in here on this page by a previous owner) * * * * * transcriber's note: a short summary, with some explanations of concepts presented by hughes, but not well defined by him, being apparently well understood in his day, but with which modern readers may be unfamiliar. this is the sequel to hughes' more successful novel _tom brown's school days_, which told about tom at the rugby school from the age of to . now tom is at oxford university for a three year program of study, in which he attends class lectures and does independent reading with a tutor. a student in residence at oxford is said to be "up" or have "come up", and one who leaves is said to have gone "down". the author weaves a picture of life at oxford university in the s, where he himself was at that time, at oriel college, where he excelled in sports rather than academics. the university is made up of a number of separate colleges, and the students form friendships within and develop a loyalty to their own college. tom's college, st. ambrose, is fictional. the study programs available to the students are intended to prepare them for the legal, ecclesiastical, medical and educational professions. students who do poorly might be expected to enter the diplomatic corps or the army or navy, though a son of the aristocracy might be thrust into a minor church role. to enter into business or manufacturing engineering or the research sciences would require an inheritance or family connection. latin was still taught because the best literature available to them was still the ancient greek and roman poets and philosophers, and the legal and medical professions still used it extensively, though the ecclesiastical and educational fields had largely abandoned it. tom finds that there is a social barrier between the wealthy students and the students that are there on the equivalent of a modern academic scholarship, or have to work as a graduate student tutor to earn their stipend. there were no sports scholarships at this time, though the author hints vaguely at one point that someday the idea could be explored. there were no female students at this time. tom becomes involved with a local barmaid. the barmaid being of a different social class than tom, this relationship causes problems for both of them, and it is important for the modern reader to realize that such social distinctions were very real and inflexible in those days. the working class referred to the educated class as their "betters", meaning better educated and entitled to better respect, regardless of whether it was earned or deserved. there were no dormitories and self-serve cafeterias as with modern colleges, instead meals were served in a dining hall by scouts, and each student gets what are called "rooms", consisting of a bedroom and a sitting room for study and entertaining. "scouts" are a kind of servant attached to one student or a small number of students. they run errands, bring meals from the kitchen, and take care of clothing. a bootblack called the "boots" takes care of footwear. a charwoman called the "char" cleaned the rooms. if a student wished to study without interruption, he would close the oak door to his rooms, which was called "sporting his oak", the signal not to disturb. the term "the eleven" refers to the cricket team, and "prize-men" refers to students who win prizes for scholarship. "hunting pinks" are red riding jackets, and "hunters" are horses especially suited to steeplechase or fox hunting type riding. the boating club and boat racing is the popular sport of crew rowing or sculling, where each college appoints a crew of eight strong scull pullers or oarsmen and one small coxswain or steersman to pilot a long narrow boat called a skiff or shell. the coxswain calls the strokes and is generally the coach and commander of the crew. unlike in a canoe, the pullers face backwards, and the one nearest the coxswain is called the "stroke oar", because all the other oars watch him and match his stroke. the racing takes place on the river which runs through oxford, and since because of the oars the river is too narrow for normal passing as in most other kinds of racing, the race is sometimes with just two boats, one ahead of the other. if the prow of the second boat touches the stern of the first boat, the second boat is considered the winner and advances in ranking. if the first boat rows the length of the course without being bumped, it is considered the winner and maintains its ranking. sometimes the winning crewmen put their little coxswain in the boat and parade him through the streets of the town. at the end of the season the honor of "head of the river" belongs to the boat that has not been defeated and is presumably the fastest, whereas the slowest boat, tail end charlie, has been defeated by all the other colleges. for another description of boating on the thames in the nineteenth century, see the humorous travel-log "three men in a boat, to say nothing of the dog" by jerome k. jerome, written in , which also mentions the dangers of the lasher at the sandford lock. students were required to wear the traditional student's gown and mortarboard cap to classes. professors wore floppy caps and similar gowns with indications of their rank on the sleeves, doctor, master or batchelor. this garb dates from the middle ages, but is now only seen at graduation day and special university occasions, and the gown has survived in some church choirs. a professor was also called a don, and graduate assistants were called fellows or servitors. the "tufts" or students from the nobility or titled families were a privileged set, paid double fees and were not required to do much of anything academically. gentlemen-commoners were from the untitled but wealthy families and also paid double fees. a few students from poorer social classes were accepted if they had good references. "town and gown" refers to the animosity between the local permanent residents of the town and the rowdy students, occasionally descending into actual fist fights. to be "gated" was to be confined to college and to be "rusticated" was to be suspended from college. a "wine" is the nineteenth century equivalent of a student's beer and pizza party, though it seems to have been paid for entirely out of the pocket of the host. it is also a form of student networking, wherein they build relationships useful for their future business, professional or social life. german university students joined a kadet korps, which was somewhat like a combination of a modern day fraternity and officer's training corps, but no such equivalent seems to have been at oxford. instead there was an academic set called the "reading men" which buckled down to the books, and a set of "fast men" who lived the dissipated high life of drinking, gambling, women and riding fast horses. the fast set, though they were gentleman commoners and not titled nobility, usually were from wealthy families, and often ran up large bills with the local tradesmen, called "going tick", which could go unpaid for quite a long time. in chapter the author mentions big ben, but this is not the clock tower bell in london, which at the time of writing had not yet been rung; instead this is benjamin caunt, the bare-knuckle boxer who defeated william thompson in rounds to become heavyweight champion of england in . the bell may possibly have been named after him. it should be remembered that at the time this story was written, the dangers of tobacco smoke were mostly unknown, and cigars, cheroots and pipes were quite commonly used, though the cigarette had not come into use yet. tobacco, often called weed, was only discouraged during physical training, thus at one point in chapter tom recommends smoking to hardy for an almost therapeutic purpose. in chapter the author imagines a flying machine, though at the time of writing only balloons had ever carried men aloft. he imagines it something like a carriage equipped to carry passengers, with the most comfortable carriage type c-springs, steam powered, and faster than the latest trains, which at that time went miles per hour, the fastest speed that anyone had ever achieved. the author mentions tractarians and germanizers. the tractarians were a group of oxford dons who, in the s, wrote a series of tracts, aimed at proposing some changes to the theological system of the anglican church. germanizers proposed some changes more along the lines of the lutheran theology, and these controversies occupied the anglican theologians of the time. the author did not expand on these subjects, nor even indicate his support or opposition to them, as it was not necessary for the story. at this time, as in many other times, the evangelical christians were in the forefront of movements to help poor and downtrodden people, but other elements were attempting to become involved, promoting their own methods and beliefs. karl marx was not known in england, and the russian revolution was still in the distant future, but a few radical left-wing idealists know as chartists and swings were beginning to be heard on campus, and tom gets briefly involved with them, speaking up for the poor, but realizes their destructive ideas cannot be reconciled with proper christian behavior, thus voicing some of the author's views on social reforms. the author later in life got involved with a communal living experiment. some words and expressions are used differently today than they were used in the nineteenth century. for example, when tom says "there must always be some blackguards," he means "regrettably there will always be blackguards," not "we ought to have some blackguards". katie and tom discuss "profane" poetry, in the sense of being secular and not sacred or religious. mary weighs " stone", which is pounds or kilograms, and "famously" is used in the sense of being well done, not in the incorrect modern use of being well known. a "twelve-horse screw" is the propeller of a steam launch. to "give someone a character" is to speak or write about their moral character, either favorably or slanderously. the book which i scanned using optical character recognition was printed in the - period by john w. lovell of worth st. new york. lovell has been described as a book pirate who tried to form a monopoly in the cheap uncopyrighted book trade. the us copyright laws were rather weak in the nineteenth century, and charles dickens was particularly hurt by pirates. there was even a book war, with rival publishers of the same book undercutting each other on price. proof reading was done with another copy of the book published in by porter & coates of philadelphia, which is in poorer condition with water damage, and would not scan well, but has fewer typesetting errors. nineteenth century punctuation made much more use of commas, hyphens and semicolons, and these have been retained as much as possible. british spellings of words such as colour, neighbour, odour, and flavour are retained, though in some cases the american publisher seems to have made his own corrections as he saw fit, and some words such as "connection" have retained the nineteenth century spelling "connexion", but where a word was obviously spelled wrong by the typesetter, i have corrected it. the author used a few greek words, which do not scan, and i have entered those manually using symbol font for the rtf file, but substituted normal characters for the plain txt file and indicated [greek text] where appropriate. the english pound symbol cannot be expressed in ascii, so pounds is rendered as l. words printed in italics for emphasis are here rendered with _underscores_ for the ascii file. robert e. reilly, pe, bsie, bsme chicago, * * * * * initium tom brown at oxford thomas hughes ( - ) author's dedication to the rev. f. d. maurice, in memory of fourteen years' fellow work, and in testimony of ever increasing affection and gratitude this volume is dedicated by the author. preface prefaces written to explain the objects and meaning of a book, or to make any appeal, _ad miseracordiam_ or other, in its favor, are, in my opinion, nuisances. any book worth reading will explain its own objects and meaning, and the more it is criticized and turned inside out, the better for it and its author. of all books, too, it seems to me that novels require prefaces least--at any rate, on their first appearance. notwithstanding which belief, i must ask readers for three minutes' patience before they make trial of this book. the natural pleasure which i felt at the unlooked for popularity of the first part of the present story, was much lessened by the pertinacity with which many persons, acquaintance as well as strangers, would insist (both in public and in private) on identifying the hero and the author. on the appearance of the first few numbers of the present continuation in macmillan's magazine, the same thing occurred, and, in fact, reached such a pitch, as to lead me to make some changes to the story. sensitiveness on such a point may seem folly, but if the readers had felt the sort of loathing and disgust which one feels at the notion of painting a favorable likeness of oneself in a work of fiction, they would not wonder at it. so, now that this book is finished and tom brown, so far as i am concerned, is done with for ever, i must take this, my first and last chance of saying, that he is not i, either as boy or man--in fact, not to beat about the bush, is a much braver, and nobler, and purer fellow than i ever was. when i first resolved to write the book, i tried to realize to myself what the commonest type of english boy of the upper middle class was, so far as my experience went; and to that type i have throughout adhered, trying simply to give a good specimen of the genus. i certainly have placed him in the country, and scenes which i know best myself, for the simple reason, that i knew them better than any others, and therefore was less likely to blunder in writing about them. as to the name, which has been, perhaps, the chief "cause of offense," in this matter, the simple facts are, that i chose the name "brown," because it stood first in the trio of "brown, jones, and robinson," which had become a sort of synonym for the middle classes of great britain. it happens that my own name and that of brown have no single letter in common. as to the christian name of "tom," having chosen brown, i could hardly help taking it as the prefix. the two names have gone together in england for two hundred years, and the joint name has not enjoyed much of a reputation for respectability. this suited me exactly. i wanted the _commonest_ name i could get, and did not want any name which had the least heroic, or aristocratic, or even respectable savor about it. therefore i had a natural leaning to the combination which i found ready to my hand. moreover, i believed "tom" to be a more specially english name than john, the only other as to which i felt the least doubt. whether it be that thomas a beckett was for so long the favorite english saint, or from whatever other cause, it certainly seems to be the fact, that the name "thomas," is much commoner in england than in any other country. the words, "tom-fool," "tom-boy," etc., though, perhaps not complimentary to the "tom's" of england, certainly show how large a family they must have been. these reasons decided me to keep the christian name which had been always associated with "brown"; and i own that the fact that it happened to be my own, never occurred to me as an objection, till the mischief was done, past recall. i have only, then, to say, that neither is the hero a portrait of myself, nor is there any other portrait in either of the books, except in the case of dr. arnold, where the true name is given. my deep feeling of gratitude to him, and reverence for his memory, emboldened me to risk the attempt at a portrait in his case, so far as the character was necessary for the work. with these remarks, i leave this volume in the hands of readers. t. hughes lincoln's inn, october, contents introductory i--st. ambrose's college ii--a row on the river iii--a breakfast at drysdale's iv--the st. ambrose boat club; its ministry--and their budget v--hardy, the servitor vi--how drysdale and blake went fishing vii--an explosion viii--hardy's history ix--"a brown bait" x--summer term xi--muscular christianity xii--the captain's notions xiii--the first bump xiv--a change in the crew and what came of it xv--a storm brews and breaks xvi--the storm rages xvii--new ground xviii--englebourn village xix--a promise of fairer weather xx--the reconciliation xxi--captain hardy entertained by st. ambrose xxii--departures expected and unexpected xxiii--the englebourn constable xxiv--the schools xxv--commemoration xxvi--the long walk in christchurch meadows xxvii--lecturing a lioness xxviii--the end of the freshmen's year xxix--the long vacation letter bag xxx--amusements at barton manor xxxi--behind the scenes xxxii--a crisis xxxiii--brown patronus xxxiv--[greek text] mehden agan xxxv--second year xxxvi--the river side xxxvii--the night watch xxxviii--mary in mayfair xxxix--what came of the night watch xl--hue and cry xli--the lieutenant's sentiments and problems xlii--third year xliii--afternoon visitors xliv--the intercepted letter bag xlv--master's term xlvi--from india to engle bourn xlvii--the wedding day xlviii--the beginning of the end xlix--the end l--the postscript tom brown at oxford by thomas hughes ( - ) chapter introductory in the michaelmas term after leaving school, tom brown received a summons from the authorities, and went up to matriculate at st. ambrose's college, oxford. he presented himself at the college one afternoon, and was examined by one of the tutors, who carried him, and several other youths in like predicament, up to the senate house the next morning. here they went through the usual forms of subscribing to the articles, and otherwise testifying their loyalty to the established order of things, without much thought perhaps, but in very good faith nevertheless. having completed the ceremony, by paying his fees, our hero hurried back home, without making any stay in oxford. he had often passed through it, so that the city had not the charm of novelty for him, and he was anxious to get home; where, as he had never spent an autumn away from school till now, for the first time in his life he was having his fill of hunting and shooting. he had left school in june, and did not go up to reside at oxford till the end of the following january. seven good months; during a part of which he had indeed read for four hours or so a week with the curate of the parish, but the residue had been exclusively devoted to cricket and field sports. now, admirable as these institutions are, and beneficial as is their influence on the youth of britain, it is possible for a youngster to get too much of them. so it had fallen out with our hero. he was a better horseman and shot, but the total relaxation of all the healthy discipline of school, the regular hours and regular work to which he had been used for so many years, had certainly thrown him back in other ways. the whole man had not grown; so that we must not be surprised to find him quite as boyish, now that we fall in with him again, marching down to st. ambrose's with a porter wheeling his luggage after him on a truck as when we left him at the end of his school career. tom was in truth beginning to feel that it was high time for him to be getting to regular work again of some sort. a landing place is a famous thing, but it is only enjoyable for a time by any mortal who deserves one at all. so it was with a feeling of unmixed pleasure that he turned in at the st. ambrose gates, and inquired of the porter what rooms had been allotted to him within those venerable walls. while the porter consulted his list, the great college sundial, over the lodge, which had lately been renovated, caught tom's eye. the motto underneath, _"pereunt et imputantur,"_ stood out, proud of its new gilding, in the bright afternoon sun of a frosty january day: which motto was raising sundry thoughts in his brain, when the porter came upon the right place in his list, and directed him to the end of his journey: no. staircase, second quadrangle, three pair back. in which new home we shall leave him to install himself, while we endeavor to give the reader some notion of the college itself. chapter i--st. ambrose's college st. ambrose's college was a moderate-sized one. there might have been some seventy or eighty undergraduates in residence, when our hero appeared there as a freshman. of these, unfortunately for the college, there were a very large proportion of the gentleman-commoners; enough, in fact, with the other men whom they drew round them, and who lived pretty much as they did, to form the largest and leading set in the college. so the college was decidedly fast. the chief characteristic of this set was the most reckless extravagance of every kind. london wine merchants furnished them with liqueurs at a guinea a bottle and wine at five guineas a dozen; oxford and london tailors vied with one another in providing them with unheard-of quantities of the most gorgeous clothing. they drove tandems in all directions, scattering their ample allowances, which they treated as pocket money, about roadside inns and oxford taverns with open hand, and "going tick" for everything which could by possibility be booked. their cigars cost two guineas a pound; their furniture was the best that could be bought; pine-apples, forced fruit, and the most rare preserves figured at their wine parties; they hunted, rode steeple-chases by day, played billiards until the gates closed, and then were ready for _vingt-et-une_, unlimited loo, and hot drink in their own rooms, as long as anyone could be got to sit up and play. the fast set then swamped, and gave the tone to the college; at which fact no persons were more astonished and horrified than the authorities of st. ambrose. that they of all bodies in the world should be fairly run away with by a set of reckless, loose young spendthrifts, was indeed a melancholy and unprecedented fact; for the body of fellows of st. ambrose was as distinguished for learning, morality and respectability as any in the university. the foundation was not, indeed, actually an open one. oriel at that time alone enjoyed this distinction; but there were a large number of open fellowships, and the income of the college was large, and the livings belonging to it numerous; so that the best men from other colleges were constantly coming in. some of these of a former generation had been eminently successful in their management of the college. the st. ambrose undergraduates at one time had carried off almost all the university prizes, and filled the class lists, while maintaining at the same time the highest character for manliness and gentlemanly conduct. this had lasted long enough to establish the fame of the college, and great lords and statesmen had sent their sons there; head-masters had struggled to get the names of their best pupils on the books; in short, everyone who had a son, ward, or pupil, whom he wanted to push forward in the world--who was meant to cut a figure, and take the lead among men, left no stone unturned to get him into st. ambrose's; and thought the first, and a very long step gained when he had succeeded. but the governing bodies of colleges are always on the change, and, in the course of things men of other ideas came to rule at st. ambrose--shrewd men of the world; men of business, some of them, with good ideas of making the most of their advantages; who said, "go to; why should we not make the public pay for the great benefits we confer on them? have we not the very best article in the educational market to supply--almost a monopoly of it--and shall we not get the highest price for it?" so by degrees they altered many things in the college. in the first place, under their auspices, gentlemen-commoners increased and multiplied; in fact, the eldest sons of baronets, even squires, were scarcely admitted on any other footing. as these young gentlemen paid double fees to the college, and had great expectations of all sorts, it could not be expected that they should be subject to quite the same discipline as the common run of men, who would have to make their own way in the world. so the rules as to attendance at chapel and lectures, though nominally the same for them as for commoners, were in practice relaxed in their favour; and, that they might find all things suitable to persons in their position, the kitchen and buttery were worked up to a high state of perfection, and st. ambrose, from having been one of the most reasonable, had come to be about the most expensive college in the university. these changes worked as their promoters probably desired that they should work, and the college was full of rich men, and commanded in the university the sort of respect which riches bring with them. but the old reputation, though still strong out of doors, was beginning sadly to wane within the university precincts. fewer and fewer of the st. ambrose men appeared in the class lists, or amongst the prize-men. they no longer led the debates at the union; the boat lost place after place on the river; the eleven got beaten in all their matches. the inaugurators of these changes had passed away in their turn, and at last a reaction had commenced. the fellows recently elected, and who were in residence at the time we write of, were for the most part men of great attainments, all of them men who had taken very high honors. the electors naturally enough had chosen them as the most likely persons to restore, as tutors, the golden days of the college; and they had been careful in the selection to confine themselves to very quiet and studious men, such as were likely to remain up at oxford, passing over men of more popular manners and active spirits, who would be sure to flit soon into the world, and be of little more service to st. ambrose. but these were not the men to get any hold on the fast set who were now in the ascendant. it was not in the nature of things that they should understand each other; in fact, they were hopelessly at war, and the college was getting more and more out of gear in consequence. what they could do, however, they were doing; and under their fostering care were growing up a small set, including most of the scholars, who were likely, as far as they were concerned, to retrieve the college character of the schools. but they were too much like their tutors, men who did little else but read. they neither wished for, nor were likely to gain, the slightest influence on the fast set. the best men amongst them, too, were diligent readers of the _tracts for the times_, and followers of the able leaders of the high-church party, which was then a growing one; and this led them also to form such friendships as they made amongst out-college men of their own way of thinking-with high churchmen, rather than st. ambrose men. so they lived very much to themselves, and scarcely interfered with the dominant party. lastly, there was the boating set, which was beginning to revive in the college, partly from the natural disgust of any body of young englishmen, at finding themselves distanced in an exercise requiring strength and pluck, and partly from the fact, that the captain for the time being was one of the best oars in the university boat, and also a deservedly popular character. he was now in his third year of residence, had won the pair-oar race, and had pulled seven in the great yearly match with cambridge, and by constant hard work had managed to carry the st. ambrose boat up to the fifth place on the river. he will be introduced to you, gentle reader, when the proper time comes; at present, we are only concerned with a bird's-eye view of the college, that you may feel more or less at home in it. the boating set was not so separate or marked as the reading set, melting on one side into, and keeping up more or less connexion with, the fast set, and also commanding a sort of half allegiance from most of the men who belonged to neither of the other sets. the minor divisions, of which of course there were many, need not be particularized, as the above general classification will be enough for the purposes of this history. our hero, on leaving school, having bound himself solemnly to write all his doings and thoughts to the friend whom he had left behind him: distance and separation were to make no difference whatever in their friendship. this compact had been made on one of their last evenings at rugby. they were sitting together in the six-form room, tom splicing the handle of a favourite cricket bat, and arthur reading a volume of raleigh's works. the doctor had lately been alluding to the "history of the world," and had excited the curiosity of the active-minded amongst his pupils about the great navigator, statesman, soldier, author, and fine gentleman. so raleigh's works were seized on by various voracious young readers, and carried out of the school library; and arthur was now deep in a volume of the "miscellanies," curled up on a corner of the sofa. presently, tom heard something between a groan and a protest, and, looking up, demanded explanations; in answer to which, arthur, in a voice half furious and half fearful, read out:-- "and be sure of this, thou shalt never find a friend in thy young years whose conditions and qualities will please thee after thou comest to more discretion and judgment; and then all thou givest is lost, and all wherein thou shalt trust such a one will be discovered." "you don't mean that's raleigh's?" "yes--here it is, in his first letter to his son." "what a cold-blooded old philistine," said tom. "but it can't be true, do you think?" said arthur. and in short, after some personal reflections on sir walter, they then and there resolved that, so far as they were concerned, it was not, could not, and should not be true, that they would remain faithful, the same to each other; and the greatest friends in the world, through i know not what separations, trials, and catastrophes. and for the better insuring this result, a correspondence, regular as the recurring months, was to be maintained. it had already lasted through the long vacation and up to christmas without sensibly dragging, though tom's letters had been something of the shortest in november, when he had lots of shooting, and two days a week with the hounds. now, however, having fairly got to oxford, he determined to make up for all short-comings. his first letter from college, taken in connexion with the previous sketch of the place, will probably accomplish the work of introduction better than any detailed account by a third party; and it is therefore given here verbatim:-- _"st. ambrose, oxford,_ _"february, -_ "my dear geordie, "according to promise, i write to tell you how i get on up here, and what sort of a place oxford is. of course, i don't know much about it yet, having only been up some weeks, but you shall have my first impressions. "well, first and foremost it's an awfully idle place; at any rate for us freshmen. fancy now. i am in twelve lectures a week of an hour each--greek testament, first book of herodotus, second aeneid, and first book of euclid! there's a treat! two hours a day; all over by twelve, or one at latest, and no extra work at all, in the shape of copies of verses, themes, or other exercises. "i think sometimes i'm back in the lower fifth; for we don't get through more than we used to do there; and if you were to hear the men construe, it would make your hair stand on end. where on earth can they have come from? unless they blunder on purpose, as i often think. of course, i never look at a lecture before i go in, i know it all nearly by heart, so it would be sheer waste of time. i hope i shall take to reading something or other by myself; but you know i never was much of a hand at sapping, and, for the present, the light work suits me well enough, for there's plenty to see and learn about in this place. "we keep very gentlemanly hours. chapel every morning at eight, and evening at seven. you must attend once a day, and twice on sundays--at least, that's the rule of our college--and be in gates by twelve o'clock at night. besides which, if you're a decently steady fellow, you ought to dine in hall perhaps four days a week. hall is at five o'clock. and now you have the sum total. all the rest of your time you may just do what you like with. "so much for our work and hours. now for the place. well, it's a grand old place, certainly; and i dare say, if a fellow goes straight in it, and gets creditably through his three years, he may end by loving it as much as we do the old school-house and quadrangle at rugby. our college is a fair specimen: a venerable old front of crumbling stone fronting the street, into which two or three other colleges look also. over the gateway is a large room, where the college examinations go on, when there are any; and, as you enter, you pass the porters lodge, where resides our janitor, a bustling little man, with a pot belly, whose business it is to put down the time at which the men come in at night, and to keep all discommonsed tradesmen, stray dogs, and bad characters generally, out of the college. "the large quadrangle into which you come first, is bigger than ours at rugby, and a much more solemn and sleepy sort of a place, with its gables and old mullioned windows. one side is occupied by the hall and chapel; the principal's house takes up half another side; and the rest is divided into staircases, on each of which are six or eight sets of rooms, inhabited by us undergraduates, and here and there a tutor or fellow dropped down amongst us (in the first-floor rooms, of course), not exactly to keep order, but to act as a sort of ballast. this quadrangle is the show part of the college, and is generally respectable and quiet, which is a good deal more than can be said for the inner quadrangle, which you get at through a passage leading out of the other. the rooms ain't half so large or good in the inner quad; and here's where all we freshmen live, besides a lot of the older undergraduates who don't care to change their rooms. only one tutor has rooms here; and i should think, if he's a reading man, it won't be long before he clears out; for all sorts of high jinks go on on the grass-plot, and the row on the staircases is often as bad, and not half so respectable, as it used to be in the middle passage in the last week of the half-year. "my rooms are what they call garrets, right up in the roof, with a commanding view of the college tiles and chimney pots, and of houses at the back. no end of cats, both college toms and strangers, haunt the neighbourhood, and i am rapidly learning cat-talking from them; but i'm not going to stand it--i don't want to know cat-talk. the college toms are protected by the statutes, i believe; but i'm going to buy an air-gun for the benefit of the strangers. my rooms are pleasant enough, at the top of the kitchen staircase, and separated from all mankind by a great, iron-clamped, outer door, my oak, which i sport when i go out or want to be quiet; sitting room eighteen by twelve, bedroom twelve by eight, and a little cupboard for the scout. "ah, geordie, the scout is an institution! fancy me waited upon and valeted by a stout party in black of quiet, gentlemanly manners, like the benevolent father in a comedy. he takes the deepest interest in all my possessions and proceedings, and is evidently used to good society, to judge by the amount of crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocery, which he thinks indispensable for my due establishment. he has also been good enough to recommend to me many tradesmen who are ready to supply these articles in any quantities; each of whom has been here already a dozen times, cap in hand, and vowing that it is quite immaterial when i pay--which is very kind of them; but, with the highest respect for friend perkins (my scout) and his obliging friends, i shall make some enquiries before "letting in" with any of them. he waits on me in hall, where we go in full fig of cap and gown at five, and get very good dinners, and cheap enough. it is rather a fine old room, with a good, arched, black oak ceiling and high panelling, hung round with pictures of old swells, bishops and lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in some way, or at least have fed here in times gone by, and for whom, _"caeterisque benefactoribus nostris,"_ we daily give thanks in a long latin grace, which one of the undergraduates (i think it must be) goes and rattles out at the end of the high table, and then comes down again from the dais to his own place. no one feeds at the high table except the dons and the gentlemen-commoners, who are undergraduates in velvet caps and silk gowns. why they wear these instead of cloth and serge i haven't yet made out, i believe it is because they pay double fees; but they seem uncommonly wretched up at the high table, and i should think would sooner pay double to come to the other end of the hall. "the chapel is a quaint little place, about the size of the chancel of lutterworth church. it just holds us all comfortably. the attendance is regular enough, but i don't think the men care about it a bit in general. several i can see bring in euclids, and other lecture books, and the service is gone through at a great pace. i couldn't think at first why some of the men seemed so uncomfortable and stiff about the legs at morning service, but i find that they are the hunting set, and come in with pea-coats over their pinks, and trousers over their leather breeches and top-boots; which accounts for it. there are a few others who seem very devout, and bow a good deal, and turn towards the altar at different parts of the service. these are of the oxford high-church school, i believe; but i shall soon find out more about them. on the whole i feel less at home at present, i am sorry to say, in the chapel, than anywhere else. "i was very near forgetting a great institution of the college, which is the buttery-hatch, just opposite the hall-door. here abides the fat old butler (all the servants at st. ambrose's are portly), and serves out limited bread, butter, and cheese, and unlimited beer brewed by himself, for an hour in the morning, at noon, and again at supper-time. your scout always fetches you a pint or so on each occasion in case you should want it, and if you don't, it falls to him; but i can't say that my fellow gets much, for i am naturally a thirsty soul, and cannot often resist the malt myself, coming up as it does, fresh and cool, in one of the silver tankards, of which we seem to have an endless supply. "i spent a day or two in the first week, before i got shaken down into my place here, in going round and seeing the other colleges, and finding out what great men had been at each (one got a taste for that sort of work from the doctor, and i'd nothing else to do). well, i never was more interested; fancy ferreting out wycliffe, the black prince, our friend sir walter raleigh, pym, hampden, laud, ireton, butler, and addison, in one afternoon. i walked about two inches taller in my trencher cap after it. perhaps i may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of england. why shouldn't i? there must have been freshmen once who were chums of wycliffe of queen's, or raleigh of oriel. i mooned up and down the high-street, staring at all the young faces in caps, and wondering which of them would turn out great generals, or statesmen, or poets. some of them will, of course, for there must be a dozen at least, i should think, in every generation of undergraduates, who will have a good deal to say to the ruling and guiding of the british nation before they die. "but, after all, the river is the feature of oxford, to my mind; a glorious stream, not five minutes' walk from the colleges, broad enough in most places for three boats to row abreast. i expect i will take to boating furiously: i have been down the river three or four times already with some other freshmen, and it is glorious exercise; that i can see, though we bungle and cut crabs desperately at present. "here's a long yarn i'm spinning for you; and i dare say after all you'll say it tells you nothing, and you'd rather have twenty lines about the men, and what they're thinking about and the meaning, and the inner life of the place, and all that. patience, patience! i don't know anything about it myself yet, and have had only time to look at the shell, which is a very handsome and stately affair; you shall have the kernel, if i ever get at it, in due time. "and now write me a long letter directly, and tell me about the doctor, and who are in the sixth, and how the house goes on, and what sort of an eleven there'll be, and what you are doing and thinking about. come up here try for a scholarship; i'll take you in and show you the lions. remember me to old friends.--ever your affectionately, t. b." chapter ii--a row on the river within a day or two of the penning of this celebrated epistle, which created quite a sensation in the sixth-form room as it went the round after tea, tom realized one of the objects of his young oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking on the river in a skiff by himself, with such results as are now described. he had already been down several times in pair-oar and four-oar boats, with an old oar to pull stroke, and another to steer and coach the young idea, but he was not satisfied with these essays. he could not believe that he was such a bad oar as the old hands' made him out to be, and thought that it must be the fault of the other freshmen who were learning with him that the boat made so little way and rolled so much. he had been such a proficient in all the rugby games, that he couldn't realize the fact of his unreadiness in a boat. pulling looked a simple thing enough--much easier than tennis; and he had made a capital start at the latter game, and been highly complimented by the marker after his first hour in the little court. he forgot that cricket and fives are capital training for tennis, but that rowing is a speciality, of the rudiments of which he was wholly ignorant. and so, in full confidence that, if he could only have a turn or two alone, he should not only satisfy himself, but everybody else, that he was a heaven-born oar, he refused all offers of companionship, and started on the afternoon of a fine february day down to the boats for his trial trip. he had watched his regular companions well out of college, and gave them enough start to make sure that they would be off before he himself could arrive at st. ambrose's dressing room at hall's, and chuckled, as he came within sight of the river, to see the freshmen's boat in which he generally performed, go plunging away past the university barge, keeping three different times with four oars, and otherwise demeaning itself so as to become an object of mirthful admiration to all beholders. tom was punted across to hall's in a state of great content, which increased when, in answer to his casual inquiry, the managing man informed him that not a man of his college was about the place. so he ordered a skiff with as much dignity and coolness as he could command, and hastened up stairs to dress. he appeared again, carrying his boating coat and cap. they were quite new, so he would not wear them; nothing about him should betray the freshman on this day if he could help it. "is my skiff ready?" "all right, sir; this way, sir;" said the manager, conducting him to a good, safe-looking craft. "any gentleman going to steer, sir?" "no" said tom, superciliously; "you may take out the rudder." "going quite alone, sir? better take one of our boys--find you a very light one. here, bill!"--and he turned to summons a juvenile waterman to take charge of our hero. "take out the rudder, do you hear?" interrupted tom. "i won't have a steerer." "well, sir, as you please," said the manager, proceeding to remove the degrading appendage. "the river's rather high, please to remember, sir. you must mind the mill stream at iffley lock. i suppose you can swim?" "yes, of course," said tom, settling himself on his cushion. "now, shove her off." the next moment he was well out in the stream, and left to his own resources. he got his sculls out successfully enough, and, though feeling by no means easy on his seat, proceeded to pull very deliberately past the barges, stopping his sculls in the air to feather accurately, in the hopes of deceiving spectators into the belief that he was an old hand just going out for a gentle paddle. the manager watched him for a minute, and turned to his work with an aspiration that he might not come to grief. but no thought of grief was on tom's mind as he dropped gently down, impatient for the time when he should pass the mouth of the cherwell, and so, having no longer critical eyes to fear, might put out his whole strength, and give himself at least if not the world, assurance of a waterman. the day was a very fine one, a bright sun shining, and a nice fresh breeze blowing across the stream, but not enough to ruffle the water seriously. some heavy storms up gloucestershire way had cleared the air, and swollen the stream at the same time; in fact, the river was as full as it could be without overflowing its banks--a state in which, of all others, it is the least safe for boating experiments. fortunately, in those days there were no outriggers. even the racing skiffs were comparatively safe craft, and would now be characterized as tubs; while the real tubs (in one of the safest of which the prudent manager had embarked our hero) were of such build that it required considerable ingenuity actually to upset them. if any ordinary amount of bungling could have done it, tom's voyage would have terminated within a hundred yards of the cherwell. while he had been sitting quiet and merely paddling, and almost letting the stream carry him down, the boat had trimmed well enough; but now, taking a long breath, he leaned forward, and dug his sculls into the water, pulling them through with all his strength. the consequence of this feat was that the handles of the sculls came into violent collision in the middle of the boat, the knuckles of his right hand were barked, his left scull unshipped, and the head of his skiff almost blown round by the wind before he could restore order on board. "never mind; try again," thought he, after the first sensation of disgust had passed off, and a glance at the shore showed him that there were no witnesses. "of course, i forgot one hand must go over the other. it might have happened to anyone. let me see, which hand shall i keep uppermost; the left, that's the weakest." and away he went again, keeping his newly-acquired fact painfully in mind, and so avoiding further collision amidships for four or five strokes. but, as in other sciences, the giving of undue prominence to one fact brings others inexorably on the head of the student to avenge his neglect of them, so it happened with tom in his practical study of the science of rowing that by thinking of his hands he forgot his seat, and the necessity of trimming properly. whereupon the old tub began to rock fearfully, and the next moment, he missed the water altogether with his right scull, and subsided backwards, not without struggles, into the bottom of the boat; while the half stroke which he had pulled with his left hand sent her head well into the bank. tom picked himself up, and settled himself on his bench again, a sadder and wiser man, as the truth began to dawn upon him that pulling, especially sculling, does not, like reading and writing, come by nature. however, he addressed himself manfully to his task; savage indeed, and longing to drive a hole in the bottom of the old tub, but as resolved as ever to get to sandford and back before hall time, or perish in the attempt. he shoved himself off the bank, and warned by his last mishap, got out into mid stream, and there, moderating his ardor, and contenting himself with a slow and steady stroke, was progressing satisfactorily, and beginning to recover his temper, when a loud shout startled him; and, looking over his shoulder at the imminent risk of an upset, he beheld the fast sailor the dart, close hauled on a wind, and almost aboard of him. utterly ignorant of what was the right thing to do, he held on his course, and passed close under the bows of the miniature cutter, the steersman having jammed his helm hard down, shaking her in the wind, to prevent running over the skiff, and solacing himself with pouring maledictions on tom and his craft, in which the man who had hold of the sheets, and the third, who was lounging in the bows, heartily joined. tom was out of ear-shot before he had collected vituperation enough to hurl back at them, and was, moreover, already in the difficult navigation of the gut, where, notwithstanding all his efforts, he again ran aground; but, with this exception, he arrived without other mishap at iffley, where he lay on his sculls with much satisfaction, and shouted, "lock--lock!" the lock-keeper appeared to the summons, but instead of opening the gates seized a long boat-hook, and rushed towards our hero, calling upon him to mind the mill-stream, and pull his right-hand scull; notwithstanding which warning, tom was within an ace of drifting past the entrance to the lock, in which case assuredly his boat, if not he, had never returned whole. however, the lock-keeper managed to catch the stern of his skiff with the boat-hook, and drag him back into the proper channel, and then opened the lock-gates for him. tom congratulated himself as he entered the lock that there were no other boats going through with him; but his evil star was in the ascendant, and all things, animate and inanimate, seemed to be leagued together to humiliate him. as the water began to fall rapidly, he lost his hold of the chain and the tub instantly drifted across the lock, and was in imminent danger of sticking and breaking her back, when the lock-keeper again came to the rescue with his boat-hook and, guessing the state of the case, did not quit him until he had safely shoved him and his boat well out into the pool below, with an exhortation to mind and go outside of the barge which was coming up. tom started on the latter half of his outward voyage with the sort of look which cato must have worn when he elected the losing side, and all the gods went over to the winning one. but his previous struggles had not been thrown away, and he managed to keep the right side of the barge, turn the corner without going around, and zigzag down kennington reach, slowly indeed, but with much labor, but at any rate safely. rejoicing in his feat, he stopped at the island, and recreated himself with a glass of beer, looking now hopefully towards sandford, which lay within easy distance, now upwards again along the reach which he had just overcome, and solacing himself with the remembrance of a dictum, which he had heard from a great authority, that it was always easier to steer up stream than down, from which he argued that the worst part of his trial trip was now over. presently he saw a skiff turn the corner at the top of the kennington reach, and, resolving in his mind to get to sandford before the new comer, paid for his beer, and betook himself again to his tub. he got pretty well off, and, the island shutting out his unconscious rival from his view, worked away at first under the pleasing delusion that he was holding his own. but he was soon undeceived, for in monstrously short time the pursuing skiff showed around the corner and bore down on him. he never relaxed his efforts, but could not help watching the enemy as he came up with him hand over hand, and envying the perfect ease with which he seemed to be pulling his long steady stroke and the precision with which he steered, scarcely ever casting a look over his shoulder. he was hugging the berkshire side himself, as the other skiff passed him, and thought he heard the sculler say something about keeping out, and minding the small lasher; but the noise of the waters and his own desperate efforts prevented his heeding, or, indeed, hearing the warning plainly. in another minute, however, he heard plainly enough most energetic shouts behind him and, turning his head over his right shoulder, saw the man who had just passed him backing his skiff rapidly up stream towards him. the next moment he felt the bows of his boat whirl round, the old tub grounded for a moment, and then, turning over on her side, shot him out on to the planking of the steep descent into the small lasher. he grasped at the boards, but they were too slippery to hold, and the rush of water was too strong for him, and rolling him over and over like a piece of driftwood, plunged him into the pool below. after the first moment of astonishment and fright was over, tom left himself to the stream, holding his breath hard, and paddling gently with his hands, feeling sure that, if he could only hold on, he should come to the surface sooner or later; which accordingly happened after a somewhat lengthy submersion. his first impulse on rising to the surface, after catching his breath, was to strike out for the shore, but, in the act of doing so, he caught sight of the other skiff coming stern foremost down the decent after him, and he trod the water and drew in his breath to watch. down she came, as straight as an arrow, into the tumult below; the sculler sitting upright, and holding his sculls steadily in the water. for a moment she seemed to be going under, but righted herself, and glided swiftly into the still water; and then the sculler cast a hasty and anxious glance around, till his eyes rested on our hero's half-drowned head. "oh, there you are!" he said, looking much relieved; "all right, i hope. not hurt, eh?" "no, thankee; all right, i believe," answered tom. "what shall i do?" "swim ashore; i'll look after your boat." so tom took the advice, swam ashore, and there stood dripping and watching the other as he righted the old tub which was floating quietly bottom upwards, little the worse for the mishap, and no doubt, if boats can wish, earnestly desiring in her wooden mind to be allowed to go quietly to pieces then and there, sooner to be rescued than be again entrusted to the guidance of freshmen. the tub having been brought to the bank, the stranger started again, and collected the sculls and bottom boards which were floating about here and there in the pool, and also succeeded in making salvage of tom's coat, the pockets of which held his watch, purse, and cigar case. these he brought to the bank, and delivering them over, inquired whether there was anything else to look after. "thank you, no; nothing but my cap. never mind it. it's luck enough not to have lost the coat," said tom, holding up the dripping garment to let the water run out of the arms and pocket-holes, and then wringing it as well as he could. "at any rate," thought he, "i needn't be afraid of its looking too new any more." the stranger put off again, and made one more round, searching for the cap and anything else which he might have overlooked, but without success. while he was doing so, tom had time to look him well over, and see what sort of a man had come to his rescue. he hardly knew at the time the full extent of his obligation--at least if this sort of obligation is to be reckoned not so much by the service actually rendered, as by the risk encountered to be able to render it. there were probably not three men in the university who would have dared to shoot the lasher in a skiff in its then state, for it was in those times a really dangerous place; and tom himself had an extraordinary escape, for, as miller, the st. ambrose coxswain, remarked on hearing the story, "no one who wasn't born to be hung could have rolled down it without knocking his head against something hard, and going down like lead when he got to the bottom." he was very well satisfied with his inspection. the other man was evidently a year or two older than himself, his figure was more set, and he had stronger whiskers than are generally grown at twenty. he was somewhere about five feet ten in height, very deep-chested, and with long powerful arms and hands. there was no denying, however, that at the first glance he was an ugly man; he was marked with small-pox, had large features, high cheekbones, deeply set eyes, and a very long chin; and had got the trick which many underhung men have of compressing his upper lip. nevertheless, there was that in his face which hit tom's fancy, and made him anxious to know his rescuer better. he had an instinct that good was to be gotten out of him. so he was very glad when the search was ended, and the stranger came to the bank, shipped his sculls, and jumped out with the painter of his skiff in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to an old stump, while he remarked-- "i'm afraid the cap's lost." "it doesn't matter the least. thank you for coming to help me; it was very kind indeed, and more than i expected. don't they say that one oxford man will never save another from drowning unless they have been introduced?" "i don't know," replied the other; "are you sure you're not hurt?" "yes, quite," said tom, foiled in what he considered an artful plan to get the stranger to introduce himself. "then we're very well out of it," said the other, looking at the steep descent into the lasher, and the rolling tumbling rush of the water below. "indeed we are," said tom; "but how in the world did you manage not to upset?" "i hardly know myself--i had shipped a good deal of water, you see. perhaps i ought to have jumped out on the bank and come across to you, leaving my skiff in the river, for if i had upset i couldn't have helped you much. however, i followed my instinct, which was to come the quickest way. i thought, too, that if i could manage to get down in the boat i should be of more use. i am very glad i did it," he added after a moment's pause; "i'm really proud of having come down that place." "so ain't i," said tom, with a laugh, in which the other joined. "but now you're getting chilled," and he turned from the lasher and looked at tom's chattering jaws. "oh, it's nothing. i'm used to being wet." "but you may just as well be comfortable if you can. here's this rough jersey which i use instead of a coat; pull off that wet cotton affair, and put it on, and then we'll get to work, for we have plenty to do." after a little persuasion tom did as he was bid, and got into the great woolen garment, which was very comforting; and then the two set about getting their skiffs back into the main stream. this was comparatively easy as to the lighter skiff, which was soon baled out and hauled by main force on to the bank, carried across and launched again. the tub gave them much more trouble, for she was quite full of water and very heavy; but after twenty minutes or so of hard work, during which the mutual respect of the labourers for the strength and willingness of each other was much increased, she also lay in the main stream, leaking considerably, but otherwise not much the worse for her adventure. "now what do you mean to do?" said the stranger. "i don't think you can pull home in her. one doesn't know how much she may be damaged. she may sink in the lock, or play any prank." "but what am i to do with her?" "oh, you can leave her at sandford and walk up, and send one of hall's boys after her. or, if you like, i will tow her up behind my skiff." "won't your skiff carry two?" "yes; if you like to come i'll take you, but you must sit very quiet." "can't we go down to sandford first and have a glass of ale? what time is it?--the water has stopped my watch." "a quarter past three. i have about twenty minutes to spare." "come along, then," said tom; "but will you let me pull your skiff down to sandford? i resolved to pull to sandford to-day, and don't like to give it up." "by all means, if you like," said the other, with a smile; "jump in, and i'll walk along the bank." "thank you," said tom, hurrying into the skiff, in which he completed the remaining quarter of a mile, while the owner walked by the side, watching him. they met on the bank at the little inn by sandford lock, and had a glass of ale, over which tom confessed that it was the first time he had ever navigated a skiff by himself, and gave a detailed account of his adventures, to the great amusement of his companion. and by the time they rose to go, it was settled, at tom's earnest request, that he should pull the sound skiff up, while his companion sat in the stern and coached him. the other consented very kindly, merely stipulating that he himself should take the sculls, if it should prove that tom could not pull them up in time for hall dinner. so they started, and took the tub in tow when they came up to it. tom got on famously under his new tutor, who taught him to get forward, and open his knees properly, and throw his weight on to the sculls at the beginning of the stroke. he managed even to get into iffley lock on the way up without fouling the gates, and was then and there complimented on his progress. whereupon, as they sat, while the lock filled, tom poured out his thanks to his tutor for his instruction, which had been given so judiciously that, while he was conscious of improving at every stroke, he did not feel that the other was asserting any superiority over him; and so, though more humble than at the most disastrous period of his downward voyage, he was getting into a better temper every minute. it is a great pity that some of our instructors in more important matters than sculling will not take a leaf out of the same book. of course, it is more satisfactory to one's own self-love to make everyone who comes to one to learn, feel that he is a fool, and we wise men; but if our object is to teach well and usefully what we know ourselves there cannot be a worse method. no man, however, is likely to adopt it, so long as he is conscious that he has anything himself to learn from his pupils; and as soon as he has arrived at the conviction that they can teach him nothing--that it is henceforth to be all give and no take--the sooner he throws up his office of teacher, the better it will be for himself, his pupils, and his country, whose sons he is misguiding. on their way up, so intent were they on their own work that it was not until shouts of "hello, brown! how did you get there? why, you said you were not going down today," greeted them just above the gut, that they were aware of the presence of the freshmen's four-oar of st. ambrose college, which had with some trouble succeeded in overtaking them. "i said i wasn't going down with _you_," shouted tom, grinding away harder than ever, that they might witness and wonder at his prowess. "oh, i dare say! whose skiff are you towing up? i believe you've been upset." tom made no reply, and the four-oar floundered on ahead. "are you at st. ambrose's?" asked his sitter, after a minute. "yes; that's my treadmill, that four-oar. i've been down in it almost every day since i came up, and very poor fun it is. so i thought to-day i would go on my own hook, and see if i couldn't make a better hand of it. and i have too, i know, thanks to you." the other made no remark, but a little shade came over his face. he had no chance of making out tom's college, as the new cap which would have betrayed him had disappeared in the lasher. he himself wore a glazed straw hat, which was of no college; so that up to this time neither of them had known to what college the other belonged. when they landed at hall's, tom was at once involved in a wrangle with the manager as to the amount of damage done to the tub; which the latter refused to assess before he knew what had happened to it; while our hero vigorously and with reason maintained, that if he knew his business it could not matter what had happened to the boat. there she was, and he must say whether she was better or worse, or how much worse than when she started. in the middle of which dialogue his new acquaintance, touching his arm, said, "you can leave my jersey with your own things; i shall get it to-morrow," and then disappeared. tom, when he had come to terms with his adversary, ran upstairs, expecting to find the other, and meaning to tell his name, and find out who it was that had played the good samaritan by him. he was much annoyed when he found the coast clear, and dressed in a grumbling humour. "i wonder why he should have gone off so quick. he might just as well have stayed and walked up with me," thought he. "let me see, though; didn't he say i was to leave his jersey in our room, with my own things? why, perhaps he is a st. ambrose man himself. but then he would have told me so, surely. i don't remember to have seen his face in chapel or hall; but then there is such a lot of new faces, and he may not sit near me. however i mean to find him out before long, whoever he may be." with which resolve tom crossed in the punt into christ's church meadow, and strolled college-wards, feeling that he had had a good hard afternoon's exercise, and was much the better for it. he might have satisfied his curiosity at once by simply asking the manager who it was that had arrived with him; and this occurred to him before he got home, whereat he felt satisfied, but would not go back then, as it was so near hall time. he would be sure to remember it the first thing tomorrow. as it happened, however, he had not so long to wait for the information which he needed; for scarcely had he sat down in hall and ordered his dinner, when he caught sight of his boating acquaintance, who walked in habited in a gown which tom took for a scholar's. he took his seat at a little table in the middle of the hall, near the bachelors' table, but quite away from the rest of the undergraduates, at which sat four or five other men in similar gowns. he either did not or would not notice the looks of recognition which tom kept firing at him until he had taken his seat. "who is that man that has just come in, do you know?" said tom to his next neighbour, a second term man. "which?" said the other, looking up. "that one over at the little table in the middle of the hall, with the dark whiskers. there, he has just turned rather from us, and put his arm on the table." "oh, his name is hardy." "do you know him?" "no; i don't think anybody does. they say he is a clever fellow, but a very queer one." "why does he sit at that table!" "he is one of our servitors; they all sit there together." "oh," said tom, not much wiser for the information, but resolved to waylay hardy as soon as the hall was over, and highly delighted to find that they were after all of the same college; for he had already begun to find out, that however friendly you may be with out-college men, you must live chiefly with those of your own. but now his scout brought his dinner, and he fell to with the appetite of a freshman on his ample commons. chapter iii--a breakfast at drysdale's no man in st. ambrose college gave such breakfasts as drysdale. not the great heavy spreads for thirty or forty, which came once or twice a term, when everything was supplied out of the college kitchen, and you had to ask leave of the dean before you could have it at all. in those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of the undergraduate kind might rival the most artistic, if he could only pay his battle-bill, or get credit with the cook. but the daily morning meal, when even gentlemen commoners were limited to two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this was drysdale's forte. ordinary men left the matter in the hands of scouts, and were content with the ever-recurring buttered toasts and eggs, with a dish of broiled ham, or something of the sort, with a marmalade and bitter ale to finish with; but drysdale was not an ordinary man, as you felt in a moment when you went to breakfast with him for the first time. the staircase on which he lived was inhabited, except in the garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a breakfast-club, in which, thanks to drysdale's genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultivated. every morning the boy from the weirs arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then an eel or trout, which the scouts on the staircase had learnt to fry delicately in oil. fresh watercresses came in the same basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchedcocked chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. in the season there were plover's eggs; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette; and a distant baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent in the bread--the common domestic college loaf being of course out of the question for anyone with the slightest pretension to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts. then there would be a deep yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a _piece, de resistance_, and three or four sorts of preserves; and a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or soda-water and maraschino for a change. tea and coffee were there indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast eaters of no. staircase. pleasant young gentlemen they were on no. staircase; i mean the ground and first floor men who formed the breakfast-club, for the garrets were nobodies. three out of the four were gentlemen-commoners, with allowances of l a year at least each; and, as they treated their allowances as pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted hippopotamus for breakfast if they had chosen to order it, which they would most likely have done if they had thought of it. two out of the three were the sons of rich men who made their own fortunes, and sent their sons to st. ambrose's because it was very desirable that the young gentlemen should make good connexions. in fact, the fathers looked upon the university as a good investment, and gloried much in hearing their sons talk familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends lord harry this and sir george that. drysdale, the third of the set, was the heir of an old as well of a rich family, and consequently, having his connexion ready made to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and wines. his whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as possible; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but the fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and done credit to himself and his college. the fourth man at the breakfast-club, the hon. piers st. cloud was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-connected young man. his allowance was small for the set he lived with, but he never wanted for anything. he didn't entertain much, certainly, but when he did, everything was in the best possible style. he was very exclusive, and knew no man in college out of the fast set, and of these he addicted himself chiefly to the society of the rich freshmen, for somehow the men of his own standing seemed a little shy of him. but with the freshmen he was always hand and glove, lived in their rooms, and used their wines, horses, and other movable property as his own. being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad jockey, he managed in one way or another to make his young friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance; as, indeed, why should they not, at least those of them who came to the college to form eligible connexions; for had not his remote lineal ancestor come over in the same ship with william the conqueror? were not all his relations about the court, as lords and ladies in waiting, white sticks or black rods, and in the innermost of all possible circles of the great world; and was there a better coat of arms than he bore in all burke's peerage? our hero had met drysdale at a house in the country shortly before the beginning of his first term, and they had rather taken to one another. drysdale had been amongst his first callers; and, as he came out of chapel one morning shortly after his arrival, drysdale's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast. so he went to his own rooms, ordered his commons to be taken across to no. , and followed himself a few minutes afterwards. no one was in the rooms when he arrived, for none of the club had finished their toilettes. morning chapel was not meant for, or cultivated by gentlemen-commoners; they paid double chapel fees, in consideration of which, probably, they were not expected to attend so often as the rest of the undergraduates; at any rate, they didn't, and no harm came to them in consequence of their absence. as tom entered, a great splashing in an inner room stopped for a moment, and drysdale's voice shouted out that he was in his tub, but would be with him in a minute. so tom gave himself up to contemplation of the rooms in which his fortunate acquaintance dwelt; and very pleasant rooms they were. the large room in which the breakfast-table was laid for five, was lofty and well proportioned, and panelled with old oak, and the furniture was handsome and solid, and in keeping with the room. there were four deep windows, high up in the wall, with cushioned seats under them, two looking into the large quadrangle, and two into the inner one. outside these windows, drysdale had rigged up hanging gardens, which were kept full of flowers by the first nurseryman in oxford, all the year round; so that even on this february morning, the scent of gardenia and violets pervaded the room, and strove for mastery with the smell of stale tobacco, which hung about the curtains and sofa. there was a large glass in an oak frame over the mantelpiece, which was loaded with choice pipes and cigar cases and quaint receptacles for tobacco; and by the side of the glass hung small carved oak frames, containing lists of meets of the heyshrop, the old berkshire, and drake's hounds, for the current week. there was a queer assortment of well-framed paintings and engravings on the walls; some of considerable merit, especially some watercolor and sea-pieces and engravings from landseer's pictures, mingled with which hung taglioni and cerito, in short petticoats and impossible attitudes; phosphurous winning the derby; the death of grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse, not poor old joe); an american trotting match, and jem belcher and deaf burke in attitudes of self-defense. several tandem and riding whips, mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled gun, and fishing rods, occupied one corner, and a polished copper cask, holding about five gallons of mild ale, stood in another. in short, there was plenty of everything except books--the literature of the world being represented, so far as tom could make out in his short scrutiny, by a few well-bound but badly used volumes of the classics, with the cribs thereto appertaining, shoved away into a cupboard which stood half open, and contained besides, half-emptied decanters, and large pewters, and dog collars, and packs of cards, and all sorts of miscellaneous articles to serve as an antidote. tom had scarcely finished his short survey when the door of the bedroom opened, and drysdale emerged in a loose jacket lined with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and otherwise gorgeously attired. he was a pleasant-looking fellow of middle size, with dark hair, and a merry brown eye, with a twinkle in it, which spoke well for his sense of humor; otherwise, his large features were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a thoroughly well-bred gentleman. his first act, after nodding to tom, was to seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the contents, having, as he said, "'a whoreson longing for that poor creature, small beer.' we were playing van-john in blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled bones and mulled port. a fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after that without something to cool his coppers." tom was as yet ignorant of what van-john might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at the beer which the other handed to him; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. in another minute, a bouncing and scratching was heard on the stairs, and a white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his way; for his brow was broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. his general look, and a way he had of going 'snuzzling' about the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for nervous people. tom, however, was used to dogs, and soon became friends with him, which evidently pleased his host. and then the breakfast arrived, all smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colors went, than drysdale. they were introduced to tom, who thought them somewhat ordinary and rather loud young gentlemen. one of them remonstrated vigorously against the presence of that confounded dog, and so jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the four fell to work upon the breakfast. it was a good lesson in gastronomy, but the results are scarcely worth repeating here. it is wonderful, though, how you feel drawn to a man who feeds you well; and, as tom's appetite got less, his liking and respect for his host undoubtedly increased. when they had nearly finished, in walked the honorable piers, a tall slight man, two or three years older than the rest of them; good looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but with the drawing up of his nostril, and a drawing down of the corners of his mouth, which set tom against him at once. the cool, supercilious half-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to own. "here, henry," said the honorable piers to the scout in attendance, seating himself, and inspecting the half-cleared dishes; "what is there for my breakfast?" henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two. "i don't want these cold things; haven't you kept me any gudgeon?" "why sir" said henry, "there was only two dozen this morning, and mr. drysdale told me to cook them all. "to be sure i did," said drysdale. "just half a dozen for each of us four: they were first-rate. if you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, i can tell you." "just go and get me a broil from the kitchen," said the honorable piers, without deigning an answer to drysdale. "very sorry, sir; kitchen's shut by now, sir," answered henry. "then go to hinton's, and order some cutlets." "i say, henry," shouted drysdale to the retreating scout; "not to my tick, mind! put them down to mr. st. cloud." henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently returned to his waiting; and the honorable piers set to work upon his breakfast, without showing any further ill temper certainly, except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn. tom thought he detected signs of coming hostilities between his host and st. cloud, for drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance in roughing him in his replies. and, indeed, he was not far wrong; the fact being, that during drysdale's first term, the other had lived on him--drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his dog-cart, and winning his money; all which drysdale, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in oxford, had stood without turning a hair. but st. cloud added to these little favors a half patronizing, half contemptuous manner, which he used with great success towards some of the other gentleman-commoners, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, but which drysdale, who didn't care three straws about knowing st. cloud, wasn't going to put up with. however, nothing happened but a little sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy chairs. jack came out of his corner to be gratified with some of the remnants by his fond master, and then curled himself up on the sofa along which drysdale lounged. "what are you going to do to-day, drysdale?" said one of the others. "i've ordered a leader to be sent on over the bridge, and mean to drive my dog-cart over, and dine at abingdon. won't you come?" "who's going besides?" asked drysdale. "oh, only st. cloud and farley here. there's lots of room for a fourth." "no, thank'ee; teaming's slow work on the back seat. besides, i've half promised to go down in the boat." "in the boat!" shouted the other. "why, you don't mean to say you're going to take to pulling?" "well, i don't know; i rather think i am. i'm dog-tired of driving and doing the high street, and playing cards and billiards all day, and our boat is likely to be head of the river, i think." "by jove! i should as soon have thought of you taking to reading, or going to university sermon," put in st. cloud. "and the boating-men, too," went on farley; "did you ever see such a set, st. cloud? with their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters?" "i'll bet a guinea there isn't one of them has more than l a year," put in chanter, whose father could just write his name, and was making a colossal fortune by supplying bad iron rails to the new railway companies. "what the devil do i care," broke in drysdale; "i know they're a deal more amusing than you fellows, who can't do anything that don't cost pounds." "getting economical!" sneered st. cloud. "well, i don't see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and blistering one's hands, only to get abused by that little brute miller the coxswain," said farley. "why, you won't be able to sit straight in your chair for a month," said chanter; "and the captain will make you dine at one, and fetch you out of anybody's rooms, confound his impudence whether he knows them or not, at eleven o'clock every night." "two cigars every day, and a pint and a half of liquid," and farley inserted his cod fish face into the tankard; "fancy drysdale on training allowance!" here a newcomer entered in a bachelor's gown, who was warmly greeted by the name of sanders by drysdale. st. cloud and he exchanged the coldest possible nods; and the other two, taking the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke, and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude half-whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a game of pyramids till luncheon time. saunders took a cigar which drysdale offered, and began asking about his friends at home, and what he had been doing in the vacation. they were evidently intimate, though tom thought that drysdale didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as sanders took his fancy at once. however, eleven o'clock struck, and tom had to go to lecture, where we cannot follow him just now, but must remain with drysdale and saunders, who chatted on very pleasantly for some twenty minutes, till a knock came at the door. it was not till the third summons that drysdale shouted, "come in," with a shrug of his shoulders, and an impatient kick at the sofa cushion at his feet, as though not half pleased at the approaching visit. reader! had you not ever a friend a few years older than yourself, whose good opinions you were anxious to keep? a fellow _teres atqua rotundus_; who could do everything better than you, from plato and tennis down to singing a comic song and playing quoits? if you have had, wasn't he always in your rooms or company whenever anything happened to show your little weak points? sanders, at any rate, occupied this position towards our young friend drysdale, and the latter, much as he liked sander's company, would have preferred it at any time than on an idle morning just at the beginning of term, when the gentlemen tradesmen, who look upon undergraduates in general, and gentlemen-commoners in particular, as their lawful prey, are in the habit of calling in flocks. the new arrival was a tall florid man, with a half servile, half impudent, manner, and a foreign accent; dressed in sumptuous costume, with a velvet-faced coat, and a gorgeous plush waist-coat. under his arm he carried a large parcel, which he proceeded to open, and placed upon a sofa the contents, consisting of a couple of coats, and three or four waistcoats and a pair of trousers. he saluted sanders with a most obsequious bow, looked nervously at jack, who opened one eye from between his master's legs and growled, and then, turning to drysdale, asked if he should have the honor of seeing him try on any of the clothes? "no; i can't be bored with trying them on now," said drysdale; "leave them where they are." mr. schloss would like very much on his return to town, in a day or two, to be able to assure his principals, that mr. drysdale's orders had been executed to his satisfaction. he had also some very beautiful new stuffs with him, which he should like to submit to mr. drysdale, and without more ado began unfolding cards of the most fabulous plushes and cloths. drysdale glanced first at the cards and then at sanders, who sat puffing his cigar, and watching schloss's proceedings with a look not unlike jack's when anyone he did not approve of approached his master. "confound your patterns, schloss," said drysdale; "i tell you i have more things than i want already." "the large stripe, such as these, is now very much worn in london," went on schloss, without heeding the rebuff, and spreading his cards on the table. "d---- trousers," replied drysdale; "you seem to think a fellow has ten pair of legs." "monsieur is pleased to joke," smiled schloss; "but, to be in the mode, gentlemen must have variety." "well, i won't order any now, that's flat," said drysdale. "monsieur will do as he pleases; but it is impossible that he should not have some plush waists; the fabric is only just out, and is making a sensation." "now look here, schloss; will you go if i order a waist coat?" "monsieur is very good; he sees how tasteful these new patterns are." "i wouldn't, be seen at a cock-fight in one of them, there're as gaudy as a salmon-fly," said drysdale, feeling the stuff which the obsequious schloss held out. "but it seems nice stuff, too," he went on; "i shouldn't mind having a couple of waistcoats of it of this pattern;" and he chucked across to schloss a dark tartan waistcoat which was lying near him. "have you got the stuff in that pattern?" "ah! no," said schloss, gathering up the waistcoat; "but it shall not hinder. i shall have at once a loom for monsieur set up at once in paris." "set it up in jericho if you like," said drysdale; "and now go!" "may i ask, mr. schloss," broke in sanders, "what it will cost to set up the loom?" "ah! indeed, a trifle only; some twelve, or perhaps fourteen pounds." sanders gave a chuckle, and puffed away at his cigar. "by jove," shouted drysdale, jerking himself in a sitting posture, and upsetting jack, who went trotting about the room, and snuffing at schloss's legs; "do you mean to say, schloss, you were going to make me waistcoats at fourteen guineas apiece?" "not if monsieur disapproves. ah! the large hound is not friendly to strangers; i will call again when monsieur is more at leisure." and schloss gathered up his cards and beat a hasty retreat, followed by jack with his head on one side, and casting an enraged look at sanders, as he slid through the door. "well done, jack, old boy!" said sanders, patting him; "what a funk the fellow was in. well, you've saved your master a pony this fine morning. cheap dog you've got, drysdale." "d---- the fellow," answered drysdale, "he leaves a bad taste in one's mouth;" and he went to the table, took a pull at the tankard, and then threw himself down on the sofa again, as jack jumped up and coiled himself round by his master's legs, keeping one half-open eye winking at him, and giving an occasional wag with the end of his taper tail. saunders got up, and began handling the new things. first he held up a pair of bright blue trousers, with a red stripe across them, drysdale looking on from the sofa. "i say, drysdale, you don't mean to say you really ordered these thunder-and-lightening affairs?" "heaven only knows," said drysdale; "i daresay i did, i'd order a full suit cut out of my grandmother's farthingale to get that cursed schloss out of my rooms sometimes." "you'll never be able to wear them; even in oxford the boys would mob you. why don't you kick him down stairs?" suggested sanders, putting down the trousers, and turning to drysdale. "well, i've been very near it once or twice; but i don't know--my name's easy--besides, i don't want to give up the beast altogether; he makes the best trousers in england." "and these waistcoats," went on sanders; "let me see; three light silk waistcoats, peach-color, fawn-color, and lavender. well, of course, you can only wear these at your weddings. you may be married the first time in the peach or fawn-color; and then, if you have luck, and bury your first wife soon, it will be a delicate compliment to take to no. in the lavender, that being half-mourning; but still, you see, we're in difficulty as to one of the three, either the peach or the fawn-color--" here he was interrupted by another knock, and a boy entered from the fashionable tobacconist's in oriel lane, who had general orders to let drysdale have his fair share of anything very special in the cigar line. he deposited a two pound box of cigars at three guineas the pound, on the table, and withdrew in silence. then came a boot-maker with a new pair of top-boots, which drysdale had ordered in november, and had forgotten next day. the artist, wisely considering that his young patron must have plenty of tops to last him through the hunting season (he himself having supplied three previous pairs in october), had retained the present pair for show in his window; and everyone knows that boots wear much better for being kept sometime before use. now, however, as the hunting season was drawing to a close, and the place in the window was wanted for spring stock, he judiciously sent in the tops, merely adding half-a-sovereign or so to the price for interest on the out lay since the order. he also kindly left on the table a pair of large plated spurs to match the boots. it never rains but it pours. sanders sat smoking his cigar in provoking silence, while knock succeeded knock and tradesman followed tradesman; each depositing some article ordered, or supposed to have been ordered, or which ought in the judgment of the depositors to have been ordered, by the luckless drysdale: and new hats, and ties, and gloves, and pins, jostled balsam of neroli, and registered shaving-soap, and fancy letter paper, and eau de cologne, on every available table. a visit from two livery-stable-keepers in succession followed, each of whom had several new leaders which they were anxious mr. drysdale should try as soon as possible. drysdale growled and grunted, and wished them or sanders at the bottom of the sea; however, he consoled himself with the thought that the worst was now passed,--there was no other possible supplier of undergraduate wants who could arrive. not so; in another minute a gentle knock came at the door. jack pricked up his ears and wagged his tail; drysdale recklessly shouted, "come in!" the door slowly opened about eighteen inches, and a shock head of hair entered the room, from which one lively little gimlet eye went glancing about into every corner. the other eye was closed, but as a perpetual wink to indicate the unsleeping wariness of the owner, or because that hero had really lost the power of using it in some of his numerous encounters with men and beasts, no one, so far as i know, has ever ascertained. "ah! mr. drysdale, sir!" began the head; and then rapidly withdrew behind the door to avoid one of the spurs, which (being the missile nearest at hand) drysdale instantly discharged at it. as the spur fell to the floor, the head reappeared in the room, and as quickly disappeared again, in deference to the other spur, the top boots, an ivory handled hair brush, and a translation of euripides, which in turn saluted each successive appearance of said head; and the grin was broader on each reappearance. then drysdale, having no other article within reach which he could throw, burst into a loud fit of laughter, in which sanders and the head heartily joined, and shouted, "come in, joe, you old fool! and don't stand bobbing your ugly old mug in and out there, like a jack in the box." so the head came in, and after it the body, and closed the door behind it; and a queer, cross-grained, tough-looking body it was, of about fifty years standing, or rather slouching, clothed in an old fustian coat, corduroy breeches and gaiters, and being the earthly tabernacle of joe muggles, the dog-fancier of st. aldate's. "how the deuce did you get by the lodge, joe?" inquired drysdale. joe, be it known, had been forbidden the college for importing a sack of rats into the inner quadrangle, upon the turf of which a match at rat-killing had come off between the terriers of two gentlemen-commoners. this little event might have passed unnoticed, but that drysdale had bought from joe a dozen of the slaughtered rats, and nailed them on the doors of the four college tutors, three to a door; whereupon inquiry had been made, and joe had been outlawed. [illustration: ] "oh, please mr. drysdale, sir, i just watched the 'ed porter, sir, across to the buttery to get his mornin', and then i tips a wink to the under porter (pal o' mine, sir, the under porter), and makes a run of it right up." "well, you'll be quod'ed if you're caught! now what do you want?" "why, you see, mr. drysdale, sir," said joe, in his most insinuating tone, "my mate hev got an old dog brock, sir, from the heythrop kennel, and honble wernham, sir of new inn 'all, sir, he've jist been down our yard with a fighting chap from town, mr. drysdale--in the fancy, sir, he is, and hev got a matter of three dogs down a stoppin' at milky bill's. and he says, says he, mr. drysdale, as arra one of he's dogs'll draw the old un three times, while arra oxford dog'll draw un twice, and honble wernham chaffs as how he'll back un for a fi' pun note;"--and joe stopped to caress jack, who was fawning on him as if he understood every word. "well, joe, what then?" said drysdale. "so you see, mr. drysdale, sir," went on joe, fondling jack's muzzle, "my mate says, says he, 'jack's the dog as can draw a brock,' says he, 'agin any lonnun dog as ever was whelped; and mr. drysdale' says he, 'ain't the man as'd see two poor chaps bounced out of their honest name by arra town chap, and a fi' pun note's no more to he for the matter o' that, then to honble wernham his self,' says my mate." "so i'm to lend you jack for a match, and stand the stakes?" "well, mr. drysdale, sir, that was what my mate was a sayin'." "you're cool heads, you and your mate," said drysdale; "here, take a drink, and get out, and i'll think about it." drysdale was now in a defiant humor, and resolved not to let sanders think that his presence could keep him from any act of folly to which he was inclined. joe took his drink; and just then several men came in from lecture, and drew off drysdale's attention from jack, who quietly followed joe out of the room, when that worthy disappeared. drysdale only laughed when he found it out, and went down to the yard that afternoon to see the match between the london dog and his own pet. "how in the world are youngsters with unlimited credit, plenty of ready money, and fast tastes, to be kept from making fools and blackguards of themselves up here," thought sanders, as he strolled back to his college. and it is a question which has exercised other heads besides his, and probably is a long way yet from being well solved. chapter iv--the st. ambrose boat club: its ministery and their budget. we left our hero, a short time back, busily engaged on his dinner commons, and resolved forthwith to make great friends with hardy. it never occurred to him that there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying out this resolve. after such a passage as they two had had together that afternoon, he felt that the usual outworks of acquaintanceship had been cleared at a bound, and looked upon hardy already as an old friend to whom he could talk out his mind as freely as he had been used to do to his old tutor at school, or to arthur. moreover, as there were already several things in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he was all the more pleased that chance had thrown him across a man of so much older standing than himself, and one to whom he instinctively felt that he could look up. accordingly, after grace had been said, and he saw that hardy had not finished his dinner, but sat down again when the fellows had left the hall, he strolled out, meaning to wait for his victim outside, and seize upon him then and there; so he stopped on the steps outside the hall-door, and to pass the time, joined himself to one or two other men with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, who were also hanging about. while they were talking, hardy came out of the hall, and tom turned and stepped forward, meaning to speak to him. to his utter discomfiture, hardy walked quickly away, looking straight before him, and without showing, by look or gesture, that he was conscious of our hero's existence, or had ever seen him before in his life. tom was so taken aback that he made no effort to follow. he just glanced at his companions to see whether they had noticed the occurrence, and was glad to see that they had not (being deep in the discussion of the merits of a new hunter of simmons's, which one of them had been riding); so he walked away by himself to consider what it could mean. but the more he puzzled about it, the less could he understand it. surely, he thought, hardy must have seen me; and yet, if he had, why did he not recognize me? my cap and gown can't be such a disguise as all that. and yet common decency must have led him to ask whether i was any the worse for my ducking, if he knew me. he scouted the notion, which suggested itself once or twice, that hardy meant to cut him; and so, not being able to come to any reasonable conclusion, suddenly bethought him that he was asked to a wine-party; and putting his speculations aside for a moment, with the full intention nevertheless of clearing up the mystery as soon as possible, he betook himself to the rooms of his entertainer. they were fair-sized rooms in the second quadrangle, furnished plainly but well, so far as tom could judge, but, as they were now laid out for the wine-party, they had lost all individual character for the time. everyone of us, i suppose, is fond of studying the rooms, chambers, dens in short, of whatever sort they may be, of our friends and acquaintances--at least, i knew that i myself like to see what sort of a chair a man sits in, where he puts it, what books lie or stand on the shelves nearest his hand, what the objects are which he keeps most familiarly before him, in that particular nook of the earth's surface in which he is most at home, where he pulls off his coat, collar, and boots, and gets into an old easy shooting-jacket, and his broadest slippers. fine houses and fine rooms have little attraction for most men, and those who have the finest drawing-rooms are probably the most bored by them; but the den of the man you like, or are disposed to like, has the strongest and strangest attraction for you. however, an oxford undergraduate's room, set out for a wine-party, can tell you nothing. all the characteristics are shoved away into the background, and there is nothing to be seen but a long mahogany set out with bottles, glasses, and dessert. in the present instance the preparations for festivity were pretty much what they ought to be: good sound port and sherry, biscuits, and a plate or two of nuts and dried fruits. the host, who sat at the head of the board, was one of the main-stays of the college boat-club. he was treasurer of the club, and also a kind of a boating nurse, who looked-up and trained the young oars, and in this capacity had been in command of the freshmen's four-oar, in which tom had been learning his rudiments. he was a heavy, burly man, naturally awkward in his movements, but gifted with a steady sort of dogged enthusiasm, and by dint of hard and constant training, had made himself into a most useful oar, fit for any place in the middle of the boat. in the two years of his residence, he had pulled down to sandford every day except sundays, and much farther whenever he could get anybody to accompany him. he was the most good natured man in the world, very badly dressed, very short sighted, and called everybody "old fellow." his name was simple smith, generally known as diogenes smith, from an eccentric habit which he had of making an easy chair of his hip bath. malicious acquaintance declared that when smith first came up, and, having paid the valuation for the furniture in his rooms, came to inspect the same, the tub in question had been left by chance in the sitting-room, and that smith, not having the faintest idea of its proper use, had by the exercise of his natural reason come to the conclusion that it could only be meant for a man to sit in, and so had kept it in his sitting-room, and had taken to it as an arm-chair. this i have reason to believe was a libel. certain it is, however, that in his first term he was discovered sitting solemnly in the tub, by his fire-side, with his spectacles on, playing the flute--the only other recreation besides boating in which he indulged; and no amount of quizzing could get him out of the habit. when alone, or with only one or two friends in his room, he still occupied the tub; and declared that it was the most perfect of seats hitherto invented, and, above all, adapted for the recreation of a boating man, to whom cushioned seats should be an abomination. he was naturally a very hospitable man, and on this night was particularly anxious to make his rooms pleasant to all comers, as it was a sort of opening for the boating season. this wine of his was a business matter, in fact, to which diogenes had invited officially, as treasurer of the boat-club, every man who had ever shown the least tendency to pulling,--many with whom he had scarcely a nodding acquaintance. for miller, the coxswain, had come up at last. he had taken his b.a. degree in the michaelmas term, and had been very near starting for a tour in the east. upon turning the matter over in his mind, however, miller had come to the conclusion that palestine, and egypt, and greece could not run away, but that, unless he was there to keep matters going, the st. ambrose boat would lose the best chance it was ever likely to have of getting to the head of the river. so he had patriotically resolved to reside till june, read divinity, and coach the racing crew; and had written to diogenes to call together the whole boating interest of the college, that they might set to work at once in good earnest. tom, and the three or four other freshmen present, were duly presented to miller as they came in, who looked them over as the colonel of a crack regiment might look over horses at horncastle-fair, with a single eye to their bone and muscle, and how much work might be got out of them. they then gathered towards the lower end of the long table, and surveyed the celebrities at the upper end with much respect. miller, the coxswain, sat on the host's right hand,--a slight, resolute, fiery little man, with curly black hair. he was peculiarly qualified by nature for the task which he had set himself; and it takes no mean qualities to keep a boat's crew well together and in order. perhaps he erred a little on the side of over-strictness and severity; and he certainly would have been more popular had his manners been a thought more courteous; but the men who rebelled most against his tyranny grumblingly confessed that he was a first-rate coxswain. a very different man was the captain of the boat, who sat opposite to miller; altogether, a noble specimen of a very noble type of our countrymen. tall and strong of body; courageous and even-tempered; tolerant of all men; sparing of speech, but ready in action; a thoroughly well balanced, modest, quiet englishman; one of those who do a good stroke of the work of the country without getting much credit for it, or even becoming aware of the fact; for the last thing such men understand is how to blow their own trumpets. he was perhaps too easy for the captain of st. ambrose boat-club; at any rate, miller was always telling him so. but, if he was not strict enough with others, he never spared himself, and was as good as three men in the boat at a pinch. but if i venture on more introductions, my readers will get bewildered; so i must close the list, much as i should like to make them known to "fortis gyas fortisque cloanthus," who sat round the chiefs, laughing and consulting, and speculating on the chances of the coming races. no, stay, there is one other man they must make room for. here he comes, rather late, in a very glossy hat, the only man in the room not in cap and gown. he walks up and takes his place by the side of the host as a matter of course; a handsome, pale man, with a dark, quick eye, conscious that he draws attention wherever he goes, and apparently of the opinion that it is right. "who is that who has just come in in beaver?" said tom, touching the next man to him. "oh, don't you know? that's blake; he's the most wonderful fellow in oxford," answered his neighbor. "how do you mean?" said tom. "why, he can do everything better than almost anybody, and without any trouble at all. miller was obliged to have him in the boat last year, though he never trained a bit. then he's in the eleven, and is a wonderful rider, and tennis-player, and shot." "ay, and he's so awfully clever with it all," joined in the man on the other side. "he'll be a safe first, though i don't believe he reads more than you or i. he can write songs, too, as fast as you can talk nearly, and sings them wonderfully." "is he of our college, then?" "yes, of course, or he couldn't have been in our boat last year." "but i don't think i ever saw him in chapel or hall" "no, i daresay not. he hardly ever goes to either, and yet he manages never to get hauled up much, no one knows how. he never gets up now till the afternoon, and sits up nearly all night playing cards with the fastest fellows, or going round singing glees at three or four in the morning." tom sipped his port and looked with great interest at the admirable crichton of st. ambrose's; and, after watching him a few moments said in a low voice to his neighbor, "how wretched he looks! i never saw a sadder face." poor blake! one can't help calling him "poor," although he himself would have winced at it more than any name you could have called him. you might have admired, feared, or wondered at him, and he would have been pleased; the object of his life was to raise such feelings in his neighbors; but pity was the last which he would like to excite. he was indeed a wonderfully gifted fellow, full of all sorts of energy and talent, and power and tenderness; and yet, as his face told only too truly to anyone who watched him when he was exerting himself in society, one of the most wretched men in the college. he had a passion for success--for beating everybody else in whatever he took in hand, and that, too, without seeming to make any great effort himself. the doing a thing well and thoroughly gave him no satisfaction unless he could feel that he was doing it better and more easily than a, b, or c, and they felt and acknowledged this. he had had full swing of success for two years, and now the nemesis was coming. for, although not an extravagant man, many of the pursuits in which he has eclipsed all rivals were far beyond the means of any but a rich one, and blake was not rich. he had a fair allowance, but by the end of his first year was considerably in debt, and, at the time we are speaking of, the whole pack of oxford tradesmen into whose books he had got (having smelt out the leaness of his expectations), were upon him, besieging him for payment. this miserable and constant annoyance was wearing his soul out. this was the reason why his oak was sported, and he was never seen till the afternoons, and turned night into day. he was too proud to come to an understanding with his persecutors, even had it been possible; and now, at his sorest need, his whole scheme of life was failing him; his love of success was turning into ashes in his mouth; he felt much more disgust than pleasure at his triumphs over other men, and yet the habit of striving for successes, notwithstanding its irksomeness, was too strong to be resisted. poor blake! he was living on from hand to mouth, flashing out in his old brilliancy and power, and forcing himself to take the lead in whatever company he might be; but utterly lonely and depressed when by himself--reading feverishly in secret, in a desperate effort to retrieve all by high honors and a fellowship. as tom said to his neighbor, there was no sadder face than his to be seen in oxford. and yet at this very wine party he was the life of everything, as he sat up there between diogenes--whom he kept in a constant sort of mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going the wrong way (for whenever diogenes raised his glass blake shot him with some joke)--and the captain who watched him with the most undisguised admiration. a singular contrast, the two men! miller, though blake was the torment of his life, relaxed after the first quarter of all hour; and our hero, by the same time, gave himself credit for being a much greater ass than he was, for having ever thought blake's face a sad one. when the room was quite full, and enough wine had been drunk to open the hearts of the guests, diogenes rose on a signal from miller, and opened the budget. the financial statement was a satisfactory one; the club was almost free of debt; and, comparing their position with that of other colleges, diogenes advised that they might fairly burden themselves a little more, and then, if they would stand a whip of ten shillings a man, they might have a new boat, which he believed they all would agree had become necessary. miller supported the new boat in a pungent little speech; and the captain, when appealed to, nodded and said he thought they must have one. so the small supplies and the large addition to the club debt was voted unanimously, and the captain, miller, and blake, who had many notions as to the flooring, lines, and keel of a racing boat, were appointed to order and superintend the building. soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars were lighted; a large section of the party went off to play pool, others to stroll about the streets, others to whist; a few, let us hope, to their own rooms to read; but these latter were a sadly small minority even in the quietest of st. ambrose parties. tom, who was fascinated by the heroes at the head of the table, sat steadily on, sidling up towards them as the intermediate places became vacant, and at last attained the next chair but one to the captain, where for the time he sat in perfect bliss. blake and miller were telling boating stories of the henley and thames regattas, the latter of which had been lately started with great _eclat_; and from these great yearly events, and the deeds of prowess done thereat, the talk came gradually round to the next races. "now, captain," said miller, suddenly, "have you thought yet what new men we are to try in the crew this year?" "no, 'pon my honor i haven't," said the captain, "i'm reading, and have no time to spare. besides, after all, there's lots of time to think about it. here we're only half through lent term, and the races don't begin till the end of easter term." "it won't do," said miller, "we must get the crew together this term." "well, you and smith put your heads together and manage it," said the captain. "i will go down any day, and as often as you like, at two o'clock." "let's see," said miller to smith, "how many of the old crew have we left?" "five, counting blake," answered diogenes. "counting me! well, that's cool," laughed blake; "you old tub haunting flute-player, why am i not to be counted?" "you never will train, you see," said diogenes. "smith is quite right," said miller; "there's no counting on you, blake. now, be a good fellow, and promise to be regular this year." "i'll promise to do my work in a race, which is more than some of your best-trained men will do," said blake, rather piqued. "well you know what i think on the subject," said miller; "but who have we got for the other three places?" "there's drysdale would do," said diogenes; "i hear he was a capital oar at eton; and so, though i don't know him, i managed to get him once down last term. he would do famously for no. , or no. if he would pull." "do you think he will, blake? you know him, i suppose," said miller. "yes, i know him well enough," said blake; and, shrugging his shoulders, added, "i don't think you'll get him to train much." "well, we must try," said miller. "now, who else is there?" smith went through four or five names, at each of which miller shook his head. "any promising freshmen?" said he at last. "none better than brown here," said smith. "i think he'll do well if he will only work, and stand being coached." "have you ever pulled much?" said miller. "no," said tom, "never till this last month--since i've been up here." "all the better," said miller; "now, captain, you hear; we may probably have to go in with three new hands; they must get into your stroke this term, or we shall be nowhere." "very well," said the captain; "i'll give from two till five any days you like." "and now let's go and have one pool," said blake, getting up. "come, captain, just one little pool after all this business." diogenes insisted on staying to play his flute; miller was engaged; but the captain, with a little coaxing, was led away by blake, and good-naturedly asked tom to accompany them, when he saw that he was looking as if he would like it. so the three went off to the billiard-rooms; tom in such spirits at the chance of being tried in the crew, that he hardly noticed the exceedingly bad exchange which he had involuntarily made of his new cap and gown for a third-year cap with the board broken into several pieces, and a fusty old gown which had been about college probably for ten generations. under-graduate morality in the matter of caps and gowns seems to be founded on the celebrated maxim, "_propriete c'est le vol_." they found the st. ambrose pool-room full of the fast set; and tom enjoyed his game much, though his three lives were soon disposed of. the captain and blake were the last lives on the board, and divided the pool at blake's suggestion. he had scarcely nerve for playing out a single handed match with such an iron-nerved, steady piece of humanity as the captain, though he was the more brilliant player of the two. the party then broke up, and tom returned to his rooms; and, when he was by himself again, his thoughts recurred to hardy. how odd, he thought, that they never mentioned him for the boat! could he have done anything to be ashamed of? how was it that nobody seemed to know him, and he to know nobody. most readers, i doubt not, will think our hero very green for being puzzled at so simple a matter; and, no doubt, the steps in the social scale in england are very clearly marked out, and we all come to the appreciation of the gradations sooner or later. but our hero's previous education must be taken into consideration. he had not been instructed at home to worship mere conventional distinctions of rank or wealth, and had gone to a school which was not frequented by persons of rank, and where no one knew whether a boy was heir to a principality, or would have to fight his own way in the world. so he was rather taken by surprise at what he found to be the state of things at st. ambrose's and didn't easily realize it. chapter v--hardy, the servitor it was not long before tom had effected his object in part. that is to say, he had caught hardy several times in the quadrangle coming out of lecture hall, or chapel, and had fastened himself upon him; often walking with him even up to the door of his rooms. but there matters ended. hardy was very civil and gentlemanly; he even seemed pleased with the volunteered companionship; but there was undoubtedly a coolness about him which tom could not make out. but, as he only liked hardy more, the more he saw of him, he very soon made up his mind to break ground himself, and to make a dash at any rate for something more than a mere speaking acquaintance. one evening he had as usual walked from hall with hardy up to his door. they stopped a moment talking, and then hardy, half-opening the door, said, "well, goodnight; perhaps we shall meet on the river to-morrow," and was going in, when tom, looking him in the face, blurted out, "i say, hardy, i wish you'd let me come in and sit with you a bit." "i never ask a man of our college into my rooms," answered the other, "but come in by all means if you like;" and so they entered. the room was the worst, both in situation and furniture, which tom had yet seen. it was on the ground floor, with only one window, which looked out into a back yard, where were the offices of the college. all day, and up to nine o'clock at night, the yard and offices were filled with scouts; boys cleaning boots and knives; bed-makers emptying slops and tattling scandal; scullions peeling potatoes and listening; and the butchers' and green-grocers' men who supply the college, and loitering about to gossip and get a taste of the college ale before going about their business. the room was large, but low and close, and the floor uneven. the furniture did not add to the cheerfulness of the apartment. it consisted of one large table in the middle, covered with an old chequered table-cloth, and an oxford table near the window, on which lay half-a-dozen books with writing materials. a couple of plain windsor chairs occupied the two sides of the fireplace, and half-a-dozen common wooden chairs stood against the opposite wall, three on each side of a pretty-well-filled book-case; while an old rickety sofa, covered with soiled chintz, leaned against the wall which fronted the window, as if to rest its lame leg. the carpet and rug were dingy, and decidedly the worse for wear; and the college had evidently neglected to paper the room or whitewash the ceiling for several generations. on the mantle-piece reposed a few long clay pipes, and a brown earthenware receptacle for tobacco, together with a japanned tin case, shaped like a figure of eight, the use of which puzzled tom exceedingly. one modestly framed drawing of a -gun brig hung above, and at the side of the fireplace a sword and belt. all this tom had time to remark by the light of the fire, which was burning brightly, while his host produced a couple of brass candlesticks from his cupboard and lighted up, and drew the curtain before his window. then tom instinctively left off taking his notes, for fear of hurting the other's feelings (just as he would have gone on doing, and making remarks on everything, had the rooms been models of taste and comfort), and throwing his cap and gown on the sofa, sat down on one of the windsor chairs. "what a jolly chair," said he; "where do you get them? i should like to buy one." "yes, they're comfortable enough," said hardy, "but the reason i have them is, that they're the cheapest armchair one can get. i like an arm-chair, and can't afford to have any other than these." tom dropped the subject of the chairs at once, following his instinct again, which, sad to say, was already teaching him that poverty is a disgrace to a briton, and that, until you know a man thoroughly, you must always seem to assume that he is the owner of unlimited ready money. somehow or another, he began to feel embarrassed, and couldn't think of anything to say, as his host took down the pipes and tobacco from the mantle-piece, and placed them on the table. however, anything was better than silence, so he began again. "very good-sized rooms yours seem," said he, taking up a pipe mechanically. "big enough, for the matter of that," answered the other, "but very dark and noisy in the day-time." "so i should think," said tom; "do you know, i'd sooner, now, have my freshman's rooms up in the garrets. i wonder you don't change." "i get these for nothing," said his host, putting his long clay to the candle, and puffing out volumes of smoke. tom felt more and more unequal to the situation, and filled his pipe in silence. the first whiff made him cough as he wasn't used to the fragrant weed in this shape. "i'm afraid you don't smoke tobacco," said his host from behind his own cloud; "shall i go out and fetch you a cigar? i don't smoke them myself; i can't afford it." "no, thank you," said tom blushing for shame as if he had come there only to insult his host, and wishing himself heartily out of it, "i've got my case here; and the fact is i will smoke a cigar if you'll allow me, for i'm not up to pipes yet. i wish you'd take some," he went on, emptying his cigars on to the table. "thank'ee," replied his host, "i prefer a pipe. and now what will you have to drink? i don't keep wine but i can get a bottle of anything you like from the common room. that's one of _our_ privileges,"--he gave a grim chuckle as he emphasised the word "our". "who on earth are _we_?" thought tom "servitors i suppose," for he knew already that undergraduates in general could not get wine from the college cellars. "i don't care a straw about wine," said he, feeling very hot about the ears; "a glass of beer, or anything you have here--or tea." "well, i can give you a pretty good glass of whiskey," said his host, going to the cupboard, and producing a black bottle, two tumblers of different sizes, some little wooden toddy ladles, and sugar in an old cracked glass. tom vowed that, if there was one thing in the world he liked more than another, it was whiskey; and began measuring out the liquor carefully into his tumbler, and rolling it round between his eyes and the candle and smelling it, to show what a treat it was to him; while his host put the kettle on the fire, to ascertain that it had quit boiling, and then, as it spluttered and fizzed, filled up the two tumblers, and restored it to its place on the hob. tom swallowed some of the mixture, which nearly made him cough again--for, though it was very good, it was also very potent. however, by an effort he managed to swallow his cough; he would about as soon have lost a little finger as let it out. then, to his great relief, his host took the pipe from his lips, and inquired, "how do you like oxford?" "i hardly know yet," said tom; "the first few days i was delighted with going about and seeing the buildings, and finding out who had lived in each of the old colleges, and pottering about in the bodleian, and fancying i should like to be a great scholar. then i met several old school fellows going about, who are up at other colleges, and went to their rooms and talked over old times. but none of my very intimate friends are up yet, and unless you care very much about a man already, you don't seem likely to get intimate with him up here, unless he is at your own college." he paused, as if expecting an answer. "i daresay not," said hardy, "but i never was at a public school, unluckily, and so am no judge." "well, then, as to the college life," went on tom, "it's all very well as far as it goes. there's plenty of liberty and good food. and the men seem nice fellows--many of them, at least, so far as i can judge. but i can't say that i like it as much as i liked our school life." "i don't understand," said hardy. "why not?" "oh! i hardly know," said tom laughing; "i don't seem as if i had anything to do here; that's one reason, i think. and then, you see, at rugby i was rather a great man. there one had a share in the ruling of boys, and a good deal of responsibility; but here one has only just to take care of oneself, and keep out of scrapes; and that's what i never could do. what do you think a fellow ought to do, now, up here?" "oh i don't see much difficulty in that," said his host, smiling; "get up your lectures well, to begin with." "but my lectures are a farce," said tom; "i've done all the books over and over again. they don't take me an hour a day to get up." "well, then, set to work reading something regularly--reading for your degree, for instance." "oh, hang it! i can't look so far forward as that; i shan't be going up for three years." "you can't begin too early. you might go and talk to your college-tutor about it." "so i did," said tom; "at least i meant to do it. for he asked me and two other freshmen to breakfast the other morning, and i was going to open out to him; but when i got there i was quite shut up. he never looked one of us in the face, and talked in set sentences, and was cold, and formal, and condescending. the only bit of advice he gave us was to have nothing to do with boating--just the one thing which i feel a real interest in. i couldn't get out a word of what i wanted to say." "it is unlucky, certainly, that our present tutors take so little interest in anything which the men care about. but it is more from shyness than anything else, that manner which you noticed. you may be sure that he was more wretched and embarrassed than any of you." "well, but now i should really like to know what you did yourself," said tom; "you are the only man of much older standing than myself whom i know at all yet--i mean i don't know anybody else well enough to talk about this sort of thing to them. what did you do, now, besides learning to pull, in your first year?" "i had learnt to pull before i came up here," said hardy. "i really hardly remember what i did besides read. you see, i came up with a definite purpose of reading. my father was very anxious that i should become a good scholar. then my position in the college and my poverty naturally kept me out of the many things which other men do." tom flushed again at the ugly word, but not so much as at first. hardy couldn't mind the subject, or he would never be forcing it up at every turn, he thought. "you wouldn't think it," he began again, harping on the same string, "but i can hardly tell you how i miss the sort of responsibility i was talking to you about. i have no doubt i shall get the vacuum filled up before long, but for the life of me i can't see how yet." "you will be a very lucky fellow if you don't find it quite as much as you can do to keep yourself in order up here. it is about the toughest part of a man's life, i do believe, the time he has spent here. my university life has been so different altogether from what yours will be, that my experience isn't likely to benefit you." "i wish you would try me, though," said tom; "you don't know what a teachable sort of a fellow i am, if any body will take me the right way. you taught me to scull, you know; or at least put me in a way to learn. but sculling, and rowing, and cricket, and all the rest of it, with such reading as i am likely to do, won't be enough. i feel sure of that already. "i don't think it will," said hardy. "no amount of physical or mental work will fill the vacuum you were talking of just now. it is the empty house swept and garnished which the boy might have had glimpses of, but the man finds yawning within him, which must be filled somehow. it's a pretty good three years' work to learn how to keep the devils out of it, more or less; by the time you take your degree. at least i have found it so." hardy rose and took a turn or two up and down his room. he was astonished at finding himself talking so unreservedly to one of whom he knew so little, and half-wished the words recalled. he lived much alone, and thought himself morbid and too self-conscious; why should he be filling a youngster's head with puzzles? how did he know that they were thinking of the same thing? but the spoken word cannot be recalled; it must go on its way for good or evil; and this one set the hearer staring into the ashes, and putting many things together in his head. it was some minutes before he broke silence, but at last he gathered up his thoughts, and said, "well, i hope i sha'n't shirk when the time comes. you don't think a fellow need shut himself up, though? i'm sure i shouldn't be any the better for that." "no, i don't think you would," said hardy. "because, you see," tom went on, waxing bolder and more confidential, "if i were to take to moping by myself, i shouldn't read as you or any sensible fellow would do; i know that well enough. i should just begin, sitting with my legs upon the mantel-piece, and looking into my own inside. i see you are laughing, but you know what mean, don't you now?" "yes; staring into the vacuum you were talking of just now; it all comes back to that," said hardy. "well, perhaps it does," said tom; "and i don't believe it does a fellow a bit of good to be thinking about himself and his own doings." "only he can't help himself," said hardy. "let him throw himself as he will into all that is going on up here, after all he must be alone for a great part of his time--all night at any rate--and when he gets his oak sported, it's all up with him. he must be looking more or less into his own inside, as you call it." "then i hope he won't find it as ugly a business as i do. if he does, i'm sure he can't be worse employed." "i don't know that," said hardy; "he can't learn anything worth learning in any other way." "oh, i like that!" said tom; "it's worth learning how to play tennis, and how to speak the truth. you can't learn either by thinking of yourself ever so much." "you must know the truth before you can speak it," said hardy. "so you always do in plenty of time." "how?" said hardy. "oh, i don't know," said tom; "by a sort of instinct i suppose. i never in my life felt any doubt about what i _ought_ to say or do; did you?" "well, yours is a good, comfortable, working belief at any rate," said hardy, smiling; "and i should advise you to hold on to it as long as you can." "but you don't think i can very long, eh?" "no: but men are very different. there's no saying. if you were going to get out of the self-dissecting business altogether though, why should you have brought the subject up at all to-night? it looks awkward for you, doesn't it?" tom began to feel rather forlorn at this suggestion, and probably betrayed it in his face, for hardy changed the subject suddenly. "how do you get on in the boat? i saw you going down to-day, and thought the time much better." tom felt greatly relieved, as he was beginning to find himself in rather deep water; so he rushed into boating with great zest, and the two chatted on very pleasantly on that and other matters. the college clock struck during a pause in their talk, and tom looked at his watch. "eight o'clock i declare," he said; "why i must have been here more than two hours. i'm afraid, now, you have been wanting to work, and i have kept you from it with my talk." "no, it's saturday night. besides, i don't get much society that i care about, and so i enjoy it all the more. won't you stop and have some tea?" tom gladly consented, and his host produced a somewhat dilapidated set of crockery, and proceeded to brew the drink least appreciated at st. ambrose's. tom watched him in silence, much excercised in his mind as to what manner of man he had fallen upon; very much astonished at himself for having opened out so freely, and feeling a desire to know more about hardy, not unmixed with a sort of nervousness as to how he was to accomplish it. when hardy sat down again and began pouring out the tea, curiosity overcame, and he opened with-- "so you read nights, after hall? "yes, for two or three hours; longer, when i am in a good humor." "what, all by yourself?" "generally; but once or twice a week grey comes in to compare notes. do you know him?" "no, at least he hasn't called on me, i have just spoken to him." "he is a quiet fellow, and i daresay doesn't call on any man unless he knew something of him before." "don't you?" "never," said hardy, shortly; and added after a short pause, "very few men would thank me if i did; most would think it impertinent, and i'm too proud to risk that." tom was on the point of asking why; but the uncomfortable feeling which he had nearly lost came back on him. "i suppose one very soon gets tired of the wine and supper party life, though i own i find it pleasant enough now." "i have never been tired," said hardy; "servitors are not troubled with that sort of a thing. if they were i wouldn't go unless i could return them, and that i can't afford." "there he goes again," thought tom; "why will he be throwing that old story in my face over and over again? he can't think i care about his poverty; i won't change the subject this time, at any rate." and so he said: "you don't mean to say it makes any real difference to a man in society up here, whether he is poor or rich; i mean, of course, if he is a gentleman and a good fellow?" "yes, it does--the very greatest possible. but don't take my word for it. keep your eyes open and judge for yourself; i daresay i'm prejudiced on the subject." "well, i shan't believe it if i can help it," said tom; "you know, you said just now that you never called on any one. perhaps you don't give men a fair chance. they might be glad to know you if you would let them, and may think it's your fault that they don't." "very possible," said hardy; "i tell you not to take my word for it." "it upsets all one's ideas so," went on tom; "why oxford ought to be the place in england where money should count for nothing. surely, now, such a man as jervis, our captain, has more influence than all the rich men in the college put together, and is more looked up to?" "he's one of a thousand," said hardy; "handsome, strong, good-tempered, clever, and up to everything. besides, he isn't a poor man; and mind, i don't say that if he were he wouldn't be where he is. i am speaking of the rule, and not of the exceptions." here hardy's scout came in to say that the dean wanted to speak to him. so he put on his cap and gown, and tom rose also. "well, i'm sorry to turn you out," said hardy; "and i'm afraid i've been very surly and made you very uncomfortable. you won't come back again in a hurry." "indeed i will though, if you will let me," said tom; "i have enjoyed my evening immensely." "then come whenever you like," said hardy. "but i am afraid of interfering with your reading," said tom. "oh, you needn't mind that, i have plenty of time on my hands; besides, one can't read all night, and from eight till ten you'll find me generally idle." "then you'll see me often enough. but promise, now, to turn me out whenever i am in the way." "very well," said hardy, laughing; and so they parted for the time. some twenty minutes afterwards hardy returned to his room after his interview with the dean, who merely wanted to speak to him about some matter of college business. he flung his cap and gown on the sofa, and began to walk up and down his room, at first hurriedly, but soon with his usual regular tramp. however expressive a man's face may be, and however well you may know it, it is simply nonsense to say that you can tell what he is thinking about by looking at it, as many of us are apt to boast. still more absurd would it be to expect readers to know what hardy is thinking about, when they have never had the advantage of seeing his face even in a photograph. wherefore, it would seem that the author is bound on such occasions to put his readers on equal vantage ground with himself, and not only tell what a man does, but, so far as may be, what he is thinking about also. his first thought, then, was one of pleasure at having been sought by one who seemed to be just the sort of friend he would like to have. he contrasted our hero with the few men with whom he had generally lived, and for some of whom he had a high esteem--whose only idea of exercise was a two hour constitutional walk in the afternoons, and whose life was chiefly spent over books and behind sported oaks--and felt that this was more of a man after his own heart. then came doubts whether his new friend would draw back when he had been up a little longer, and knew more of the place. at any rate he had said and done nothing to tempt him; "if he pushes the acquaintance--and i think he will--it will be because he likes me for myself. and i can do him good too, i feel sure," he went on, as he ran over rapidly his own life for the last three years. "perhaps he won't flounder into all the sloughs which i have had to drag through; he will get too much of the healthy, active life up here for that, which i have never had; but some of them he must get into. all the companionship of boating and cricketing, and wine-parties, and supper parties, and all the reading in the world won't keep him from many a long hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and emptiness of heart; he feels that already himself. am i sure of that, though? i may be only reading myself into him. at any rate, why should i have helped to trouble him before the time? was that a friend's part? well, he _must_ face it, and the sooner the better perhaps. at any rate it is done. but what a blessed thing if one can only help a youngster like this to fight his own way through the cold clammy atmosphere which is always hanging over him, ready to settle down on him--can help to keep some living faith in him, that the world, oxford and all, isn't a respectable piece of machinery set going some centuries back! ah! it's an awful business, that temptation to believe, or think you believe, in a dead god. it has nearly broken my back a score of times. what are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil to this? it includes them all. well, i believe i can help him, and, please god, i will, if he will only let me; and the very sight of him does me good; so i won't believe we went down the lasher together for nothing." and so at last hardy finished his walk, took down a volume of don quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment before turning in. chapter vi--how drysdale and blake went fishing "drysdale, what's a servitor?" "how the deuce should i know?" this short and pithy dialogue took place in drysdale's rooms one evening soon after the conversation recorded in the last chapter. he and tom were sitting alone there, for a wonder, and so the latter seized the occasion to propound this question, which he had had on his mind for some time. he was scarcely satisfied with the above rejoinder, but while he was thinking how to come at the subject by another road, drysdale opened a morocco fly-book, and poured its contents on the table, which was already covered with flies of all sorts and patterns, hanks of gut, delicate made-up casts, reels, minnows, and tackle enough to kill all the fish in the four neighboring counties. tom began turning them over and scrutinizing the dressings of the flies. "it has been so mild, the fish must be in season don't you think? besides, if they're not, it's a jolly drive to fairford at any rate. you've never been behind my team brown. you'd better come, now, to-morrow." "i can't cut my two lectures." "bother your lectures! put on an aeger, then." "no! that doesn't suit my book, you know." "i can't see why you should be so cursedly particular. well, if you won't, you won't; i know that well enough. but what cast shall you fish with to-morrow?" "how many flies do you use?" "sometimes two, sometimes three." "two's enough, i think; all depends on the weather; but, if it's at all like today, you can't do better, i should think, than the old march brown and a palmer to begin with. then, for change, this hare's ear, and an alder fly, perhaps; or,--let me see," and he began searching the glittering heap to select a color to go with the dull hare's ear. "isn't it early for the alder?" said drysdale. "rather, perhaps; but they can't resist it." "these bang-tailed little sinners any good?" said drysdale, throwing some cock-a-bondies across the table. "yes; i never like to be without them, and a governor or two. here, this is a well-tied lot," said tom, picking out half a-dozen. "you never know when you may not kill with either of them. but i don't know the fairford water; so my opinion isn't worth much." tom soon returned to the old topic. "but now, drysdale, you must know what a servitor is." "why should i? do you mean one of our college servitors?" "yes?" "oh, something in the upper-servant line. i should put him above the porter, and below the cook, and butler. he does the don's dirty work, and gets their broken victuals, and i believe he pays no college fees." tom rather drew into himself at this insolent and offhand definition. he was astonished and hurt at the tone of his friend. however, presently, he resolved to go through with it, and began again. "but servitors are gentlemen, i suppose?" "a good deal of the cock-tail about them, i should think. but i have not the honor of any acquaintance amongst them." "at any rate, they are undergraduates, are not they?" "yes." "and may take degrees, just like you or me?" "they may have all the degrees to themselves, for anything i care. i wish they would let one pay a servitor for passing little-go for one. it would be deuced comfortable. i wonder it don't strike the dons, now; they might get clever beggars for servitors, and farm them, and so make loads of tin." "but, drysdale, seriously, why should you talk like that? if they can take all the degrees we can, and are, in fact, just what we are, undergraduates, i can't see why they're not as likely to be gentlemen as we. it can surely make no difference, their being poor men?" "it must make them devilish uncomfortable," said the incorrigible payer of double fees, getting up to light his cigar. "the name ought to carry respect here, at any rate. the black prince was an oxford man, and he thought the noblest motto he could take was, 'ich dien,' i serve." "if he were here now, he would change it for 'je paye.'" "i often wish you would tell me what you really and truly think, drysdale." "my dear fellow i am telling you what i do really think. whatever the black prince might be pleased to observe if he were here, i stick to my motto. i tell you the thing to be able to do here at oxford is--to pay." "i don't believe it." "i knew you wouldn't." "i don't believe you do either." "i do, though. but what makes you so curious about servitors?" "why, i made friends with hardy, one of our servitors. he is such a fine fellow!" i am sorry to relate that it cost tom an effort to say this to drysdale, but he despised himself that it was so. "you should have told me so, before you began to pump me," said drysdale. "however, i partly suspected something of the sort. you've a good bit of a quixote in you. but really, brown," he added, seeing tom redden and look angry, "i'm sorry if what i said pained you. i daresay this friend of yours is a gentleman, and all you say." "he is more of a gentleman by a long way than most of the--" "gentlemen commoners, you were going to say. don't crane at such a small fence on my account. i will put it in another way for you. he can't be a greater snob than many of them." "well, but why do you live with them so much, then?" "why? because they happen to do the things i like doing, and live up here as i like to live. i like hunting and driving, and drawing badgers, and playing cards, and good wine and cigars. they hunt and drive, and keep dogs and good cellars, and will play unlimited loo or van john as long as i please." "but i know you get very sick of all that often, for i've heard you say as much half-a-dozen times in the little time i've been here." "why, you don't want to deny me the briton's privilege of grumbling, do you?" said drysdale, as he flung his legs up on the sofa, crossing one over the other as he lounged on his back--his favorite attitude; "but suppose i am getting tired of it all--which i am not--what do you purpose as a substitute?" "take to boating. i know you could be in the first boat if you liked; i heard them say so at smith's wine the other night." "but what's to prevent my getting just as tired of that? besides, it's such a grind. and then there's the bore of changing all one's habits." "yes, but it's such splendid hard work," said tom, who was bent on making a convert of his friend. "just so; and that's just what i don't want; the 'books and work and healthful play' line don't suit my complaint. no, as my uncle says, 'a young fellow must sow his wild oats,' and oxford seems a place especially set apart by providence for that operation." in all the wild range of accepted british maxims there is none, take it for all in all, more thoroughly abominable than this one, as to the sowing of wild oats. look at it on what side you will, and you can make nothing but a devil's maxim of it. what a man--be he young, old, or middle-aged--sows, _that_, and nothing else shall he reap. the one only thing to do with wild oats, is to put them carefully into the hottest part of the fire, and get them burnt to dust, every seed of them. if you sow them no matter in what ground, up they will come, with long tough roots like couch grass, and luxuriant stalks and leaves, as sure as there is a sun in heaven--a crop which it turns one's heart cold to think of. the devil, too, whose special crop they are, will see that they thrive, and you, and nobody else, will have to reap them; and no common reaping will get them out of the soil, which must be dug down deep again and again. well for you if with all your care you can make the ground sweet again by your dying day. "boys will be boys" is not much better, but that has a true side to it; but this encouragement to the sowing of wild oats, is simply devilish, for it means that a young man is to give way to the temptations and follow the lusts of his age. what are we to do with the wild oats of manhood and old age--with ambition, over-reaching the false weights, hardness, suspicion, avarice--if the wild oats of youth are to be sown, and not burnt? what possible distinction can be drawn between them? if we may sow the one, why not the other? but to get back to our story. tom went away from drysdale's rooms that night (after they had sorted all the tackle, which was to accompany the fishing expedition, to their satisfaction) in a disturbed state of mind. he was very much annoyed at drysdale's way of talking, because he was getting to like the man. he was surprised and angry at being driven more and more to the conclusion that the worship of the golden calf was verily and indeed rampant in oxford--side by side, no doubt, with much that was manly and noble, but tainting more or less the whole life of the place. in fact, what annoyed him most was, the consciousness that he himself was becoming an idolater. for he couldn't help admitting that he felt much more comfortable when standing in the quadrangles or strolling in the high street with drysdale in his velvet cap, and silk gown, and faultless get-up, than when doing the same things with hardy in his faded old gown, shabby loose overcoat, and well-worn trousers. he wouldn't have had hardy suspect the fact for all he was worth, and hoped to get over the feeling soon; but there it was unmistakably. he wondered whether hardy had ever felt anything of the kind himself. nevertheless, these thoughts did not hinder him from sleeping soundly, or from getting up an hour earlier than usual to go and see drysdale start on his expedition. accordingly, he was in drysdale's rooms next morning betimes, and assisted at the early breakfast which was going on there. blake was the only other man present. he was going with drysdale, and entrusted tom with a message to miller and the captain, that he could not pull in the boat that day, but would pay a waterman to take his place. as soon as the gate opened, the three, accompanied by the faithful jack, and followed by drysdale's scout, bearing overcoats, a splendid water-proof apron lined with fur, and the rods and reels, sallied out of the college, and sought the livery stables, patronized by the men of st. ambrose's. here they found a dog cart all ready in the yard, with a strong roman-nosed, vicious-looking, rat-tailed horse in the shafts, called satan by drysdale; the leader had been sent on to the first turnpike. the things were packed, and jack, the bull-dog, hoisted into the interior in a few minutes; drysdale produced a long straight horn, which he called his yard of tin (probably because it was made of brass), and after refreshing himself with a blast or two, handed it over to blake, and then mounted the dog cart, and took the reins. blake seated himself by his side; the help who was to accompany them got up behind, and jack looked wisely out from his inside place over the back-board. "are we all right?" said drysdale, catching his long tandem whip into a knowing double thong. "all right, sir," said the head ostler, touching his cap. "you'd better have come, my boy," said drysdale to tom, as they trotted off out of the yard; and tom couldn't help envying them as he followed, and watched the dog cart lessening rapidly down the empty street, and heard the notes of the yard of tin, which blake managed to make really musical, borne back on the soft western breeze. it was such a pleasant morning for fishing. however, it was too late to repent, had he wished it; and so he got back to chapel, and destroyed the whole effect of the morning service on miller's mind, by delivering blake's message to that choleric coxswain as soon as chapel was over. miller vowed for the twentieth time that blake should be turned out of the boat, and went off to the captain's rooms to torment him, and consult what was to be done. the weather continued magnificent--a soft, dull grey march day, and a steady wind; and the thought of the lucky fishermen, and visions of creels filled with huge three-pounders, haunted tom at lecture, and throughout the day. at two o'clock he was down at the river. the college eight was to go down for the first time in the season to the reached below nuneham, for a good training pull, and he had notice, to his great joy, that he was to be tried in the boat. but, great, no doubt, as was the glory, the price was a heavy one. this was the first time he had been subjected to the tender mercies of miller, the coxswain, or had pulled behind the captain; and it did not take long to convince him that it was a very different style of thing from anything he had as yet been accustomed to in the freshman's crew. the long steady sweep of the so-called paddle tried him almost as much as the breathless strain of the spurt. miller, too, was in one of his most relentless moods. he was angry at blake's desertion, and seemed to think that tom had something to do with it, though he simply delivered the message which had been entrusted to him; and so, though he distributed rebuke and objurgation to every man in the boat except the captain, he seemed to our hero to take particular delight in working him. there he stood in the stern, the fiery little coxswain, leaning forward with a tiller-rope in each hand, and bending to every stroke, shouting his warnings, and rebukes, and monitions to tom, till he drove him to his wits' end. by the time the boat came back to hall's, his arms were so numb that he could hardly tell whether his oar was in or out of his hand; his legs were stiff and aching, and every muscle in his body felt as if it had been pulled out an inch or two. as he walked up to college, he felt as if his shoulders and legs had nothing to do with one another; in short, he had had a very hard day's work, and, after going fast asleep at a wine-party, and trying in vain to rouse himself by a stroll in the streets, fairly gave in about ten o'clock and went to bed without remembering to sport his oak. for some hours he slept the sleep of the dead, but at last began to be conscious of voices, and the clicking of glasses, and laughter, and scraps of songs; and after turning himself once or twice in bed, to ascertain whether he was awake or no, rubbed his eyes, sat up, and became aware that something very entertaining to the parties concerned was going on in his sitting-room. after listening for a minute, he jumped up, threw on his shooting-coat, and appeared at the door of his own sitting-room, where he paused a moment to contemplate the scene which met his astonished vision. his fire recently replenished, was burning brightly in the grate, and his candles on the table on which stood his whisky bottle, and tumblers, and hot water. on his sofa, which had been wheeled round before the fire, reclined drysdale, on his back, in his pet attitude, one leg crossed over the other, with a paper in his hand, from which he was singing, and in the arm-chair sat blake, while jack was coiled on the rug, turning himself every now and then in a sort of uneasy protest against his master's untimely hilarity. at first, tom felt inclined to be angry, but the jolly shout of laughter with which drysdale received him, as he stepped out into the light in night-shirt, shooting-coat, and dishevelled hair, appeased him at once. "why, brown, you don't mean to say you have been in bed this last half-hour? we looked into the bed-room, and thought it was empty. sit down, old fellow, and make yourself at home. have a glass of grog; it's first-rate whisky." "well you're a couple of cool hands, i must say," said tom. "how did you get in?" "through the door, like honest men," said drysdale. "you're the only good fellow in college to-night. when we got back our fires were out, and we've been all round the college, and found all the oaks sported but yours. never sport your oak, old boy; it's a bad habit. you don't know what time in the morning you may entertain angels unawares." "you're a rum pair of angels, anyhow," said tom, taking his seat on the sofa. "but what o'clock is it?" "oh, about half-past one," said drysdale. "we've had a series of catastrophes. never got into college till near one. i thought we should never have waked that besotted little porter. however, here we are at last, you see, all right." "so it seems," said tom; "but how about the fishing?" "fishing! we've never thrown a fly all day," said drysdale. "he is so cursedly conceited about his knowledge of the country," struck in blake. "what with that, and his awful twist, and his incurable habit of gossiping, and his blackguard dog, and his team of a devil and a young female--" "hold your scandalous tongue," shouted drysdale. "to hear _you_ talking of my twist, indeed; you ate four chops and a whole chicken to-day, at dinner, to your own cheek, you know." "that's quite another thing," said blake. "i like to see a fellow an honest grubber at breakfast and dinner; but you've always got your nose in the manger. that's how we all got wrong to-day, brown. you saw what a breakfast he ate before starting; well, nothing would satisfy him but another at whitney. there we fell in with a bird in mahogany tops, and, as usual, drysdale began chumming with him. he knew all about the fishing of the next three counties. i daresay he did. my private belief is, that he is one of the hungerford town council, who let the fishing there; at any rate, he swore it was no use our going to fairford; the only place where fish would be in season was hungerford. of course drysdale swallowed it all, and nothing would serve him but that we should turn off for hungerford at once. now, i did go once to hungerford races, and i ventured to suggest that we should never get near the place. not a bit of use; he knew every foot of the country. it was then about nine; he would guarantee that we should be there by twelve, at latest." "so we should have been, but for accidents," struck in drysdale. "well, at any rate, what we did was to drive into farringdon, instead of hungerford, both horses dead done up, at twelve o'clock, after missing our way about twenty times." "because you would put in your oar," said drysdale. "then grub again," went on blake, "and an hour to bait the horses. i knew we were as likely to get to jericho as to hungerford. however, he would start; but, luckily, about two miles from farringdon, old satan bowled quietly into a bank, broke a shaft, and deposited us then and there. he wasn't such a fool as to be going to hungerford at that time of day; the first time in his wicked old life that i ever remember seeing him do anything that pleased me." "come, now," said drysdale, "do you mean to say you ever sat behind a better wheeler, when he's in a decent temper?" "can't say," said blake; "never sat behind him in a good temper, that i can remember." "i'll trot him five miles out and home in a dog-cart, on any road out of oxford, against any horse you can bring, for a fiver." "done!" said blake. "but were you upset?" said tom. "how did you get into the bank?" "why, you see," said drysdale, "jessy,--that's the little blood-mare, my leader,--is very young, and as shy and skittish as the rest of her sex. we turned a corner sharp, and came right upon a gipsy encampment. up she went into the air in a moment, and then turned right around and came head on at the cart. i gave her the double thong across her face to send her back again, and satan, seizing the opportunity, rushed against the bank, dragging her with him, and snapping the shaft." "and so ended our day's fishing," said blake. "and next moment out jumps that brute jack, and pitches into the gipsy's dog, who had come up very naturally to have a look at what was going on. down jumps drysdale to see that his beast gets fair play, leaving me and the help to look after the wreck, and keep his precious wheeler from kicking the cart into little pieces." "come, now," said drysdale, "you must own we fell on our legs after all. hadn't we a jolly afternoon? i'm thinking of turning tramp, brown. we spent three or four hours in that camp, and blake got spooney on a gipsy girl, and has written i don't know how many songs on them. didn't you hear us singing them just now?" "but how did you get the cart mended?" said tom. "oh, the tinker patched up the shaft for us,--a cunning old beggar, the _pere de famille_ of the encampment; up to every move on the board. he wanted to have a deal with me for jessy. but 'pon my honor, we had a good time of it. there was the old tinker, mending the shaft, in his fur cap, with a black pipe, one inch long, sticking out of his mouth; and the old brown parchment of a mother, with her head in a red handkerchief, smoking a ditto pipe to the tinker's, who told our fortunes, and talked like a printed book. then there was his wife, and the slip of a girl who bowled over blake there, and half a dozen ragged brats; and a fellow on a tramp, not a gipsy--some runaway apprentice, i take it, but a jolly dog--with no luggage but an old fiddle on which he scraped away uncommonly well, and set blake making rhymes as we sat in the tent. you never heard any of his songs. here's one for each of us; we're going to get up the characters and sing them about the country;--now for a rehearsal; i'll be the tinker." "no, you must take the servant girl," said blake. "well, we'll toss up for characters when the time comes. you begin then; here's a song," and he handed one of the papers to blake, who began singing-- "squat on a green plot, we scorn a bench or settle, oh. plying or trying, a spice of every trade; razors we grind, ring a pig, or mend a kettle, oh; come, what d'ye lack? speak it out, my pretty maid. "i'll set your scissors, while my granny tells you plainly! who stole your barley meal, your butter or your heart; tell if your husband will be handsome or ungainly, ride in a coach and four, or rough it in a cart." "enter silly sally; that's i, for the present you see," said drysdale; and he began-- "oh, dear! what can the matter be? dear, dear! what can the matter be? oh, dear! what can the matter be? all in a pucker be i; i'm growing uneasy about billy martin, for love is a casualty desper't unsartin. law! yonder's the gipsy as tells folk's fortin; i'm half in the mind for to try." "then you must be the old gipsy woman, mother patrico; here's your part brown." "but what's the tune?" said tom. "oh, you can't miss it; go ahead;" and so tom, who was dropping into the humour of the thing, droned out from the ms. handed to him-- "chairs to mend, old chairs to mend, rush bottom'd cane bottom'd, chairs to mend. maid, approach, if thou wouldst know what the stars may deign to show." "now, tinker," said drysdale, nodding at blake, who rattled on,-- "chance feeds us, chance leads us; round the land in jollity; rag-dealing, nag-stealing, everywhere we roam; brass mending, ass vending, happier than the quality; swipes soaking, pipes smoking, ev'ry barn a home; tink, tink, a tink a tink, our life is full of fun, boys; clink tink, a tink a tink, our busy hammers ring; clink, tink, a tink a tink, our job will soon be done boys; then tune we merrily the bladder and the string." drysdale, as _silly sally_. "oh, dear! what can the matter be? dear, dear! what can the matter be? oh, dear! what can the matter be? there's such a look in her eye. oh, lawk! i declare i be all of a tremble; my mind it misgives me about sukey wimble, a splatter faced wench neither civil nor nimble she'll bring billy to beggary." tom, as _mother patrico_. "show your hand; come show your hand! would you know what fate has planned? heaven forefend, ay, heav'n forefend! what may these cross lines portend?" blake, as _the tinker_. "owl, pheasant, all's pleasant, nothing comes amiss to us; hare, rabbit, snare, nab it; cock, or hen, or kite; tom cat, with strong fat, a dainty supper is to us; hedge-hog and sedge-frog to stew is our delight; bow, wow, with angry bark my lady's dog assails us; we sack him up, and clap a stopper on his din. now pop him in the pot; his store of meat avails us; wife cook him nice and hot, and granny tans his skin." drysdale, as _silly sally_. "oh, lawk! what a calamity! oh, my! what a calamity! oh, dear! what a calamity! lost and forsaken be i. i'm out of my senses, and nought will content me, but pois'ning poll ady who helped circumvent me; come tell me the means, for no power shall prevent me: oh, give me revenge, or die." tom, as _mother patrico_ "pause awhile! anon, anon! give me time the stars to con. true love's course shall yet run smooth; true shall prove the favor'd youth." blake, as _the tinker_. "tink tink, a tink a tink, we'll work and then get tipsy, oh! clink tink, on each chink, our busy hammers ring. tink tink, a tink a tink, how merry lives a gypsy, oh! chanting and ranting; as happy as a king." drysdale, as _silly sally_. "joy! joy! all will end happily! joy! joy! all will end happily! joy! joy! all will end happily! bill will be constant to i. oh, thankee, good dame, here's my purse and my thimble; a fig for poll ady and fat sukey wimble; i now could jump over the steeple so nimble; with joy i be ready to cry." tom, as _mother patrico_. "william shall be rich and great; and shall prove a constant mate. thank not me, but thank your fate, on whose high decrees i wait." "well, won't that do? won't it bring the house down? i'm going to send for dresses to london, and we'll start next week." "what, on the tramp, singing these songs?" "yes; we'll begin in some out-of-the-way place till we get used to it." "and end in the lock-up, i should say," said tom; "it'll be a good lark, though. now, you haven't told me how you got home." "oh, we left camp at about five--" "the tinker having extracted a sovereign from drysdale," interrupted blake. "what did you give to the little gypsy yourself?" retorted drysdale; "i saw your adieus under the thorn-bush.--well, we got on all right to old murdock's, at kingston inn, by about seven, and there we had dinner; and after dinner the old boy came in. he and i are great chums, for i'm often there, and always ask him in. but that beggar blake, who never saw him before, cut me clean out in five minutes. fancy his swearing he is scotch, and that an ancestor of his in the sixteenth century married a murdock!" "well, when you come to think what a lot of ancestors one must have had at that time, it's probably true," said blake. "at any rate, it took," went on drysdale. "i thought old murdock would have wept on his neck. as it was, he scattered snuff enough to fill a pint pot over him out of his mull, and began talking gaelic. and blake had the cheek to jabber a lot of gibberish back to him, as if he understood every word." "gibberish! it was the purest gaelic," said blake laughing. "i heard a lot of greek words myself," said drysdale; "but old murdock was too pleased at hearing his own clapper going, and too full of whisky, to find him out." "let alone that i doubt whether he remembers more than about five words of his native tongue himself," said blake. "the old boy got so excited that he went up stairs for his plaid and dirk, and dressed himself up in them, apologising that he could not appear in the full grab of old gaul, in honor of his new-found relative, as his daughter had cut up his old kilt for 'trews for the barnies' during his absence from home. then they took to more toddy and singing scotch songs, till at eleven o'clock they were standing on their chairs, right hands clasped, each with one foot on the table, glasses in the other hands, the toddy flying over the room as they swayed about roaring like maniacs, what was it?--oh, i have it: 'wug-an-toorey all agree, wug-an-toorey, wug-an-toorey.'" "he hasn't told you that he tried to join us, and tumbled over the back of his chair into the dirty-plate basket." "a libel! a libel!" shouted drysdale; "the leg of my chair broke, and i stepped down gracefully and safely, and when i looked up and saw what a tottery performance it was, i concluded to give them a wide berth. it would be no joke to have old murdock topple over on to you. i left them 'wug-an-tooreying,' and went out to look after the trap, which was ordered to be at the door at half-past ten. i found murdock's ostler very drunk, but sober compared with that rascally help whom we had been fools enough to take with us. they had got the trap out and the horses in, but that old rascal satan was standing so quiet that i suspected something wrong. sure enough, when i came to look, they had him up to the cheek on one side of his mouth, and third bar on the other, his belly-band buckled across his back, and no kicking strap. the old brute was chuckling to himself what he would do with us as soon as we had started in that trim. it took half an hour getting all right, as i was the only one able to do anything." "yes, you would have said so," said blake, "if you had seen him trying to put jack up behind. he made six shots with the old dog, and dropped him about on his head and the broad of his back as if he had been a bundle of ells." "the fact is, that that rascally ostler had made poor old jack drunk too," explained drysdale, "and he wouldn't be lifted straight. however we got off at last, and hadn't gone a mile before the help (who was maundering away some cursed sentimental ditty or other behind), lurched more heavily than usual, and pitched off into the night somewhere. blake looked for him for half-an-hour, and couldn't find a hair." "you don't mean to say the man tumbled off and you never found him?" said tom in horror. "well, that's about the fact," said drysdale; "but it isn't so bad as you think. we had no lamps, and it was an uncommon bad night for running by holloas." "but a first-rate night for running by scent," broke in blake; "the fellow leant against me until he made his exit, and i'd have backed myself to have hit the scent again half-a-mile off if the wind had only been right." "he may have broken his neck," said tom. "can a fellow sing with a broken neck?" said drysdale; "hanged if i know! but don't i tell you, we heard him maundering on somewhere or other? and when blake shouted, he rebuked him piously out of the pitch darkness, and told him to go home and repent. i nearly dropped off the box laughing at them; and then he 'uplifted his testimony,' as he called it, against me, for driving a horse called satan. i believe he's a ranting methodist spouter." "i tried hard to find him," said blake; "for i should dearly have liked to kick him safely into the ditch." "at last black will himself couldn't have held satan another minute. so blake scrambled up, and away we came, and knocked into college at one for a finish: the rest you know." "well, you've had a pretty good day of it," said tom, who had been hugely amused; "but i should feel nervous about the help, if i were you." "oh, he'll come to no grief, i'll be bound," said drysdale, "but what o'clock is it?" "three," said blake, looking at his watch and getting up; "time to turn in." "the first time i ever heard you say that," said drysdale. "yes; but you forget we were up this morning before the world was aired. good night, brown." and off the two went, leaving tom to sport his oak this time, and retire in wonder to bed. drysdale was asleep, with jack curled up on the foot of the bed, in ten minutes. blake, by the help of wet towels and a knotted piece of whipcord round his forehead, read pinder till the chapel bell began to ring. chapter vii--an explosion our hero soon began to feel that he was contracting his first college friendship. the great, strong, badly-dressed, badly-appointed servitor, who seemed almost at the same time utterly reckless of, and nervously alive to, the opinion of all around him, with his bursts of womanly tenderness and berserker rage, alternating like storms and sunshine of a july day on a high moorland, his keen sense of humor and appreciation of all the good things of life, the use and enjoyment of which he was so steadily denying himself from high principle, had from the first seized powerfully on all tom's sympathies, and was daily gaining more hold upon him. blessed is the man who has the gift of making friends; for it is one of god's best gifts. it involves many things, but above all, the power of going out of oneself, and seeing and appreciating whatever is noble and living in another man. but even to him who has the gift, it is often a great puzzle to find out whether a man is really a friend or not. the following is recommended as a test in the case of any man about whom you are not quite sure; especially if he should happen to have more of this world's goods, either in the shape of talents, rank or money, or what not, than you. fancy the man stripped stark naked of every thing in the world, except an old pair of trousers and a shirt, for decency's sake, without even a name to him, and dropped down in the middle of holborn or piccadilly. would you go up to him then and there, and lead him out from amongst the cabs and omnibuses, and take him to your own home and feed him and clothe him, and stand by him against all the world, to your last sovereign, and your last leg of mutton? if you wouldn't do this you have no right to call him by the sacred name of friend. if you would, the odds are that he would do the same by you, and you may count yourself a rich man. for, probably were friendship expressible by, or convertible into, current coin of the realm, one such friend would be worth to a man, at least , l. how many millionaires are there in england? i can't even guess; but more by a good many, i fear, than there are men who have ten real friends. but friendship is not expressible or convertible. it is more precious than wisdom; and wisdom "cannot be gotten for gold, nor shall rubies be mentioned in comparison thereof." not all the riches that ever came out of earth and sea are worth the assurance of one such real abiding friendship in your heart of hearts. but for the worth of a friendship commonly so called--meaning thereby a sentiment founded on the good dinners, good stories, opera stalls, and days' shooting you have gotten or hope to get out of a man, the snug things in his gift, and his powers of procuring enjoyment of one kind or another to miserable body or intellect--why, such a friendship as that is to be appraised easily enough, if you find it worth your while; but you will have to pay your pound of flesh for it one way or another--you may take your oath of that. if you follow my advice, you will take a l note down, and retire to your crust of bread and liberty. tom was rapidly falling into friendship with hardy. he was not bound hand and foot and carried away captive yet, but he was already getting deep in the toils. one evening he found himself as usual at hardy's door about eight o'clock. the oak was open, but he got no answer when he knocked at the inner door. nevertheless he entered, having quite got over all shyness or ceremony by this time. the room was empty, but two tumblers and the black bottle stood on the table, and the kettle was hissing away on the hob. "ah," thought tom, "he expects me, i see;" so he turned his back to the fire and made himself at home. a quarter of an hour passed, and still hardy did not return. "never knew him out so long before at this time of night," thought tom. "perhaps he's at some party. i hope so. it would do him a good deal of good; and i know he might go out if he liked. next term, see if i won't make him more sociable. it's a stupid custom that freshmen don't give parties in their first term, or i'd do it at once. why won't he be more sociable? no, after all sociable isn't the word; he's a very sociable fellow at bottom. what in the world is it that he wants?" and so tom balanced himself on the two hind legs of one of the windsor chairs, and betook himself to pondering what it was exactly which ought to be added to hardy to make him an unexceptional object of hero-worship; when the man himself came suddenly into the room, slamming his oak behind him, and casting his cap and gown fiercely on to the sofa before he noticed our hero. tom jumped up at once. "my dear fellow, what's the matter?" he said; "i'm sorry i came in; shall i go?" "no--don't go--sit down," said hardy, abruptly; and then began to smoke fast without saying another word. tom waited a few minutes watching for him, and then broke silence again.-- "i am sure something is the matter, hardy; you look dreadfully put out--what is it?" "what is it?" said hardy, bitterly; "oh, nothing at all--nothing at all; a gentle lesson to servitors as to the duties of their position; not pleasant, perhaps, for a youngster to swallow; but i ought to be used to such things at any rate by this time. i beg your pardon for seeming put out." "do tell me what it is," said tom. "i'm sure i am very sorry for anything which annoys you." "i believe you are," said hardy, looking at him, "and i'm much obliged to you for it. what do you think of that fellow chanter's offering smith, the junior servitor, a boy just come up, a bribe of ten pounds to prick him in at chapel when he isn't there?" "the dirty blackguard," said tom; "by jove he ought to be cut. he will be cut, won't he? you don't mean that he really did offer him the money?" "i do," said hardy, "and the poor little fellow came here after hall to ask me what he should do with tears in his eyes." "chanter ought to be horsewhipped in quad," said tom. "i will go and call on smith directly. what did you do?" "why, as soon as i could master myself enough not to lay hands on him," said hardy, "i went across to his rooms where he was entertaining a select party, and just gave him his choice between writing an abject apology then and there to my dictation, or having the whole business laid before the principal to-morrow morning. he chose the former alternative, and i made him write such a letter as i don't think he will forget in a hurry." "that's good," said tom; "but he ought to have been horsewhipped too. it makes one's fingers itch to think of it. however, smith's all right now." "all right!" said hardy, bitterly. "i don't know what you call 'all right.' probably the boy's self-respect is hurt for life. you can't salve over this sort of thing with an apology-plaster." "well, i hope it isn't so bad as that," said tom. "wait till you've tried it yourself," said hardy, "i'll tell you what it is; one or two things of this sort--and i've seen many more than that in my time--sink down into you, and leave marks like a red-hot iron." "but, hardy, now, really, did you ever know a bribe offered before?" said tom. hardy thought for a moment. "no," said he, "i can't say that i have; but things as bad, or nearly as bad, often." he paused a minute, and then went on; "i tell you, if it were not for my dear old father, who would break his heart over it, i would cut the whole concern to-morrow. i've been near doing it twenty times, and enlisting in a good regiment." "would it be any better there, though?" said tom, gently, for he felt that he was in a gunpowder magazine. "better! yes, it must be better," said hardy; "at any rate the youngsters there are marchers and fighters; besides, one would be in the ranks and know one's place. here one is by way of being a gentleman--god save the mark! a young officer, be he never such a fop or profligate, must take his turn at guard, and carry his life in his hand all over the world wherever he is sent, or he has to leave the service. service!--yes, that's the word; that's what makes every young red-coat respectable, though he mayn't think it. he is serving his queen, his country--the devil, too, perhaps--very likely--but still the other is some sort. he is bound to it, sworn to it, must do it; more or less. but a youngster up here, with health, strength, and heaps of money--bound to no earthly service, and choosing that of the devil and his own lusts, because some service or other he must have--i want to know where else under the sun you can see such a sight as that?" tom mumbled something to the effect that it was by no means necessary that men at oxford, either rich or poor, need embark in the service which had been alluded to; which remark, however, only seemed to add fuel to the fire. for hardy now rose from his chair, and began striding up and down the room, his right arm behind his back, the hand gripping his left elbow, his left hand brought round in front close to his body, and holding the bowl of his pipe, from which he was blowing off clouds in puffs like an engine just starting with a heavy train. the attitude was one of a man painfully trying to curb himself. his eyes burnt like coals under his deep brows. the man altogether looked awful, and tom felt particularly uncomfortable and puzzled. after a turn or two, hardy burst out again-- "and who are they, i should like to know, these fellows who dare to offer bribes to gentlemen? how do they live? what do they do for themselves or for this university? by heaven, they are ruining themselves body and soul, and making this place, which was meant for the training of learned and brave and righteous englishmen, a lie and a snare. and who tries to stop them? here and there a don is doing his work like a man; the rest are either washing their hands of the business, and spending their time in looking after those who don't want looking after, and cramming those who would be better without the cramming, or else standing by, cap in hand, and shouting, 'oh young men of large fortune and great connexions! you future dispensers of the good things of this realm, come to our colleges and all shall be made pleasant!' and the shout is taken up by undergraduates, and tradesmen, and horse-dealers, and cricket-cads, and dog-fanciers 'come to us, and us, and us, and we will be your toadies!' let them; let them toady and cringe to their precious idols, till they bring this noble old place down about their ears. down it will come, down it must come, for down it ought to come, if it can find nothing better to worship than rank, money, and intellect. but to live in the place and love it too, and to see all this going on, and groan and writhe under it, and not be able--" at this point in his speech hardy came to the turning-point in his march at the farther end of the room, just opposite his crockery cupboard; but, instead of turning as usual, he paused, let go the hold on his left elbow, poised himself for a moment to get a purchase, and then dashed his right fist full against one of the panels. crash went the slight deal boards, as if struck with a sledge-hammer, and crash went glass and crockery behind. tom jumped to his feet, in doubt whether an assault on him would not follow, but the fit was over, and hardy looked round at him with a rueful and deprecating face. for a moment tom tried to look solemn and heroic, as befitted the occasion; but somehow, the sudden contrast flashed upon him, and sent him off, before he could think about it, into a roar of laughter, ending in a violent fit of coughing; for in his excitement he had swallowed a mouthful of smoke. hardy, after holding out for a moment, gave in to the humour of the thing, and the appealing look passed into a smile, and the smile into a laugh, as he turned towards his damaged cupboard, and began opening it carefully in a legitimate manner. "i say, old fellow," said tom, coming up, "i should think you must find it an expensive amusement. do you often walk into your cupboard like that?" "you see, brown, i am naturally a man of a very quick temper." "so it seems" said tom; "but doesn't it hurt your knuckles? i should have something softer put up for me if i were you; your bolster, with a velvet cap on it, or a doctor of divinity's gown, now." "you be hanged," said hardy, as he disengaged the last splinter, and gently opened the ill-used cupboard door. "oh, thunder and turf, look here," he went on, as the state of affairs inside disclosed itself to his view; "how many times have i told that thief george never to put anything on this side of my cupboard! two tumblers smashed to bits, and i've only four in the world. lucky we had those two out on the table." "and here's a great piece out of the sugar-basin, you see," said tom, holding up the broken article; "and, let me see, one cup and three saucers gone to glory." "well, it's lucky it's no worse," said hardy, peering over his shoulder; "i had a lot of odd saucers, and there's enough left to last my time. never mind the smash, let's sit down again and be reasonable." tom sat down in high good humor. he felt himself more on an equality with his host than he had done before, and even thought he might venture on a little mild expostulation or lecturing. but while he was considering how to improve the occasion hardy began himself. "i shouldn't go so furious, brown, if i didn't care about the place so much. i can't bear to think of it as a sort of learning machine, in which i am to grind for three years to get certain degrees which i want. no--this place, and cambridge, and our great schools, are the heart of dear old england. did you ever read secretary cook's address to the vice-chancellor, doctors, &c. in --more critical times, perhaps, even than ours? no? well, listen then;" and he went to his bookcase, took down a book, and read; "'the very truth is, that all wise princes respect the welfare of their estates, and consider that schools and universities are (as in a body) the noble and vital parts, which being vigorous and sound send good blood and active spirits into the veins and arteries, which cause health and strength; or, if feeble or ill-affected, corrupt all the vital parts; whereupon grow diseases, and in the end, death itself.' a low standard up here for ten years may corrupt half the parishes in the kingdom." "that's true," said tom, "but-" "yes; and so one has a right to be jealous for oxford. every englishman ought to be." "but i really think, hardy, that you're unreasonable," said tom, who had no mind to be done out of his chance of lecturing his host. "i am very quick-tempered," said hardy, "as i told you just now." "but you're not fair on the fast set up here. they can't help being rich men, after all." "no; so one oughtn't to expect them to be going through the eyes of needles, i suppose. but do you mean to say you ever heard of a more dirty, blackguard business than this?" said hardy; "he ought to be expelled the university." "i admit that," said tom; "but it was only one of them, you know. i don't believe there's another man in the set who would have done it." "well, i hope not," said hardy; "i may be hard on them--as you say, they can't help being rich. but, now, i don't want you to think me a violent one-sided fanatic; shall i tell you some of my experiences up here--some passages from the life of a servitor?" "do," said tom, "i should like nothing so well." chapter viii--hardy's history "my father is an old commander in the royal navy. he was a second cousin of nelson's hardy, and that, believe, was what led him into the navy, for he had no interest whatever of his own. it was a visit which nelson's hardy, then a young lieutenant, paid to his relative, my grandfather, which decided my father, he has told me: but he always had a strong bent to the sea, though he was a boy of very studious habits. "however, those were times when brave men who knew and loved their profession couldn't be overlooked, and my dear old father fought his way up step by step--not very fast certainly, but, still fast enough to keep him in heart about his chances in life. i can show you the accounts of some of the affairs he was in, in james's history, which you see up on my shelf there, or i could tell them you myself; but i hope some day, you will know him, and then you will hear them in perfection. "my father was made commander towards the end of the war, and got a ship, which he sailed with a convoy of merchantmen from bristol. it was the last voyage he ever made in active service; but the admiralty was so well satisfied with his conduct in it that they kept his ship in commission two years after peace was declared. and well they might be; for in the spanish main he fought an action which lasted, on and off, for two days, with a french sloop of war, and a privateer, which he always thought was an american, either of which ought to have been a match for him. but he had been with vincent in the _arrow_, and was not likely to think much of such small odds as that. at any rate he beat them off, and not a prize could either of them make out of his convoy, though i believe his ship was never fit for anything afterwards, and was broken up as soon as she was out of commission. we have got her compasses, and the old flag which flew at the peak through the whole voyage, at home now. it was my father's own flag, and his fancy to have it always flying. more than half the men were killed, or badly hit--the dear old father amongst the rest. a ball took off part of his knee cap, and he had to fight the last six hours of the action sitting in a chair on the quarter-deck; but he says it made the men fight better than when he was among them, seeing him sitting there sucking oranges. "well, he came home with a stiff leg. the bristol merchants gave him the freedom of the city in a gold box, and a splendidly-mounted sword with an inscription on the blade, which hangs over the mantel-piece at home. when i first left home, i asked him to give me his old service sword, which used to hang by the other, and he gave it me at once, though i was only a lad of seventeen, as he would give me his right eye, dear old father, which is the only one he has now; the other he lost from a cutlass wound in a boarding-party. there it hangs, and those are his epaulettes in the tin case. they used to lie under my pillow before i had a room of my own, and many a cowardly down-hearted fit have they helped me to pull through, brown; and many a mean act have they helped to keep me from doing. there they are always; and the sight of them brings home the dear old man to me as nothing else does, hardly even his letters. i must be a great scoundrel to go very wrong with such a father. "let's see--where was i? oh, yes; i remember. well, my father got his box and sword, and some very handsome letters from several great men. we have them all in a book at home, and i know them by heart. the ones he values most are from collingwood, and his old captain, vincent, and from his cousin nelson's hardy, who didn't come off very well himself after the war. but my poor old father never got another ship. for some time he went up every year to london, and was always, he says, very kindly received by the people in power, and often dined with one and another lord of the admiralty who had been an old messmate. but he was longing for employment; and it used to prey on him while he was in his prime to feel year after year slipping away and he still without a ship. but why should i abuse people, and think it hard, when he doesn't? 'you see, jack,' he said to me the last time we spoke about it, 'after all i was a battered old hulk, lame and half blind. so was nelson you'll say: but every man isn't a nelson, my boy. 'and though i might think i could con or fight a ship as well as ever, i can't say other folk who didn't know me were wrong for not agreeing with me. would you, now jack, appoint a lame and blind man to command your ship, if you had one?' but he left off applying for work as soon as he was fifty, (i just remember the time), for he began to doubt then whether he was quite so fit to command a vessel as a younger man; and, though he had a much better chance after that of getting a ship (for william iv came to the throne, who knew all about him), he never went near the admiralty again. 'god forbid,' he said, 'that his majesty should take me if there's a better man to be had.' "but i have forgotten to tell you how i came into the world, and am telling you my father's story instead of my own. you seem to like hearing about it though, and you can't understand one without the other. however, when my father was made commander, he married, and bought, with his prize-money and savings, a cottage and piece of land, in a village on the south coast, where he left his wife when he went on his last voyage. they had waited some years, for neither of them had any money; but there never were two people who wanted it less, or did more good without it to all who came near them. they had a hard time of it too, for my father had to go on half-pay; and a commander's half-pay isn't much to live upon and keep a family. for they had a family; three besides me; but they are all gone. and my mother, too; she died when i was quite a boy, and left him and me alone; and since then i have never known what a woman's love is, for i have no near relations; and a man with such prospects as mine had better keep down all--however, there's no need to go into any notions; i won't wander any more if i can help it. "i know my father was very poor when my mother died, and i think (though he never told me so) that he had mortgaged our cottage, and was very near having to sell it at one time. the expenses of my mother's illness had been very heavy; i know a good deal of the best furniture was sold--all, indeed except a handsome arm chair and a little work table of my mother's. she used to sit in the chair, in her last illness, on our lawn, and watch the sunsets. and he sat by her, and watched her, and sometimes read the bible to her; while i played about with a big black dog we had then, named vincent, after my father's old captain; or with burt, his old boatswain, who came with his wife to live with my father before i can recollect, and lives with us still. he did everything in the garden, and about the house; and in the house, too, when his wife was ill, for he can turn his hand to most anything, like most old salts. it was he who rigged up the mast and weather-cock on the lawn, and used to let me run up the old flag on sundays, and on my father's wedding-day, and on the anniversary of his action, and of vincent's action in the arrow. "after my mother's death my father sent away all the servants, for the boatswain and his wife are more like friends. i was wrong to say that no woman has loved me since my mother's death, for i believe dear old nanny loves me as if i were her own child. my father, after this, used to sit silent for hours together, doing nothing but look over the sea, but, except for that, was not much changed. after a short time he took to teaching me to read, and from that time i never was away from him for an hour, except when i was asleep, until i went out into the world. "as i told you, my father was naturally fond of study. he had kept up the little latin he had learnt as a boy, and had always been reading whatever he could lay his hands on; so that i couldn't have had a better tutor. they were no lessons to me, particularly the geographical ones; for there was no part of the world's sea-coast that he did not know, and could tell me what it and the people were like; and often when burt happened to come in at such times, and heard what my father was talking about, he would give us some of his adventures and ideas of geography, which were very queer indeed. "when i was nearly ten, a new vicar came. he was about my father's age and a widower, like him; only he had no child. like him, too, he had no private fortune, and the living is a very poor one. he soon became very intimate with us, and made my father his churchwarden; and, after being present at some of our lessons, volunteered to teach me greek, which, he said, it was time i should begin to learn. "this was great relief to my father, who had bought a greek grammar and dictionary, and a delectus, some time before; and i could see him often, dear old father, with his glass in his eye, puzzling away over them when i was playing, or reading cook's voyages, for it had grown to be the wish of his heart that i should be a scholar, and should go into orders. so he was going to teach me greek himself, for there was no one in the parish except the vicar who knew a word of anything but english--so that he could not have got me a tutor, and the thought of sending me to school had never crossed his mind, even if he could have afforded to do either. my father only sat by at greek lessons, and took no part; but first he began to put in a word here and there, and then would repeat words and sentences himself, and look over my book while i construed, and very soon was just as regular a pupil of the vicar's as i. "the vicar was for the most part very proud of his pupils, and the kindest of masters; but every now and then he used to be hard on my father, which made me furious, though he never seemed to mind it. i used to make mistakes on purpose at those times to show that i was worse than he at any rate. but this only happened after we had had a political discussion at dinner; for we dined at three, and took to our greek afterwards, to suit the vicar's time, who was generally a guest. my father is a tory, of course, as you may guess, and the vicar was a liberal, of a very mild sort, as i have since thought; a whig of ' ,' he used to call himself. but he was in favor of the reform bill, which was enough for my father, who lectured him about loyalty, and opening the flood-gates to revolution; and used to call up old burt from the kitchen, where he was smoking his pipe, and ask him what he used to think of the radicals on board ship; and burt's regular reply was-- "'skulks, yer honor, regular skulks. i wouldn't give the twist of a fiddler's elbow for all the lot of 'em as ever pretended to handle a swab, or handle a topsail.' "the vicar always tried to argue, but, as burt and i were the only audience, my father was always triumphant; only he took it out of us afterwards, at the greek. often i used to think, when they were reading history, and talking about the characters, that my father was much the more liberal of the two. "about this time he bought a small half-decked boat of ten tons, for he and burt agreed that i ought to learn to handle a boat, although i was not to go to sea; and when they got the vicar in the boat on the summer evenings (for he was always ready for a sail though he was a very bad sailor), i believe they used to steer as near the wind as possible, and get into short chopping seas on purpose. but i don't think he was ever frightened, though he used sometimes to be very ill. "and so i went on, learned all i could from my father, and the vicar, and old burt, till i was sixteen. by that time i had begun to think for myself; and i had made up my mind that it was time i should do something. no boy ever wanted to leave home less, i believe; but i saw that i must make a move if i was ever to be what my father wished me to be. so i spoke to the vicar, and he quite agreed with me, and made inquiries amongst his acquaintance; and so, before i was seventeen, i was offered the place of under-master in a commercial school, about twenty miles from home. the vicar brought the offer, and my father was very angry at first; but we talked him over, and so i took the situation. "and i am very glad i did, although there were many drawbacks. the salary was l a year, and for that i had to drill all the boys in english, and arithmetic, and latin, and to teach the greek grammar to the five or six who paid extra to learn it. out of the school i had always to be with them, and was responsible for the discipline. it was weary work very often, and what seemed the worst part of it to me, at the time, was the trade spirit which leavened the whole of the establishment. the master and owner of the school, who was a keen vulgar man, but always civil enough to me, thought of nothing but what would pay. and this seemed to be what filled the school. fathers sent their boys, because the place was so practical, and nothing was taught (except as extras) which was not to be of so-called real use to the boys in the world. we had our work quite clearly laid down for us; and it was, not to put the boys in the way of getting real knowledge or understanding, or any of the things solomon talks about, but to put them in the way of getting on. "i spent three years at that school, and in that time i rounded myself pretty well in latin and greek--better, i believe, than i should have done if i had been at a first-rate school myself; and i hope i did the boys some good, and taught some of them that cunning was not the best quality to start in life with. and i was not often very unhappy, for i could always look forward to my holidays with my father. "however, i own that i never was better pleased than one christmas when the vicar came over to our cottage, and brought with him a letter from the principal of st. ambrose college, oxford, appointing me to a servitorship. my father was even more delighted than i, and that evening produced a bottle of old rum, which was part of his ship's stock, and had gone all through his action, and been in his cellar ever since. and we three in the parlor, and old burt and his wife in the kitchen, finished it that night; the boatswain, i must own, taking the lion's share. the vicar took occasion, in the course of the evening, to hint that it was only poor men who took these places at the university; and that i might find some inconvenience, and suffer some annoyance, by not being exactly in the same position as other men. but my dear old father would not hear of it; i was now going to be in amongst the very pick of english gentlemen--what could it matter whether i had money or not? that was the last thing which real gentlemen thought of. besides, why was i to be so very poor? he should be able to allow me whatever would be necessary to make me comfortable. 'but, jack,' he said suddenly, later in the evening, 'one meets low fellows everywhere. you have met them, i know, often at the confounded school, and will meet them again. never you be ashamed of your poverty, my boy.' i promised readily enough, for i didn't think i could be more tried in that way than i had been already. i had lived for three years amongst people whose class notoriously measured all things by a money standard; now that was all over, i thought. it's easy making promises in the dark. the vicar, however, would not let the matter rest; so we resolved ourselves into a committee of ways and means, and my father engaged to lay before us an exact statement of his affairs next day. i went to the door with the vicar, and he told me to come and see him in the morning. "i half-guessed what he wanted to see me for. he knew all my father's affairs perfectly well, and wished to prepare me for what was to come in the evening. 'your father,' he said, 'is one of the most liberal men i ever met; he is almost the only person who gives anything to the schools and other charities in this parish, and he gives to the utmost. you would not wish him, i know, to cut off these gifts, which bring the highest reward with them, when they are made in the spirit in which he makes them. then he is getting old, and you would never like him to deny himself the comforts (and few enough they are) which he is used to. he has nothing but his half-pay to live on; and out of that he pays l a year for insurance; for he has insured his life, that you may have something besides the cottage and land when he dies. i only tell you this that you may know the facts beforehand. i am sure you would never take a penny from him if you could help it. but he won't be happy unless he makes you some allowance; and he can do it without crippling himself. he has been paying off an old mortgage on his property here for many years, by installments of l a year, and the last was paid last michaelmas; so that it will not inconvenience him to make you that allowance. now, you will not be able to live properly upon that at oxford, even as a servitor. i speak to you now, my dear jack, as your oldest friend (except burt), and you must allow me the privilege of an old friend. i have more than i want, and i propose to make up your allowance at oxford to l a year, and upon that i think you may manage to get on. now, it will not be quite candid, but i think, under the circumstances, we shall be justified in representing to your father that l a year will be ample for him to allow you. you see what i mean? "i remember almost word for word what the vicar said; for it is not often in one's life that one meets with this sort of friend. at first i thanked him, but refused to take anything from him. i had saved enough, i said, to carry me through oxford. but he would not be put off; and i found that his heart was as much set on making me an allowance himself as on saving my father. so i agreed to take l a year from him. "when we met again in the evening, to hear my father's statement, it was as good as a play to see the dear old man, with his spectacles on and his papers before him, proving in some wonderful way that he could easily allow me at least l or l a year. i believe it cost the vicar some twinges of conscience to persuade him that all i should want would be l a year; and it was very hard work; but at last we succeeded, and it was so settled. during the next three weeks the preparations for my start occupied us all. the vicar looked out all the classics, which he insisted that i should take. there they stand on that middle shelf--all well bound, you see, and many of them old college prizes. my father made an expedition to the nearest town, and came back with a large new portmanteau and hat-box; and the next day the leading tailor came over to fit me out with new clothes. in fact, if i had not resisted stoutly, i should have come to college with half the contents of the cottage, and burt as valet; for the old boatswain was as bad as the other two. but i compromised the matter with him by accepting his pocket compass and the picture of the brig which hangs there; the two things, next to his wife, which he values, i believe, most in the world. "well, it is now two years last october since i came to oxford as a servitor; so you see i have pretty, nearly finished my time here. i was more than twenty then--much older as you know, than most freshmen. i daresay it was partly owing to the difference in age, and partly to the fact that i knew no one when i came up, but mostly to my own bad management and odd temper, that i did not get on better than i have done with the men here. sometimes i think that our college is a bad specimen, for i have made several friends amongst out-college men. at any rate, the fact is, as you have no doubt found out--and i hope i haven't tried at all to conceal it--that i am out of the pale, as it were. in fact, with the exception of one of the tutors, and one man who was a freshman with me, i do not know a man in college except as a mere speaking acquaintance. "i had been rather thrown off my balance, i think, at the change in my life, for at first i made a great fool of myself. i had believed too readily what my father had said, and thought that at oxford i should see no more of what i had been used to. here i thought that the last thing a man would be valued by would be the length of his purse, and that no one would look down upon me because i performed some services to the college in return for my keep, instead of paying for it in money. "yes, i made a great fool of myself, no doubt of that; and, what is worse, i broke my promise to my father--i often _was_ ashamed of my poverty, and tried at first to hide it, for somehow the spirit of the place carried me along with it. i couldn't help wishing to be thought of and treated as an equal by the men. it's a very bitter thing for a proud, shy, sensitive fellow, as i am by nature, to have to bear the sort of assumption and insolence one meets with. i furnished my rooms well, and dressed well. ah! you stare; but this is not the furniture i started with; i sold it all when i came to my senses, and put in this tumble-down second-hand stuff, and i have worn out my fine clothes. i know i'm not well dressed now. (tom nodded ready acquiescence to this position.) yes, though i still wince a little now and then--a great deal oftener than i like--i don't carry any false colors. i can't quite conquer the feeling of shame (for shame it is, i am afraid), but at any rate i don't try to hide my poverty any longer, i haven't for these eighteen months. i have a grim sort of pleasure in pushing it in everybody's face. (tom assented with a smile, remembering how excessively uncomfortable hardy had made him by this little peculiarity the first time he was in his rooms.) the first thing which opened my eyes a little was the conduct of the tradesmen. my bills all came in within a week of the delivery of the furniture and clothes; some of them wouldn't leave the things without payment. i was very angry and vexed, not at the bills, for i had my savings, which were more than enough to pay for everything. but i knew that these same tradesmen never thought of asking for payment under a year, oftener two, from other men. well, it was a lesson. credit for gentlemen-commoners, ready-money dealings with servitors! i owe the oxford tradesmen much for that lesson. if they would only treat every man who comes up as a servitor, it would save a deal of misery. "my cure was completed by much higher folk, though. i can't go through the whole treatment, but will give you a specimen or two of the doses, giving precedence (as is the way here) to those administered by the highest in rank. i got them from all sorts of people, but none did me more good than the lords' pills. amongst other ways of getting on i took to sparring, which was then very much in vogue. i am a good hand at it, and very fond of it, so that it wasn't altogether flunkeyism, i'm glad to think. in my second term two or three fighting men came down from london, and gave a benefit at the weirs. i was there, and set to with one of them. we were well matched, and both of us did our very best; and when we had had our turn we drew down the house, as they say. several young tufts and others of the faster men came up to me afterwards and complimented me. they did the same by the professional, but it didn't occur to me at the time that they put us both in the same category. "i am free to own that i was really pleased two days afterwards, when a most elaborate flunkey brought a card to my door inscribed 'the viscount philippine, ch. ch., at home to-night, eight o'clock--sparring.' luckily, i made a light dinner, and went sharp to time into christ church. the porter directed me to the noble viscount's rooms; they were most splendid, certainly--first floor rooms in peckwater. i was shown into the large room, which was magnificently furnished and lighted. a good space was cleared in the centre; there were all sorts of bottles and glasses on the sideboard. there might have been twelve or thirteen men present, almost all in tufts or gentlemen commoners' caps. one or two of our college i recognized. the fighting man was also there, stripped for sparring, which none of the rest were. it was plain that the sport had not begun; i think he was doing some trick of strength as i came in. my noble host came forward with a nod and asked me if i would take anything, and when i declined, said, 'then will you put on the gloves?' i looked at him rather surprised, and thought it an odd way to treat the only stranger in his rooms. however, i stripped, put on the gloves, and one of the others came forward to tie them for me. while he was doing it i heard my host say to the man, 'a five-pound note, mind, if you do it within the quarter-of-an-hour.' 'only half-minute time, then, my lord,' he answered. the man who was tying my gloves said, 'be steady; don't give him a chance to knock you down.' it flashed across me in a moment now why i was there; but it was too late to draw back; so we stood up and began sparring. i played very steadily and light at first to see whether my suspicions were well founded, and in two minutes i was satisfied. my opponent tried every dodge to bring on a rally, and when he was foiled i could see that he was shifting his glove. i stopped and insisted that his gloves should be tied, and then we went on again. "i kept on the defensive. the man was in bad training, and luckily i had the advantage by an inch or so in length of arm. before five minutes was over, i had caught enough of the bystander's remarks to know that my noble host had betted a pony that i should be knocked down in a quarter-of-an-hour. my one object now was to make him lose his money. my opponent did his utmost for his patron, and fairly winded himself in his efforts to get at me. he had to call time twice himself. i said not a word; my time would come i knew, if i could keep on my legs, and of this i had little fear. i held myself together, made no attack, and my length of arm gave me the advantage in every counter. it was all i could do, though, to keep clear of his rushes as the time drew on. on he came time after time, careless of guarding, and he was full as good a man as i. 'time's up; it's past the quarter.' 'no, by jove half a minute yet; now's your time, said my noble host to his man, who answered by a rush. i met him as before with a steady counter, but this time my blow got home under his chin, and he staggered, lost his footing, and went fairly over on his back. "most of the bystanders seemed delighted, and some of them hurried towards me. but i tore off the gloves, flung them on the ground, and turned to my host. i could hardly speak, but i made an effort, and said quietly, 'you have brought a stranger to your rooms, and have tried to make him fight for your amusement; now i tell you it is a blackguard act of yours--an act which no gentleman would have done.' my noble host made no remark. i threw on my waist-coat, and then turned to the rest and said '_gentlemen_ would not have stood by and seen it done.' i went up to the side-board, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and half filled a tumbler, before a word was spoken. then one of the visitors stepped forward and said, 'mr. hardy, i hope you won't go, there has been a mistake; we did not know of this. i am sure many of us are very sorry for what has occurred; stay and look on, we will all of us spar.' i looked at him, and then at my host, to see whether the latter joined in the apology. not he, he was doing the dignified sulky, and most of the rest seemed to me to be with him. 'will any of you spar with me?' i said, tauntingly, tossing off the champagne. 'certainly, the new speaker said directly, 'if you wish it, and are not too tired, i will spar with you myself; you will, won't you, james?' and he turned to one of the other men. if any of them had backed him by a word i should probably have stayed; several of them, i learnt afterwards, would have liked to have done so, but it was an awkward scene to interfere in. i stopped a moment and then said, with a sneer, 'you're too small, and none of the other gentlemen seem inclined to offer.' "i saw that i had hurt him, and felt pleased at the moment i had done so. i was now ready to start, and i could not think of anything more unpleasant to say at the moment; so i went up to my antagonist, who was standing with the gloves on still, not quite knowing what to be at, and held out my hand. 'i can shake hands with you at any rate,' i said; 'you only did what you were paid for in the regular way of business, and you did your best.' he looked rather sheepish, but held out his gloved hand, which i shook. 'now, i have the honor to wish you all a very good evening;' and so i left the place and got home to my own rooms, and sat down there with several new ideas in my head. on the whole, the lesson was not a very bitter one, for i felt that i had had the best of the game. the only thing i really was sorry for was my own insolence to the man who had come forward as a peacemaker. i had remarked his face before. i don't know how it is with you, but i can never help looking at a tuft--the gold tassel draws one's eye somehow; and then it's an awful position, after all, for mere boys to be placed in. so i knew his face before that day, though i had only seen him two or three times in the street. now it was much more clearly impressed on my mind; and i called it up and looked it over, half hoping that i should detect something to justify me to myself, but without success. however, i got the whole affair pretty well out of my head by bedtime. "while i was at breakfast the next morning, my scout came in with a face of the most ludicrous importance, and quite a deferential manner. i declare i don't think he has ever got back since that day to his original free-and-easy swagger. he laid a card on my table, paused a moment, and then said, 'his ludship is houtside watin', sir.' "i had had enough of lords' cards; and the scene of yesterday rose painfully before me as i threw the card into the fire without looking at it, and said, 'tell him i am engaged.' "my scout, with something like a shudder at my audacity, replied, 'his ludship told me to say, sir, as his bis'ness was very particular, so hif you was engaged he would call again in 'arf an hour.' "tell him to come in, then, if he won't take a civil hint.' i felt sure who it would be, but hardly knew whether to be pleased or annoyed, when in another minute the door opened, and in walked the peacemaker. i don't know which of us was the most embarrassed; he walked straight up to me without lifting his eyes, and held out his hand saying, 'i hope, mr. hardy, you will shake hands with me now.' "'certainly, my lord,' i said, taking his hand; 'i am sorry for what i said to you yesterday, when my blood was up.' "'you said no more than we deserved,' he answered twirling his cap by the long gold tassel; 'i could not be comfortable without coming to assure you again myself, that neither i, nor, i believe, half the men in philippine's rooms yesterday, knew anything of the bet. i really cannot tell you how annoyed i have been about it.' "i assured him that he might make himself quite easy, and then remained standing, expecting him to go, and not knowing exactly what to say further. but he begged me to go on with my breakfast, and sat down, and then asked me to give him a cup of tea, as he had not breakfasted. so in a few minutes we were sitting opposite one another over tea and bread and butter, for he didn't ask for, and i didn't offer, anything else. it was rather a trying meal, for each of us was doing all he could to make out the other. i only hope i was as pleasant as he was. after breakfast he went and i thought the acquaintance was probably at an end; he had done all that a gentleman need have done, and had well-nigh healed a raw place in my mental skin. "but i was mistaken. without intruding himself on me, he managed somehow or another to keep on building up the acquaintance little by little. for some time i looked out very jealously for any patronizing airs, and even after i was convinced, that he had nothing of the sort in him, avoided him as much as i could, though he was the most pleasant and best-informed man i knew. however, we became intimate, and i saw a good deal of him in a quiet way, at his own rooms. i wouldn't go to his parties, and asked him not to come to me here, for my horror of being thought a tuft-hunter had become almost a disease. he was not so old as i, but he was just leaving the university, for he had come up early, and lord's sons are allowed to go out in two years;--i suppose because the authorities think they will do less harm here in two than three years; but it is sometimes hard on poor men, who have to earn their bread, to see such a privilege given to those who want it least. when he left, he made me promise to go and pay him a visit--which i did in the long vacation, at a splendid place up in the north, and enjoyed myself more than i care to own. his father, who is quite worthy of his son, and all his family, were as kind as people could be. "well, amongst other folks i met there a young sprig of nobility who was coming up here the next term. he had been brought up abroad, and, i suppose, knew very few men of his own age in england. he was not a bad style of boy, but rather too demonstrative, and not strong-headed. he took to me wonderfully, was delighted to hear that i was up at oxford, and talked constantly of how much we should see of one another. as it happened, i was almost the first man he met when he got off the coach at the 'angel,' at the beginning of his first term. he almost embraced me, and nothing would serve but i must dine with him at the inn, and we spent the evening together, and parted dear friends. two days afterwards we met in the street; he was with two other youngsters, and gave me a polished and distant bow; in another week he passed me as if we had never met. "i don't blame him, poor boy. my only wonder is, that any of them ever get through this place without being thoroughly spoilt. from vice-chancellor down to scout's boy, the whole of oxford seems to be in league to turn their boys heads, even if they come up with them set on straight, which toadying servants at home take care shall never happen if they can hinder it. the only men who would do them good up here, both dons and undergraduates, keep out of their way, very naturally. gentlemen-commoners have a little better chance, though not much, and seem to me to be worse than the tufts, and to furnish most of their toadies. "well, you are tired of my railing? i daresay i am rabid about it all. only it does go to my heart to think what this place might be, and what it is. i see i needn't give you any more of my experience. "you'll understand now some of the things that have puzzled you about me. oh! i know they did; you needn't look apologetic. i don't wonder, or blame you. i am a very queer bird for the perch i have lit on; i know that as well as anybody. the only wonder is that you ever took the trouble to try to lime me. now have another glass of toddy. why! it is near twelve. i must have one pipe and turn in. no aristophanes to-night." chapter ix--"a brown bait." tom's little exaltation in his own eyes consequent on the cupboard-smashing escapade of his friend was not to last long. not a week had elapsed before he himself arrived suddenly in hardy's room in as furious a state of mind as the other had so lately been in, allowing for the difference of the men. hardy looked up from his books and exclaimed:-- "what's the matter? where have you been to-night? you look fierce enough to sit for a portrait of sanguinoso volcanoni, the bandit." "been!" said tom, sitting down on the spare windsor chair, which he usually occupied, so hard as to make it crack again; "been! i've been to a wine party at hendon's. do you know any of that set?" "no, except grey, who came into residence in the same term with me; we have been reading for degree together. you must have seen him here sometimes in the evenings." "yes, i remember; the fellow with a stiff neck, who won't look you in the face." "ay, but he is a sterling man at the bottom, i can tell you." "well, he wasn't there. you don't know any of the rest?" "no." "and never went to any of their parties?" "no." "you've had no loss, i can tell you," said tom, pleased that the ground was clear for him. "i never was amongst such a set of waspish, dogmatical, over-bearing fellows in my life." "why, what in the name of fortune have they been doing to you? how did you fall among such philistines?" "i'm such an easy fool, you see," said tom, "i go off directly with any fellow that asks me; fast or slow, it's all the same. i never think twice about the matter, and generally, i like all the fellows i meet, and enjoy everything. but just catch me at another of their stuck-up wines, that's all." "but you won't tell me what's the matter." "well, i don't know why hendon should have asked me. he can't think me a likely card for a convert, i should think. at any rate, he asked me to wine, and i went as usual. everything was in capital style (it don't seem to be any part of their creed, mind you, to drink bad wine), and awfully gentlemanly and decorous." "yes, that's aggravating, i admit. it would have been in better taste, of course, if they had been a little blackguard and indecorous. no doubt, too, one has a right to expect bad wine at oxford. well?" hardy spoke so gravely, that tom had to look across at him for half a minute to see whether he was in earnest. then he went on with a grin. "there was a piano in one corner, and muslin curtains--i give you my word, muslin curtains, besides the stuff ones." "you don't say so," said hardy; "put up, no doubt, to insult you. no wonder you looked so furious when you came in. anything else?" "let me see--yes--i counted three sorts of scents on the mantel-piece, besides eau-de-cologne. but i could have stood it well enough if it hadn't been for their talk. from one thing to another they got to cathedrals, and one of them called st. paul's 'a disgrace to a christian city;' i couldn't stand that, you know. i was always bred to respect st. paul's; weren't you?" "my education in that line was neglected," said hardy, gravely. "and so you took up the cudgels for st. paul's?" "yes, i plumped out that st. paul's was the finest cathedral in england. you'd have thought i had said that lying was one of the cardinal virtues--one or two just treated me to a sort of pitying sneer, but my neighbors were down upon me with a vengeance. i stuck to my text though, and they drove me into saying i liked the ratcliffe more than any building in oxford; which i don't believe i do, now i come to think of it. so when they couldn't get me to budge for their talk, they took to telling me that every body that knew anything about church architecture was against me--of course meaning that i knew nothing about it--for the matter of that, i don't mean to say that i do"--tom paused; it had suddenly occurred to him that there might be some reason in the rough handling he had got. "but what did you say to the authorities?" said hardy, who was greatly amused. "said i didn't care a straw for them" said tom, "there was no right or wrong in the matter, and i had as good a right to my opinion as pugin--or whatever his name is--and the rest." "what heresy!" said hardy, laughing; "you caught it for that, i suppose?" "didn't i! they made such a noise over it, that the men at the other end of the table stopped talking (they were all freshmen at our end), and when they found what was up, one of the older ones took me in hand, and i got a lecture about the middle ages, and the monks. i said i thought england was well rid of the monks; and then we got on to protestantism, and fasting, and apostolic succession, and passive obedience, and i don't know what all! i only know i was tired enough of it before the coffee came; but i couldn't go, you know, with all of them on me at once, could i?" "of course not; you were like the , unconquerable british infantry at albuera. you held your position by sheer fighting, suffering fearful loss." "well," said tom, laughing, for he had talked himself into good humor again. "i dare say i talked a deal of nonsense; and, when i come to think it over, a good deal of what some of them said had something in it. i should like to hear it again quietly; but there were others sneering and giving themselves airs, and that puts a fellow's back up." "yes," said hardy, "a good many of the weakest and vainest men who come up take to this sort of thing now. they can do nothing themselves, and get a sort of platform by going in on the high church business from which to look down on their neighbors." "that's just what i thought," said tom, "they tried to push mother church, mother church, down my throat at every turn; i'm as fond of the church as any of them, but i don't want to be jumping up on her back every minute, like a sickly chicken getting on the old hen's back to warm its feet whenever the ground is cold, and fancying himself taller than all the rest of the brood." "you were unlucky," said hardy; "there are some very fine fellows amongst them." "well, i haven't seen much of them," said tom, "and i don't want to see any more, for it seems to be all gothic mouldings and man-millinery business." "you won't think so when you've been up a little longer." said hardy, getting up to make tea, which operation he had hardly commenced, when a knock came at the door, and in answer to hardy's "come in," a slight, shy man appeared, who hesitated, and seemed inclined to go when he saw that hardy was not alone. "oh, come in, and have a cup of tea, grey. you know brown, i think?" said hardy, looking round from the fire, where he was filling his teapot, to watch tom's reception of the new comer. our hero took his feet down, drew himself up and made a solemn bow, which grey returned, and then slid nervously into a chair and looked very uncomfortable. however, in another minute hardy came to the rescue and began pouring out the tea. he was evidently tickled at the idea of confronting tom so soon with another of his enemies. tom saw this, and put on a cool and majestic manner in consequence, which evidently increased the discomfort of grey's seat, and kept hardy on the edge of an abyss of laughter. in fact, he had to ease himself by talking of indifferent matters and laughing at nothing. tom had never seen him in this sort of humor before, and couldn't help enjoying it, though he felt that it was partly at his own expense. but when hardy once just approached the subject of the wine party, tom bristled up so quickly, and grey looked so meekly wretched, though he knew nothing of what was coming, that hardy suddenly changed the subject, and turning to grey, said-- "what have you been doing the last fortnight? you haven't been here once. i've been obliged to get on with my aristotle without you." "i'm very sorry indeed, but i haven't been able to come," said grey, looking sideways at hardy, and then at tom, who sat regarding the wall, supremely indifferent. "well, i've finished my ethics," said hardy; "can't you come in to-morrow night to talk them over? i suppose you're through them too?" "no, really," said grey. "i haven't been able to look at them since the last time i was here." "you must take care," said hardy. "the new examiners are all for science and history; it won't do for you to go in trusting to your scholarship." "i hope to make it up in the easter vacation," said grey. "you'll have enough to do then," said hardy; "but how is it you've dropped astern so?" "why, the fact is," said grey, hesitatingly, "that the curate of st. peter's has set up some night schools, and wanted some help. so i have been doing what i could to help him; and really," looking at his watch, "i must be going. i only wanted to tell you how it was i didn't come now." hardy looked at tom, who was rather taken aback by this announcement, and began to look less haughtily at the wall. he even condescended to take a short glance at his neighbor. "it's unlucky," said hardy; "but do you teach every night?" "yes," said grey. "i used to do my science and history at night, you know; but i find that teaching takes so much out of me, that i'm only fit for bed now, when i get back. i'm so glad i've told you. i have wanted to do it for some time. and if you would let me come in for an hour, directly after hall, instead of later, i think i could still manage that." "of course," said hardy, "come when you like. but it's rather hard to take you away every night, so near the examinations." "it is my own wish," said grey. "i should have been very glad if it hadn't happened just now; but as it has i must do the best i can." "well, but i should like to help you. can't i take a night or two off your hands?" "no!" said tom, fired with sudden enthusiasm; "it will be as bad for you, hardy. it can't want much scholarship to teach there. let me go. i'll take two nights a week if you'll let me." "oh, thank you," said grey; "but i don't know how my friend might like it. that is--i mean," he said, getting very red, "it's very kind of you, only i'm used to it; and--and they rely on me. but i really must go--good night;" and grey went off in confusion. as soon as the door had fairly closed, hardy could stand it no longer, and lay back in his chair laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. tom, wholly unable to appreciate the joke, sat looking at him with perfect gravity. "what can there be in your look, brown?" said hardy, when he could speak again, "to frighten grey so? did you see what a fright he was in at once, at the idea of turning you into the night schools? there must be some lurking protestantism in your face somewhere, which i hadn't detected." "i don't believe he was frightened at me a bit. he wouldn't have you either, remember," said tom. "well, at any rate, that doesn't look as if it were all mere gothic-mouldings and man-millinery, does it?" said hardy. tom sipped his tea, and considered. "one can't help admiring him, do you know, for it," he said. "do you think he is really thrown back, now, in his own reading by this teaching?" "i'm sure of it. he is such a quiet fellow, that nothing else is likely to draw him off reading; i can see that he doesn't get on as he used, day by day. unless he makes it up somehow, he won't get his first." "he don't seem to like the teaching work much," said tom. "not at all, so far as i can see." "then it is a very fine thing of him," said tom. "and you retract your man-millinery dictum, so far as he is concerned?" "yes, that i do, heartily; but not as to the set in general." "well, they don't suit me either; but, on the whole, they are wanted--at any rate, in this college. even the worst of them is making some sort of protest for self-denial, and against self-indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than here." "a nice sort of protest--muslin curtains, a piano, and old claret." "oh, you've no right to count henden among them; he has only a little hankering after mediaevalism, and thinks the whole thing gentlemanly." "i only know the whole clamjamfery of them were there, and didn't seem to protest much." "brown, you're a bigot. i should never have thought you would have been so furious against any set of fellows, i begin to smell arnold." "no you don't. he never spoke to me against anybody." "hallo! it was the rugby atmosphere, then, i suppose. but i tell you they are the only men in the college who are making that protest, whatever their motives may be." "what do you say to yourself, old fellow?" "nonsense! i never deny myself any pleasure that i can afford, if it isn't wrong in itself, and doesn't hinder anyone else. i can tell you i am as fond of fine things and good living as you." "if a thing isn't wrong, and you can afford it, and it doesn't hurt anybody! just so; well, then, mustn't it be right for you to have? you wouldn't have it put under your nose, i suppose, just for you to smell at, and let it alone?" "yes, i know all that. i've been over it often enough, and there's truth in it. but, mind you, it's rather slippery ground, especially for a freshman; and there's a good deal to be said on the other side--i mean, for denying oneself just for the sake of the self denial." "well, they don't deny themselves the pleasure of looking at a fellow as if he were a turk, because he likes st. paul's better than westminster abbey." "how that snubbing you got at the ecclesiological wine party seems to rankle.--there now! don't bristle up like a hedgehog. i'll never mention that unfortunate wine again. i saw the eight come in to-day. you were keeping much better time, but there is a weak place or two forward." "yes," said tom, delighted to change the subject, "i find it awfully hard to pull up to jervis's stroke. do you think i shall ever get to it?" "of course you will. why you have only been pulling behind him a dozen times or so, and his is the most trying stroke on the river. you quicken a little on it; but i didn't mean you. two and five are the blots in the boat." "you think so?" said tom, much relieved. "so does miller, i can see. it's so provoking--drysdale is to pull two in the races next term, and blake seven, and then diogenes will go to five. he's obliged to pull seven now, because blake won't come down this term; no more will drysdale. they say there will be plenty of time after easter." "it's a great pity," said hardy. "isn't it," said tom; "and it makes miller so savage. he walks into us all as if it were our faults. do you think he's a good coxswain?" "first rate on most points, but rather too sharp tongued. you can't get a man's best out of him without a little praise." "yes, that's just it, he puts one's back up," said tom. "but the captain is a splendid fellow, isn't he?" "yes, but a little too easy, at least with men like blake and drysdale. he ought to make them train, or turn them out." "but who could he get? there's nobody else. if you would pull, now--why shouldn't you? i'm sure it would make us all right." "i don't subscribe to the club," said hardy; "i wish i had, for i should have liked to have pulled with you, and behind jervis this year." "do let me tell the captain," said tom, "i'm sure he'd manage it somehow." "i'm afraid it's too late," said hardy; "i cut myself off from everything of the sort two years ago, and i'm beginning to think i was a fool for my pains." nothing more was said on the subject at the time, but tom went away in great spirits at having drawn this confession out of hardy--the more so, perhaps, because he flattered himself that he had something to say to the change in his friend. chapter x--summer term how many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with the beginning of our second term at the university? so far as external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what a man could find to ask for at that period of his life, if a fairy godmother were to alight in his rooms and offer him the usual three wishes. the sailor who had asked for "all the grog in the world," and "all the baccy in the world," was indeed driven to "a little more baccy" as his third requisition; but, at any rate his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on what he held to be substantial wants; he felt himself actually limited in the matters of grog and tobacco. the condition which jack would have been in as a wisher, if he had been started on his quest with the assurance that his utmost desires in the direction of alcohol and narcotic were already provided for, and must be left out of the question, is the only one affording a pretty exact parallel to the case we are considering. in our second term we are no longer freshmen, and begin to feel ourselves at home, while both "smalls" and "greats" are sufficiently distant to be altogether ignored if we are that way inclined, or to be looked forward to with confidence that the game is in our own hands if we are reading men. our financial position--unless we have exercised rare ingenuity in involving ourselves--is all that heart can desire; we have ample allowances paid in quarterly to the university bankers without thought or trouble of ours, and our credit is at its zenith. it is a part of our recognized duty to repay the hospitality we have received as freshmen; and all men will be sure to come to our first parties to see how we do the thing; it will be our own faults if we do not keep them in future. we have not had time to injure our characters to any material extent with the authorities of our own college, or of the university. our spirits are never likely to be higher, or our digestions better. these and many other comforts and advantages environ the fortunate youth returning to oxford after his first vacation; thrice fortunate, however, if, as happened in our hero's case, it is easter term to which he is returning; for that easter term, with the four days' vacation, and the little trinity term at the end of it, is surely the cream of the oxford year. then, even in this our stern northern climate, the sun is beginning to have power, the days have lengthened out, great-coats are unnecessary at morning chapel, and the miseries of numbed hands and shivering skins no longer accompany every pull on the river and canter on bullingdon. in christ church meadows and the college gardens the birds are making sweet music in the tall elms. you may almost hear the thick grass growing, and the buds on tree and shrub are changing from brown, red, or purple, to emerald green under your eyes; the glorious old city is putting on her best looks, and bursting into laughter and song. in a few weeks the races begin, and cowley marsh will be alive with white tents and joyous cricketers. a quick ear, on the towing-path by the gut, may feast at one time on those three sweet sounds, the thud thud of the eight-oar, the crack of the rifles at the weirs, and the click of the bat on the magdalen ground. and then commemoration rises in the background, with its clouds of fair visitors, and visions of excursions to woodstock and nuneham in the summer days--of windows open on to the old quadrangles in the long still evenings, through which silver laughter and strains of sweet music, not made by man, steal out and puzzle the old celibate jackdaws, peering down from the battlements, with heads on one side. to crown all, long vacation, beginning with the run to henley regatta, or up to town to see the match with cambridge at lord's and taste some of the sweets of the season, before starting on some pleasure tour or reading party, or dropping back into the quiet pleasures of english country life! surely, the lot of young englishmen who frequent our universities is cast in pleasant places. the country has a right to expect something from those for whom she finds such a life as this in the years when enjoyment is keenest. tom was certainly alive to the advantages of the situation, and entered on his kingdom without any kind of scruple. he was very glad to find things so pleasant, and quite resolved to make the best he could of them. then he was in a particularly good humour with himself, for in deference to the advice of hardy, he had actually fixed on the books which he should send in for his little-go examination before going down for the easter vacation, and had read them through at home, devoting an hour or two almost daily to this laudable occupation. so he felt himself entitled to take things easily on his return. he had brought back with him two large hampers of good sound wine, a gift from his father, who had a horror of letting his son set before his friends the fire-water which is generally sold to the undergraduate. tom found that his father's notions of the rate of consumption prevalent in the university were wild in the extreme. "in his time," the squire said, "eleven men came to his first wine party, and he had opened nineteen bottles of port for them. he was very glad to hear that the habits of the place had changed so much for the better; and as tom wouldn't want nearly so much wine, he should have it out of an older bin." accordingly, the port which tom employed the first hour after his return in stacking carefully away in his cellar, had been more than twelve years in bottle, and he thought with unmixed satisfaction of the pleasing effect it would have on jervis and miller, and the one or two other men who knew good wine from bad, and guided public opinion on the subject, and of the social importance which he would soon attain from the reputation of giving good wine. the idea of entertaining, of being hospitable, is a pleasant and fascinating one to most young men; but the act soon gets to be a bore to all but a few curiously constituted individuals. with these hospitality becomes first a passion and then a faith--a faith the practice of which, in the cases of some of its professors, reminds one strongly of the hints on such subjects scattered about the new testament. most of us feel, when our friends leave us a certain sort of satisfaction, not unlike that of paying a bill; they have been done for, and can't expect anything more for a long time. such thoughts never occur to your really hospitable man. long years of narrow means cannot hinder him from keeping open house for whoever wants to come to him, and setting the best of everything before all comers. he has no notion of giving you anything but the best he can command if it be only fresh porter from the nearest mews. he asks himself not, "ought i to invite a or b? do i owe him anything?" but, "would a or b like to come here?" give me these men's houses for real enjoyment, though you never get anything very choice there,--(how can a man produce old wine who gives his oldest every day?)--seldom much elbow room or orderly arrangement. the high arts of gastronomy and scientific drinking so much valued in our highly civilized community, are wholly unheeded by him, are altogether above him, are cultivated in fact by quite another set who have very little of the genuine spirit of hospitality in them, from those tables, should one by chance happen upon them, one senses, certainly with a feeling of satisfaction and expansion, chiefly physical, but entirely without the expansion of heart which one gets at the scramble of the hospitable man. so that we are driven to remark, even in such everyday matters as these, but it is the invisible, the spiritual, which after all gives value and reality even to dinners; and, with solomon, to prefer the most touching _diner russe_, the dinner of herbs where love is, though i trust that neither we nor solomon should object to well-dressed cutlets with our salad, if they happened to be going. readers will scarcely need to be told that one of the first things tom did, after depositing his luggage and unpacking his wine, was to call at hardy's rooms, where he found his friend deep as usual in his books, the hard-worked atlases and dictionaries of all sorts taking up more space than ever. after the first hearty greeting, tom occupied his old place with much satisfaction. "how long have you been up, old fellow?" he began; "you look quite settled." "i only went home for a week. well, what have you been doing in the vacation?" "oh, there was nothing much going on; so, amongst other things, i've nearly floored my little-go work." "bravo! you'll find the comfort of it now. i hardly thought you would take to the grind so easily." "it's pleasant enough for a spurt," said tom; "but i shall never manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. but what in the world have you been doing to your walls?" tom might well ask, for the corners of hardy's room were covered with sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups. in the line of sight, from about the height of four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away nearly to the bookcases or fireplace. "well, don't you think it is a great improvement on the old paper?" said hardy. "i shall be out of rooms next term, and it will be a hint to the college that the rooms want papering. you're no judge of such matters, or i should ask you whether you don't see great artistic taste in the arrangement." "why, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates," said tom, who had got up to examine the decorations. "and what in the world are all these queer pins for?" he went on, pulling a strong pin with a large red sealing-wax head out of the map nearest to him. "hullo! take care there, what are you about?" shouted hardy, getting up and hastening to the corner. "why, you irreverent beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of greece and rome." "oh, i beg your pardon; i didn't know i was in such august company;" saying which, tom proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back in the wall. "now, just look at that," said hardy, taking the pin out from the place where tom had stuck it. "pretty doings there would be amongst them with your management. this pin is brasidas; you've taken him away from naupactus, where he was watching the eleven athenian galleys anchored under the temple of apollo, and struck him down right in the middle of the pnyx, where he will be instantly torn in pieces by a ruthless and reckless mob. you call yourself a tory indeed! however, 'twas always the same with you tories; calculating, cruel, and jealous. use your leaders up, and throw them over--that's the golden rule of aristocracies." "hang brasidas," said tom, laughing; "stick him back at naupactus again. here, which is cleon? the scoundrel! give me hold of him, and i'll put him in a hot berth." "that's he, with the yellow head. let him alone, i tell you, or all will be hopeless confusion when grey comes for his lecture. we're only in the third year of the war." "i like your chaff about tories sacrificing their great men," said tom, putting his hands in his pockets to avoid temptation. "how about your precious democracy, old fellow? which is socrates?" "here, the dear old boy!--this pin with the great grey head, in the middle of athens, you see. i pride myself on my athens. here's the piraeus and the long walls, and the hill of mars. isn't it as good as a picture?" "well, it is better than most maps, i think," said tom; "but you're not going to slip out so easily. i want to know whether your pet democracy did or did not murder socrates." "i'm not bound to defend democracies. but look at my pins. it may be the natural fondness of a parent, but i declare they seem to me to have a great deal of character, considering the material. you'll guess them at once, i'm sure, if you mark the color and shape of the wax. this one now, for instance, who is he?" "alcibiades," answered tom, doubtfully. "alcibiades!" shouted hardy; "you fresh from rugby, and not know your thucydides better than that? there's alcibiades, that little purple-headed, foppish pin, by socrates. this rusty-colored one is that respectable old stick-in-the-mud, nicias." "well, but you've made alcibiades nearly the smallest of the whole lot," said tom. "so he was, to my mind," said hardy; "just the sort of insolent young ruffian whom i should have liked to buy at my price, and sell at his own. he must have been very like some of our gentlemen-commoners, with the addition of brains." "i should really think, though," said tom, "it must be a capital plan for making you remember the history." "it is, i flatter myself. i've long had the idea, but i should never have worked it out and found the value of it but for grey. i invented it to coach him in his history. you see we are in the grecian corner. over there is the roman. you'll find livy and tacitus worked out there, just as herodotus and thucydides are here; and the pins are stuck for the second punic war, where we are just now. i shouldn't wonder if grey got his first, after all, he's picking up so quick in my corners; and says he never forgets any set of events when he has picked them out with the pins." "is he working at that school still?" asked tom. "yes, as hard as ever. he didn't go down for the vacation, and i really believe it was because the curate told him the school would go wrong if he went away." "it's very plucky of him, but i do think he's a great fool not to knock it off now till he has passed, don't you?" "no," said hardy; "he is getting more good there than he can ever get in the schools, though i hope he'll do well in them too." "well, i hope so; for he deserves it. and now, hardy, to change the subject, i am going to give my first wine next thursday; and here's the first card which has gone out for it. you'll promise me to come now, won't you?" "what a hurry you're in." said hardy, taking the card which he put on his mantel-piece, after examining it. "but you'll promise to come, now?" "i'm very hard at work; i can't be sure." "you needn't stay above half an hour. i've brought back some famous wine from the governor's cellar; and i want so to get you and jervis together. he is sure to come." "why, that's the bell for chapel beginning already," said hardy; "i had no notion it was so late. i must be off, to put the new servitor up to his work. will you come in after hall?" "yes if you will come to me next thursday." "we'll talk about it. but mind you come to-night; for you'll find me working grey in the punic wars, and you'll see how the pins act. i'm very proud of my show." and so hardy went off to chapel, and tom to drysdale's rooms, not at all satisfied that he had made hardy safe. he found drysdale lolling on his sofa, as usual, and fondling jack. he had just arrived, and his servant and the scout were unpacking his portmanteaus. he seemed pleased to see tom, but looked languid and used up. "where have you been this vacation?" said tom; "you look seedy." "you may say that," said drysdale. "here, henry, get out a bottle of schiedam. have a taste of bitters? there's nothing like it to set one's digestion right." "no, thank'ee," said tom, rejecting the glass which henry proffered him; "my appetite don't want improving." "you're lucky, then," said drysdale. "ah, that's the right stuff! i feel better already." "but where have you been?" "oh, in the little village. it's no use being in the country at this time of year. i just went up to limmer's, and there i stuck, with two or three more, till to-day." "i can't stand london for more than a week," said tom. "what did you do all the day?" "we hadn't much to say to day-light" said drysdale. "what with theatres, and sparing-cribs and the coal-hole and cider-cellars, and a little play in st. james's street now and then, one wasn't up to early rising. however, i was better than the rest, for i had generally breakfasted by two o'clock." "no wonder you look seedy. you'd much better have been in the country." "i should have been more in pocket, at any rate," said drysdale. "by jove, how it runs away with the ready! i'm fairly cleaned out; and if i haven't luck at van john, i'll be hanged if i know how i'm to get through term. but, look here, here's a bundle of the newest songs--first rate, some of them." and he threw some papers across to tom, who glanced at them without being at all edified. "you're going to pull regularly, i hope, this term, drysdale." "yes, i think so; it's cheap amusement, and i want a little training for a change." "that's all right." "i've brought down some dresses for our gipsy business, by the way. i didn't forget that. is blake back?" "i don't know," said tom; "but we shan't have time before the races." "well afterwards will do; though the days oughtn't to be too long. i'm all for a little darkness in masquerading." "there's five o'clock striking. are you going to dine in hall?" "no; i shall go to the mitre, and get a broil." "then i'm off. let's see,--will you come and wine with me next thursday?" "yes; only send us a card, 'to remind.'" "all right!" said tom, and went off to hall, feeling dissatisfied and uncomfortable about his fast friend, for whom he had a sincere regard. after hall, tom made a short round amongst his acquaintance, and then, giving himself up to the strongest attraction, returned to hardy's rooms, comforting himself with the thought that it really must be an act of christian charity to take such a terrible reader off his books for once in a way, when his conscience pricked him for intruding on hardy during his hours of work. he found grey there, who was getting up his roman history, under hardy's guidance; and the two were working the pins on the maps and lists in the roman corner when tom arrived. he begged them not to stop, and very soon was as much interested in what they were doing as if he also were going into the schools in may; for hardy had a way of throwing life into what he was talking about, and, like many men with strong opinions, and passionate natures, either carried his hearers off their legs and away with him altogether, or aroused every spark of combativeness in them. the latter was the effect which his lecture on the punic wars had on tom. he made several protests as hardy went on; but grey's anxious looks kept him from going fairly into action, till hardy stuck the black pin, which represented scipio, triumphantly in the middle of carthage, and, turning round said, "and now for some tea, grey, before you have to turn out." tom opened fire while the tea was brewing. "you couldn't say anything bad enough about aristocracies this morning, hardy, and now to-night you are crowing over the success of the heaviest and cruelest oligarchy that ever lived, and praising them up to the skies." "hullo! here's a breeze!" said hardy, smiling; "but i rejoice, o brown, in that they thrashed the carthaginians, and not, as you seem to think, in that they being aristocrats, thrashed the carthaginians; for oligarchs they were not at this time." "at any rate they answer to the spartans in the struggle, and the carthaginians to the athenians; and yet all your sympathies are with the romans to-night in the punic wars, though they were with the athenians before dinner." "i deny your position. the carthaginians were nothing but a great trading aristocracy--with a glorious family or two i grant you, like that of hannibal; but, on the whole, a dirty, bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aristocracy--of whom the world was well rid. they like the athenians indeed! why, just look what the two people have left behind them-" "yes," interrupted tom; "but we only know the carthaginians through the reports of their destroyers. your heroes trampled them out with hoofs of iron." "do you think the roman hoof could have trampled out their homer if they ever had one?" said hardy. "the romans conquered greece too, remember." "but greece was never so near beating them." "true. but i hold to my point. carthage was the mother of all hucksters, compassing sea and land to sell her wares." "and no bad line of life for a nation. at least englishmen ought to think so." "no they ought not; at least if _'punica fides'_ is to be the rule of trade. selling any amount of brummagem wares never did nation or man much good, and never will. eh, grey?" grey winced at being appealed to, but remarked that he hoped the church would yet be able to save england from the fate of tyre or carthage, the great trading nations of the old world; and then, swallowing his tea, and looking as if he had been caught robbing a henroost, he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out of college to the night school. "what a pity he is so odd and shy," said tom; "i should so like to know more of him." "it _is_ a pity. he is much better when he is alone with me. i think he has heard from some of the set that you are a furious protestant, and sees an immense amount of stiff-neckedness in you." "but about england and carthage," said tom, shirking the subject of his own peculiarities; "you don't really think us like them? it gave me a turn to hear you translating '_punica fides_' into brummagem wares just now. "i think that successful trade is our rock ahead. the devil who holds new markets and twenty per cent profits in his gift is the devil that england has most to fear from. 'because of unrighteous dealings, and riches gotten by deceit the kingdom is translated from one people to another,' said the wise man. think of that opium war the other day. i don't believe we can get over many more such businesses as that. grey falls back on the church, you see, to save the nation; but the church he dreams of will never do it. is there any that can? there _must_ be surely, or we have believed a lie. but this work of making trade righteous, of christianizing trade, looks like the very hardest the gospel has ever had to take in hand--in england at any rate." hardy spoke slowly and doubtfully, and paused as if asking for tom's opinion. "i never heard it put in that way. i know very little of politics or the state of england. but come, now; the putting down the slave-trade and compensating our planters, _that_ shows that we are not sold to the trade devil yet, surely." "i don't think we are. no, thank god, there are plenty of signs that we are likely to make a good fight of it yet." they talked together for another hour, drawing their chairs round to the fire, and looking dreamingly into the embers, as is the wont of men who are throwing out suggestions, and helping one another to think, rather than arguing. at the end of that time, tom left hardy to his books, and went away laden with several new ideas, one of the clearest of which was that he was awfully ignorant of the contemporary history of his own country, and that it was the thing of all others which he ought to be best informed on, and thinking most about. so, being of an impetuous turn of mind, he went straight to his rooms to commence his new study, where, after diligent hunting, the only food of the kind he required which turned up was the last number of _bell's life_ from the pocket of his great coat. upon this he fell to work, in default of anything better, and was soon deep in the p. r. column, which was full of interesting speculations as to the chances of bungaree, in his forthcoming campaign against the british middleweights. by the time he had skimmed through the well-known sheets, he was satisfied that the columns of his old acquaintance were not the place, except in the police reports, where much could be learnt about the present state or future prospects of england. then, the first evening of term being a restless place, he wandered out again, and before long landed, as his custom was, at drysdale's door. on entering the room he found drysdale and blake alone together, the former looking more serious than tom had ever seen him before. as for blake, the restless, haggard expression sat more heavily than ever on his face, sadly marring its beauty. it was clear that they changed the subject of their talk abruptly on his entrance; so tom looked anywhere except straight before him as he was greeting blake. he really felt very sorry for him at the moment. however, in another five minutes, he was in fits of laughter over blake's description of the conversation between himself and the coachman who had driven the glo'ster day-mail by which he had come up; in which conversation, nevertheless, when tom came to think it over, and try to repeat it afterwards, the most facetious parts seemed to be the "sez he's" and the "sez i's" with which jehu larded his stories; so he gave up the attempt, wondering what he could have found in it to laugh at. "by the way, blake," said drysdale, "how about our excursion into berkshire masquerading this term? are you game?" "not exactly," said blake; "i really must make the most of such time as i have left, if i'm going into the schools this term." "if there's one thing which spoils oxford it is those schools," said drysdale; "they get in the way of everything. i ought to be going up for smalls myself next term, and i haven't opened a book yet, and don't mean to do so. follow a good example, old fellow, you're cock-sure of your first, everybody knows." "i wish everybody would back his opinion, and give me a shade of odds. why, i have scarcely thought of my history." "why the d---l should they make such a fuss about history? one knows perfectly well that those old black-guard heathens were no better than they should be; and what good it can do to lumber one's head with who their grandmothers were, and what they ate, and when and where and why they had their stupid brains knocked out, i can't see for the life of me." "excellently well put. where did you pick up such sound views, drysdale? but you're not examiner yet; and, on the whole, i must rub up my history somehow. i wish i knew how to do it." "can't you put on a coach?" said drysdale. "i have one on, but history is my weak point, said blake. "i think i can help you," said tom. "i've just been hearing a lecture in roman history, and one that won't be so easy to forget as most;" and he went on to explain hardy's plans, to which blake listened eagerly. "capital!" he said, when tom had finished. "in whose rooms did you say they are?" "in hardy's, and he works at them every night with grey." "that's the queer big servitor, his particular pal," put in drysdale; "there's no accounting for tastes." "you don't know him," retorted tom; "and the less you say about him the better." "i know he wears highlows and short flannels, and-" "would you mind asking hardy to let me come to his lectures?" interrupted blake, averting the strong language which was rising to tom's lips. "i think they seem just the things i want. i shouldn't like to offer to pay him, unless you think-" "i'm quite sure," interrupted tom, "that he won't take anything. i will ask him to-morrow whether he will let you come, and he is such a kind good fellow that i'm almost sure he will." "i should like to know your pal, too, brown," said drysdale; "you must introduce me, with blake." "no, i'll be hanged if i do," said tom. "then i shall introduce myself," said drysdale; "see if i don't sit next him, now, at your wine on thursday." here drysdale's scout entered with two notes, and wished to know if mr. drysdale would require anything more. nothing but hot water; he could put the kettle on, drysdale said, and go; and while the scout was fulfilling his orders, he got up carelessly, whistling, and walking to the fire, read the notes by the light of one of the candles which were burning on the mantle-piece. blake was watching him eagerly, and tom saw this, and made some awkward efforts to go on talking about the advantages of hardy's plan for learning history. but he was talking to deaf ears, and soon came to a stand still. he saw drysdale crumple up the notes in his hand and shove them into his pocket. after standing for a few seconds in the same position, with his back to them, he turned around with a careless air, and sauntered to the table where they were sitting. "let's see, what were we saying?" he began. "oh, about your eccentric pal, brown." "you've answers from both?" interrupted blake. drysdale nodded, and was beginning to speak again to tom when blake got up and said, with white lips, "i _must_ see them." "no, never mind, what does it matter?" "matter! by heaven, i must and will see them now." tom saw at once that he had better go, and so took up his cap, wished them good night, and went off to his own rooms. he might have been sitting there for about twenty minutes, when drysdale entered. "i couldn't help coming over, brown," he said, "i must talk to some one, and blake has gone off raging. i don't know what he'll do--i never was so bothered or savage in my life." "i am very sorry," said tom; "he looked very bad in your rooms. can i do anything?" "no, but i must talk to some one. you know--no you don't, by the way--but, however, blake got me out of a tremendous scrape in my first term, and there's nothing that i am not bound to do for him, and wouldn't do if i could. yes, by george, whatever fellows say of me they shall never say i didn't stand by a man who stood by me. well, he owes a dirty l. or l. or something of the sort--nothing worth talking of, i know--to people in oxford, and they have been leading him a dog's life this year and more. now, he's just going up for his degree, and two or three of these creditors--the most rascally of course--are sueing him in the vice-chancellor's court, thinking now's the time to put the screw on. he will be ruined if they are not stopped somehow. just after i saw you to-day, he came to me about it. you never saw a fellow in such a state; i could see it was tearing him to pieces, telling it to me even. however, i soon set him at ease as far as i was concerned; but, as the devil will have it, i can't lend him the money, though l. would get him over the examination, and then he can make terms. my guardian advanced me l. beyond my allowance just before easter, and i haven't l. left, and the bank here has given me notice not to overdraw any more. however, i thought to settle it easy enough; so i told him to meet me at the mitre in half an hour for dinner, and when he was gone i sat down and wrote two notes--the first to st. cloud. that fellow was with us off and on in town, and one night he and i went partners at _roulette_, i finding ready-money for the time, gains and losses to be equally shared in the end. i left the table to go and eat some supper, and he lost l., and paid it out of my money. i didn't much care, and he cursed the luck and acknowledged that he owed me l. at the time. well, i just reminded him of this l. and said i should be glad of it (i know he has plenty of money just now), but added, that it might stand if he would join me and blake in borrowing l.; i was fool enough to add that blake was in difficulties, and i was most anxious to help him. as i thought that st. cloud would probably pay the l. but do no more, i wrote also to chanter--heaven knows why, except that the beast rolls in money, and has fawned on me till i've been nearly sick this year past--and asked him to lend blake l. on our joint note of hand. poor blake! when i told him what i had done at the mitre, i think i might as well have stuck the carving knife into him. we had a wretched two hours; then you came in, and i got my two answers--here they are." tom took the proffered notes, and read: "dear drysdale,--please explain the allusion in yours to some mysterious l. i remember perfectly the occurrence to which you refer in another part of your note. you were tired of sitting at the table, and went off to supper, leaving me (not by my own desire) to play for you with your money. i did so, and had abominable luck, as you will remember, for i handed you back a sadly dwindled heap on your return to the table. i hope you are in no row about that night? i shall be quite ready to give evidence of what passed if it will help you in any way. i am always yours very truly, a. st. cloud "p. s. i must decline the little joint operation for blake's benefit, which you propose." the second answer ran: "dear drysdale,--i am sorry that i cannot accommodate mr. blake, as a friend of yours, but you see his acceptance is mere waste paper, and you cannot give security until you are of age, so if you were to die the money would be lost. mr. blake has always carried his head as high as if he had l. a year to spend; perhaps now he will turn less haughty to men who could buy him up easy enough. i remain yours sincerely, jabez chanter." tom looked up and met drysdale's eyes, which had more of purpose in them than he had ever seen before. "fancy poor blake reading those two notes," he said, "and 'twas i brought them on him. however, he shall have the money somehow to-morrow, if i pawn my watch. i'll be even with those two some day." the two remained in conference for some time longer; it is hardly worth while to do more than relate the result. at three o'clock the next day, blake, drysdale and tom were in the back parlor of a second-rate inn, in the corn-market. on the table were pens and ink, some cases of eau-de-cologne and jewelry, and behind it a fat man of forbidding aspect who spent a day or two in each term at oxford. he held in his thick red damp hand, ornamented as to the fore-finger with a huge ring, a piece of paper. "then i shall draw for a hundred-and-five?" "if you do we won't sign," said drysdale; "now, be quick, ben" (the fat man's name was benjamin), "you infernal shark, we've been wrangling long enough over it. draw for l at three months, or we're off." "then, mr. drysdale, you gents will take part in goods. i wish to do all i can for gents as comes well introduced, but money is very scarce just now." "not a stuffed bird, bottle of eau-de-cologne, ring or cigar, will we have. so now, no more nonsense, put down l on the table." the money-lender, after another equally useless attempt to move drysdale, who was the only one of the party who spoke, produced a roll of bills, and counted out l, thinking to himself that he would make this young spark sing a different tune before very long. he then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that the interest was nothing considering the risk, and he hoped they would help him to some thing better with some of their friends. drysdale reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen, that he was getting cent per cent. the document was signed,--drysdale took the notes, and they went out. "well, that's well over," said drysdale, as they walked towards high street. "i'm proud of my tactics, i must say; one never does so well for oneself as for anyone else. if i had been on my own hook, that fellow would have let me in for l worth of stuffed birds and bad jewelry. let's see, what do you want, blake?" "sixty will do," said blake. "you had better take l; there'll be some law costs to pay," and drysdale handed him the notes. "now, brown, shall we divide the balance,--a fiver a piece?" "no, thank you," said tom, "i don't want it; as you two are to hold me harmless, you must do what you like with the money." so drysdale pocketed the l, after which they walked in silence to the gate of st. ambrose. the most reckless youngster doesn't begin this sort of thing without reflections which are apt to keep him silent. at the gates blake wrung both their hands. "i don't say much, but i sha'n't forget it." he got out the words with some difficulty, and went off to his rooms. chapter xi--muscular christianity within the next week or two several important events had happened to one and another of our st. ambrose friends. tom had introduced blake to hardy, after some demur on the part of the latter. blake was his senior by a term; might have called on him any time these three years; why should he want to make his acquaintance now? but when tom explained to him that it would be a kind thing to let blake come and coach up his history with him, for that unless he took a high degree in the coming examination, he would have to leave the college, and probably be ruined for life, hardy at once consented. tom did not venture to inquire for a day or two how the two hit it off together. when he began cautiously to approach the subject, he was glad to find that hardy liked blake. "he is a gentleman, and very able," he said; "it is curious to see how quickly he is overhauling grey, and yet how grey takes to him. he has never looked scared at him (as he still does at you, by the way) since the first night they met. blake has the talent of setting people at their ease without saying anything. i shouldn't wonder if grey thinks he has sound church notions. it's a dangerous talent, and may make a man very false if he doesn't take care." tom asked if blake would be up in his history in time. hardy thought he might perhaps, but he had a great lee-way to make up. if capacity for taking in cram would do it, he would be all right. he had been well crammed in his science, and had put him (hardy) up to many dodges which might be useful in the schools, and which you couldn't get without a private tutor. then tom's first wine had gone off most successfully. jervis and miller had come early and stayed late, and said all that was handsome of the port, so that he was already a social hero with the boating set. drysdale, of course, had been there, rattling away to everybody in his reckless fashion, and setting a good example to the two or three fast men whom tom knew well enough to ask, and who consequently behaved pretty well, and gave themselves no airs, though as they went away together they grumbled slightly that brown didn't give claret. the rest of the men had shaken together well, and seemed to enjoy themselves. the only drawback to tom had been that neither hardy nor grey had appeared. they excused themselves afterwards on the score of reading, but tom felt aggrieved in hardy's case; he knew that it was only an excuse. then the training had begun seriously, miller had come up specially for the first fortnight, to get them well in hand, as he said. after they were once fairly started, he would have to go down till just before the races; but he thought he might rely on the captain to keep them up to their work in the interval. so miller, the coxswain, took to drawing the bow up to the ear at once. at the very beginning of the term, five or six weeks before the races, the st. ambrose boat was to be seen every other day at abingdon; and early dinners, limitation of liquids and tobacco, and abstinence from late supper parties, pastry, ice, and all manner of trash, likely in miller's opinion to injure nerve or wind, were hanging over the crew, and already, in fact, to some extent enforced. the captain shrugged his shoulders, submitted to it all himself and worked away with all imperturbable temper; merely hinting to miller, in private, that he was going too fast, and that it would be impossible to keep it up. diogenes highly approved; he would have become the willing slave of any tyranny which should insist that every adult male subject should pull twenty miles, and never imbibe more than a quart of liquid, in the twenty-four hours. tom was inclined to like it, as it helped him to realize the proud fact that he was actually in the boat. the rest of the crew were in all stages of mutiny and were only kept from breaking out by their fondness for the captain and the knowledge that miller was going in a few days. as it was, blake was the only one who openly rebelled. once or twice he stayed away. miller swore and grumbled, the captain shook his head, and the crew in general rejoiced. it is to one of these occasions to which we must now turn. if the usual casual voyager of novels had been standing on sandford lock, at about four, on the afternoon of april -th, -, he might have beheld the st. ambrose eight-oar coming with a steady swing up the last reach. if such voyager were in the least conversant with the glorious mystery of rowing, he would have felt his heart warm at the magnificent sweep and life of the stroke, and would, on the whole, have been pleased with the performance of the crew generally, considered as a college crew in the early stages of training. they came "hard all" up to the pool below the lock, the coxswain standing in the stern with a tiller-rope in each hand, and then shipped oars; the lock-gates opened, and the boat entered, and in another minute or two was moored to the bank above the lock, and the crew strolled into the little inn which stands by the lock, and, after stopping in the bar to lay hands on several pewters full of porter, passed through the house into the quoit and skittle-grounds behind. these were already well filled with men of other crews, playing in groups or looking on at the players. one of these groups, as they passed, seized on the captain, and miller stopped with him; the rest of the st. ambrose men, in no humor for skittles, quoits, or any relaxation except rest and grumbling, took possession of the first table and seats offered, and came to anchor. then followed a moment of intense enjoyment, of a sort only appreciable by those who have had a twelve miles' training pull with a coxswain as sharp as a needle, and in an awful temper. "ah," said drysdale, taking the pewter down from his lips, with a sigh, and handing it to tom who sat next him, "by jove i feel better." "it's almost worth while pulling 'hard all' from abingdon to get such a thirst," said another of the crew. "i'll tell you what, though," said drysdale, "to-day's the last day you'll catch me in this blessed boat." tom had just finished his draught, but did not reply; it was by no means the first time that drysdale had announced this resolve. the rest were silent also. "it's bad enough to have to pull your heart out, without getting abused all the way into the bargain. there miller stands in the stern--and a devilish easy thing it is to stand there and walk into us--i can see him chuckle as he comes to you and me, brown--'now, , well forward;' ' , don't jerk;' 'now , throw your weight on the oar; come, now, you can get another pound on.' i hang on like grim death,--then its 'time, ; now, -'" "well, it's a great compliment," broke in tom, with a laugh; "he thinks he can make something of us." "he'll make nothing of us first, i think," said drysdale. "i've lost eight pounds in a fortnight. the captain ought to put me in every place in the boat, in turn, to make it water-tight. i've larded the bottom boards under my seat so that not a drop of water will ever come through again." "a very good thing for you, old fellow," said diogenes; "you look ten times better than you did at the beginning of the term." "i don't know what you call a good thing, you old fluter. i'm obliged to sit on my hip bones--i can't go to a lecture--all the tutors think i am poking fun at them, and put me on directly. i haven't been able to go to lecture these ten days." "so fond of lecture as he is, too, poor fellow," put in tom. "but they've discommonsed me for staying away," said drysdale; "not that i care much for that, though." "well, miller goes down to-morrow morning--i heard him say so," said another. "then we'll memorialize the captain and get out of these abingdon pulls. life isn't worth having at this rate." "no other boat has been below sandford, yet." and so they sat on and plotted, and soon most of the other crews started. and then they took their turn at skittles, and almost forgot their grievances, which must be explained to those who don't know the river at oxford. the river runs along the south of the city, getting into the university quarter after it passes under the bridge connecting berks and oxfordshire, over which is the road to abingdon. just below this bridge are the boat builders' establishments on both sides of the river, and then on the oxfordshire side is christchurch meadow, opposite which is moored the university barge. here is the goal of all university races; and the racecourse stretches away down the river for a mile and a half, and a little below the starting place of the races is iffley lock. the next lock below iffley is the sandford lock (where we left our boat's crew playing at skittles), which is about a mile and a half below iffley. below sandford there is no lock till you get to abingdon, a distance of six miles and more by the river. now, inasmuch as the longest distance to be rowed in the races is only the upper mile and a half from iffley to the university barge, of course all crews think themselves very hardly treated if they are taken further than to sandford. pulling "hard all" from sandford to iffley, and then again from iffley over the regular course, ought to be enough in all conscience. so chorus the crews; and most captains and coxswains give in. but here and there some enemy of his kind--some uncomfortable, worriting, energizing mortal, like miller--gets command of a boat, and then the unfortunate crew are dragged, bemoaning their fate, down below sandford, where no friendly lock intervenes to break the long, steady swing of the training pull every two miles, and the result for the time is blisters and mutiny. i am bound to add that it generally tells, and that the crew which has been undergoing that _peine forte et dure_ is very apt to get the change out of it on the nights of hard races. so the st. ambrose crew played out their skittles, and settled to appeal the captain in a body the next day, after miller's departure; and then being summoned to the boat, they took to the water again, and paddled steadily up home, arriving just in time for hall for those who liked to hurry. drysdale never liked hurrying himself; besides, he could not dine in hall, as he was discommonsed for persistent absence from lecture, and neglect to go to the dean when sent for to explain his absence. "i say, brown, hang hall," he said to tom, who was throwing on his things; "come and dine with me at the mitre. i'll give you a bottle of hock; it's very good there." "hock's about the worst thing you drink in training," said miller. "isn't it, jervis?" "it's no good, certainly," said the captain, as he put on his cap and gown; "come along, miller." "there, you hear?" said miller. "you can drink a glass of sound sherry, if you want wine;" and he followed the captain. drysdale performed a defiant pantomime after the retiring coxswain, and then easily carried his point with tom, except as to the hock. so they walked up to the mitre together, where drysdale ordered dinner and a bottle of hock in the coffee-room. "don't order hock, drysdale; i shan't drink any." "then i shall have it all to my own cheek. if you begin making a slave of yourself to that miller, he'll very soon cut you down to a glass of water a day, with a pinch of rhubarb in it, and make you drink that standing on your head." "gammon; but i don't think it's fair on the rest of the crew not to train as well as one can." "you don't suppose drinking a pint of hock to-night will make you pull any the worse this day six weeks, when the races begin, do you?" "no; but--" "hullo! look here," said drysdale, who was inspecting a printed bill pinned up on the wall of the coffee hall; "wombwell's menagerie is in the town, somewhere down by worcester. what fun! we'll go there after dinner." the food arrived with drysdale's hock, which he seemed to enjoy all the more from the assurance which every glass gave him that he was defying the coxswain, and doing just the thing he would most dislike. so he drank away, and facetiously speculated how he could be such an idiot as to go on pulling. every day of his life he made good resolutions in the reach above the gut that it should be his last performance, and always broke them next day. he supposed the habit he had of breaking all good resolutions was the way to account for it. after dinner they set off to find the wild-beast show; and, as they will be at least a quarter of an hour reaching it, for the pitch is in a part of the suburbs little known to gownsmen, the opportunity may be seized of making a few remarks to the patient reader, which impatient readers are begged to skip. our hero on his first appearance in public some years since, was without his own consent at once patted on the back by the good-natured critics, and enrolled for better or worse in the brotherhood of muscular christians, who at that time were beginning to be recognised as an actual and lusty portion of general british life. as his biographer, i am not about to take exception to his enrolment; for, after considering the persons up and down her majesty's dominions to whom the new nick-name has been applied, the principles which they are supposed to hold, and the sort of lives they are supposed to lead; i cannot see where he could in these times have fallen upon a nobler brotherhood. i am speaking of course under correction, and with only a slight acquaintance with the faith of muscular christianity, gathered almost entirely from the witty expositions and comments of persons of a somewhat dyspeptic habit, who are not amongst the faithful themselves. indeed, i am not aware that any authorized articles of belief have been sanctioned or published by the sect, church, or whatever they may be. moreover, at the age at which our hero has arrived, and having regard to his character, i should say that he has in all likelihood thought very little on the subject of belief, and would scarcely be able to give any formal account of his own, beyond that contained in the church catechism, which i for one think may very well satisfy him for the present. nevertheless, had he suddenly been caught at the gate of st. ambrose's college, by one of the gentlemen who do the classifying for the british public, and accosted with, "sir, you belong to a body whose creed it is to fear god, and walk miles in hours;" i believe he would have replied, "do i, sir? i'm very glad to hear it. they must be a very good set of fellows. how many weeks' training, do they allow?" but in the course of my inquiries on the subject of muscular christians, their works and ways, a fact has forced itself on my attention, which, for the sake of ingenious youth, ought not to be passed over. i find, then, that, side by side with these muscular christians, and apparently claiming some sort of connection with them (the same concern, as the pirates of trade-marks say), have risen up another set of persons, against whom i desire to caution my readers and my hero, and to warn the latter that i do not mean on any pretense whatever to allow him to connect himself with them, however much he may be taken with their off-hand, "hail brother well-met" manner and dress, which may easily lead careless observers to take the counterfeit for the true article. i must call the persons in question "musclemen," as distinguished from muscular christians; the only point in common between the two being, that both hold it to be a good thing to have strong and well-exercised bodies, ready to be put at the shortest notice to any work of which bodies are capable, and to do it well. here all likeness ends; for the muscleman seems to have no belief whatever as to the purposes for which his body has been given him, except some hazy idea that it is to go up and down the world with him, belaboring men or captivating women for his benefit or pleasure, at once the servant and fomentor of those fierce and brutal passions which he seems to think it a necessity, and rather a fine thing than otherwise, to indulge and obey. whereas, so far as i know, the least of the muscular christians has hold of the old chivalrous and christian belief, that a man's body is given him to be trained and brought into subjection, and then used for the protection of the weak, the advancement of all righteous causes, and the subduing of the earth which god has given to the children of men. he does not hold that mere strength or activity are in themselves worthy of any respect or worship, or that one man is a bit better than another because he can knock him down, or carry a bigger sack of potatoes than he. for mere power, whether of body or intellect, he has (i hope and believe) no reverence whatever, though, _cæteris paribus_, he would probably himself, as a matter of taste, prefer the man who can lift a hundred-weight round his head with his little finger to the man who can construct a string of perfect sorites, or expound the doctrine of "contradictory inconceivables." the above remarks occur as our hero is marching innocently down towards his first "town and gown" row, and i should scarcely like to see him in the middle of it, without protesting that it is a mistake. i know that he, and other youngsters of his kidney, will have fits of fighting or desiring to fight with their poorer brethren, just as children have the measles. but the shorter the fit the better for the patient, for like the measles it is a great mistake, and a most unsatisfactory complaint. if they can escape it altogether so much the better. but instead of treating the fit as a disease, "musclemen" professors are wont to represent it as a state of health, and to let their disciples run about in middle age with the measles on them as strong as ever. now although our hero had the measles on him at this particular time, and the passage of arms which i am about shortly to describe led to results of some importance in his history, and cannot therefore be passed over, yet i wish at the same time to disclaim, both in my sponsorial and individual character, all sympathy with town and gown rows, and with all other class rows and quarrels of every sort and kind, whether waged with sword, pen, tongue, fist or otherwise. also to say that in all such rows, so far as i have seen or read, from the time when the roman plebs marched out to mons sacer, down to , when the english chartists met on kennington common, the upper classes are most to blame. it may be that they are not the aggressors on any given occasion; very possibly they may carry on the actual fighting with more fairness (though this is by no means true as a rule); nevertheless the state of feeling which makes such things possible, especially in england, where men in general are only too ready to be led and taught by their superiors in rank, may be fairly laid at their door. ever, in the case of strikes, which just now will of course be at once thrown in my teeth, i say fearlessly, let any man take the trouble to study the question honestly, and he will come to the conviction that all combinations of the men for the purpose of influencing the labor market, whether in the much and unjustly abused trades' societies, or in other forms, have been defensive organizations, and that the masters might, as a body, over and over again have taken the sting out of them if they had acted fairly, as many individuals amongst them have done. whether it may not be too late now, is a tremendous question for england, but one which time only can decide. when drysdale and tom at last found the caravans, it was just getting dark. something of a crowd had collected outside, and there was some hissing as they ascended the short flight of steps which led to the platform in front of the show; but they took no notice of it, paid their money, and entered. inside they found an exciting scene. the place was pretty well lighted, and the birds and beasts were all alive in their several dens and cages, walking up and down, and each uttering remonstrances after its own manner, the shrill notes of birds mingling with the moan of the beasts of prey and chattering of the monkeys. feeding time had been put off till night to suit the undergraduates, and the undergraduates were proving their appreciation of the attention by playing off all manner of practical jokes on birds and beasts, their keepers, and such of the public as had been rash enough to venture in. at the farther end was the keeper, who did the showman, vainly endeavouring to go through his usual jogtrot description. his monotone was drowned every minute by the chorus of voices, each shouting out some new fact in natural history touching the biped or quadruped whom the keeper was attempting to describe. at that day a great deal of this sort of chaff was current, so that the most dunder-headed boy had plenty on the tip of his tongue. a small and indignant knot of townspeople, headed by a stout and severe middle-aged woman, with two big boys, her sons, followed the keeper, endeavouring by caustic remarks and withering glances to stop the flood of chaff, and restore the legitimate authority and the reign of keeper and natural history. at another point was a long irishman in cap and gown, who had clearly had as much wine as he could carry, close to the bars of the panther's den, through which he was earnestly endeavouring, with the help of a crooked stick, to draw the tail of whichever of the beasts stopped for a moment in its uneasy walk. on the other side were a set of men bent on burning the wretched monkeys' fingers with the lighted ends of their cigars, in which they seemed successful enough, to judge by the angry chatterings and shriekings of their victims. the two new comers paused for a moment on the platform inside the curtain; and then drysdale, rubbing his hands, and in high glee at the sight of so much misrule in so small a place, led the way down on to the floor deep in sawdust, exclaiming, "well, this _is_ a lark! we're just in for all the fun of the fair." tom followed his friend, who made straight for the show man, and planted himself at his side, just as that worthy, pointing with his pole, was proceeding-- "this is the jackal, from--" "the caribee hielands, of which i'm a native mysel'," shouted a gownsman. "this is the jackal, or lion's provider," began again the much enduring keeper. "who always goes before the lion to purwide his purwisions, purwiding there's anything to purwide," put in drysdale. "hem--really i do think it's scandalous not to let the keeper tell about the beasteses," said the unfortunate matron, with a half turn towards the persecutors, and grasping her bag. "my dear madam," said drysdale, in his softest voice, "i assure you he knows nothing about the beasteses. we are doctor buckland's favourite pupils, are also well known to the great panjandrum, and have eaten more beasteses than the keeper has ever seen." "i don't know who you are, young man, but you don't know how to behave yourselves," rejoined the outraged female; and the keeper, giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with his pole, proceeded-- "the little hanimal in the upper cage is the hopossom, of north america--" "the misguided offspring of the raccoon and the gumtree," put in one of his tormentors. here a frightful roaring and struggling at a little distance, mingled with shouts of laughter, and "hold on, pat!" "go it, panther!" interrupted the lecture, and caused a rush to the other side, where the long irishman, donovan, by name, with one foot against the bars, was holding on to the tail of one of the panthers, which he had at length managed to catch hold of. the next moment he was flat on his back in the sawdust, and his victim was bounding wildly about the cage. the keeper hurried away to look after the outraged panther; and drysdale, at once installing himself as showman, began at the next cage-- "this is the wild man of the woods, or whangee-tangee, the most untameable--good heavens, ma'am, take care!" and he seized hold on the unfortunate woman and pulled her away from the bars. "oh, goodness!" she screamed, "it's got my tippet; oh, bill, peter, catch hold!" bill and peter proved unequal to the occasion, but a gownsman seized the vanishing tippet, and after a moment's struggle with the great ape, restored a meagre half to the proper owner, while jacko sat grinning over the other half, picking it to pieces. the poor woman had now had enough of it, and she hurried off with her two boys, followed by the few townspeople who were still in the show, to lay her case directly before the mayor, as she informed the delinquents from the platform before disappearing. her wrongs were likely to be more speedily avenged, to judge by the angry murmurs which arose outside immediately after her exit. but still the high jinks went on, donovan leading all mischief, until the master of the menagerie appeared inside, and remonstrated with the men. "he must send for the police," he said, "if they would not leave the beasts alone. he had put off the feeding in order to suit them; would they let his keepers feed the beasts quietly?" the threat of the police was received with shouts of defiance by some of the men, though the greater part seemed of the opinion that matters were getting serious. the proposal of feeding, was however, welcomed by all and comparative quiet ensued for some ten minutes, while the baskets of joints, bread, stale fish, and potatoes were brought in, and the contents distributed to the famished occupants of the cages. in the interval of peace the showman-keeper, on a hint from his master, again began his round. but the spirit of mischief was abroad, and it only needed this to make it break out again. in another two minutes the beasts, from the lion to the smallest monkey, were struggling for their suppers, with one or more undergraduates; the elephant had torn the gown off donovan's back, having only just missed his arm; the manager in a confusion worthy of the tower of babel, sent off a keeper for the city police, and turned the gas out. the audience, after the first moment of surprise and indignation, groped their way towards the steps and mounted the platform, where they held a council of war. should they stay where they were or make a sally at once, break through the crowd and get back to their colleges? it was curious to see how in that short minute individual character came out, and the coward, the cautious man, the resolute prompt englishman, each was there, and more than one species of each. donovan was one of the last up the steps, and as he stumbled up caught something of the question before the house. he shouted loudly at once for descending and offering battle. "but boys," he added, "first wait till i adthress the meeting," and he made for the opening in the canvas through which the outside platform was reached. stump oratory and a free fight were just the two temptations which donovan was wholly unable to resist; it was with a face radiant with devil-may-care delight that he burst through the opening, followed by all the rest (who felt that the matter was out of their hands, and must go its own way after the irishman), and rolling to the front of the outside platform, rested one hand on the rail, and waved the other gracefully towards the crowd. this was the signal for a burst of defiant shouts and hissing. donovan stood blandly waving his hand for silence. drysdale, running his eye over the mob, turned to the rest and said, "there's nothing to stop us, not twenty grown men in the whole lot." then one of the men lighting upon the drumsticks, which the usual man in corduroys had hidden away, began beating the big drum furiously. one of the unaccountable whims which influence crowds seized on the mob, and there was almost perfect silence. this seemed to take donovan by surprise; the open air was having the common effect on him; he was getting unsteady on his legs, and his brains were wondering. "now's your time, donovan, my boy--begin." "ah, yes, to be sure, what'll i say? let's see," said donovan, putting his head on one side-- "friends, romans, countrymen," suggested some wag. "to be sure," cried donovan; "friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your ears." "bravo pat, well begun; pull their ears well when you've got 'em." "bad luck to it! where was i? you divels--i mean ladies and gentlemen of oxford city as i was saying, the poets--" then the storm of shouting and hissing arose again, and donovan, after an ineffectual attempt or two to go on, leaned forward and shook his fist generally at the mob. luckily for him, there were no stones about; but one of the crowd, catching the first missel at hand, which happened to be a cabbage stalk, sent it with true aim at the enraged orator. he jerked his head on one side to avoid it; the motion unsteadied his cap; he threw up his hand, which, instead of catching the falling cap, as it was meant to do, sent it spinning among the crowd below. the owner, without a moment's hesitation, clapped both hands on the bar before him, and followed his property, vaulting over on the heads of those nearest the platform, amongst whom he fell, scattering them right and left. "come on, gown, or he'll be murdered," sang out one of donovan's friends. tom was one of the first down the steps; they rushed to the spot in another moment, and the irishman rose, plastered with dirt, but otherwise none the worse for his feat; his cap, covered with mud, was proudly stuck on, hind part before. he was of course thirsting for battle, but not quite so much master of his strength as usual; so his two friends, who were luckily strong and big men, seized him, one to each arm. "come along, keep together," was the word; "there's no time to lose. push for the corn-market." the cry of "town! town!" now rose on all sides. the gownsmen in a compact body, with donovan in the middle, pushed rapidly across the open space in which the caravans were set up and gained the street. here they were comparatively safe; they were followed close, but could not be surrounded by the mob. and now again a bystander might have amused himself by noting the men's characters. three or four pushed rapidly on, and were out of sight ahead in no time. the greater part, without showing any actual signs off fear, kept steadily on, at a good pace. close behind these, donovan struggled violently with his two conductors, and shouted defiance to the town; while a small and silent rear guard, amongst whom were tom and drysdale, walked slowly and, to all appearance, carelessly behind, within a few yards of the crowd of shouting boys who headed the advancing town. tom himself felt his heart beating quick, and i don't think had any particular desire for the fighting to begin, with such long odds on the town side; but he was resolved to be in it as soon as any one if there was to be any. thus they marched through one or two streets without anything more serious than an occasional stone passing their ears. another turn would have brought them into the open parts of the town, within hearing of the colleges, when suddenly donovan broke loose from his supporters, and rushing with a shout on the advanced guard of the town, drove them back in confusion for some yards. the only thing to do was to back him up; so the rear-guard, shouting "gown! gown!" charged after him. the effect of the onset was like that of blount at flodden, when he saw marmion's banner go down,--a wide space was cleared for a moment, the town driven back on the pavements, and up the middle of the street, and the rescued donovan caught, set on his legs, and dragged away again some paces towards college. but the charging body was too few in number to improve the first success, or even to insure its own retreat. "darkly closed the war around." the town lapped on them from the pavements, and poured on them down the middle of the street, before they had time to rally and stand together again. what happened to the rest--who was down, who fought, who fled,--tom had no time to inquire; for he found himself suddenly the centre of a yelling circle of enemies. so he set his teeth and buckled to his work; and the thought of splendid single combat, and glory such as he had read of in college stories, and tradition handing him down as the hero of that great night, flashed into his head as he cast his eye round for foemen worthy of his steel. none such appeared; so, selecting the one most of his own size, he squared and advanced on him. but the challenged one declined the combat, and kept retreating; while from behind, and at the sides, one after another of the "town" rushing out dealt tom a blow and vanished again into the crowd. for a moment or two he kept his head and temper; the assailants individually were too insignificant to put out his strength upon; but head and temper were rapidly going;--he was like a bull in the arena with the picadores sticking their little javelins in him. a smart blow on the nose, which set a myriad of stars dancing before his eyes, finished the business, and he rushed after the last assailant, dealing blows to right and left, on small and great. the mob closed in on him, still avoiding attacks in front, but on the flank and rear they hung on him and battered at him. he had to turn sharply round after every step to shake himself clear, and at each turn the press thickened, the shouts waxed louder and fiercer; he began to get unsteady; tottered, swayed, and, stumbling over a prostrate youth, at last went down full length on to the pavement, carrying a couple of his assailants with him. and now it would have fared hardly with him, and he would scarcely have reached college with sound bones,--for i am sorry to say an oxford town mob is a cruel and brutal one, and a man who is down has no chance with it,--but that for one moment he and his prostrate foes were so jumbled together that the town could not get at him, and the next cry of "gown! gown!" rose high above the din; the town were swept back again by the rush of a reinforcement of gownsmen, the leader of whom seized him by the shoulders and put him on his legs again; while his late antagonists crawled away to the side of the road. "why, brown!" said his rescuer,--jervis, the captain,--"this, you? not hurt, eh?" "not a bit," said tom. "good; come on, then; stick to me." in three steps they joined the rest of the gown, now numbering some twenty men. the mob was close before them, gathering for another rush. tom felt a cruel, wild devil beginning to rise in him; he had never felt the like before. this time he longed for the next crash, which happily for him, was fated never to come off. "your names and colleges, gentlemen," said a voice close behind them at this critical moment. the "town" set up a derisive shout, and, turning round, the gownsmen found the velvet sleeves of one of the proctors at their elbow and his satellites, vulgarly called bull-dogs, taking notes of them. they were completely caught, and so quietly gave the required information. "you will go to your colleges at once," said the proctor, "and remain within gates. you will see these gentlemen to the high-street," he added to his marshal; and then strode on after the crowd, which was vanishing down the street. the men turned and strolled towards the high-street, the marshall keeping, in a deferential but wide-awake manner, pretty close to them, but without making any show of watching them. when they reached the high-street he touched his hat and said civilly, "i hope you will go home now, gentlemen, the senior proctor is very strict." "all right, marshall; good night," said the good natured ones. "d--- his impudence," growled one or two of the rest, and the marshal bustled away after his master. the men looked at one another for a moment or two. they were of different colleges, and strangers. the high-street was quiet; so without the exchange of a word, after the manner of british youth, they broke up into twos and threes, and parted. jervis, tom, and drysdale, who turned up quite undamaged, sauntered together towards st. ambrose's. "i say, where are you going?" said drysdale. "not to college, i vote," said tom. "no, there may be some more fun." "mighty poor fun, i should say, you'll find it," said jervis; "however, if you will stay, i suppose i must. i can't leave you two boys by yourselves." "come along then, down here." so they turned down one of the courts leading out of the high-street, and so by back streets bore up again for the disturbed districts. "mind and keep a sharp lookout for the proctors," said jervis; "as much row as you please, but we mustn't be caught again." "well, only let's keep together if we have to bolt." they promenaded in lonely dignity for some five minutes, keeping eyes and ears on full strain. "i tell you what," said drysdale, at last, "it isn't fair, these enemies in the camp; what with the 'town' and their stones and fists, and the proctors with their 'name and college,' we've got the wrong end of the stick." "both wrong ends, i can tell you," said jervis. "hello, brown, your nose is bleeding." "is it?" said tom, drawing his hand across his mouth; "'twas that confounded little fellow then who ran up to my side while i was squaring at the long party. i felt a sharp crack, and the little rascal bolted into the crowd before i could turn at him." "cut and come again," said drysdale, laughing. "ay, that's the regular thing in these blackguard street squabbles. here they come then," said jervis. "steady, all." they turned around to face the town, which came shouting down the street behind them in pursuit of one gownsman, a little, harmless, quiet fellow, who had fallen in with them on his way back to his college from a tea with his tutor, and, like a wise man, was giving them leg-bail as hard as he could foot it. but the little man was of a courageous, though prudent soul, and turned panting and gasping on his foes the moment he found himself amongst friends again. "now, then, stick together; don't let them get around us," said jervis. they walked steadily down the street, which was luckily a narrow one, so that three of them could keep the whole of it, halting and showing front every few yards, when the crowd pressed too much. "down with them! town, town! that's two as was in the show." "mark the velvet-capped chap. town, town!" shouted the hinder part of the mob, but it was a rabble of boys as before, and the front rank took very good care of itself, and forbore from close quarters. the small gownsman had now got his wind again; and smarting under the ignominy of his recent flight, was always a pace or two nearer the crowd than the other three, ruffling up like a little bantam, and shouting defiance between the catchings of his breath. "you vagabonds! you cowards! come on now i say! gown, gown!" and at last, emboldened by the repeated halts of the mob, and thirsting for revenge, he made a dash at one of the nearest of the enemy. the suddenness of the attack took both sides by surprise, then came a rush by two or three of the town to the rescue. "no, no! stand back--one at a time," shouted the captain, throwing himself between the combatants and the mob. "go it, little 'un; serve him out. keep the rest back boys; steady!" tom and drysdale faced towards the crowd, while a little gownsman and his antagonist--who defended himself vigorously enough now--came to close quarters, in the rear of the gown line; too close to hurt one another but what with hugging and cuffing the townsman in another half-minute was sitting quietly on the pavement with his back against the wall, his enemy squaring in front of him, and daring him to renew the combat. "get up, you coward; get up, i say, you coward! he won't get up," said the little man, eagerly turning to the captain. "shall i give him a kick?" "no, let the cur alone," replied jervis. "now, do any more of you want to fight? come on like men one at a time. i'll fight any man in the crowd." whether the challenge would have been answered must rest uncertain; for now the crowd began to look back, and a cry arose, "here they are, proctors! now they'll run." "so we must, by jove, brown," said the captain. "what's your college?" to the little hero. "pembroke." "cut away, then; you're close at home." "very well, if i must; good night," and away went the small man as fast as he had come; and it has never been heard that he came to further grief, or performed other feats that night. "hang it, don't let's run," said drysdale. "is it the proctors?" said tom. "i can't see them." "mark the bloody-faced one; kick him over," sang out a voice in the crowd. "thank'ee," said tom, savagely. "let's have one rush at them." "look! there's the proctor's cap just through them; come along boys--well, stay if you like, and be rusticated, i'm off," and away went jervis, and the next moment tom and drysdale followed the good example, and, as they had to run, made the best use of their legs, and in two minutes were well ahead of their pursuers. they turned a corner; "here, brown! alight in this public, cut in, and it's all right." next moment they were in the dark passage of a quiet little inn, and heard with a chuckle part of the crowd scurry by the door in pursuit, while they themselves suddenly appeared in the neat little bar, to the no small astonishment of its occupants. these were a stout elderly woman in spectacles, who was stitching away at plain work in an arm-chair on one side of the fire; the foreman of one of the great boat-builders, who sat opposite her, smoking his pipe with a long glass of clear ale at his elbow; and a bright-eyed, neat handed bar maid, who was leaning against the table, and talking to the others as they entered. chapter xii--the captain's notions the old lady dropped her work, the barmaid turned round with a start and little ejaculation, and the foreman stared with all his eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, exclaimed-- "bless us, if it isn't muster drysdale and muster brown, of ambrose's. why what's the matter, sir? muster brown, you be all covered wi' blood, sir." "oh dear me! poor young gentlemen!" cried the hostess;--"here, patty, run and tell dick to go for the doctor, and get the best room--" "no, please don't; it's nothing at all," interrupted tom, laughing;--"a basin of cold water and a towel, if you please, miss patty, and i shall be quite presentable in a minute. i'm very sorry to have frightened you all." drysdale joined in the assurances that it was nothing but a little of his friend's "claret," which he would be all the better for losing, and watched with an envious eye the interest depicted in patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh pumped water, and held the towel. tom bathed his face, and very soon was as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a slight swelling on one side of his nose. drysdale meantime--seated on the table--had been explaining the circumstances to the landlady and the foreman. "and now, ma'am," said he as tom joined them, and seated himself on a vacant chair, "i'm sure you must draw famous ale." "indeed, sir, i think dick--that's my ostler, sir--is as good a brewer as is in the town. we always brew at home, sir, and i hope always shall." "quite right, ma'am, quite right," said drysdale; "and i don't think we can do better than follow jem here. let us have a jug of the same ale as he is drinking. and you'll take a glass with us, jem? or will you have spirits?" jem was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to its being the best in oxford, and patty drew the ale, and supplied two more long glasses. drysdale, with apologies, produced his cigar case; and jem, under the influence of the ale and a first-rate havannah (for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half as much), volunteered to go and rouse the yard and conduct them safely back to college. this offer was of course, politely declined and then, jem's hour for bed having come, he being a methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our two young friends in sole possession of the bar. nothing could have suited the two young gentlemen better, and they set to work to make themselves agreeable. they listened with lively interest to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a widow woman in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum dick and her niece patty. they applauded her resolution of not bringing up her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no very available answer her appeals for advice as to what trade they should be put to; all trades were so full, and things were not as they ought to be. the one thing, apparently, which was wanting to the happiness of drysdale at oxford, was the discovery of such beer as he had at last found at "the choughs." dick was to come up to st. ambrose's the first thing in the morning and carry off his barrel, which would never contain in future any other liquid. at last that worthy appeared in the bar to know when he was to shut up, and was sent out by his mistress to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. and so, after paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, they found themselves in the street, and set off for college, agreeing on the way that "the choughs" was a great find, the old lady was the best old soul in the world, and patty the prettiest girl in oxford. they found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along them, knocked at the college gates at half-past eleven. the stout porter received them with a long face. "senior proctor's sent down here an hour back, gentlemen, to find whether you was in college." "you don't mean that, porter? how kind of him! what did you say?" "said i didn't know, sir; but the marshal said, if you come in after, that you was to go to the senior proctor's at half-past nine to-morrow." "send my compliments to the senior proctor," said drysdale, "and say i have a very particular engagement to morrow morning, which will prevent my having the pleasure of calling on him." "very good, sir," said the porter, giving a little dry chuckle, and tapping the keys against his leg; "only perhaps you wouldn't mind writing him a note, sir, as he is rather a particular gentleman." "didn't he send after anyone else?" said tom. "yes, sir, mr. jervis, sir." "well, and what about him?" "oh, sir, mr. jervis! an old hand, sir. he'd been in gates long time, sir, when the marshal came." "the sly old beggar!" said drysdale, "good night, porter; mind you send my message to the proctor. if he is set on seeing me to-morrow, you can say that he will find a broiled chicken and a hand at picquet in my rooms, if he likes to drop in to lunch." the porter looked after them for a moment, and then retired to his deep old chair in the lodge, pulled his night cap over his ears, put up his feet before the fire on a high stool, and folded his hands on his lap. "the most impidentest thing on the face of the earth is it gen'l'man-commoner in his first year," soliloquized the little man. "'twould ha' done that one a sight of good, now, if he'd got a good hiding in the street to-night. but he's better than most on 'em, too," he went on; "uncommon free with his tongue, but just as free with his arf-sovereigns. well, i'm not going to peach if the proctor don't send again in the morning. that sort's good for the college; makes things brisk; has his _wine_ from town, and don't keep no keys. i wonder, now, if my peter's been out a fighting? he's pretty nigh as hard to manage, is that boy, as if he was at college hisself." and so, muttering over his domestic and professional grievances, the small janitor composed himself to a nap. i may add, parenthetically, that his hopeful peter, a precocious youth of seventeen, scout's boy on no. staircase of st. ambrose's college, was represented in the boot cleaning and errand line by a substitute for some days; and when he returned to duty was minus a front tooth. "what fools we were not to stick to the captain. i wonder what we shall get," said tom, who was troubled in his mind at the proctor's message, and not gifted naturally with the recklessness and contempt of authority which in drysdale's case approached the sublime. "who cares? i'll be bound, now, the old fox came straight home to earth. let's go and knock him up." tom assented, for he was anxious to consult jervis as to his proceedings in the morning; so they soon found themselves drumming at his oak, which was opened shortly by "the stroke" in an old boating-jacket. they followed him in. at one end of his table stood his tea-service and the remains of his commons, which the scout had not cleared away; at the other, open books, note-books, and maps showed that the captain read, as he rowed, "hard all." "well, are you two only just in?" "only just, my captain," answered drysdale. "have you been well thrashed, then? you don't look much damaged?" "we are innocent of fight since your sudden departure--flight, shall i call it?--my captain." "where have you been?" "where! why in the paragon of all pot houses; snug little bar with red curtains; stout old benevolent female in spectacles; barmaid an houri; and for malt the most touching tap in oxford, wasn't it, brown?" "yes, the beer was undeniable," said tom. "well, and you dawdled there till now?" said jervis. "even so. what with mobs that wouldn't fight fair, the captains who would run away, and the proctors marshals who would interfere, we were 'perfectly disgusted with the whole proceedings,' as the scotchman said when he was sentenced to be hanged." "well! heaven, they say, protects children, sailors, and drunken men; and whatever answer to heaven in the academical system protects freshmen," remarked jervis. "not us, at any rate," said tom, "for we are to go to the proctor to-morrow morning." "what, did he catch you in your famous public?" "no; the marshal came round to the porter's lodge, asked if we were in, and left word that, if we were not, we were to go to him in the morning. the porter told us just now as we came in." "pshaw," said the captain, with disgust; "now you'll be gated probably, and the whole crew will be thrown out of gear. why couldn't you have come home when i did?" "we do not propose to attend the levee of that excellent person in office to-morrow morning," said drysdale. "he will forget all about it. old copas won't say a word--catch him. he gets too much out of me for that." "well, you'll see; i'll back the proctor's memory." "but, captain, what are you going to stand?" "stand! nothing, unless you like a cup of cold tea. you'll get no wine or spirits here at this time of night, and the buttery is shut. besides you've had quite as much beer as good for you at your paragon public." "come, now, captain, just two glasses of sherry, and i'll promise to go to bed." "not a thimbleful." "you old tyrant!" said drysdale, hopping off his perch on the elbow of the sofa. "come along, brown, let's go and draw for some supper, and a hand at van john. there's sure to be something going up my staircase; or, at any rate, there's a cool bottle of claret in my rooms." "stop and have a talk, brown," said the captain, and prevailed against drysdale, who, after another attempt to draw tom off, departed on his quest for drink and cards. "he'll never do for the boat, i'm afraid," said the captain; "with his rascally late hours, and drinking and eating all sorts of trash. it's a pity, too for he's a pretty oar for his weight." "he is such uncommon good company, too," said tom. "yes; but i'll tell you what. he's just a leetle too good company for you and me, or any fellows who mean to take a degree. let's see, this is only his third term? i'll give him, perhaps, two more to make the place too hot to hold him. take my word for it, he'll never get to his little-go." "it will be a great pity, then," said tom. "so it will. but after all, you see, what does it matter to him? he gets rusticated; takes his name off with a flourish of trumpets--what then? he falls back on , l a year in land, and a good accumulation in consols, runs abroad or lives in town for a year. takes the hounds when he comes of age, or is singled out by some discerning constituency, and sent to make laws for his country, having spent the whole of his life hitherto in breaking all the laws he ever came under. you and i, perhaps, go fooling about with him, and get rusticated. we make our friends miserable. we can't take our names off, but have to come cringing back at the end of our year, marked men. keep our tails between our legs for the rest of the time. lose a year at our professions, and most likely have the slip casting up against us in one way or another for the next twenty years. it's like the old story of the giant and the dwarf, or like fighting a sweep, or any other one-sided business." "but i'd sooner have to fight my own way in the world after all; wouldn't you?" said tom. "h-m-m!" said the captain, throwing himself back in the chair, and smiling; "can't answer off hand. i'm a third year man, and begin to see the other side rather clearer than i did when i was a freshman like you. three years at oxford, my boy, will teach you something of what rank and money count for, if they teach you nothing else." "why, here's the captain singing the same song as hardy," thought tom. "so you two have to go to the proctor to-morrow?" "yes." "shall you go? drysdale won't." "of course i shall. it seems to me childish not to go; as if i were back in the lower school again. to tell you the truth, the being sent for isn't pleasant; but the other i couldn't stand." "well, i don't feel anything of that sort. but i think you're right on the whole. the chances are that he'll remember your name, and send for you again if you don't go; and then you'll be worse off." "you don't think he'll rusticate us, or anything of that sort?" said tom, who had felt horrible twinges at the captain's picture of the effects of rustication on ordinary mortals. "no; not unless he's in a very bad humour. i was caught three times in one night in my freshman's term, and only got an imposition." "then i don't care," said tom. "but it's a bore to have been caught in so seedy an affair; if it had been a real good row, one wouldn't have minded so much." "why, what did you expect? it was neither better nor worse than the common run of such things." "well, but three parts of the crowd were boys." "so they are always--or nine times out of ten at any rate." "but there was no real fighting; at least, i only know i got none." "there isn't any real fighting, as you call it, nine times out of ten." "what is there, then?" "why, something of this sort. five shopboys, or scouts' boys, full of sauciness, loitering at an out-of-the-way street corner. enter two freshmen, full of dignity and bad wine. explosion of inflammable material. freshmen mobbed into high-street or broad-street, where the tables are turned by a gathering of many more freshmen, and the mob of town boys quietly subsides, puts its hands in its pockets, and ceases to shout 'town, town!' the triumphant freshmen march up and down for perhaps half an hour, shouting 'gown, gown!' and looking furious, but not half sorry that the mob vanishes like mist at their approach. then come the proctors, who hunt down, and break up the gown in some half-hour or hour. the 'town' again marches about in the ascendant, and mobs the scattered freshmen, wherever they can be caught in very small numbers." "but with all your chaff about freshmen, captain, you were in it yourself to-night; come now." "of course, i had to look after you two boys." "but you didn't know we were in when you came up?" "i was sure to find some of you. besides, i'll admit one don't like to go in while there's any chance of a real row as you call it, and so gets proctorized in one's old age for one's patriotism." "were you ever in a real row?" said tom. "yes, once, about a year ago. the fighting numbers were about equal, and the town all grown men, labourers and mechanics. it was desperate hard work, none of your shouting and promenading. that hardy, one of our bible clerks, fought like a paladin; i know i shifted a fellow in corduroys on to him, whom i had found an uncommon tough customer, and never felt better pleased in my life than when i saw the light glance on his hobnails as he went over into the gutter two minutes afterwards. it lasted, perhaps, ten minutes, and both sides were very glad to draw off." "but, of course, you licked them?" "we said we did." "well, i believe that a gentleman will always lick in a fair fight." "of course you do, it's the orthodox belief." "but don't you?" "yes; if he is as big and strong, and knows how to fight as well as the other. the odds are that he cares a little more for giving in, and that will pull him through." "that isn't saying much, though." "no, but it's quite as much as is true. i'll tell you what it is, i think just this, that we are generally better in the fighting way than shopkeepers, clerks, flunkies, and all fellows who don't work hard with their bodies all day. but the moment you come to the real hard-fisted fellow; used to nine or ten hours' work a day, he's a cruel hard customer. take seventy or eighty of them at haphazard, the first you meet, and turn them into st. ambrose any morning--by night i take it they would be lords of this venerable establishment if we had to fight for the possession; except, perhaps, for that hardy--he's one of a thousand, and was born for a fighting man; perhaps he might pull us through." "why don't you try him in the boat?" "miller manages all that. i spoke to him about it after that row, but he said that hardy had refused to subscribe to the club, said he couldn't afford it, or something of the sort. i don't see why that need matter, myself, but i suppose, as we have rules, we ought to stick to them." "it's a great pity though. i know hardy well, and you can't think what a fine fellow he is." "i'm sure of that. i tried to know him, and we don't get on badly as speaking acquaintance. but he seems a queer, solitary bird." twelve o'clock struck; so tom wished the captain good night and departed, meditating much on what he had heard and seen. the vision of terrible single combats, in which the descendant of a hundred earls polishes off the huge representative of the masses in the most finished style, without a scratch on his own aristocratic features, had faded from his mind. he went to bed that night, fairly sickened with his experience of a town and gown row, and with a nasty taste in his mouth. but he felt much pleased at having drawn out the captain so completely. for "the stroke" was in general a man of marvellous few words, having many better uses than talking to put his breath to. next morning he attended at the proctor's rooms at the appointed time, not without some feeling of shame at having to do so; which, however, wore off when he found some dozen men of other colleges waiting about on the same errand as himself. in his turn he was ushered in, and as he stood by the door, had time to look the great man over as he sat making a note of the case he had just disposed of. the inspection was reassuring. the proctor was a gentlemanly, straight-forward looking man of about thirty, not at all donnish, and his address answered to his appearance. "mr. brown, of st. ambrose's, i think," he said. "yes, sir." "i sent you to your college yesterday evening; did you go straight home?" "no, sir." "how was that, mr. brown?" tom made no answer, and the proctor looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then repeated. "how was that?" "well, sir," said tom, "i don't mean to say i was going straight to college, but i should have been in long before you sent, only i fell in with the mob again, and then there was a cry that you were coming. and so-" he paused. "well," said the proctor, with a grim sort of curl about the corners of his mouth. "why, i ran away, and turned into the first place which was open, and stopped till the streets were quiet." "a public house, i suppose." "yes, sir; 'the choughs.'" the proctor considered a minute, and again scrutinized tom's look and manner, which certainly were straightforward, and without any tinge of cringing or insolence. "how long have you been up?" "this is my second term, sir." "you have never been sent to me before, i think?" "never, sir." "well, i can't overlook this, as you yourself confess to a direct act of disobedience. you must write me out lines of virgil. and now, mr. brown, let me advise you to keep out of disreputable street quarrels in future. good morning." tom hurried away, wondering what it would feel like to be writing out virgil again as a punishment at his time of life, but glad above measure that the proctor had asked him no questions about his companion. the hero was of course, mightily tickled at the result, and seized the occasion to lecture tom on his future conduct, holding himself up as a living example of the benefits which were sure to accrue to a man who never did anything he was told to do. the soundness of his reasoning, however, was somewhat shaken by the dean, who, on the same afternoon, managed to catch him in quad; and, carrying him off, discoursed with him concerning his various and systematic breaches of discipline, pointed out to him that he had already made such good use of his time that if he were to be discommonsed for three more days he would lose his term; and then took off his cross, gave him a book of virgil to write out and gated him for a fortnight after hall. drysdale sent out his scout to order his punishment as he might have ordered a waistcoat, presented old copas with a half-sovereign, and then dismissed punishment and gating from his mind. he cultivated with great success the science of mental gymnastics, or throwing everything the least unpleasant off his mind at once. and no doubt it is a science worthy of all cultivation, if one desires to lead a comfortable life. it gets harder, however, as the years roll over us, to attain to any satisfactory proficiency in it; so it should be mastered as early in life as may be. the town and gown row was the talk of the college for the next week. tom, of course, talked much about it, like his neighbors, and confided to one and another the captain's heresies. they were all incredulous; for no one had ever heard him talk as much in a term as tom reported him to have done on this one evening. so it was resolved that he should be taken to task on the subject on the first opportunity; and, as nobody was afraid of him, there was no difficulty in finding a man to bell the cat. accordingly, at the next wine of the boating set, the captain had scarcely entered when he was assailed by the host with-- "jervis, brown says you don't believe a gentleman can lick a cad, unless he is the biggest and strongest of the two." the captain, who hated coming out with his beliefs, shrugged his shoulders, sipped his wine, and tried to turn the subject. but, seeing that they were all bent on drawing him out, he was not the man to run from his guns; and so he said quietly: "no more i do." notwithstanding the reverence in which he was held, this saying could not be allowed to pass, and a dozen voices were instantly raised, and a dozen authentic stories told to confute him. he listened patiently, and then, seeing he was in for it, said: "never mind fighting. try something else; cricket, for instance. the players generally beat the gentlemen, don't they?" "yes; but they are professionals." "well, and we don't often get a university crew which can beat the watermen?" "professionals again." "i believe the markers are the best tennis-players, ain't they?" persevered the captain; "and i generally find keepers and huntsmen shooting and riding better than their master's, don't you?" "but that's not fair. all the cases you put are those of men who have nothing else to do, who live by the things gentlemen only take up for pleasure." "i only say that the cads, as you call them, manage, somehow or another, to do them best," said the captain. "how about the army and navy? the officers always lead." "well, there they're all professionals, at any rate," said the captain. "i admit that the officers lead; but the men follow pretty close. and in a forlorn hope there are fifty men to one officer, after all." "but they must be led. the men will never go without an officer to lead." "it's the officers' business to lead, i know; and they do it. but you won't find the best judges talking as if the men wanted much leading. read napier: the finest story in his book is of the sergeant who gave his life for his boy officer's--your namesake, brown--at the coa." "well, i never thought to hear you crying down gentlemen." "i'm not crying down gentlemen," said the captain. "i only say that a gentleman's flesh and blood, and brains, are just the same, and no better than another man's. he has all the chances on his side in the way of training, and pretty near all the prizes; so it would be hard if he didn't do most things better than poor men. but give them the chance of training, and they will tread on his heels soon enough. that's all i say." that was all, certainly, that the captain said, and then relapsed into his usual good-tempered monosyllabic state; from which all the eager talk of the men, who took up the cudgels naturally enough for their own class, and talked themselves before the wine broke up into a renewed consciousness of their natural superiority, failed again to rouse him. this was, in fact, the captain's weak point, if he had one. he had strong beliefs himself; one of the strongest of which was, that nobody could be taught anything except by his own experience; so he never, or very rarely, exercised his own personal influence, but just quietly went on his own way, and let other men go theirs. another of his beliefs was, that there was no man or thing in the world too bad to be tolerated; faithfully acting up to which belief, the captain himself tolerated persons and things intolerable. bearing which facts in mind, the reader will easily guess the result of the application which the crew duly made to him the day after miller's back was turned. he simply said that the training they proposed would not be enough, and that he himself should take all who chose to go down, to abingdon twice a week. from that time there were many defaulters; and the spirit of diogenes groaned within him, as day after day the crew had to be filled up from the torpid or by watermen. drysdale would ride down to sandford, meeting the boat on its way up, and then take his place for the pull up to oxford, while his groom rode his horse up to folly bridge to meet him. there he would mount again and ride off to bullingdon, or to the isis, or quentin, or other social meeting equally inimical to good training. blake often absented himself three days in a week, and other men once or twice. from considering which facts, tom came to understand the difference between his two heroes; their strong likeness in many points he had seen from the first. they were alike in truthfulness, bravery, bodily strength, and in most of their opinions. but jervis worried himself about nothing, and let all men and things alone, in the belief that the world was not going so very wrong, or would right itself somehow without him. hardy, on the other hand, was consuming his heart over everything that seemed to him to be going wrong in himself and round about him--in the college, in oxford, in england, in the ends of the earth, and never letting slip a chance of trying to set right, here a thread, and there a thread. a self-questioning, much enduring man; a slayer of dragons himself, and one with whom you could not live much without getting uncomfortably aware of the dragons which you also had to slay. what wonder that, apart altogether from the difference in their social position, the one man was ever becoming more and more popular, while the other was left more and more to himself. there are few of us at oxford, or elsewhere, who do not like to see a man living a brave and righteous life, so long as he keeps clear of us; and still fewer who _do_ like to be in constant contact with one who, not content with so living himself, is always coming across them, and laying bare to them their own faint-heartedness, and sloth, and meanness. the latter, no doubt, inspires the deeper feeling, and lays hold with a firmer grip of the men he does lay hold of, but they are few. for men can't always keep up to high pressure till they have found firm ground to build upon, altogether outside of themselves; and it is hard to be thankful and fair to those who are showing us time after time that our foothold is nothing but shifting sand. the contrast between jervis and hardy now began to force itself daily more and more on our hero's attention. from the night of the town and gown row, "the choughs" became a regular haunt of the crew, who were taken there under the guidance of tom and drysdale the next day. not content with calling there on his way from the boats, there was seldom an evening now that tom did not manage to drop in and spend an hour there. when one is very much bent on doing a thing, it is generally easy enough to find very good reasons, or excuses at any rate, for it; and whenever any doubts crossed tom's mind, he silenced them by the reflection that the time he spent at "the choughs" would otherwise have been devoted to wine parties or billiards; and it was not difficult to persuade himself that his present occupation was the more wholesome of the two. he could not, however, feel satisfied till he had mentioned his change in life to hardy. this he found a much more embarrassing matter than he fancied it would be. but, after one or two false starts, he managed to get out that he had found the best glass of ale in oxford, at a quiet little public on the way to the boats, kept by the most perfect of widows, with a factotum of an ostler, who was a regular character, and that he went there most evenings for an hour or so. wouldn't hardy come some night? no, hardy couldn't spare the time. tom felt rather relieved at this answer; but, nevertheless went on to urge the excellence of the ale as a further inducement. "i don't believe it's half so good as our college beer, and i'll be bound it's half as dear again." "only a penny a pint dearer," said tom, "that won't ruin you,--all the crew go there." "if i were the captain," said hardy, "i wouldn't let you run about drinking ale at night after wine parties. does he know about it?" "yes, and goes there himself often on the way from the boats," said tom. "and at night, too?" said hardy. "no," said tom, "but i don't go there after drinking wine; i haven't been to a wine these ten days, at least not for more than five minutes." "well, sound ale is better than oxford wine," said hardy, "if you must drink something;" and so the subject dropped. and tom went away satisfied that hardy had not disapproved of his new habit. it certainly occurred to him that he had omitted all mention of the pretty barmaid in his enumeration of the attractions of "the choughs," but he set down to mere accident; it was a slip which he would set right in their next talk. but that talk never came, and the subject was not again mentioned between them. in fact, to tell the truth, tom's visits to his friend's rooms in the evenings became shorter and less frequent as "the choughs" absorbed more and more of his time. he made excuses to himself, that hardy must be glad of more time, and would be only bored if he kept dropping in every night, now that the examination for degree was so near; that he was sure he drove grey away, who would be of much more use to hardy just now. these, and many other equally plausible reasons, suggested themselves whenever his conscience smote him for his neglect, as it did not seldom. but he always managed to satisfy himself somehow, without admitting the real fact, that these visits were no longer what they had been to him; that a gulf had sprung up, and was widening day by day between him and the only friend who would have had the courage and honesty to tell him the truth about his new pursuit. meantime hardy was much pained at the change in his friend, which _he_ saw quickly enough, and often thought over it with a sigh as he sat at his solitary tea. he set it down to his own dullness, to the number of new friends such a sociable fellow as tom was sure to make, and who, of course, would take up more and more of his time; and, if he felt a little jealousy every now and then, put it resolutely back, struggling to think no evil, or if there were any, to lay it on his own shoulders. cribbage is a most virtuous and respectable game, and yet scarcely, one would think, possessing in itself sufficient attractions to keep a young gentleman in his twentieth year tied to the board, and going through the quaint calculation night after night of "fifteen two, fifteen four, two for his nob, and one for his heels." the old lady of "the choughs" liked nothing so much as her game of cribbage in the evenings, and the board lay ready on the little table by her elbow in the cozy bar, a sure stepping-stone to her good graces. tom somehow became an enthusiast in cribbage, and would always loiter behind his companions for his quiet game; chatting pleasantly while the old lady cut and shuffled the dirty pack, striving keenly for the nightly stake of sixpence, which he seldom failed to lose, and laughingly wrangling with her over the last points in the game which decided the transfer of the two sixpences (duly posted in the snuffer-tray beside the cribbage-board) into his waistcoat pocket or her bag, until she would take off her spectacles to wipe them, and sink back in her chair exhausted with the pleasing excitement. such an odd taste as it seemed, too, a bystander might reasonably have thought, when he might have been employing his time so much more pleasantly in the very room. for, flitting in and out of the bar during the game, and every now and then stooping over the old lady's shoulder to examine her hand, and exchange knowing looks with her, was the lithe little figure of miss patty, with her oval race, and merry eyes, and bright brown hair, and jaunty little cap, with fresh blue ribbons of the shade of the st. ambrose colors. however, there is no accounting for tastes, and it is fortunate that some like apples and some onions. it may possibly be, too, that miss patty did not feel herself neglected, or did not care about attention. perhaps she may not have been altogether unconscious that every least motion and word of hers was noticed, even when the game was at its keenest. at any rate, it was clear enough that she and tom were on the best terms, though she always took her aunt's part vehemently in any little dispute which arose, and sometimes even came to the rescue at the end, and recaptured the vanished sixpences out of the wrongful grasp which he generally laid on them the moment the old lady held out her hand and pronounced the word "game." one knows that size has little to do with strength, or one might have wondered that her little hands should have been able to open his fingers so surely one by one, though he seemed to do all he could to keep them shut. but, after all, if he really thought he had a right to the money, he had always time to put it in his pocket at once, instead of keeping his clenched hand on the table, and arguing about it till she had time to get up to the succour of her aunt. chapter xiii--the first bump "what's the time, smith?" "half-past three, old fellow," answered diogenes, looking at his watch. "i never knew a day go so slowly," said tom; "isn't it time to go down to the boats?" "not by two hours and more, old fellow--can't you take a book, or something to keep you quiet? you won't be fit for anything by six o'clock, if you go on worrying like this." and so diogenes turned himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as composedly as if it had been the first week of term, though, if the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for tom's restlessness infected him. diogenes' whole heart was in the college boat; and so, though he had pulled dozens of races in his time, he was almost as nervous as a freshman on this the first day of the races. tom, all unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw himself into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. the flute went "toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer. so he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up and down the street for some minutes in a purposeless sort of fashion, staring hard at everybody and everything, but unconscious all the time that he was doing so. he would not have been able in fact, to answer diogenes a word, had not that worthy inquired of him what he had seen, when he presently drew in his head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room. "how hot the sun is! but there's a stiff breeze from the south-east. i hope it will go down before the evening, don't you?" "yes, this wind will make it very rough below the gut. mind you feather high now at starting." "i hope to goodness i sha'n't catch a crab," said tom. "don't think about it, old fellow; that's your best plan." "but i can't think of anything else," said tom. "what the deuce is the good of telling a fellow not to think about it?" diogenes apparently had nothing particular to reply, for he put his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot, toot" tom caught up his gown and fled into the quadrangle. the crew had had their early dinner of steaks and chops, stale bread, and a glass and a half of old beer a piece at two o'clock, in the captain's rooms. the current theory of training at that time was--as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could manage to live. two pints in the twenty-four hours was all that most boat's crews that pretended to train at all were allowed, and for the last fortnight it had been the nominal allowance of the st. ambrose crew. the discomfort of such a diet in the hot summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and violent exercise, was something very serious. outraged human nature rebelled against it; and though they did not admit it in public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the development of their bumps of conscientiousness and obstinacy. to keep to the diet at all strictly involved a very respectable amount of physical endurance. our successors have found out the unwisdom of this, as of other old superstitions; and that in order to get a man into training for a boat-race now-a-days, it is not of the first importance to keep him in a constant state of consuming thirst, and the restlessness of body and sharpness of temper which thirst generally induces. tom appreciated the honor of being in the boat in his first year so keenly, that he had almost managed to keep to his training allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame of body and disagreeable frame of mind. he fled away from diogenes' flute, but found no rest. he tried drysdale. that hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing with jack, and only increased tom's thirst and soured his temper by the viciousness of his remarks on boating, and everything and person connected therewith; above all, on miller, who had just come up, had steered them the day before, and pronounced the crew generally, and drysdale in particular, "not half trained." blake's oak was sported, as usual. tom looked in at the captain's door, but found him hard at work reading, and so carried himself off; and, after a vain hunt after others of the crew, and even trying to sit down and read, first a novel, then a play of shakespeare, with no success whatever, wandered away out of the college, and found himself in five minutes, by a natural and irresistible attraction, on the university barge. there were half a dozen men or so reading the papers, and a group or two discussing the coming races. amongst other things the chances of st. ambrose's making a bump the first night were weighed. every one joining in praising the stroke, but there were great doubts whether the crew could live up to it. tom carried himself on to the top of the barge to get out of hearing, for listening made his heart beat and his throat drier than ever. he stood on the top and looked right away down to the gut, the strong wind blowing his gown about. not even a pair oar was to be seen; the great event of the evening made the river a solitude at this time of day. only one or two skiffs were coming home, impelled by reading men, who took their constitutionals on the water, and were coming in to be in time for afternoon chapel. the fastest and best of these soon came near enough for tom to recognize hardy's stroke; so he left the barge and went down to meet the servitor at his landing, and accompanied him to the st. ambrose dressing-room. "well, how do you feel for the race to-night?" said hardy, as he dried his neck and face, which he had been sluicing with cold water, looking as hardy and bright as a racer on derby day. "oh, wretched! i'm afraid i shall break down" said tom, and pouring out some of his doubts and miseries. hardy soon comforted him greatly; and by the time they were half across christchurch meadow, he was quite in heart again. for he knew how well hardy understood rowing, and what a sound judge he was; and it was therefore cheering to hear that he thought they were certainly the second best, if not the best boat on the river; and that they would be sure to make some bumps unless they had accidents. "but that's just what i fear so," said tom. "i'm afraid i shall make some awful blunder." "not you!" said hardy; "only remember. don't you fancy you can pull the boat by yourself, and go to trying to do it. there's where young oars fail. if you keep thorough good time you'll be pretty sure to be doing your share of work. time is everything, almost." "i'll be sure to think of that," said tom; and they entered st. ambrose just as the chapel bell was going down; and he went to chapel and then to hall, sitting by and talking for companionship while the rest dined. and so at last the time slipped away, and the captain and miller mustered them at the gates and walked off to the boats. a dozen other crews were making their way in the same direction, and half the undergraduates of oxford streamed along with them. the banks of the river were crowded; and the punts plied rapidly backwards and forwards, carrying loads of men over to the berkshire side. the university barge, and all the other barges, were decked with flags, and the band was playing lively airs as the st. ambrose crew reached the scene of action. no time was lost in the dressing-room, and in two minutes they were all standing in flannel trousers and silk jerseys at the landing-place. "you had better keep your jackets on," said the captain; "we sha'n't be off yet." "there goes brazen-nose." "they look like work, don't they?" "the black and yellow seems to slip along so fast. they're no end of good colors. i wish our new boat was black." "hang her colors, if she's only stiff in the back, and don't dip." "well, she didn't dip yesterday; at least, the men on the bank said so." "there go baliol, and oriel, and university." "by jove, we shall be late! where's miller?" "in the shed, getting the boat out. look, here's exeter." the talk of the crew was silenced for the moment as every man looked eagerly at the exeter boat. the captain nodded to jervis with a grim smile as they paddled gently by. then the talk began again, "how do you think she goes?" "not so badly. they're very strong in the middle of the boat." "not a bit of it; it's all lumber." "you'll see. they're better trained than we are. they look as fine as stars." "so they ought. they've pulled seven miles to our five for the last month, i'm sure." "then we sha'n't bump them." "why not?" "don't you know that the value of products consist in the quantity of labor which goes to produce them? product pace over course from iffley up. labor expended, exeter ; st. ambrose, . you see it is not in the nature of things that we should bump them--q.e.d." "what moonshine! as if ten miles behind their stroke are worth two behind jervis!" "my dear fellow, it isn't my moonshine; you must settle the matter with the philosophers. i only apply a universal law to a particular case." tom, unconscious of the pearls of economic lore which were being poured out for the benefit of the crew, was watching the exeter eight as it glided away towards the cherwell. he thought they seemed to keep horribly good time. "halloa, drysdale; look, there's jack going across in one of the punts." "of course it is. you don't suppose he would go down to see the race." "why won't miller let us start? almost all the boats are off." "there's plenty of time. we may just as well be up here as dawdling about the bank at iffley." "we sha'n't go down till the last; miller never lets us get out down below." "well, come; here's the boat, at last." the new boat now emerged from its shed, guided steadily to where they were standing by miller and the waterman. then the coxswain got out and called for bow, who stepped forward. "mind how you step now, there are no bottom boards, said miller. "shall i take my jacket?" "yes; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. i've sent a man down to bring them back. now two." "aye, aye!" said drysdale, stepping forward. then came tom's turn, and soon the boat was manned. "now," said miller, taking his place, "are all your stretchers right?" "i should like a little more grease on my rollocks." "i'm taking some down; we'll put it on down below. are you all right?" "yes." "then push her off--gently." the st. ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts in the way, or other obstructions; and they swung steadily down past the university barge, the top of which was already covered with spectators. every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. small groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in christchurch meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races, but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-place. these sombre groups lighted up here and there by the dresses of a few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats. at the mouth of the cherwell were moored two punts, in which reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking; several of these were friends of drysdale's, and hailed him as the boat passed. "what a fool i am to be here!" he grumbled, in an undertone, casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. "i say, brown, don't you wish we were well past this on the way up?" "silence in the bows?" shouted miller. "you devil, how i hate you!" growled drysdale, half in jest and half in earnest, as they sped along under the willows. tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the time they reached the gut began to hope that he should not have a fit or lose all his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or come to some other unutterable grief, the fear of which had been haunting him all day. "here they are at last!--come along now--keep up with them," said hardy to grey, as the boat neared the gut; and the two trotted along downwards, hardy watching the crew and grey watching him. "hardy, how eager you look!" "i'd give twenty pounds to be going to pull in the race." grey shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend, and wished he could understand what it was that moved him so. as the boat shot into the gut from under the cover of the oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows. "feather high, now," shouted miller; and then added in a low voice to the captain, "it will be ticklish work, starting in this wind." "just as bad for all the other boats," answered the captain. "well said, old philosopher!" said miller. "it's a comfort to steer you; you never make a fellow nervous. i wonder if you ever felt nervous yourself, now?" "can't say," said the captain. "here's our post; we may as well turn." "easy, bow side--now two and four, pull her round--back water, seven and five!" shouted the coxswain; and the boat's head swung round, and two or three strokes took her into the bank. jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to board, but was sternly repulsed, and tumbled backwards into the water. hark!--the first gun. the report sent tom's heart into his mouth again. several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream; and the crowds of men on the bank began to be agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. the st. ambrose crew fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their rollocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers. "shall we push her off?" asked "bow." "no, i can give you another minute," said miller, who was sitting, watch in hand, in the stern, "only be smart when i give the word." the captain turned on his seat, and looked up the boat. his face was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed to pass from him into the crew. tom felt calmer and stronger, he met his eye. "now mind, boys, don't quicken," he said, cheerily; "four short strokes, to get way on her, and then steady. here, pass up the lemon." and he took a sliced lemon out of his pocket, put a small piece into his own mouth, and then handed it to blake, who followed his example, and passed it on. each man took a piece; and just as "bow" had secured the end, miller called out-- "now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily." the jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatmen in attendance. the crew poised their oars, no. pushing out her head, and the captain doing the same for the stern. miller took the starting-rope in his hand. "how the wind catches her stern," he said; "here, pay out the rope, one of you. no, not you--some fellow with a strong hand. yes, you'll do," he went on, as hardy stepped down the bank and took hold of the rope; "let me have it foot by foot as i want it. not too quick; make the most of it--that'll do. two and three dip your oars in to give her way." the rope paid out steadily, and the boat settled to her place. but now the wind rose again, and the stern drifted towards the bank. "you _must_ back her a bit, miller, and keep her a little further out, or our oars on stroke side will catch the bank." "so i see; curse the wind. back her, one stroke all. back her, i say!" shouted miller. it is no easy matter to get a crew to back her an inch just now, particularly as there are in her two men who have never rowed a race before, except in the torpids, and one who has never rowed a race in his life. however, back she comes; the starting-rope slackens in miller's left hand, and the stroke, unshipping his oar, pushes the stern gently out again. there goes the second gun! one short minute more, and we are off. short minute, indeed! you wouldn't say so if you were in the boat, with your heart in your mouth, and trembling all over like a man with the palsy. those sixty seconds before the starting gun in your first race--why, they are a little life-time. "by jove, we are drifting in again," said miller, in horror. the captain looked grim, but said nothing; it was too late now for him to be unshipping again. "here, catch hold of the long boat-hook, and fend her off." hardy, to whom this was addressed, seized the boat-hook, and, standing with one foot in the water, pressed the end of the boat-hook against the gunwale, at the full stretch of his arm, and so by main force, kept the stern out. there was just room for stroke oars to dip, and that was all. the starting-rope was as taut as a harp-string; will miller's left hand hold out? [illustration: ] it is an awful moment. but the coxswain, though almost dragged backwards off his seat, is equal to the occasion. he holds his watch in his right hand with the tiller rope. "eight seconds more only. look out for the flash. remember, all eyes in the boat." there it comes, at last--the flash of the starting gun. long before the sound of the report can roll up the river, the whole pent-up life and energy which has been held in leash, as it were, for the last six minutes, is let loose, and breaks away with a bound and a dash which he who has felt it will remember for his life, but the like of which, will he ever feel again? the starting-ropes drop from the coxswains' hands, the oars flash into the water, and gleam on the feather, the spray flies from them, and the boats leap forward. the crowds on the bank scatter, and rush along, each keeping as near as it may be to its own boat. some of the men on the towing path, some on the very edge of, often in, the water--some slightly in advance, as if they could help to drag their boat forward--some behind, where they can see the pulling better--but all at full speed, in wild excitement, and shouting at the top of their voices to those on whom the honor of the college is laid. "well pulled, all!" "pick her up there, five!" "you're gaining, every stroke!" "time in the bows!" "bravo, st. ambrose!" on they rushed by the side of the boats, jostling one another, stumbling, struggling, and panting along. for a quarter of a mile along the bank the glorious maddening hurly-burly extends, and rolls up the side of the stream. for the first ten strokes tom was in too great fear of making a mistake to feel or hear or see. his whole soul was glued to the back of the man before him, his one thought to keep time, and get his strength into the stroke. but as the crew settled down into the well known long sweep, what we may call consciousness returned; and while every muscle in his body was straining, and his chest heaved, and his heart leapt, every nerve seemed to be gathering new life, and his senses to wake into unwonted acuteness. he caught the scent of the wild thyme in the air, and found room in his brain to wonder how it could have got there, as he had never seen the plant near the river, or smelt it before. though his eye never wandered from the back of diogenes, he seemed to see all things at once. the boat behind, which seemed to be gaining--it was all he could do to prevent himself from quickening on the stroke as he fancied that--the eager face of miller, with his compressed lips, and eyes fixed so earnestly ahead that tom could almost feel the glance passing over his right shoulder; the flying banks and the shouting crowd; see them with his bodily eyes he could not, but he knew nevertheless that grey had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank into the water in the first hundred yards, that jack was bounding and scrambling and barking along by the very edge of the stream; above all, he was just as well aware as if he had been looking at it, of a stalwart form in cap and gown, bounding along, brandishing the long boat-hook, and always keeping just opposite the boat; and amid all the babel of voices, and the dash and pulse of the stroke, and the laboring of his own breathing, he heard hardy's voice coming to him again and again, and clear as if there had been no other sound in the air, "steady, two! steady! well pulled! steady, steady!" the voice seemed to give him strength and keep him to his work. and what work it was! he had had many a hard pull in the last six weeks, but "never aught like this." but it can't last for ever; men's muscles are not steel, or their lungs bull's hide, and hearts can't go on pumping a hundred miles an hour without bursting. the st. ambrose's boat is well away from the boat behind, there is a great gap between the accompanying crowds; and now, as they near the gut, she hangs for a moment or two in hand, though the roar from the bank grows louder and louder, and tom is already aware that the st. ambrose crowd is melting into the one ahead of them. "we must be close to exeter!" the thought flashes into him, and it would seem into the rest of the crew at the same moment. for, all at once, the strain seems taken off their arms again; there is no more drag; she springs to the stroke as she did at the start; and miller's face which had darkened for a few seconds, lightens up again. miller's face and attitude are a study. coiled up into the smallest possible space, his chin almost resting on his knees, his hands close to his sides, firmly but lightly feeling the rudder, as a good horseman handles the mouth of a free-going hunter,--if a coxswain could make a bump by his own exertions, surely he will do it. no sudden jerks of the st. ambrose rudder will you see, watch as you will from the bank; the boat never hangs through fault of his, but easily and gracefully rounds every point. "you're gaining! you're gaining!" he now and then mutters to the captain, who responds with a wink, keeping his breath for other matters. isn't he grand, the captain, as he comes forward like lightening, stroke after stroke, his back flat, his teeth set, his whole frame working from the hips with the regularity of a machine? as the space still narrows, the eyes of the fiery little coxswain flash with excitement, but he is far too good a judge to hurry the final effort before victory is safe in his grasp. the two crowds mingle now, and no mistake; and the shouts come all in a heap over the water. "now, st. ambrose, six strokes more." "now, exeter, you're gaining; pick her up." "mind the gut, exeter." "bravo, st. ambrose." the water rushes by, still eddying from the strokes of the boat ahead. tom fancies now that he can hear their oars, and the working of their rudder, and the voice of their coxswain. in another moment both boats are in the gut, and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from the crowd, as it rushes madly off to the left of the footbridge, amidst which "oh, well steered, well steered, st. ambrose!" is the prevailing cry. then miller, motionless as a statue till now, lifts his right hand and whirls the tassel round his head; "give it her now, boys; six strokes and we are into them." old jervis lays down that great broad back, and lashes his oar through the water with the might of a giant, the crew caught him up in another stroke, the tight new boat answers to the spurt, and tom feels a little shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as miller shouts "unship oars, bow and three," and the nose of the st. ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of the exeter, till it touches their stroke oar. "take care what you're coming to." it is the coxswain of the bumped boat who speaks. tom, looking round, finds himself within a foot or two of him; and, being utterly unable to contain his joy, and unwilling to exhibit it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away towards the shore, and begins telegraphing to hardy. "now then, what are you at there in the bows? cast her off quick. come, look alive! push across at once out of the way of the other boats." "i congratulate you, jervis," says the exeter stroke as the st. ambrose boat shot past him. "do it again next race and i sha'n't care." "we were within three lengths of brazen-nose when we bumped," says the all-observant miller in a low voice. "all right," answers the captain; "brazen-nose isn't so strong as usual. we sha'n't have much trouble there, but a tough job up above, i take it." "brazen-nose was better steered than exeter." "they muffed it in the gut, eh?" said the captain. "i thought so by the shouts." "yes, we were pressing them a little down below, and their coxswain kept looking over his shoulder. he was in the gut before he knew it, and had to pull his left hand hard or they would have fouled the oxfordshire corner. that stopped their way, and in we went." "bravo; and how well we started too." "yes, thanks to that hardy. it was touch and go though; i couldn't have held that rope two seconds more." "how did our fellows work; she dragged a good deal below the gut." miller looked somewhat serious, but even he cannot be finding fault just now. for the first step is gained, the first victory won; and, as homer sometimes nods, so miller relaxes the sternness of his rule. the crew, as soon as they have found their voices again, laugh and talk, and answer the congratulations of their friends, as the boat slips along close to the towing path on the berks side, "easy all," almost keeping pace nevertheless with the lower boats, which are racing up under the willows on the oxfordshire side. jack, after one or two feints, makes a frantic bound into the water, and is hauled dripping into the boat by drysdale, unchid by miller, but to the intense disgust of diogenes, whose pantaloons and principles are alike outraged by the proceeding. he--the cato of the oar--scorns to relax the strictness of his code even after victory won. neither word nor look does he cast to the exhulting st. ambrosians on the bank; a twinkle in his eye and a subdued chuckle or two, alone betray that though an oarsman he is mortal. already he revolves in his mind the project of an early walk under a few pea-coats, not being quite satisfied (conscientious old boy!) that he tried his stretcher enough in that final spurt, and thinking that there must be an extra pound of flesh on him somewhere or other which did the mischief. "i say, brown," said drysdale, "how do you feel?" "all right," said tom; "i never felt jollier in my life." "by jove, though, it was an awful grind; didn't you wish yourself well out of it below the gut?" "no, nor you either." "didn't i? i was awfully baked, my throat is like a limekiln yet. what did you think about?" "well, about keeping time, i think," said tom, "but i can't remember much." "i only kept on by thinking how i hated those devils in the exeter boat, and how done up they must be, and hoping their no. felt like having a fit." at this moment they came opposite the cherwell. the leading boat was just passing the winning-post, off the university barge, and the band struck up the "conquering hero," with a crash. and while a mighty sound of shouts, murmurs, and music went up into the evening sky, miller shook the tiller-ropes again, the captain shouted, "now then, pick her up," and the st. ambrose boat shot up between the swarming banks at racing pace to her landing-place, the lion of the evening. dear readers of the gentler sex! you, i know, will pardon the enthusiasm which stirs our pulses, now in sober middle age, as we call up again the memories of this the most exciting sport of our boyhood (for we were but boys then, after all). you will pardon, though i fear hopelessly unable to understand, the above sketch; your sons and brothers will tell you it could not have been less technical. for you, male readers, who have never handled an oar,--what shall i say to you? you at least, i hope, in some way--in other contests of one kind or another--have felt as we felt, and have striven as we strove. you _ought_ to understand and sympathize with us in all our boating memories. oh, how fresh and sweet they are! above all, that one of the gay little henley town, the carriage-crowded bridge, the noble river reach, the giant poplars, which mark the critical point of the course--the roaring column of "undergrads," light blue and dark purple, cantab and oxonian, alike and yet how different,--hurling along together, and hiding the towing-path--the clang of henley church-bells--the cheering, the waving of embroidered handkerchiefs, and glancing of bright eyes, the ill-concealed pride of fathers, open delight and exultation of mothers and sisters--the levee in the town-hall when the race was rowed, the great cup full of champagne (inn champagne, but we were not critical)--the chops, the steaks, the bitter beer--but we run into anti-climax--remember, we were boys then, and bear with us if you cannot sympathize. and you, old companions, [greek text] thranitai, benchers, (of the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but never-forgotten, lairds, squires, soldiers, merchants, lawyers, grave j.p.'s, graver clergymen, gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least does our brotherhood boast), i turn for a moment, from my task, to reach to you the right hand of fellowship from these pages, and empty the solemn pewter--trophy of hard-won victory--to your health and happiness. surely none the worse christians and citizens are ye for your involuntary failing of muscularity! chapter xiv--a change in the crew, and what came of it it was on a saturday that the st. ambrose boat made the first bump, described in our last chapter. on the next saturday, the day-week after the first success, at nine o'clock in the evening, our hero was at the door of hardy's rooms. he just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. the little estrangement which there had been between them for some weeks, had passed away since the races had begun. hardy had thrown himself into the spirit of them so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on tom, but had warmed up the whole crew in his favour, and had mollified the martinet miller himself. it was he who had managed the starting-rope in every race, and his voice from the towing path had come to be looked upon as a safe guide for clapping on or rowing steady. even miller, autocrat as he was, had come to listen for it, in confirmation of his own judgment, before calling on the crew for the final effort. so tom had recovered his old footing in the servitor's rooms; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an intimate friend. hardy's tea commons were on one end of the table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a book. tom marched straight up to him, and leant over his shoulder. "what, here you are at the perpetual grind," he said. "come; shut up, and give me some tea; i want to talk to you." hardy looked up with a grim smile. "are you up to a cup of tea?" he said; "look here, i was just reminded of you fellows. shall i construe for you?" he pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was reading. it was the knights of aristophanes, and tom, leaning over his shoulder, read,-- [greek text] chata chathixion malachoz ina meh tribehz tehn en salamint, &c. after meditating a moment, he burst out; "you hardhearted old ruffian! i come here for sympathy, and the first thing you do is to poke fun at me out of your wretched classics. i've a good mind to clear out and not to do my errand." "what's a man to do?" said hardy. "i hold that it's always better to laugh at fortune. what's the use of repining? you have done famously, and second is a capital place on the river." "second be hanged!" said tom. "we mean to be first." "well, i hope we may!" said hardy. "i can tell you nobody felt it more than i--not even old diogenes--when you didn't make your bump to-night." "now you talk like a man, and a saint ambrosian," said tom. "but what do you think? shall we ever catch them?" and, so saying, he retired to a chair opposite the tea things. "no," said hardy; "i don't think we ever shall. i'm very sorry to say it, but they are an uncommonly strong lot, and we have a weak place or two in our crew. i don't think we can do more than we did to-night--at least with the present crew." "but if we could get a little more strength we might?" "yes, i think so. jervis's stroke is worth two of theirs. a very little more powder would do it." "then we must have a little more powder." "ay, but how are we to get it? who can you put in?" "you!" said tom, sitting up. "there, now, that's just what i am come about. drysdale is to go out. will you pull next race? they all want you to row." "do they?" said hardy, quietly (but tom could see that his eye sparkled at the notion, though he was too proud to show how much he was pleased); "then they had better come and ask me themselves." "well, you cantankerous old party, they're coming, i can tell you!" said tom in great delight. "the captain just sent me to break ground, and will be here directly himself. i say now, hardy," he went on, "don't you say no. i've set my heart upon it. i'm sure we shall bump them if you pull." "i don't know that," said hardy, getting up, and beginning to make tea, to conceal the excitement he was in at the idea of rowing; "you see i'm not in training." "gammon," said tom, "you're always in training, and you know it." "well," said hardy, "i can't be in worse than drysdale. he has been of no use above the gut these last three nights." "that's just what miller says," said tom, "and here comes the captain." there was a knock at the door while he spoke, and jervis and miller entered. tom was in a dreadful fidget for the next twenty minutes, and may best be compared to an enthusiastic envoy negotiating a treaty, and suddenly finding his action impeded by the arrival of his principals. miller was very civil, but not pressing; he seemed to have come more with a view of talking over the present state of things, and consulting upon them, than to enlisting a recruit. hardy met him more than halfway, and speculated on all sorts of possible issues, without a hint of volunteering himself. but presently jervis, who did not understand finessing, broke in, and asked hardy, point blank, to pull in the next race; and when he pleaded want of training, overruled him at once by saying that there was no better training than sculling. so in half an hour all was settled. hardy was to pull five in the next race, diogenes was to take blake's place, at no. , and blake to take drysdale's oar at no. . the whole crew were to go for a long training walk the next day, sunday, in the afternoon; to go down to abingdon on monday, just to get into swing in their new places, and then on tuesday to abide the fate of war. they had half an hour's pleasant talk over hardy's tea, and then separated. "i always told you he was our man," said the captain to miller, as the walked together to the gates; "we want strength, and he is as strong as a horse. you must have seen him sculling yourself. there isn't his match on the river to my mind." "yes, i think he'll do," replied miller; "at any rate he can't be worse than drysdale." as for tom and hardy, it may safely be said that no two men in oxford went to bed in better spirits that saturday night than they two. and now to explain how it came about that hardy was wanted. fortune had smiled upon the st. ambrosians in the two races which succeeded the one in which they had bumped exeter. they had risen two more places without any very great trouble. of course, the constituencies on the bank magnified their powers and doings. there never was such a crew, they were quite safe to be head of the river, nothing could live against their pace. so the young oars in the boat swallowed all they heard, thought themselves the finest fellows going, took less and less pains to keep up their condition, and when they got out of earshot of jervis and diogenes, were ready to bet two to one that they would bump oriel the next night, and keep easily head of the river for the rest of the races. saturday night came, and brought with it a most useful though unpalatable lesson to the st. ambrosians. the oriel boat was manned chiefly by old oars, seasoned in many a race, and not liable to panic when hard pressed. they had a fair, though not a first-rate stroke, and a good coxswain; experts remarked that they were rather too heavy for their boat, and that she dipped a little when they put on anything like a severe spurt; but on the whole they were by no means the sort of crew you could just run into hand over hand. so miller and diogenes preached, and so the ambrosians found out to their cost. they had the pace of the other boat, and gained as usual a boat's length before the gut; but, first those two fatal corners were passed, and then other well-remembered spots where former bumps had been made, and still miller made no sign; on the contrary, he looked gloomy and savage. the st. ambrosian shouts from the shore too changed from the usual exultant peals into something like a quaver of consternation, while the air was rent with the name and laudations of "little oriel." long before the cherwell drysdale was completely baked (he had played truant the day before and dined at the weirs, were he had imbibed much dubious hock), but he from old habit managed to keep time. tom and the other young oars got flurried, and quickened; the boat dragged, there was no life left in her, and, though they managed just to hold their first advantage, could not put her a foot nearer the stern of the oriel boat, which glided past the winning-post a clear boat's length ahead of her pursuer, and with a crew much less depressed. such races must tell on strokes; and even jervis, who had pulled magnificently throughout, was very much done at the close, and leant over his oar with a swimming in his head, and an approach to faintness, and was scarcely able to see for a minute or so. miller's indignation knew no bounds, but he bottled it up till he had manoeuvered the crew into their dressing-room by themselves, jervis having stopped below. then he did not spare them. "they would kill their captain, whose little finger was worth the whole of them; they were disgracing the college; three or four of them had neither heart, head nor pluck." they all felt that this was unjust, for after all had they not brought the boat up to the second place? poor diogenes sat in a corner and groaned; he forgot to prefix "old fellow" to the few observations he made. blake had great difficulty in adjusting his necktie before the glass; he merely remarked in a pause of the objurgation, "in faith, coxswain, these be very bitter words." tom and most of the others were too much out of heart to resist; but at last drysdale fired up-- "you've no right to be so savage that i can see," he said, suddenly stopping the low whistle in which he was indulging, as he sat on the corner of the table; "you seem to think no the weakest out of several weak places in the boat." "yes, i do," said miller. "then this honourable member," said drysdale, getting off the table, "seeing that his humble efforts are unappreciated, thinks it best for the public service to place his resignation in the hands of your coxswainship." "which my coxswainship is graciously pleased to accept," replied miller. "hurrah for a roomy punt and a soft cushion next racing night--it's almost worth while to have been rowing all this time, to realize the sensations i shall feel when i see you fellows passing the cherwell on tuesday." "_suave est_, it's what i'm partial to, _mari mango_, in the last reach, _terra_, from the towing path, _alterius magnum spectare laborem_, to witness the tortures of you wretched beggars in the boat. i'm obliged to translate for drysdale, who never learned latin," said blake, finishing his tie before the glass. there was an awkward silence. miller was chafing inwardly and running over in his mind what was to be done; and nobody else seemed quite to know what ought to happen next, when the door opened and jervis came in. "congratulate me, my captain," said drysdale; "i'm well out of it at last." jervis "pished and pshaw'd" a little at hearing what had happened, but his presence acted like oil on the waters. the moment the resignation was named, tom's thoughts had turned to hardy. now was the time--he had such confidence in the man, that the idea of getting him in for next race entirely changed the aspect of affairs to him, and made him feel as "bumptious" again as he had done in the morning. so with this idea in his head, he hung about till the captain had made his toilet, and joined himself to him and miller as they walked up. "well, what are we going to do now," said the captain. "that's just what you have to settle," said miller; "you have been up all the term, and know the men's pulling better than i." "i suppose we must press somebody from the torpid--let me see, there's burton." "he rolls like a porpoise," interrupted miller, positively; "impossible." "stewart might do, then." "never kept time for three strokes in his life," said miller. "well, there are no better men," said the captain. "then we may lay our account to stopping where we are, if we don't even lose a place," said miller. "dust unto dust, what must be, must; if you can't get crumb, you'd best eat crust." said the captain. "it's all very well talking coolly now," said miller, "but you'll kill yourself trying to bump, and there are three more nights." "hardy would row if you asked him, i'm sure," said tom. the captain looked at miller, who shook his head. "i don't think it," he said; "i take him to be a shy bird that won't come to everybody's whistle. we might have had him two years ago, i believe--i wish we had." "i always told you so," said jervis; "at any rate let's try him. he can but say no, and i don't think he will for you see he has been at the starting place every night, and as keen as a freshman all the time." "i'm sure he won't," said tom; "i know he would give anything to pull." "you had better go to his rooms and sound him," said the captain; "miller and i will follow in half an hour." we have already heard how tom's mission prospered. the next day, at a few moments before two o'clock, the st. ambrose crew, including hardy, with miller (who was a desperate and indefatigable pedestrian), for leader, crossed magdalen bridge. at five they returned to college, having done a little over fifteen miles fair heal and toe walking in the interval. the afternoon had been very hot, and miller chuckled to the captain, "i don't think there will be much trash left in any of them after that. that fellow hardy is as fine as a race-horse, and, did you see, he never turned a hair all the way." the crew dispersed to their rooms, delighted with the performance now that it was over, and feeling that they were much the better for it, though they all declared it had been harder work than any race they had yet pulled. it would have done a trainer's heart good to have seen them, some twenty minutes afterwards, dropping into hall (where they were allowed to dine on sundays on the joint), fresh from cold baths, and looking ruddy and clear, and hard enough for anything. again on monday, not a chance was lost. the st. ambrose boat started soon after one o'clock for abingdon. they swung steadily down the whole way, and back again to sandford without a single spurt; miller generally standing in the stern and preaching above all things steadiness and time. from sandford up, they were accompanied by half a dozen men or so, who ran up the bank watching them. the struggle for the first place on the river was creating great excitement in the rowing world, and these were some of the most keen connoisseurs, who, having heard that st. ambrose had changed a man, were on the look-out to satisfy themselves as to how it would work. the general opinion was veering round in favor of oriel; changes so late in the races, at such a critical moment, were looked upon as very damaging. foremost amongst the runners on the bank was a wiry, dark man, with a sanguine complexion, who went with a peculiar long, low stride, keeping his keen eye well on the boat. just above kennington island, jervis, noticing this particular spectator for the first time, called on the crew, and, quickening his stroke, took them up the reach at racing pace. as they lay in iffley lock the dark man appeared above them, and exchanged a few words and a great deal of dumb show with the captain and miller, and then disappeared. from iffley up they went steadily again. on the whole miller seemed to be in very good spirits in the dressing room; he thought the boat trimmed better, and went better than she had ever done before, and complimented blake particularly for the ease with which he had changed sides. they all went up in high spirits, calling on their way at "the choughs" for one glass of old ale round, which miller was graciously pleased to allow. tom never remembered till they were out again that hardy had never been there before, and felt embarrassed for a moment, but it soon passed off. a moderate dinner and early to bed finished the day, and miller was justified in his parting remark to the captain, "well, if we don't win, we can comfort ourselves that we hav'n't dropped a stitch this last two days, at any rate." then the eventful day arose which tom, and many others felt was to make or mar st. ambrose. it was a glorious early-summer day, without a cloud, scarcely a breath of air stirring. "we shall have a fair start at any rate," was the general feeling. we have already seen what a throat-drying, nervous business, the morning of a race-day is, and must not go over the same ground more than we can help; so we will imagine the st. ambrose boat down at the starting place, lying close to the towing path, just before the first gun. there is a much greater crowd than usual opposite the two first boats. by this time most of the other boats have found their places, for there is not much chance of anything very exciting down below; so, besides the men of oriel and st. ambrose (who muster to-night of all sorts, the fastest of the fast and the slowest of the slow having been by this time shamed into something like enthusiasm), many of other colleges, whose boats have no chance of bumping or being bumped, flock to the point of attraction. "do you make out what the change is?" says a backer of oriel to his friend in the like predicament. "yes, they've got a no. , don't you see, and, by george, i don't like his looks," answered his friend; "awfully long and strong in the arm, and well ribbed up. a devilish awkward customer. i shall go and try to get a hedge." "pooh," says the other, "did you ever know one man win a race?" "ay, that i have," says his friend, and walks off toward the oriel crowd to take five to four on oriel in half-sovereigns, if he can get it. now their dark friend of yesterday comes up at a trot, and pulls up close to the captain, with whom he is evidently dear friends. he is worth looking at, being coxswain of the o. u. b., the best steerer, runner and swimmer in oxford; amphibious himself and sprung from an amphibious race. his own boat is in no danger, so he has left her to take care of herself. he is on the look-out for recruits for the university crew, and no recruiting sergeant has a sharper eye for the sort of stuff he requires. "what's his name?" he says in a low tone to jervis, giving a jerk with his head towards hardy. "where did you get him?" "hardy," answers the captain, in the same tone; "it's his first night in the boat." "i know that," replies the coxswain; "i never saw him row before yesterday. he's the fellow who sculls in that brown skiff, isn't he?" "yes, and i think he'll do; keep your eye on him." the coxswain nods as if he were somewhat of the same mind, and examines hardy with the eye of a connoisseur, pretty much as the judge at an agricultural show looks at the prize bull. hardy is tightening the strop of his stretcher, and all-unconscious of the compliments which are being paid him. the great authority seems satisfied with his inspection, grins, rubs his hands, and trots off to the oriel boat to make comparisons. just as the first gun is heard, grey sidles nervously to the front of the crowd as if he were doing something very audacious, and draws hardy's attention, exchanging sympathizing nods with him, but saying nothing, for he knows not what to say, and then disappearing again in the crowd. "hallo, drysdale, is that you?" says blake, as they push off from the shore. "i thought you were going to take it easy in a punt." "so i thought," says drysdale, "but i couldn't keep away, and here i am. i shall run up; and mind, if i see you within ten feet, and cock-sure to win, i'll give a view holloa. i'll be bound you shall hear it." "may it come speedily," said blake, and then settled himself in his seat. "eyes in the boat--mind now, steady all, watch the stroke and don't quicken." these are miller's last words; every faculty of himself and the crew being now devoted to getting a good start. this is no difficult matter, as the water is like glass, and the boat lies lightly on it, obeying the slightest dip of the oars of bow and two, who just feel the water twice or thrice in the last minute. then, after a few moments of breathless hush on the bank, the last gun is fired, and they are off. the same scene of mad excitement ensues, only tenfold more intense, as almost the whole interest of the races is tonight concentrated on the two head boats and their fate. at every gate there is a jam, and the weaker vessels are shoved into the ditches, upset and left unnoticed. the most active men, including the o. u. b. coxswain, shun the gates altogether, and take the big ditches in their stride, making for the long bridges, that they may get quietly over these and be safe for the best part of the race. they know that the critical point of the struggle will be near the finish. both boats made a beautiful start, and again as before in the first dash the st. ambrose pace tells, and they gain their boat's length before first winds fail; then they settle down for a long steady effort. both crews are rowing comparatively steady reserving themselves for the tug of war up above. thus they pass the gut, and those two treacherous corners, the scene of countless bumps, into the wider water beyond, up under the willows. miller's face is decidedly hopeful; he shows no sign, indeed, but you can see that he is not the same man as he was at this place in the last race. he feels that to-day the boat is full of life, and that he can call on his crew with hopes of an answer. his well-trained eye also detects that, while both crews are at full stretch, his own, instead of losing, as it did on the last night, is now gaining inch by inch on oriel. the gain is scarcely perceptible to him even; from the bank it is quite imperceptible; but there it is; he is surer and surer of it, as one after another the willows are left behind. and now comes the pinch. the oriel captain is beginning to be conscious of the fact which has been dawning on miller, but will not acknowledge it to himself, and as his coxswain turns the boat's head gently across the stream, and makes for the berkshire side and the goal, now full in view, he smiles grimly as he quickens his stroke; he will shake off these light heeled gentry yet, as he did before. miller sees the move in a moment, and signals his captain, and the next stroke st. ambrose has quickened also; and now there is no mistake about it, st. ambrose is creeping up slowly but surely. the boat's length lessens to forty feet, thirty feet; surely and steadily lessens. but the race is not lost yet; thirty feet is a short space enough to look at on the water, but a good bit to pick up foot by foot in the last two or three hundred yards of a desperate struggle. they are over, under the berkshire side now and there stands up the winning-post, close ahead, all but won. the distance lessens, and lessens still, but the oriel crew stick steadily and gallantly to their work, and will fight every inch of distance to the last. the oriel men on the bank who are rushing along sometimes in the water, sometimes out, hoarse, furious, madly alternating between hope and despair, have no reason to be ashamed of a man in the crew. off the mouth of the cherwell there is still twenty feet between them. another minute and it will be over one way or another. every man in both crews is now doing his best, and no mistake; tell me which boat holds the most men who can do better than their best at a pinch, who will risk a broken blood-vessel, and i will tell you how it will end. "hard pounding, gentlemen; let's see who will pound longest," the duke is reported to have said at waterloo, and won. "now, tommy, lad, 'tis thou or i," big ben said as he came up to the last round of his hardest fight, and won. is there a man of that temper in either crew tonight? if so, now's his time. for both coxswains have called on their men for the last effort; miller is whirling the tassel of his right-hand tiller rope round his head, like a wiry little lunatic; from the towing path, from christchurch meadow, from the row of punts, from the clustered tops of the barges, comes a roar of encouragement and applause, and the band, unable to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash into the "jolly young watermen," playing two bars to the second. a bump in the gut is nothing--a few partisans on the towing-path to cheer you, already out of breath; but up here at the very finish, with all oxford looking on, when the prize is the headship of the river--once in a generation only do men get such a chance. who ever saw jervis not up to his work? the st. ambrose stroke is glorious. tom had an atom of go still left in the very back of his head, and at this moment he heard drysdale's view holloa above all the din; it seemed to give him a lift, and other men besides in the boat, for in another six strokes the gap is lessened and st. ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and now to five from the stern of oriel. weeks afterwards hardy confided to tom that when he heard that view holloa he seemed to feel the muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and did more work in the last twenty strokes than in any other forty in the earlier part of the race. another fifty yards and oriel is safe, but the look on the captain's face is so ominous that their coxswain glances over his shoulder. the bow of st. ambrose is within two feet of their rudder. it is a moment for desperate expedients. he pulls his left tiller rope suddenly, thereby carrying the stern of his own boat out of the line of the st. ambrose, and calls on his crew once more; they respond gallantly yet, but the rudder is against them for a moment, and the boat drags. st. ambrose overlaps. "a bump, a bump," shout the st. ambrosians on shore. "row on, row on," screams miller. he has not yet felt the electric shock, and knows he will miss his bump if the young ones slacken for a moment. a young coxswain would have gone on making shots at the stern of the oriel boat, and so have lost. a bump now and no mistake; the bow of the st. ambrose boat jams the oar of the oriel stroke, and the two boats pass the winning-post with the way that was on them when the bump was made. so near a shave was it. who can describe the scene on the bank? it was a hurly-burly of delirious joy, in the midst of which took place a terrific combat between jack and the oriel dog--a noble black bull terrier belonging to the college in general, and no one in particular--who always attended the races and felt the misfortune keenly. luckily they were parted without worse things happening; for though the oriel men were savage, and not disinclined for a jostle, the milk of human kindness was too strong for the moment in their adversaries. so jack was choked off with some trouble, and the oriel men extricated themselves from the crowd, carrying off crib, their dog, and looking straight before them into vacancy. "well rowed, boys," says jervis, turning round to his crew as they lay panting on their oars. "well rowed; five," says miller, who even in the hour of such a triumph is not inclined to be general in laudation. "well rowed, five," is echoed from the bank; it is that cunning man, the recruiting-sergeant. "_fatally_ well rowed," he adds to a comrade, with whom he gets into one of the punts to cross to christchurch meadow; "we must have him in the university crew." "i don't think you'll get him to row, from what i hear," answers the other. "then he must he handcuffed and carried into the boat by force," says the o. u. b. coxswain; "why is not the press-gang an institution in this university?" chapter xv--a storm brews and breaks certainly drysdale's character came out well that night. he did not seem the least jealous of the success which had been achieved through his dismissal. on the contrary, there was no man in the college who showed more interest in the race, or joy at the result, then he. perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself may have reckoned for something with him. in any case, there he was at the door with jack, to meet the crew as they landed after the race, with a large pewter, foaming with shandygaff, in each hand, for their recreation. draco himself could not have forbidden them to drink at that moment; so, amidst shaking of hands and clapping on the back, the pewters travelled round from stroke to bow, and then the crew went off to their dressing-room, accompanied by drysdale and others. "bravo! it was the finest race that has been seen on the river this six years; everybody says so. you fellows have deserved well of your country. i've sent up to college to have supper in my room, and you must all come. hang training! there are only two more nights, and you're safe to keep your place. what do you say captain? eh, miller? now be good-natured for once." "well, we don't get head of the river every night," said miller. "i don't object if you'll all turn out and go to bed at eleven." "that's all right," said drysdale; "and now let's go to the old 'choughs' and have a glass of ale while supper is getting ready. eh, brown?" and he hooked his arm into tom's and led the way into the town. "i'm so sorry you were not in it for the finish," said tom, who was quite touched by his friend's good-humour. "are you?" said drysdale; "it's more than i am, then, i can tell you. if you could have seen yourself under the willows, you wouldn't have thought yourself much of an object of envy. jack and i were quite satisfied with our share of work and glory on the bank. weren't we, old fellow?" at which salutation jack reared himself on his hind legs and licked his master's hand. "well, you're a real good fellow for taking it as you do. i don't think i could have come near the river if i had been you." "i take everything as it comes," said drysdale. "the next race is on derby day, and i couldn't have gone if i hadn't been turned out of the boat; that's a compensation, you see. here we are. i wonder if miss patty has heard of the victory?" they turned down the little passage entrance of "the choughs" as he spoke, followed by most of the crew, and by a tail of younger st. ambrosians, their admirers, and the bar was crowded the next moment. patty was there, of course, and her services were in great requisition; for though each of the crew only took a small glass of the old ale, they made as much fuss about it with the pretty barmaid as if they were drinking hogsheads. in fact, it had become clearly the correct thing with the st. ambrosians to make much of patty; and, considering the circumstances, it was only a wonder that she was not more spoiled than seemed to be the case. indeed, as hardy stood up in the corner opposite to the landlady's chair, a silent onlooker at the scene, he couldn't help admitting to himself that the girl held her own well, without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman. and it was a hard thing for him to be fair to her, for what he saw now in a few minutes confirmed the impression which his former visit had left on his mind--that his friend was safe in her toils; how deeply, of course he could not judge, but that there was more between them than he could approve was now clear enough to him, and he stood silent, leaning against the wall in that farthest corner, in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much distressed in mind, and pondering over what it behove him to do under the circumstances. with the exception of a civil sentence or two to the old landlady who sat opposite him knitting, and casting rather uneasy looks from time to time towards the front of the bar, he spoke to no one. in fact, nobody came near that end of the room, and their existence seemed to have been forgotten by the rest. tom had been a little uncomfortable for the first minute; but after seeing hardy take his glass of ale, and then missing him, he forgot all about him, and was too busy with his own affairs to trouble himself further. he had become a sort of drawer, or barman, at "the cloughs," and presided, under patty, over the distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his chief to see that she was not put upon. drysdale and jack left after a short stay, to see that the supper was being properly prepared. soon afterwards patty went off out of the bar in answer to some bell which called her to another part of the house; and the st. ambrosians voted that it was time to go off to college to supper, and cleared out into the street. tom went out with the last batch of them, but lingered a moment in the passage outside. he knew the house and its ways well enough by this time. the next moment patty appeared from a side door, which led to another part of the house. "so you're not going to stay and play a game with aunt," she said; "what makes you in such a hurry?" "i must go up to college; there's a supper to celebrate our getting head of the river." patty looked down and pouted a little. tom took her hand, and said sentimentally, "don't be cross, now; you know that i would sooner stay here, don't you?" she tossed her head, and pulled away her hand, and then changing the subject, said, "who's that ugly old fellow who was here again to-night?" "there was no one older than miller, and he is rather an admirer of yours. i shall tell him you called him ugly." "oh, i don't mean mr. miller; you know that well enough," she answered. "i mean him in the old rough coat, who don't talk to anyone." "ugly old fellow, patty? why, you mean hardy. he's a great friend of mine, and you must like him for my sake." "i'm sure i won't. i don't like him a bit; he looks so cross at me." "it's all your fancy. there now, good-night." "you shan't go, however, till you've given me that handkerchief. you promised it me if you got head of the river." "oh! you little story-teller. why, they are my college colors. i wouldn't part with them for worlds. i'll give you a lock of my hair, and the prettiest handkerchief you can find in oxford; but not this." "but i _will_ have it and you _did_ promise me it," she said, and put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of tom's neck-handkerchief. he caught her wrists in his hands, and looked down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his going, he saw other things which stirred in him strange feelings of triumph and tenderness. "well, then you shall pay for it, anyhow," he said.--why, need i tell what followed?--there was a little struggle; a "go along, do, mr. brown;" and the next minute tom minus his handkerchief, was hurrying after his companions; and patty was watching him from the door, and setting her cap to rights. then she turned and went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her aunt. he finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then passed out wishing them "good-night." "why aunt" she said, "i thought they were all gone. who was that sour-looking man?" "he seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear," said the old lady, looking up. "i'm sure he's much better than those ones as make so much racket in the bar. but where have you been, patty?" "oh, to the commercial room, aunt. won't you have a game at cribbage?" and patty took up the cards and set the board out, the old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her spectacles. she was beginning to wish that the college gentlemen wouldn't come so much to the house, though they were very good customers. tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after his comrades, and caught them up before they got to college. they were all there but hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a moment; he had hoped that hardy, now that he was in the boat, would have shaken off all his reserve towards the other men, and blamed him because he had not done so at once. there could be no reason for it but his own oddness he thought, for everyone was full of his praises as they strolled on talking of the race. miller praised his style, and time, and pluck. "didn't you feel how the boat sprung when i called on you at the cherwell?" he said to the captain. "drysdale was always dead beat at the gut, and just like a log in the boat, pretty much like some of the rest of you." "he's in such good training, too," said diogenes; "i shall find out how he diets himself." "we've pretty well done with that, i should hope," said no. . "there are only two more nights, and nothing can touch us now." "don't be too sure of that," said miller. "mind now, all of you, don't let us have any nonsense till the races are over and we are all safe." and so they talked on till they reached college, and then dispersed to their rooms to wash and dress and met again in drysdale's rooms, where supper was awaiting them. again hardy did not appear. drysdale sent a scout to his rooms, who brought back word that he could not find him; so drysdale set to work to do the honors of his table and enjoyed the pleasure of tempting the crew with all sorts of forbidden hot liquors, which he and the rest of the non professionals imbibed freely. but with miller's eye on them, and the example of diogenes and the captain before them, the rest of the crew exercised an abstemiousness which would have been admirable, had it not been in a great measure compulsory. it was a great success, this supper at drysdale's, although knocked up at an hour's notice. the triumph of their boat, had, for the time, the effect of warming up and drawing out the feeling of fellowship, which is the soul of college life. though only a few men besides the crew sat down to supper, long before it was cleared away men of every set in the college came in, in the highest spirits, and the room was crowded. for drysdale sent round to every man in the college with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and they flocked in and sat where they could, and men talked and laughed with neighbors, with whom, perhaps, they had never exchanged a word since the time when they were freshmen together. of course there were speeches, cheered to the echo, and songs, of which the choruses might have been heard in the high-street. at a little before eleven, nevertheless, despite the protestations of drysdale, and the passive resistance of several of their number, miller carried off the crew, and many of the other guests went at the same time, leaving their host and a small circle to make a night of it. tom went to his room in high spirits, humming the air of one of the songs he had just heard; but he had scarcely thrown his gown on a chair when a thought struck him, and he ran down stairs again and across to hardy's rooms. hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but untasted, before him, and no books open--a very unusual thing with him at night. but tom either did not or would not notice that there was anything unusual. he seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he could, without looking much at the other. he began by recounting all the complimentary things which had been said by miller and others of hardy's pulling. then he went on to the supper party; what a jolly evening they had had; he did not remember anything so pleasant since he had been up, and he retailed the speeches, and named the best songs. "you really ought to have been there. why didn't you come? drysdale sent over for you. i'm sure every one wished you had been there. didn't you get his message?" "i didn't feel up to going," said hardy. "there's nothing the matter, eh?" said tom, as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps hardy had hurt himself in the race, as he had not been regularly training. "no, nothing," answered the other. tom tried to make play again, but soon came to an end of his talk. it was impossible to make head against that cold silence. at last he stopped, looked at hardy for a minute, who was staring abstractedly at the sword over his mantel-piece, and then said,-- "there _is_ something the matter, though. don't sit glowering as if you had swallowed a furze bush. why you haven't been smoking, old boy?" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the others shoulder. "i see that's it. here, take one of my weeds, they're mild. miller allows two of these a day." "no, thank'ee," said hardy, rousing himself; "miller hasn't interfered with my smoking, and i _will_ have a pipe, for i think i want it." "well, i don't see that it does you any good," said tom, after watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without saying a word. "here, i've managed the one thing i had at heart. you are in the crew, and we are head of the river, and everybody is praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying that the bump was all your doing. and here i come to tell you, and not a word can i get out of you. ain't you pleased? do you think we shall keep our place?" he paused a moment. "hang it all, i say," he added, losing all patience; "swear a little if you can't do anything else. let's hear your voice; it isn't such a tender one that you need keep it all shut up." "well," said hardy, making a great effort; "the real fact is i _have_ something, and something very serious to say to you." "then i'm not going to listen to it," broke in tom; "i'm not serious, and i won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious to-night. it's no use, so don't look glum. but isn't the ale at 'the choughs' good? and isn't it a dear little place?" "it's that place i want to talk to you about," said hardy, turning his chair suddenly so as to front his visitor. "now, brown, we haven't known one another long, but i think i understand you, and i know i like you, and i hope you like me." "well, well, well," broke in tom, "of course i like you, old fellow, or else i shouldn't come poking after you, and wasting so much of your time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in the middle of the races. what has liking to do with 'the choughs,' or 'the choughs' with long faces? you ought to have had another glass of ale there." "i wish you had never had a glass of ale there," said hardy, bolting out his words as if they were red hot. "brown you have no right to go to that place." "why?" said tom, sitting up in his chair and beginning to be nettled. "you know why," said hardy, looking him full in the face, and puffing out huge volumes of smoke. in spite of the bluntness of the attack, there was a yearning look which spread over the rugged brow, and shone out of the deep set eyes of the speaker, which almost conquered tom. but first pride, and then the consciousness of what was coming next, which began to dawn on him, rose in his heart. it was all he could do to meet that look full, but he managed it, though he flushed to the roots of his hair, as he simply repeated through his set teeth, "why?" "i say again," said hardy, "you know why." "i see what you mean," said tom, slowly; "as you say, we have not known one another long; long enough, though, i should have thought, for you to have been more charitable. why am i not to go to 'the cloughs'? because there happens to be a pretty bar maid there? all our crew go, and twenty other men besides." "yes; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do? does she look at anyone of them as she does at you?" "how do i know?" "that's not fair, or true, or like you, brown," said hardy, getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room. "you _do_ know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go there. you _do_ know that she is beginning to care for you." "you seem to know a great deal about it," said tom; "i don't believe you were ever there before two days ago." "no, i never was." "then i think you needn't be quite so quick at finding fault. if there were anything i didn't wish you to see, do you think i should have taken you there? i tell you she is quite able to take care of herself." "so i believe," said hardy; "if she were a mere giddy, light girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't matter so much--for her at any rate. she can take care of herself well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it isn't so with you. you know it now, brown; tell the truth; anyone with half an eye can see it." "you seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two nights, anyhow," said tom. "i don't mind your sneers, brown," said hardy as he tramped up and down with his arms locked behind him; "i have taken on myself to speak to you about this; i should be no true friend if i shirked it. i'm four years older than you, and have seen more of the world and of this place than you. you sha'n't go on with this folly, this sin, for want of warning." "so it seems," said tom doggedly. "now i think i've had warning enough; suppose we drop the subject." hardy stopped his walk, and turned on tom with a look of anger. "not yet," he said, firmly; "you know best how and why you have done it, but you know that somehow or other you have made that girl like you." "suppose i have, what then; whose business is that but mine and hers?" "it's the business of everyone who won't stand by and see the devil's game played under his nose if he can hinder it." "what right have you to talk about the devil's game to me?" said tom. "i'll tell you what; if you and i are to keep friends we had better drop this subject." "if we are to keep friends we must go to the bottom of it. there are only two endings to this sort of business and you know it as well as i." "a right and wrong one, eh? and because you call me your friend you assume that my end will be the wrong one." "i do call you my friend, and i say the end must be the wrong one here. there's no right end. think of your family. you don't mean to say--you dare not tell me, that you will marry her?" "i _dare_ not tell you!" said tom, starting up in his turn; "i dare tell you or any man anything i please. but i won't tell you or any man anything on compulsion." "i repeat," went on hardy, "you _dare_ not say you mean to marry her. you don't mean it--and, as you don't, to kiss her as you did to-night--" "so you were sneaking behind to watch me!" burst out tom, chafing with rage, and glad to find any handle for a quarrel. the two men stood fronting one another, the younger writhing with the sense of shame and outraged pride, and longing for a fierce answer--a blow--anything, to give vent to the furies which were tearing him. but at the end of a few seconds the elder answered, calmly and slowly,-- "i will not take those words from any man; you had better leave my rooms." "if i do, i shall not come back till you have altered your opinions." "you need not come back till you have altered yours." the next moment tom was in the passage; the next, striding up and down the side of the inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight. poor fellow! it was no pleasant walking ground for him. is it worth our while to follow him up and down in his tramp? we have most of us walked the like marches at one time or another of our lives. the memory of them is by no means one which we can dwell on with pleasure. times they were of blinding and driving storm, and howling winds, out of which voices as of evil spirits spoke close in our ears--tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the mischievous wild beast which lurks in the bottom of all our hearts, now, "rouse up! art thou a man and darest not do this thing?" now, "rise, kill and eat--it is thine, wilt thou not take it? shall the flimsy scruples of this teacher, or the sanctified cant of that, bar thy way, and balk thee of thine own? thou hast strength to brave them--to brave all things in earth, or heaven, or hell; put out thy strength and be a man!" then did not the wild beast within us shake itself, and feel its power, sweeping away all the "thou shalt not's" which the law wrote up before us in letters of fire, with the "_i will_" of hardy, godless, self-assertion? and all the while--which alone made the storm really dreadful to us--was there not the still small voice--never to be altogether silenced by the roarings of the tempest of passion, by the evil voices, by our own violent attempts to stifle it--the still small voice appealing to the man, the true man, within us, which is made in the image of god--calling on him to assert his dominion over the wild beast--to obey, and conquer, and live? ay! and though we may have followed the other voices, have we not, while following them, confessed in our hearts, that all true strength, and nobleness, and manliness, was to be found in the other path? do i say that most of us have had to tread this path, and fight this battle? surely i might have said all of us; all, at least, who have passed the bright days of their boyhood. the clear and keen intellect no less than the dull and heavy; the weak, the cold, the nervous, no less than the strong and passionate of body. the arms and the field have been divers; can have been the same, i suppose, to no two men, but the battle must have been the same to all. one here and there may have had a foretaste of it as a boy; but it is the young man's battle, and not the boy's, thank god for it! that most hateful and fearful of all realities, call it by what name we will--self, the natural man, the old adam--must have risen up before each of us in early manhood, if not sooner, challenging the true man within us to which the spirit of god is speaking, to a struggle for life or death. gird yourself, then, for the fight, my young brother, and take up the pledge which was made for you when you were a helpless child. this world, and all others, time and eternity, for you hang upon the issue. this enemy must be met and vanquished--not finally, for no man while on earth i suppose, can say that he is slain; but, when once known and recognized, met and vanquished he must be, by god's help in this and that encounter, before you can be truly called a man; before you can really enjoy any one even of this world's good things. this strife was no light one for our hero on the night in his life at which we have arrived. the quiet sky overhead, the quiet solemn old buildings, under the shadow of which he stood, brought him no peace. he fled from them into his own rooms; he lighted his candles and tried to read, and force the whole matter from his thoughts; but it was useless; back it came again and again. the more impatient of its presence he became, the less could he shake it off. some decision he must make; what should it be? he could have no peace till it was taken. the veil had been drawn aside thoroughly, and once for all. twice he was on the point of returning to hardy's rooms to thank him, confess, and consult; but the tide rolled back again. as the truth of the warning sank deeper and deeper into him, the irritation against him who had uttered it grew also. he could not and would not be fair yet. it is no easy thing for anyone of us to put the whole burden of any folly or sin on our own backs all at once. "if he had done it in any other way," thought tom, "i might have thanked him." another effort to shake off the whole question. down into the quadrangle again; lights in drysdale's rooms. he goes up, and finds the remains of the supper, tankards full of egg-flip and cardinal, and a party playing at _vingt-un_. he drinks freely, careless of training or boat-racing, anxious only to drown thought. he sits down to play. the boisterous talk of some, the eager keen looks of others, jar on him equally. one minute he is absent, the next boisterous, then irritable, then moody. a college card-party is no place to-night for him. he loses his money, is disgusted at last, and gets to his own rooms by midnight; goes to bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with all the world. the inexorable question pursues him even into the strange helpless land of dreams, demanding a decision, when he has no longer power of will to choose either good or evil. but how fared it all this time with the physician? alas! little better than with his patient. his was the deeper and more sensitive nature. keenly conscious of his own position, he had always avoided any but the most formal intercourse with the men in his college whom he would have liked most to live with. this was the first friendship he had made amongst them, and he valued it accordingly; and now it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless fragments, and cast down too by his own hand. bitterly he blamed himself over and over again, as he recalled every word that had passed--not for having spoken--that he felt had been a sacred duty--but for the harshness and suddenness with which he seemed to himself to have done it. "one touch of gentleness or sympathy, and i might have won him. as it was, how could he have met me otherwise than he did--hard word for hard word, hasty answer for proud reproof? can i go to him and recall it all? no! i can't trust myself; i shall only make matters worse. besides, he may think that the servitor--ah! am i there again? the old sore, self, self, self! i nurse my own pride; i value it more than my friend; and yet--no, no! i cannot go, though i think i could die for him. the sin, if sin there must be, be on my head. would to god i could bear the sting of it! but there will be none--how can i fear? he is too true, too manly. rough and brutal as my words have been, they have shown him the gulf. he will, he must escape it. but will he ever come back to me? i care not, so he escape." how can my poor words follow the strong loving man in the wrestlings of his spirit, till far on in the quiet night he laid the whole before the lord and slept! yes, my brother, even so: the old, old story; but start not at the phrase, though you may never have found its meaning--he laid the whole before the lord in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the whole world. and you, too, if ever you are tried as he was--as every man must be in one way or another--must learn to do the like with every burthen on your soul, if you would not have it hanging round you heavily, and ever more heavily, and dragging you down lower and lower till your dying day. chapter xvi--the storm rages hardy was early in the chapel the next morning. it was his week for pricking in. every man who entered--from the early men who strolled in quietly while the bell was still ringing, to the hurrying, half-dressed loiterers who crushed in as the porter was closing the doors, and disturbed the congregation in the middle of the confession--gave him a turn (as the expressive phrase is), and every turn only ended in disappointment. he put by his list at last, when the doors were fairly shut, with a sigh. he had half expected to see tom come into morning chapel with a face from which he might have gathered hope that his friend had taken the right path. but tom did not come at all, and hardy felt it was a bad sign. they did not meet till the evening, at the river, when the boat went down for a steady pull, and then hardy saw at once that all was going wrong. neither spoke to or looked at the other. hardy expected some one to remark it, but nobody did. after the pull they walked up, and tom as usual led the way, as if nothing had happened, into "the choughs." hardy paused for a moment, and then went in too, and stayed till the rest of the crew left. tom deliberately stayed after them all. hardy turned for a moment as he was leaving the bar, and saw him settling himself down in his chair with an air of defiance, meant evidently for him, which would have made most men angry. he was irritated for a moment, and then was filled with ruth for the poor wrong-headed youngster who was heaping up coals of fire for his own head. in his momentary anger hardy said to himself, "well, i have done what i can; now he must go his own way;" but such a thought was soon kicked in disgrace from his noble and well-disciplined mind. he resolved, that, let it cost what it might in the shape of loss of time and trial of temper, he would leave no stone unturned, and spare no pains, to deliver his friend of yesterday from the slough into which he was plunging. how he might best work for this end occupied his thoughts as he walked towards college. tom sat on at "the choughs," glorifying himself in the thought that now, at any rate, he had shown hardy that he wasn't to be dragooned into doing or not doing anything. he had had a bad time of it all day, and his good angel had fought hard for victory; but self-will was too strong for the time. when he stayed behind the rest, it was more out of bravado than from any defined purpose of pursuing what he tried to persuade himself was an innocent flirtation. when he left the house some hours after he was deeper in the toils than ever, and dark clouds were gathering over his heart. from that time he was an altered man, and altering as rapidly for the worse in body as in mind. hardy saw the change in both, and groaned over it in secret. miller's quick eye detected the bodily change. after the next race he drew tom aside, and said,-- "why, brown, what's the matter? what have you been about? you're breaking down. hold on, man; there's only one more night." "never fear," said tom, proudly, "i shall last it out." and in the last race he did his work again, though it cost him more than all the preceding ones put together, and when he got out of the boat he could scarcely walk or see. he felt a fierce kind of joy in his own distress, and wished that there were more races to come. but miller, as he walked up arm-in-arm with the captain, took a different view of the subject. "well, it's all right, you see," said the captain; "but we're not a boat's length better than oriel over the course after all. how was it we bumped them? if anything, they drew a-little on us to-night." "ay, half a boat's length, i should say," answered miller. "i'm uncommonly glad it's over; brown is going all to pieces; he wouldn't stand another race, and we haven't a man to put in his place." "it's odd, too," said the captain; "i put him down as a laster, and he has trained well. perhaps he has overdone it a little. however, it don't matter now." so the races were over; and that night a great supper was held in st. ambrose hall, to which were bidden, and came, the crews of all the boats from exeter upwards. the dean, with many misgivings and cautions, had allowed the hall to be used, on pressure from miller and jervis. miller was a bachelor and had taken a good degree, and jervis bore a high character and was expected to do well in the schools. so the poor dean gave in to them, extracting many promises in exchange for his permission, and flitted uneasily about all the evening in his cap and gown, instead of working on at his edition of the fathers, which occupied every minute of his leisure, and was making an old man of him before his time. from eight to eleven the fine old pointed windows of st. ambrose hall blazed with light, and the choruses of songs, and the cheers which followed the short intervals of silence which the speeches made, rang out over the quadrangles, and made the poor dean amble about in a state of nervous bewilderment. inside there was hearty feasting, such as had not been seen there, for aught i know, since the day when the king came back to "enjoy his own again." the one old cup, relic of the middle ages, which had survived the civil wars,--st. ambrose's had been a right loyal college, and the plate had gone without a murmur into charles the first's war-chest,--went round and round; and rival crews pledged one another out of it, and the massive tankards of a later day, in all good faith and good fellowship. mailed knights, grave bishops, royal persons of either sex, and "other our benefactors," looked down on the scene from their heavy gilded frames, and, let us hope, not unkindly. all passed off well and quietly; the out-college men were gone, the lights were out, and the butler had locked the hall door by a quarter past eleven, and the dean returned in peace to his own rooms. had tom been told a week before that he would not have enjoyed that night, that it would not have been amongst the happiest and proudest of his life, he would have set his informer down as a madman. as it was, he never once rose to the spirit of the feast, and wished it all over a dozen times. he deserved not to enjoy it; but not so hardy, who was nevertheless almost as much out of tune as tom; though the university coxswain had singled him out, named him in his speech, sat by him and talked to him for a quarter of an hour, and asked him to go to the henley and thames regattas in the oxford crew. the next evening, as usual, tom found himself at "the choughs" with half a dozen others. patty was in the bar by herself, looking prettier than ever. one by one the rest of the men dropped off, the last saying, "are you coming, brown?" and being answered in the negative. he sat still, watching patty as she flitted about, washing up the ale glasses and putting them on their shelves, and getting out her work basket; and then she came and sat down in her aunt's chair opposite him, and began stitching away demurely at an apron she was making. then he broke silence,-- "where's your aunt to-night, patty?" "oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a visit to some friends." "you and i will keep house, then, together; you shall teach me all the tricks of the trade. i shall make a famous barman, don't you think?" "you must learn to behave better, then. but i promised aunt to shut up at nine; so you must go when it strikes. now promise me you will go." "go at nine! what, in half an hour? the first evening i have ever had a chance of spending alone with you; do you think it likely?" and he looked into her eyes. she turned away with a slight shiver, and a deep blush. his nervous system had been so unusually excited in the last few days, that he seemed to know everything that was passing in her mind. he took her hand. "why, patty, you're not afraid of me, surely?" he said, gently. "no, not when you're like you are now. but you frightened me just this minute. i never saw you look so before. has anything happened to you?" "no, nothing. now then, we're going to have a jolly evening, and play darby and joan together," he said, turning away, and going to the bar window; "shall i shut up, patty?" "no, it isn't nine yet; somebody may come in." "that's just why i mean to put the shutters up; i don't want anybody." "yes, but i do, though. now i declare, mr. brown, if you go on shutting up, i'll run into the kitchen and sit with dick." "why will you call me 'mr. brown'?" "why, what should i call you?" "tom, of course." "oh, i never! one would think you was my brother," said patty, looking up with a pretty pertness which she had a most bewitching way of putting on. tom's rejoinder, and the little squabble which they had afterward about where her work-table should stand, and other such matters, may be passed over. at last he was brought to reason, and to anchor opposite his enchantress, the work-table between them; and he sat leaning back in his chair and watching her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. he was in no hurry to break the silence. the position was particularly fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being interrupted. at last he roused himself. "any of our men been here to-day, patty?" he said, sitting up. "there now, i've won," she laughed; "i said to myself i wouldn't speak first, and i haven't. what a time you were. i thought you would never begin." "you're a little goose! now i begin then; who've been here to-day?" "of your college? let me see;" and she looked away across to the bar window, pricking her needle into the table. "there was mr. drysdale and some others called for a glass of ale as they passed, going out driving. then there was mr. smith and them from the boats about four, and that ugly one--i can't mind his name--" "what, hardy?" "yes, that's it; he was here about half-past six, and--" "what, hardy here after hall?" interrupted tom, utterly astonished. "yes, after your dinner up at college. he's been here two or three times lately." "the deuce he has!" "yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too. i'm sure he is a very nice gentleman, after all. he sat and talked tonight for half an hour, i should think." "what did he talk about?" said tom, with a sneer. "oh, he asked me whether i had a mother, and where i came from, and all about my bringing up, and made me feel quite pleasant. he is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like most of you. i'm going to like him very much, as you told me." "i don't tell you so now." "but you did say he was your great friend." "well, he isn't that now." "what, have you quarreled?" "yes." "dear; dear; how odd you gentlemen are!" "why, it isn't a very odd thing for men to quarrel, is it?" "no, not in the public room. they're always quarreling there, over their drink and the bagatelle-board; and dick has to turn them out. but gentlemen ought to know better." "they don't, you see, patty." "but what did you quarrel about?" "guess." "how can i guess? what was it about?" "about you." "about me!" she said, looking up from her work in wonder. "how could you quarrel about me?" "well, i'll tell you; he said i had no right to come here. you won't like him after that, will you patty?" "i don't know, i'm sure," said patty, going on with her work, and looking troubled. they sat still for some minutes. evil thoughts crowded into tom's head. he was in the humor for thinking evil thoughts, and, putting the worst construction on hardy's visits, fancied he came there as his rival. he did not trust himself to speak till he had mastered his precious discovery, and put it away in the back of his heart, and weighed it down there with a good covering of hatred and revenge, to be brought out as occasion should serve. he was plunging down rapidly enough now; but he had new motives for making the most of his time, and never played his cards better or made more progress. when a man sits down to such a game, the devil will take good care he sha'n't want cunning or strength. it was ten o'clock instead of nine before he left, which he did with a feeling of triumph. poor patty remained behind, and shut up the bar, her heart in a flutter, and her hands shaking, while dick was locking the front door. she hardly knew whether to laugh or cry; she felt the change which had come over him, and was half fascinated and half repelled by it. tom walked quickly back to college, in a mood which i do not care to describe. the only one of his thoughts which my readers need be troubled with, put itself into some such words as these in his head:--"so, it's abingdon fair next thursday, and she has half-promised to go with me. i know i can make it certain. who'll be going besides? drysdale, i'll be bound. i'll go and see him." on entering college he went straight to drysdale's rooms, and drank deeply, and played high into the short hours of the night, but found no opportunity of speaking. deeper and deeper yet for the next few days, downwards and ever faster downwards he plunged, the light getting fainter and ever fainter above his head. little good can come of dwelling on those days. he left off pulling, shunned his old friends, and lived with the very worst men he knew in college, who were ready enough to let him share all their brutal orgies. drysdale, who was often present, wondered at the change, which he saw plainly enough. he was sorry for it in his way, but it was no business of his. he began to think that brown was a good enough fellow before, but would make a devilish disagreeable one if he was going to turn fast man. at "the choughs" all went on as if the downward path knew how to make itself smooth. now that the races were over, and so many other attractions were going on in oxford, very few men came in to interfere with him. he was scarcely ever away from patty's side, in the evenings while her aunt was absent, and gained more and more power over her. he might have had some compassion, but that he was spurred on by hearing how hardy haunted the place now, at times when he could not be there. he felt that there was an influence struggling with his in the girl's mind; he laid it to hardy's door, and imputed it still more and more to motives as base as his own. but abingdon fair was coming on thursday. when he left "the choughs" on tuesday night, he had extracted a promise from patty to accompany him there, and had arranged their place of meeting. all that remained to be done was to see if drysdale was going. somehow he felt a disinclination to go alone with patty. drysdale was the only man of those he was now living with to whom he felt the least attraction. in a vague way he clung to him; and though he never faced the thought of what he was about fairly, yet it passed through his mind that even in drysdale's company he would be safer than if alone. it was all pitiless, blind, wild work, without rudder or compass; the wish that nothing very bad might come out of it all, however, came up in spite of him now and again, and he looked to drysdale, and longed to become even as he. drysdale was going. he was very reserved on the subject, but at last confessed that he was not going alone. tom persisted. drysdale was too lazy and careless to keep anything from a man who was bent on knowing it. in the end it was arranged that he should drive tom out the next afternoon. he did so. they stopped at a small public house some two miles out of oxford. the cart was put up, and after carefully scanning the neighborhood they walked quickly to the door of a pretty retired cottage. as they entered, drysdale said, "by jove, i thought i caught a glimpse of your friend hardy at that turn." "friend! he's no friend of mine." "but didn't you see him?" "no." they reached college again between ten and eleven, and parted, each to his own rooms. to his surprise, tom found a candle burning on his table. round the candle was tied a piece of string, at the end of which hung a note. who ever had put it there had clearly been anxious that he should in no case miss it when he came in. he took it up and saw that it was in hardy's hand. he paused, and trembled as he stood. then with an effort he broke the seal and read:-- "i must speak once more. to-morrow it may be too late. if you go to abingdon fair with her in the company of drysdale and his mistress, or, i believe, in any company, you will return a scoundrel, and she--; in the name of the honor of your mother and sister, in the name of god, i warn you. may he help you through it. "john hardy." here we will drop the curtain for the next hour. at the end of that time, tom staggered out of his room, down the staircase, across the quadrangle, up drysdale's staircase. he paused at the door to gather some strength, ran his hands through his hair, and arranged his coat; notwithstanding, when he entered, drysdale started to his feet, upsetting jack from his comfortable coil on the sofa. "why, brown, you're ill; have some brandy," he said, and went to his cupboard for the bottle. tom leant his arm on the fireplace; his head on it. the other hung down by his side, and jack licked it, and he loved the dog as he felt the caress. then drysdale came to his side with a glass of brandy, which he took and tossed off as though it had been water. "thank you," he said, and as drysdale went back with the bottle, reached a large armchair and sat down in it. "drysdale, i sha'n't go with you to abingdon fair to-morrow." "hullo! what, has the lovely patty thrown you over?" said drysdale, turning from the cupboard, and resuming his lounge on the sofa. "no." he sank back into the chair, on the arms of which his elbows rested, and put his hands up before his face, pressing them against his burning temples. drysdale looked at him hard, but said nothing; and there was a dead silence of a minute or so, broken only by tom's heavy breathing, which he labored in vain to control. "no," he repeated at last, and the remaining words came out slowly as they were trying to steady themselves, "but, by god, drysdale i _can't_ take her with you, and that--" a dead pause. "the young lady you met to-night, eh?" tom nodded, but said nothing. "well, old fellow," said drysdale, "now you've made up your mind, i tell you, i'm devilish glad of it. i'm no saint, as you know, but i think it would have been a d--d shame if you had taken her with us." "thank you," said tom, and pressed his fingers tighter on his forehead; and he did feel thankful for the words, though coming from such a man, they went into him like coals of fire. again there was a long pause, tom sitting as before. drysdale got up and strolled up and down his room, with his hands in the pockets of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each turn a steady look at the other. presently he stopped, and took his cigar out of his mouth. "i say, brown," he said, after another minute's contemplation of the figure before him, which bore such an unmistakable impress of wretchedness, that it made him quite uncomfortable, "why don't you cut that concern?" "how do you mean?" said tom. "why that 'choughs' business--i'll be hanged if it won't kill you, or make a devil of you before long, if you go on with it." "it's not far from that now." "so i see--and i'll tell you what, you're not the sort of fellow to go in for this kind of thing. you'd better leave it to cold-blooded brutes, like some we know--i needn't mention names." "i'm awfully wretched, drysdale; i've been a brute my self to you and everybody of late." "well, i own i don't like the new side of you. now make up your mind to cut the whole concern, old fellow," he said, coming up goodnaturedly, and putting his hand on tom's shoulder, "it's hard to do, i dare say, but you had better make a plunge and get it over. there's wickedness enough going about without your helping to shove another one into it." tom groaned as he listened, but he felt that the man was trying to help him in his own way, and according to his light, as drysdale went on expounding his own curious code of morality. when it was ended, he shook drysdale's hand, and, wishing him good night, went back to his own rooms. the first step upwards towards the light had been made,--for he felt thoroughly humbled before the man on whom he had expended in his own mind so much patronizing pity for the last half year--whom he had been fancying he was influencing for good. during the long hours of the night the scenes of the last few hours, of the last few days, came back to him and burnt into his soul. the gulf yawned before him now plain enough, open at his feet--black, ghastly. he shuddered at it, wondering if he should even yet fall in, felt wildly about for strength to stand firm, to retrace his steps; but found it not. he found not yet the strength he was in search of, but in the grey morning he wrote a short note:-- "i shall not be able to take you to abingdon fair to-day. you will not see me perhaps for some days. i am not well. "i am very sorry. don't think that i am changed. don't be unhappy, or i don't know what i may do." there was no address and no signature to the note. when the gates opened he hurried out of the college and, having left it and a shilling with dick (whom he found cleaning the yard, and much astonished at his appearance, and who promised to deliver it to patty with his own hands before eight o'clock), he got back again to his own rooms, went to bed, worn out in mind and body, and slept till mid-day. chapter xvii--new ground my readers have now been steadily at oxford for six months without moving. most people find such a spell of the place without a change quite as much as they care to take; perhaps too, it may do our hero good to let him alone for a little, that he may have time to look steadily into the pit which he has been so near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path; moreover, the exigencies of a story teller must lead him away from home now and then. like the rest of us, his family must have change of air, or he has to go off to see a friend properly married, or a connexion buried; to wear white or black gloves with or for some one, carrying such sympathy as he can with him, so that he may come back from every journey, however short, with a wider horizon. yes; to come back home after every stage of life's journeying with a wider horizon--more in sympathy with men and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws which govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is above all, and around all, and beneath all--this must be the end and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold, and spending time and labor and journey-money on that which profiteth nothing. so now i must ask my readers to forget the old buildings and quadrangles of the fairest of england's cities, the caps and the gowns, the reading and rowing for a short space, and take a flight with me to other scenes and pastures new. the nights are pleasant in may, short and pleasant for travel. we will leave the ancient city asleep, and do our flight in the night to save time. trust yourself then to the story-teller's aerial machine. it is but a rough affair, i own, rough and humble, unfitted for high or great flights, with no gilded panels or dainty cushions, or c-springs--not that we shall care about springs, by the way, until we alight on terra firma again--still, there is much to be learned in a third-class carriage if we will only not look while in it for cushions and fine panels, and forty miles an hour traveling, and will not be shocked at our fellow passengers for being weak in their h's and smelling of fustian. mount in it, then, you who will, after this warning; the fares are holiday fares, the tickets return tickets. take with you nothing but the poet's luggage, "a smile for hope, a tear for pain, a breath to swell the voice of prayer." and may you have a pleasant journey, for it is time that the stoker should be looking to his going gear. so now we rise slowly in the moonlight from st. ambrose's quadrangle, and, when we are clear of the clock-tower, steer away southwards, over oxford city and all its sleeping wisdom and folly, over street and past spire, over christ church and the canons' houses, and the fountain in tom quad; over st. aldate's and the river, along which the moonbeams lie in a pathway of twinkling silver, over the railway sheds--no, there was then no railway, but only the quiet fields and footpaths of hincksey hamlet. well, no matter; at any rate, the hills beyond, and bagley wood, were there then as now; and over hills and wood we rise, catching the purr of the night-jar, the trill of the nightingale, and the first crow of the earliest cock-pheasant, as he stretches his jewelled wings, conscious of his strength and his beauty, heedless of the fellows of st. john's, who slumber within sight of his perch, on whose hospitable board he shall one day lie, prone on his back, with fair larded breast turned upwards for the carving-knife, having crowed his last crow. he knows it not; what matters it to him? if he knew it, could a bagley wood cock-pheasant desire a better ending? we pass over the vale beyond; hall and hamlet, church, and meadow, and copse, folded in mist and shadow below us, each hamlet holding in its bosom the material of three volumed novels by the dozen, if we could only pull off the roofs of the houses and look steadily into the interiors; but our destination is farther yet. the faint white streak behind the distant chilterns reminds us that we have no time for gossip by the way; may nights are short, and the sun will be up by four. no matter; our journey will now be soon over, for the broad vale is crossed, and the chalk hills and downs beyond. larks quiver up by us, "higher, ever higher," hastening up to get a first glimpse of the coming monarch, careless of food, flooding the fresh air with song. steadily plodding rooks labour along below us, and lively starlings rush by on the look-out for the early worm; lark and swallow, rook and starling, each on his appointed round. the sun arises, and they get them to it; he is up now, and these breezy uplands over which we hang are swimming in the light of horizontal rays, though the shadows and mists still lie on the wooded dells which slope away southwards. here let us bring to, over the village of englebourn, and try to get acquainted with the outside of the place before the good folk are about, and we have to go down among them and their sayings and doings. the village lies on the southern slopes of the berkshire hills, on the opposite side to that under which our hero was born. another soil altogether is here, we remark in the first place. this is no chalk; this high knoll which rises above--one may almost say hangs over--the village, crowned with scotch firs, its sides tufted with gorse and heather. it is the hawk's lynch, the favorite resort of englebourn folk, who come up for the view, for the air, because their fathers and mothers came up before them, because they came up themselves as children--from an instinct which moves them all in leisure hours and sunday evenings, when the sun shines and the birds sing, whether they care for view or air or not. something guides all their feet hitherward; the children, to play hide-and-seek and look for nests in the gorse-bushes; young men and maidens, to saunter and look and talk, as they will till the world's end--or as long, at any rate, as the hawk's lynch and englebourn last--and to cut their initials, enclosed in a true lover's knot, on the short rabbit's turf; steady married couples, to plod along together consulting on hard times and growing families; even old tottering men, who love to sit at the feet of the firs, with chins leaning on their sticks, prattling of days long past, to anyone who will listen, or looking silently with dim eyes into the summer air, feeling perhaps in their spirits after a wider and more peaceful view which will soon open for them. a common knoll, open to all, up in the silent air, well away from every-day englebourn life, with the hampshire range and the distant beacon hill lying soft on the horizon, and nothing higher between you and the southern sea, what a blessing the hawk's lynch is to the village folk, one and all! may heaven and a thankless soil long preserve it and them from an enclosure under the act! there is much temptation lying about, though, for the enclosers of the world. the rough common land stretches over the whole of the knoll, and down to its base, and away along the hills behind, of which the hawk's lynch is an outlying spur. rough common land, broken only by pine woods of a few acres each in extent, an occasional woodman's or squatter's cottage and little patch of attempted garden. but immediately below, and on each flank of the spur, and half-way up the slopes, come small farm enclosures, breaking here and there the belt of woodlands, which generally lies between the rough wild upland, and the cultivated country below. as you stand on the knoll you can see common land just below you at its foot narrow into a mere road, with a border of waste on each side which runs into englebourn street. at the end of the straggling village stands the church with its square tower, a lofty grey stone building, with bits of fine decorated architecture about it, but much of churchwarden gothic supervening. the churchyard is large, and the graves, as you can see plainly even from this distance, are all crowded on the southern side. the rector's sheep are feeding in the northern part, nearest to us, and a small gate at one corner opens into his garden. the rectory looks large and comfortable, and its grounds well cared for and extensive, with a rookery of elms at the lawn's end. it is the chief house of the place, for there is no resident squire. the principal street contains a few shops, some dozen, perhaps, in all; and several farm houses lie a little back from it, with gardens in front, and yards and barns and orchards behind; and there are two public-houses. the other dwellings are mere cottages, and very bad ones for the most part, with floors below the level of the street. almost every house in the village is thatched, which adds to the beauty though not to the comfort of the place. the rest of the population who do not live in the street are dotted about the neighboring lanes, chiefly towards the west, on our right as we look down from the hawk's lynch. on this side the country is more open, and here most of the farmers live, as we may see by the number of homesteads. and there is a small brook on that side too, which with careful damming is made to turn a mill, there where you see the clump of poplars. on our left as we look down, the country to the east of the village is thickly wooded; but we can see that there is a village green on that side, and a few scattered cottages, the farthest of which stands looking out like a little white eye, from the end of a dense copse. beyond it there is no sign of habitation for some two miles; then you can see the tall chimneys of a great house, and a well timbered park round it. the grange is not in englebourn parish--happily for that parish, one is sorry to remark. it must be a very bad squire who does not do more good than harm by living in a country village. but there are very bad squires, and the owner of the grange is one of them. he is, however, for the most part, an absentee, so that we are little concerned with him, and in fact, have only to notice this one of his bad habits, that he keeps that long belt of woodlands, which runs into englebourn parish, and comes almost up to the village, full of hares and pheasants. he has only succeeded to the property some three or four years, and yet the head of game on the estate, and above all in the woods, has trebled or quadrupled. pheasants by hundreds are reared under hens, from eggs bought in london, and run about the keepers' houses as tame as barn door fowls all the summer. when the first party comes down for the first _battue_ early in october, it is often as much as the beaters can do to persuade these pampered fowls that they are wild game, whose duty it is to get up and fly away, and be shot at. however, they soon learn more of the world--such of them, at least, as are not slain--and are unmistakable wild birds in a few days. then they take to roosting farther from their old haunts, more in the outskirts of the woods, and the time comes for others besides the squire's guests to take their education in hand, and teach pheasants at least that they are no native british birds. these are a wild set, living scattered about the wild country; turf-cutters, broom-makers, squatters, with indefinite occupations, and nameless habits, a race hated of keepers and constables. these have increased and flourished of late years; and, notwithstanding the imprisonments and transportations which deprive them periodically of the most enterprising members of their community, one and all give thanks for the day when the owner of the grange took to pheasant breeding. if the demoralization stopped with them, little harm might come of it, as they would steal fowls in the homesteads if there were no pheasants in the woods--which latter are less dangerous to get, and worth more when gotten. but, unhappily, this method of earning a livelihood has strong attractions, and is catching; and the cases of farm labourers who get into trouble about game are more frequent season by season in the neighbouring parishes, and englebourn is no better than the rest. and the men are not likely to be much discouraged from these practices, or taught better by the fanners; for, if there is one thing more than another that drives that sturdy set of men, the englebourn yeomen, into a frenzy, it is talk of the game in the grange covers. not that they dislike sport; they like it too well, and, moreover, have been used to their fair share of it. for the late squire left the game entirely in their hands. "you know best how much game your land will carry without serious damage to the crops," he used to say. "i like to show my friends a fair day's sport when they are with me, and have enough game to supply the house and make a few presents. beyond that, it is no affair of mine. you can course whenever you like; and let me know when you want a day's shooting, and you shall have it." under this system the yeomen became keen sportsmen; they and all their labourers took a keen interest in preserving, and the whole district would have risen on a poacher. the keeper's place became a sinecure, and the squire had as much game as he wanted without expense, and was, moreover, the most popular man in the county. even after the new man came, and all was changed, the mere revocation of their sporting liberties, and the increase of game, unpopular as these things were, would not alone have made the farmers so bitter, and have raised that sense of outraged justice in them. but with these changes came in a custom new in the country--the custom of selling the game. at first the report was not believed; but soon it became notorious that no head of game from the grange estates was ever given away, that not only did the tenants never get a brace of birds or a hare, or the labourers a rabbit, but not one of the gentlemen who helped to kill the game ever found any of the bag in his dog-cart after the day's shooting. nay, so shameless had the system become, and so highly was the art of turning the game to account cultivated at the grange, that the keepers sold powder and shot to any of the guests who had emptied their own belts or flasks at something over the market retail price. the light cart drove to the market-town twice a week in the season, loaded heavily with game, but more heavily with the hatred and scorn of the farmers; and, if deep and bitter curses could break patent axles or necks, the new squire and his game-cart would not long have vexed the countryside. as it was, not a man but his own tenants would salute him in the market-place; and these repaid themselves for the unwilling courtesy by bitter reflections on a squire who was mean enough to pay his butcher's and poulterer's bills out of their pockets. alas that the manly instinct of sport which is so strong in all of us englishmen--which sends oswells single handed against the mightiest beasts that walk the earth, and takes the poor cockney journeyman out a ten miles' walk almost before daylight, on the rare summer holiday mornings, to angle with rude tackle in reservoir or canal--should be dragged through such mire as this in many an english shire in our day. if english landlords want to go on shooting game much longer, they must give up selling it. for if selling game becomes the rule, and not the exception (as it seems likely to do before long), good-bye to sport in england. every man who loves his country more than his pleasure or his pocket--and, thank god, that includes the great majority of us yet, however much we may delight in gun and rod, let any demagogue in the land say what he pleases--will cry, "down with it," and lend a hand to put it down for ever. but to return to our perch on the hawk's lynch above englebourn village. the rector is the fourth of his race who holds the family living--a kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old man, a doctor of divinity, as becomes his position, though he only went into orders because there was the living ready for him. in his day he had been a good magistrate and neighbour, living with and much in the same way as the squires round about. but his contemporaries had dropped off one by one; his own health had long been failing; his wife was dead; and the young generation did not seek him. his work and the parish had no real hold on him; so he had nothing to fall back on, and had become a confirmed invalid, seldom leaving the house and garden even to go to church, and thinking more of his dinner and his health than of all other things in earth or heaven. the only child who remained at home with him was a daughter, a girl of nineteen or thereabouts, whose acquaintance we shall make presently, and who was doing all that a good heart and sound head prompted in nursing an old hypochondriac, and filling his place in the parish. but though the old man was weak and selfish, he was kind in his way, and ready to give freely or do anything that his daughter suggested for the good of his people, provided the trouble were taken off his shoulders. in the year before our tale opens, he had allowed some thirty acres of his glebe to be parcelled out in allotments amongst the poor; and his daughter spent almost what she pleased in clothing-clubs, and sick-clubs, and the school, without a word from him. whenever he did remonstrate, she managed to get what she wanted out of the house-money, or her own allowance. we must make acquaintance with such other of the inhabitants as it concerns us to know in the course of the story; for it is broad daylight, and the villagers will be astir directly. folk who go to bed before nine, after a hard day's work, get into the habit of turning out soon after the sun calls them. so now, descending from the hawk's lynch, we will alight at the east end of englebourn, opposite the little white cottage which looks out at the end of the great wood, near the village green. soon after five on that bright sunday morning, harry winburn unbolted the door of his mother's cottage, and stepped out in his shirt-sleeves on to the little walk in front, paved with pebbles. perhaps some of my readers will recognize the name of an old acquaintance, and wonder how he got here; so let us explain at once. soon after our hero went to school, harry's father had died of a fever. he had been a journeyman blacksmith, and in the receipt, consequently, of rather better wages than generally fall to the lot of the peasantry, but not enough to leave much of a margin over current expenditure. moreover, the winburns had always been open-handed with whatever money they had; so that all he left for his widow and child, of worldly goods, was their "few sticks" of furniture, l in the savings bank, and the money from his burial-club which was not more than enough to give him a creditable funeral--that object of honorable ambition to all the independent poor. he left, however, another inheritance to them, which is in price above rubies, neither shall silver be named in comparison thereof,--the inheritance of an honest name, of which his widow was proud, and which was not likely to suffer in her hands. after the funeral, she removed to englebourn, her own native village, and kept her old father's house till his death. he was one of the woodmen to the grange, and lived in the cottage at the corner of the wood in which his work lay. when he, too, died, hard times came on widow winburn. the steward allowed her to keep on the cottage. the rent was a sore burden to her, but she would sooner have starved than leave it. parish relief was out of the question for her father's child and her husband's widow; so she turned her hand to every odd job which offered, and went to work in the fields when nothing else could be had. whenever there was sickness in the place, she was an untiring nurse; and, at one time, for some nine months, she took the office of postman, and walked daily some nine miles through a severe winter. the fatigue and exposure had broken down her health, and made her an old woman before her time. at last, in a lucky hour, the doctor came to hear of her praiseworthy struggles, and gave her the rectory washing, which had made her life a comparatively easy one again. during all this time her poor neighbors had stood by her as the poor do stand by one another, helping her in numberless small ways, so that she had been able to realize the great object of her life, and keep harry at school till he was nearly fourteen. by this time he had learned all that the village pedagogue could teach, and had in fact become an object of mingled pride and jealousy to that worthy man, who had his misgivings lest harry's fame as a scholar should eclipse his own before many years were over. mrs. winburn's character was so good, that no sooner was her son ready for a place than a place was ready for him; he stepped at once into the dignity of carter's boy, and his earnings, when added to his mother's, made them comfortable enough. of course she was wrapped up in him, and believed that there was no such boy in the parish. and indeed she was nearer the truth than most mothers, for he soon grew into a famous specimen of a countryman; tall and lithe, full of nervous strength, and not yet bowed down or stiffened by the constant toil of a labourer's daily life. in these matters, however, he had rivals in the village; but in intellectual accomplishments he was unrivalled. he was full of learning according to the village standard, could write and cipher well, was fond of reading such books as came in his way, and spoke his native english almost without an accent. he is one-and-twenty at the time when our story takes him up; a thoroughly skilled labourer, the best hedger and ditcher in the parish; and, when his blood is up, he can shear twenty sheep in a day, without razing the skin, or mow for sixteen hours at a stretch, with rests of half an hour for meals twice in the day. harry shaded his eyes with his hand for a minute, as he stood outside the cottage drinking in the fresh, pure air, laden with the scent of the honeysuckle which he had trained over the porch, and listening to the chorus of linnets and finches from the copse at the back of the house; he then set about the household duties, which he always made it a point of honour to attend to himself on sundays. first he unshuttered the little lattice-window of the room on the ground floor; a simple enough operation, for the shutter was a mere wooden flap, which was closed over the window at night and bolted with a wooden bolt on the outside, and thrown back against the wall in the daytime. any one who would could have opened it at any moment of the night; but the poor sleep sound without bolts. then he took the one old bucket of the establishment, and strode away to the well on the village green, and filled it with clear, cold water, doing the same kind office for the vessels of two or three rosy little damsels and boys, of ages varying from ten to fourteen, who were already astir, and to whom the winding-up of the parish chain and bucket would have been a work of difficulty. returning to the cottage, he proceeded to fill his mother's kettle, sweep the hearth, strike a light, and make up the fire with a faggot from the little stack in the corner of the garden. then he hauled the three-legged round table before the fire, and dusted it carefully over, and laid out the black japan tea-tray with two delf cups and saucers of gorgeous pattern, and diminutive plates to match, and placed the sugar and slop basins, the big loaf and small piece of salt butter, in their accustomed places, and the little black teapot on the hob to get properly warm. there was little more to be done indoors, for the furniture was scanty enough; but everything in turn received its fair share of attention, and the little room, with its sunken tiled floor and yellow-washed walls, looked cheerful and homely. then harry turned his attention to the shed of his own contriving, which stood beside the faggot-stack, and from which expostulatory and plaintive grunts had been issuing ever since his first appearance at the door, telling of a faithful and useful friend who was sharp set on sunday mornings, and desired his poor breakfast, and to be dismissed for the day to pick up the rest of his livelihood with his brethren porkers of the village on the green and in the lanes. harry served out to the porker the poor mess which the wash of the cottage and the odds and ends of the little garden afforded; which that virtuous animal forthwith began to discuss with both fore-feet in the trough--by way, probably, of adding to the flavor--while his master scratched him gently between the ears and on the back with a short stick till the repast was concluded. then he opened the door of the stye, and the grateful animal rushed out into the lane, and away to the green with a joyful squeal and flirt of his hind-quarters in the air; and harry, after picking a bunch of wall-flowers, and pansies, and hyacinths, a line of which flowers skirted the narrow garden walk, and putting them in a long-necked glass which he took from the mantel-piece, proceeded to his morning ablutions, ample materials for which remained at the bottom of the family bucket, which he had put down on a little bench by the side of the porch. these finished, he retired indoors to shave and dress himself. chapter xviii--englebourne village dame winburn was not long after her son, and they sat down together to breakfast in their best sunday clothes--she, in a plain large white cap which covered all but a line of grey hair, a black stuff gown reaching to neck and wrists, and small silk neckkerchief put on like a shawl; a thin, almost gaunt old woman, whom the years had not used tenderly, and who showed marks of their usage--but a resolute, high-couraged soul, who had met hard times in the face, and could meet them again if need were. she spoke in broad berkshire, and was otherwise a homely body, but self-possessed and without a shade of real vulgarity in her composition. the widow looked with some anxiety at harry as he took his seat. although something of a rustic dandy, of late he had not been so careful in the matter of dress as usual; but, in consequence of her reproaches, on this sunday there was nothing to complain of. his black velveteen shooting coat, and cotton plush waistcoat, his brown corduroy knee-breeches and gaiters, sat on him well, and gave the world assurance of a well-to-do man, for few of the englebourn labourers rose above smock-frocks and fustian trousers. he wore a blue bird's-eye handkerchief round his neck, and his shirt, though coarse in texture, was as white as the sun and the best laundress in englebourn could manage to bleach it. there was nothing to find fault with in his dress, therefore, but still his mother did not feel quite comfortable as she took stealthy glances at him. harry was naturally a reserved fellow, and did not make much conversation himself, and his mother felt a little embarrassed on this particular morning. it was not, therefore, until dame winburn had finished her first slice of bread and butter, and had sipped the greater part of her second dish of tea out of her saucer, that she broke silence. "i minded thy business last night, harry, when i wur up at the rectory about the washin'. it's my belief as thou'lt get t'other 'lotment next quarter-day. the doctor spoke very kind about it, and said as how he heer'd as high a character o' thee, young as thee bist, as of are' a man in the parish, and as how he wur set on lettin' the lots to thaay as'd do best by 'em; only he said as the farmers went agin givin' more nor an acre to any man as worked for _them_; and the doctor, you see, he don't like to go altogether agin the vestry folk." "what business is it o' theirs," said harry, "so long as they get their own work done? there's scarce one on 'em as hasn't more land already nor he can keep as should be, and for all that they want to snap up every bit as falls vacant, so as no poor man shall get it." "'tis mostly so with them as has," said his mother, with a half puzzled look; "scriptur says as to them shall be given, and they shall have more abundant," dame winburn spoke hesitatingly, and looked doubtfully at harry, as a person who has shot with a strange gun, and knows not what effect the bolt may have. harry was brought up all standing by this unexpected quotation of his mother's; but, after thinking for a few moments while he cut himself a slice of bread, replied:-- "it don't say as those shall have more that can't use what they've got already. 'tis a deal more like naboth's vineyard for aught as i can see. but 'tis little odds to me which way it goes." "how canst talk so, harry?" said his mother reproachfully; "thou know'st thou wast set on it last fall, like a wasp on sugar. why scarce a day past but thou wast up to the rectory, to see the doctor about it; and now thou'rt like to get th'lotment thou'lt not go anyst 'un." harry looked out at the open door, without answering. it was quite true that, in the last autumn, he had been very anxious to get as large an allotment as he could into his own hands, and that he had been for ever up towards the rectory, but perhaps not always on the allotment business. he was naturally a self-reliant, shrewd fellow, and felt that if he could put his hand on three or four acres of land, he could soon make himself independent of the farmers. he knew that at harvest-times, and whenever there was a pinch for good labourers, they would be glad enough to have him; while at other times, with a few acres of his own, he would be his own master and could do much better for himself. so he had put his name down first on the doctor's list, taken the largest lot he could get, and worked it so well that his crops, amongst others, had been a sort of village show last harvest-time. many of the neighboring allotments stood out in sad contrast to those of harry and the more energetic of the peasantry, and lay by the side of these latter only half worked and full of weeds, and the rent was never ready. it was worse than useless to let matters go on thus, and the question arose, what was to be done with the neglected lots. harry, and all the men like him, applied at once for them; and their eagerness to get them had roused some natural jealousy amongst the farmers, who began to foresee that the new system might shortly leave them with none but the worst labourers. so the vestry had pressed on the doctor, as dame winburn said, not to let any man have more than an acre, or an acre and a half; and the well-meaning, easy-going invalid old man couldn't make up his mind what to do. so here was may again, and the neglected lots were still in the nominal occupation of the idlers. the doctor got no rent, and was annoyed at the partial failure of a scheme which he had not indeed originated, but for which he had taken much credit to himself. the negligent occupiers grumbled that they were not allowed a drawback for manure, and that no pigstyes were put up for them. "'twas allers understood so," they maintained, "and they'd never ha' took to the lots but for that." the good men grumbled that it would be too late now for them to do more than clean the lots of weeds this year. the farmers grumbled that it was always understood that no man should have more than one lot. the poor rector had led his flock into a miry place with a vengeance. people who cannot make up their minds breed trouble in other places besides country villages. however quiet and out of the way the place may be, there is always some _quasi_ public topic, which stands, to the rural englishman, in the place of treaty, or budget, or reform-bill. so the great allotment question, for the time, was that which exercised the minds of the inhabitants of englebourn; and until lately no one had taken a keener interest in it than harry winburn. but that interest had now much abated, and so harry looked through the cottage door, instead of answering his mother. "'tis my belief as you med amost hev it for the axin'." dame winburn began again when she found that he would not re-open the subject himself. "the young missus said as much to me herself last night. ah! to be sure, things'd go better if she had the guidin' on 'em." "i'm not going after it any more, mother. we can keep the bits o' sticks here together without it while you be alive; and if anything was to happen to you, i don't think i should stay in these parts. but it don't matter what becomes o' me; i can earn a livelihood anywhere." dame winburn paused a moment before answering to subdue her vexation, and then said, "how can 'ee let hankerin' arter a lass take the heart out o' thee so? hold up thy head, and act a bit measterful. the more thow makest o' thyself, the more like thou art to win." "did you hear aught of her last night, mother?" replied harry, taking advantage of this ungracious opening to speak of the subject which was uppermost in his mind. "i heer'd she wur goin' on well," said his mother. "no likelihood of her comin' home?" "not as i could make out. why, she hevn't been gone not four months. now, do 'ee pluck up a bit, harry; and be more like thyself." "why, mother, i've not missed a day's work since christmas; so there ain't much to find fault with." "nay, harry, 'tisn't thy work. thou wert always good at thy work, praise god. thou'rt thy father's own son for that. but thou dostn't keep about like, and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em since christmas. thou look'st hagged at times, and folk'll see't, and talk about thee afore long." "let 'em talk. i mind their talk no more than last year's wind," said harry, abruptly. "but thy old mother does," she said, looking at him with eyes full of pride and love; and so harry, who was a right good son, began to inquire what it was that was specially weighing on his mother's mind, determined to do anything in reason to re-place her on the little harmless social pinnacle from which she was wont to look down on all the other mothers and sons of the parish. he soon found out that her present grievance arose from his having neglected his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the village peal on the two preceding sundays; and, as this post was, in some sort the corresponding one to stroke of the boat at oxford, her anxiety was reasonable enough. so harry promised to go to ringing in good time that morning, and then set about little odds and ends of jobs till it would be time to start. dame winburn went to her cooking and other household duties, which were pretty well got under when her son took his hat and started for the belfry. she stood at the door with a half-peeled potato in one hand, shading her eyes with the other, as she watched him striding along the raised footpath under the elms, when the sound of light footsteps and pleasant voices, coming up from the other direction, made her turn round and drop a curtsey as the rector's daughter and another young lady stopped at her door. "good morning, betty," said the former; "here's a bright sunday morning at last, isn't it?" "'tis indeed, miss; but where hev'ee been to?" "oh, we've only been for a little walk before school-time. this is my cousin, betty. she hasn't been at englebourn since she was quite a child; so i've been taking her to the hawk's lynch to see our view." "and you can't think how i have enjoyed it," said her cousin; "it is so still and beautiful." "i've heer'd say as there ain't no such a place for thretty mile round," said betty, proudly, "but do'ee come in, tho', and sit'ee down a bit," she added, bustling inside her door, and beginning to rub down a chair with her apron; "'tis a smart step for gentlefolk to walk afore church." betty's notions of the walking powers of gentlefolk were very limited. "no, thank you, we must be getting on," said miss winter; "but how lovely your flowers are! look, mary, did you ever see such double pansies? we've nothing like them at the rectory." "do'ee take some," said betty, emerging again, and beginning to pluck a handful of her finest flowers; "'tis all our harry's doing; he's 'mazing partickler about seeds." "he seems to make everything thrive, betty. there, that's plenty, thank you. we won't take many, for fear they should fade before church is over." "oh, dwont'ee be afeard, there's plenty more; and you be as welcom' as the day." betty never said a truer word; she was one of the real open-handed sort, who are found mostly amongst those who have the least to give. they or anyone else were welcome to the best she had. so the young ladies took the flowers, thanked her again, and passed on towards the sunday-school. the rector's daughter might have been a year or so older than her companion; she looked more. her position in the village had been one of much anxiety, and she was fast getting an old head on young shoulders. the other young lady was a slip of a girl just coming out; in fact, this was the first visit which she had ever paid out of leading strings. she had lived in a happy home, where she had always been trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought too much petted. there are some natures which attract petting; you can't help doing your best to spoil them in this way, and it is satisfactory, therefore, to know (as the fact is) that they are just the ones which cannot be so spoilt. miss mary was one of these. trustful, for she had never been tricked; fearless, for she had never been cowed; pure and bright as the englebourn brook at fifty yards from its parent spring in the chalk, for she had a pure and bright nature, and had come in contact as yet with nothing which could soil or cast a shadow. what wonder that her life gave forth light and music as it glided on, and that every one who knew her was eager to have her with them, to warm themselves in the light and rejoice in the music! besides all her other attractions, or in consequence of them for anything i know, she was one of the merriest young women in the world, always ready to bubble over and break out into clear laughter on the slightest provocation. and provocation had not been wanting during the last two days which she had spent with her cousin. as usual she had brought sunshine with her, and the old doctor had half forgotten his numerous complaints and grievances for the time. so the cloud which generally hung over the house had been partially lifted, and mary, knowing and suspecting nothing of the dark side of life at englebourn rectory, rallied her cousin on her gravity, and laughed till she cried at the queer ways and talk of the people about the place. as soon as they were out of hearing of dame winburn, mary began-- "well, katie, i can't say that you have mended your case at all." "surely you can't deny that there is a great deal of character in betty's face?" said miss winter. "oh, plenty of character; all your people, as soon as they begin to stiffen a little and get wrinkles, seem to be full of character, and i enjoy it much more than beauty; but we were talking about beauty, you know." "betty's son is the handsomest young man in the parish," said miss winter; "and i must say i don't think you could find a better-looking one anywhere." "then i can't have seen him." "indeed you have; i pointed him out to you at the post office yesterday. don't you remember? he was waiting for a letter." "oh, yes! now i remember. well, he was better than most. but the faces of your young people in general are not interesting--i don't mean the children, but the young men and women--and they are awkward and clownish in their manners, without the quaintness of the elder generation, who are the funniest old dears in the world." "they will all be quaint enough as they get older. you must remember the sort of life they lead. they get their notions very slowly, and they must have notions in their heads before they can show them on their faces." "well, your betty's son looked as if he had a notion of hanging himself yesterday." "it's no laughing matter, mary. i hear that he is desperately in love." "poor fellow! that makes a difference, of course. i hope he won't carry out his notion. who is it, do you know? do tell me all about it." "our gardener's daughter, i believe. of course, i never meddle with these matters; but one can't help hearing the servant's gossip. i think it likely to be true, for he was about our premises at all sorts of times until lately, and i never see him now that she is away." "is she pretty?" said mary, who was getting interested. "yes, she is our belle. in fact, they are the two beauties of the parish." "fancy that cross-grained old simon having a pretty daughter. oh, katie, look here! who is this figure of fun?" the figure of fun was a middle-aged man of small stature, and very bandy-legged, dressed in a blue coat and brass buttons, and carrying a great bass-viol bigger than himself, in a rough baize cover. he came out of a footpath into the road just before them, and, on seeing them, touched his hat to miss winter, and then fidgeted along with his load, and jerked his head in a deprecatory manner away from them as he walked on, with the sort of look and action which a favorite terrier uses when his master holds out a lighted cigar to his nose. he was the village tailor and constable, also the principal performer in the church-music which obtained in englebourn. in the latter capacity he had of late come into collision with miss winter. for this was another of the questions which divided the parish--the great church music question. from time immemorial, at least ever since the gallery at the west end had been built, the village psalmody had been in the hands of the occupiers of that protestant structure. in the middle of the front row sat the musicians, three in number, who played respectively a bass-viol, a fiddle, and a clarionet. on one side of them were two or three young women, who sang treble--shrill, ear-piercing treble--with a strong nasal berkshire drawl in it. on the other side of the musicians sat the blacksmith, the wheelwright, and other tradesmen of the place. tradesmen means in that part of the country what we mean by artisan, and these were naturally allied with the laborers, and consorted with them. so far as church-going was concerned, they formed a sort of independent opposition, sitting in the gallery, instead of in the nave, where the farmers and the two or three principal shopkeepers--the great landed and commercial interests--regularly sat and slept, and where the two publicans occupied pews, but seldom made even the pretence of worshipping. the rest of the gallery was filled by the able-bodied male peasantry. the old worn-out men generally sat below in the free seats; the women also, and some few boys. but the hearts of these latter were in the gallery--a seat on the back benches of which was a sign that they had indued the _toga virilis_, and were thenceforth free from maternal and pastoral tutelage in the matter of church-going. the gallery thus constituted had gradually usurped the psalmody as their particular and special portion of the service; they left the clerk and the school children, aided by such of the aristocracy below as cared to join, to do the responses; but, when singing time came, they reigned supreme. the slate on which the psalms were announced was hung out from before the centre of the gallery, and the clerk, leaving his place under the reading-desk, marched up there to give them out. he took this method of preserving his constitutional connection with the singing, knowing that otherwise he could not have maintained the rightful position of his office in this matter. so matters had stood until shortly before the time of our story. the present curate, however, backed by miss winter, had tried a reform. he was a quiet man, with a wife and several children, and small means. he had served in the diocese ever since he had been ordained, in a hum-drum sort of way, going where he was sent for, and performing his routine duties reasonably well, but without showing any great aptitude for his work. he had little interest, and had almost given up expecting promotion, which he certainly had done nothing particular to merit. but there was one point on which he was always ready to go out of his way, and take a little trouble. he was a good musician, and had formed choirs at all his former curacies. soon after his arrival, therefore, he, in concert with miss winter, had begun to train the children in church-music. a small organ, which had stood in a passage in the rectory for many years, had been repaired, and appeared first at the schoolroom, and at length under the gallery of the church; and it was announced one week to the party in possession, that, on the next sunday, the constituted authorities would take the church-music into their own hands. then arose a strife, the end of which had nearly been to send the gallery off, in a body, headed by the offended bass-viol, to the small red-brick little bethel at the other end of the village. fortunately the curate had too much good sense to drive matters to extremities, and so alienate the parish constable, and a large part of his flock, though he had not tact or energy enough to bring them round to his own views. so a compromise was come to; and the curate's choir were allowed to chant the psalms and canticles, which had always been read before, while the gallery remained triumphant masters of the regular psalms. my readers will now understand why miss winter's salutation to the musical constable was not so cordial as it was to the other villagers whom they had come across previously. indeed, miss winter, though she acknowledged the constable's salutation, did not seem inclined to encourage him to accompany them, and talk his mind out, although he was going the same way with them; and, instead of drawing him out, as was her wont in such cases, went on talking herself to her cousin. the little man walked out in the road, evidently in trouble of mind. he did not like to drop behind or go ahead without some further remark from miss winter, and yet could not screw up his courage to the point of opening the conversation himself. so he ambled on alongside the footpath on which they were walking, showing his discomfort by a twist of his neck every few seconds, and perpetual shiftings of his bass-viol, and hunching up of one shoulder. the conversation of the young ladies under these circumstances was of course forced; and miss mary, though infinitely delighted at the meeting, soon began to pity their involuntary companion. she was full of the sensitive instinct which the best sort of women have to such a marvellous extent, and which tells them at once and infallibly if any one in their company has even a creased rose-leaf next their moral skin. before they had walked a hundred yards she was interceding for the rebellious constable. "katie," she said softly in french, "do speak to him. the poor man is frightfully uncomfortable." "it serves him right," answered miss winter in the same language; "you don't know how impertinent he was the other day to mr. walker. and he won't give way on the least point, and leads the rest of the old singers, and makes them as stubborn as himself." "but look how he is winking and jerking his head at you. you really mustn't be so cruel to him, katie. i shall have to begin talking to him if you don't." thus urged, miss winter opened the conversation by asking after his wife, and when she had ascertained "that his missus wur pretty middlin," made some other commonplace remark, and relapsed into silence. by the help of mary, however, a sort of disjointed dialogue was kept up till they came to the gate which led up to the school, into which the children were trooping by twos and threes. here the ladies turned in, and were going up the walk towards the school door, when the constable summoned up courage to speak on the matter which was troubling him, and, resting the bass-viol carefully on his right foot, calling out after them, "oh, please marm! miss winter!" "well," she said quietly, turning round, "what do you wish to say?" "why, please mann, i hopes as you don't think i be any ways unked 'bout this here quire singin', as they calls it--i'm sartin you knows as there ain't amost nothing i wouldn't do to please ee." "well, you know how to do it very easily," she said when he paused. "i don't ask you even to give up your music and try to work with us, though i think you might have done that. i only ask you to use some psalms and tunes which are fit to be used in a church." "to be sure us ool. 'taint we as wants no new-fangled tunes; them as we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been used in our church ever since i can mind. but you only choose thaay as you likes out o' the book? and we be ready to kep to thaay." "i think mr. walker made a selection for you some weeks ago," said miss winter; "did he not?" "'ees, but 'tis narra mossel o' use for we to try his 'goriums and sich like. i hopes you wun't be offended wi' me, miss, for i be telling nought but truth." he spoke louder as they got nearer to the school door, and, as they were opening it, shouted his last shot after them, "'tis na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n, miss. when us praises god, us likes to praise un joyful." "there, you hear that, mary," said miss winter. "you'll soon begin to see why i look grave. there never was such a hard parish to manage. nobody will do what they ought. i never can get them to do anything. perhaps we may manage to teach the children better, that's my only comfort." "but, katie dear, what _do_ the poor things sing? psalms, i hope." "oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones on purpose, i believe. which class will you take?" and so the young ladies settled to their teaching, and the children in her class all fell in love with mary before church-time. the bass-viol proceeded to the church and did the usual rehearsals, and gossiped with the sexton, to whom he confided the fact that the young missus was "terrible vexed." the bells soon began to ring, and widow winburn's heart was glad as she listened to the full peal, and thought to herself that it was her harry who was making so much noise in the world, and speaking to all the neighborhood. then the peal ceased as church-time drew near, and the single bell began, and the congregation came flocking in from all sides. the farmers, letting their wives and children enter, gathered round the church porch and compared notes in a ponderous manner on crops and markets. the labourers collected near the door by which the gallery was reached. all the men of the parish seemed to like standing about before church, until they had seen the clergyman safely inside. he came up with the school children and the young ladies, and in due course the bell stopped and the service began. there was a very good congregation still at englebourn; the adult generation had been bred up in times when every decent person in the parish went to church, and the custom was still strong, notwithstanding the rector's bad example. he scarcely ever came to church himself in the mornings, though his wheelchair might be seen going up and down on the gravel before his house or on the lawn on warm days, and this was one of his daughter's greatest troubles. the little choir of children sang admirably, led by the schoolmistress, and miss winter and the curate exchanged approving glances. they performed the liveliest chant in their collection, that the opposition might have no cause to complain of their want of joyfulness. and in turn miss winter was in hopes that, out of deference to her, the usual rule of selection in the gallery might have been modified. it was with no small annoyance, therefore, that, after the litany was over, and the tuning finished, she heard the clerk give out that they would praise god by singing part of the ninety-first psalm. mary, who was on the tiptoe of expectation as to what was coming, saw the curate give a slight shrug with his shoulders and lift of his eyebrows as he left the reading-desk, and in another minute it became a painful effort for her to keep from laughing as she slyly watched her cousin's face; while the gallery sang with vigour worthy of any cause or occasion-- "on the old lion he shall go, the adder fell and long; on the young lion tread also, with dragons stout and strong." the trebles took up the last line, and repeated-- "with dragons stout and strong;" and then the whole strength of the gallery chorused again-- "with _dra-gons_ stout and strong;" and the bass-viol seemed to her to prolong the notes and to gloat over them as he droned them out, looking triumphantly at the distant curate. mary was thankful to kneel down to compose her face. the first trial was the severe one, and she got through the second psalm much better; and by the time mr. walker had plunged fairly into his sermon she was a model of propriety and sedateness again. but it was to be a sunday of adventures. the sermon had scarcely begun when there was a stir down by the door at the west end, and people began to look round and whisper. presently a man came softly up and said something to the clerk; the clerk jumped up and whispered to the curate, who paused for a moment with a puzzled look, and, instead of finishing his sentence, said in a loud voice, "farmer groves' house is on fire!" the curate probably anticipated the effect of his words; in a minute he was the only person left in the church except the clerk and one or two very infirm old folk. he shut up and pocketed his sermon, and followed his flock. it proved luckily to be only farmer groves' chimney and not his house which was on fire. the farmhouse was only two fields from the village, and the congregation rushed across there, harry winburn and two or three of the most active young men and boys leading. as they entered the yard, the flames were rushing out of the chimney, and any moment the thatch might take fire. here was the real danger. a ladder had just been raised against the chimney, and, while a frightened farm-girl and a carter-boy held it at the bottom, a man was going up it carrying a bucket of water. it shook with his weight, and the top was slipping gradually along the face of the chimney, and in another moment would rest against nothing. harry and his companions saw the danger at a glance, and shouted to the man to stand still till they could get to the ladder. they rushed towards him with the rush which men can only make under strong excitement. the foremost of them caught a spoke with one hand, but before he could steady it, the top slipped clear of the chimney, and, ladder, man, and bucket came heavily to the ground. then came a scene of bewildering confusion, as women and children trooped into the yard--"who was it?" "was he dead?" "the fire was catching the thatch." "the stables were on fire." "who did it?"--all sorts of cries and all sorts of acts except the right ones. fortunately two or three of the men, with heads on their shoulders, soon organized a line for handling buckets; the flue was stopped below, and harry winburn standing nearly at the top of the ladder, which was now safely planted, was deluging the thatch round the chimney from the buckets handed up to him. in a few minutes he was able to pour water down the chimney itself, and soon afterwards the whole affair was at an end. the farmer's dinner was spoilt, but otherwise no damage had been done, except to the clothes of the foremost men; and the only accident was that first fall from the ladder. the man had been carried out of the yard while the fire was still burning; so that it was hardly known who it was. now, in answer to their inquiries, it proved to be old simon, the rector's gardener and head man, who had seen the fire, and sent the news to the church, while he himself went to the spot, with such result as we have seen. the surgeon had not yet seen him. some declared he was dead; others, that he was sitting up at home, and quite well. little by little the crowd dispersed to sunday's dinners; when they met again before the afternoon's service, it was ascertained that simon was certainly not dead, but all else was still nothing more than rumor. public opinion was much divided, some holding that it would go hard with a man of his age and heft; but the common belief seemed to be that he was of that sort "as'd take a deal o' killin'," and that he would be none the worse for such a fall as that. the two young ladies had been much shocked at the accident, and had accompanied the hurdle on which old simon was carried to his cottage door; after afternoon service they went round by the cottage to inquire. the two girls knocked at the door, which was opened by his wife, who dropped a curtsey and smoothed down her sunday apron when she found who were her visitors. she seemed at first a little unwilling to let them in; but miss winter pressed so kindly to see her husband, and mary made such sympathizing eyes at her, that the old woman gave in, and conducted them through the front room into that beyond, where the patient lay. "i hope as you'll excuse it, miss, for i knows the place do smell terrible bad of baccer; only my old man he said as how-" "oh, never mind, we don't care at all about the smell. poor simon! i'm sure if it does him any good, or soothes the pain, i shall be glad to buy him some tobacco myself." the old man was lying on the bed, with his coat and boots off, and a worsted nightcap of his wife's knitting pulled on to his head. she had tried hard to get him to go to bed at once, and take some physic, and his present costume and position was the compromise. his back was turned to them as they entered, and he was evidently in pain, for he drew his breath heavily and with difficulty, and gave a sort of groan at every respiration. he did not seem to notice their entrance; so his wife touched him on the shoulder, and said, "simon, here's the young ladies come to see how you be." simon turned himself round, and winced and groaned as he pulled off his nightcap in token of respect. "we didn't like to go home without coming to see how you were, simon. has the doctor been?" "oh, yes, thank'ee, miss. he've a been and feel'd un all over, and listened at the chest on un," said his wife. "and what did he say?" "he zem'd to zay as there wur no bwones bruk--ugh, ugh," put in simon, who spoke his native tongue with a buzz, imported from farther west, "but a couldn't zay wether or no there warn't som infarnal injury-" "etarnal, simon, etarnal!" interrupted his wife; "how canst use such words afore the young ladies?" "i tell'ee wife, as 'twur infarnal--ugh, ugh," retorted the gardener. "internal injury?" suggested miss winter. "i'm very sorry to hear it." "zummut inside o' me like, as wur got out o' place," explained simon; "and i thenks a must be near about the mark, for i feels mortal bad here when i tries to move;" and he put his hand on his side. "hows'm'ever, as there's no bwones bruk, i hopes to be about to-morrow mornin', please the lord--ugh, ugh." "you mustn't think of it, simon," said miss winter. "you must be quite quiet for a week, at least, till you get rid of this pain." "so i tells un, miss winter," put in the wife. "you hear what the young missus says, simon?" "and wut's to happen to tiny?" said the contumacious simon, scornfully. "her'll cast her calf, and me not by. her's calving maybe this minut. tiny's time were up, miss, two days back, and her's never no gurt while arter her time." "she will do very well, i dare say," said miss winter, "one of the men can look after her." the notion of anyone else attending tiny in her interesting situation seemed to excite simon beyond bearing, for he raised himself on one elbow, and was about to make a demonstration with his other hand, when the pain seized him again, and he sank back groaning. "there, you see, simon, you can't move without pain. you must be quiet till you have seen the doctor again." "there's the red spider out along the south wall--ugh, ugh," persisted simon, without seeming to hear her; "and your new g'raniums a'most covered wi' blight. i wur a tacklin' one of 'em just afore you cum in." following the direction indicated by his nod, the girls became aware of a plant by his bedside, which he had been fumigating, for his pipe was leaning against the flower-pot in which it stood. "he wouldn't lie still nohow, miss," explained his wife, "till i went and fetched un in a pipe and one o' thaay plants from the greenhouse." "it was very thoughtful of you, simon," said miss winter; "you know how much i prize these new plants; but we will manage them; and you mustn't think of these things now. you have had a wonderful escape to-day for a man of your age. i hope we shall find that there is nothing much the matter with you after a few days, but you might have been killed you know. you ought to be very thankful to god that you were not killed in that fall." "so i be, miss, werry thankful to un--ugh, ugh;--and if it please the lord to spare my life till to-morrow mornin',--ugh, ugh,--we'll smoke them cussed insects." this last retort of the incorrigible simon on her cousin's attempt, as the rector's daughter, to improve the occasion, was too much for miss mary, and she slipped out of the room, lest she should bring disgrace on herself by an explosion of laughter. she was joined by her cousin in another minute, and the two walked together toward the rectory. "i hope you were not faint, dear, with that close room, smelling of smoke?" "oh, dear, no; to tell you the truth, i was only afraid of laughing at your quaint old patient. what a rugged old dear he is. i hope he isn't much hurt." "i hope not, indeed; for he is the most honest, faithful old servant in the world, but so obstinate. he never will go to church on sunday mornings; and, when i speak to him about it, he says papa doesn't go, which is very wrong and impertinent of him." chapter xix--a promise of fairer weather all dwellers in and about london are, alas! too well acquainted with the never-to-be-enough-hated change which we have to undergo once, at least, in every spring. as each succeeding winter wears away, the same thing happens to us. for some time we do not trust the fair lengthening days, and cannot believe that the dirty pair of sparrows who live opposite our window are really making love and going to build, notwithstanding all their twittering. but morning after morning rises fresh and gentle; there is no longer any vice in the air; we drop our over-coats; we rejoice in the green shoots which the privet hedge is making in the square garden, and hail the returning tender-pointed leaves of the plane-trees as friends; we go out of our way to walk through covent garden market to see the ever-brightening show of flowers from the happy country. this state of things goes on sometimes for a few days only, sometimes for weeks, till we make sure that we are safe for this spring at any rate. don't we wish we may get it! sooner or later, but sure--sure as christmas bills or the income-tax, or anything, if there be anything, surer than these--comes the morning when we are suddenly conscious as soon as we rise that there is something the matter. we do not feel comfortable in our clothes; nothing tastes quite as it should at breakfast; though the day looks bright enough, there is a fierce dusty taste about it as we look out through windows, which no instinct now prompts us to throw open, as it has done every day for the last month. but it is only when we open our doors and issue into the street, that the hateful reality comes right home to us. all moisture, and softness, and pleasantness has gone clean out of the air since last night; we seem to inhale yards of horse hair instead of satin; our skins dry up; our eyes, and hair, and whiskers, and clothes are soon filled with loathsome dust, and our nostrils with the reek of the great city. we glance at the weather-cock on the nearest steeple, and see that it points n.e. and so long as the change lasts, we carry about with us a feeling of anger and impatience, as though we personally were being ill-treated. we could have borne with it well enough in november; it would have been natural, and all in the days work in march; but now, when rotten row is beginning to be crowded, when long lines of pleasure vans are leaving town on monday mornings for hampton court or the poor remains of dear epping forest, when the exhibitions are open, or about to open, when the religious public is up, or on its way up, for may meetings, when the thames is already sending up faint warnings of what we may expect as soon as his dirty old life's blood shall have been thoroughly warmed up, and the "ship", and "trafalgar", and the "star and garter" are in full swing at the antagonistic poles of the cockney system, we do feel that this blight which has come over us and everything is an insult, and that while it lasts, as there is nobody who can be made particularly responsible for it, we are justified in going about in general disgust, and ready to quarrel with anybody we may meet on the smallest pretext. this sort of east-windy state is perhaps the best physical analogy for that mental one in which our hero now found himself. the real crises was over; he had managed to pass through the eye of the storm, and drift for the present at least into the skirts of it, where he lay rolling under bare poles, comparatively safe, but without any power as yet to get the ship well in hand, and make her obey her helm. the storm might break over him again at any minute, and would find him almost as helpless as ever. for he could not follow drysdale's advice at once, and break off his visits to "the choughs" altogether. he went back again after a day or two, but only for short visits; he never stayed behind now after the other men left the bar, and avoided interviews with patty alone as diligently as he had sought them before. she was puzzled at his change of manner, and not being able to account for it, was piqued, and ready to revenge herself, and pay him out in the hundred little ways which the least practiced of her sex know how to employ for the discipline of any of the inferior or trousered half of the creation. if she had been really in love with him, it would have been a different matter; but she was not. in the last six weeks she had certainly often had visions of the pleasures of being a lady and keeping servants, and riding in a carriage like the squires' and rectors' wives and daughters about her home. she had a liking, even a sentiment for him, which might very well have grown into something dangerous before long; but as yet it was not more than skin deep. of late, indeed, she had been much more frightened than attracted by the conduct of her admirer, and really felt it a relief, notwithstanding her pique, when he retired into the elder brother sort of state. but she would have been more than woman if she had not resented the change; and so very soon the pangs of jealousy were added to his other troubles. other men were beginning to frequent "the choughs" regularly. drysdale, besides dividing with tom the prestige of being an original discoverer, was by far the largest customer. st. cloud came, and brought chanter with him, to whom patty was actually civil, not because she liked him at all, but because she saw that it made tom furious. though he could not fix on any one man in particular, he felt that mankind in general were gaining on him. in his better moments, indeed, he often wished that she would take the matter into her own hands and throw him over for good and all; but keep away from the place altogether he could not, and often when he fancied himself on the point of doing it, a pretty toss of her head, or a kind look of her eyes would scatter all his good resolutions to the four winds. and so the days dragged on, and he dragged on through them; hot fits of conceit alternating in him with cold fits of despondency and mawkishness and discontent with everything and everybody, which were all the more intolerable from their entire strangeness. instead of seeing the bright side of all things, he seemed to be looking at creation through yellow spectacles, and saw faults and blemishes in all his acquaintance, which had been till now invisible. but the more he was inclined to depreciate all other men, the more he felt there was one to whom he had been grossly unjust. and, as he recalled all that had passed, he began to do justice to the man who had not flinched from warning him and braving him, who he felt had been watching over him, and trying to guide him straight, when he had lost all power or will to keep straight himself. from this time the dread increased on him lest any of the other men should find out his quarrel with hardy. their utter ignorance of it encouraged him in the hope that it might all pass off like a bad dream. while it remained a matter between them alone, he felt that all might come straight, though he could not think how. he began to loiter by the entrance of the passage which led to hardy's rooms; sometimes he would find something to say to his scout or bed-maker which took him into the back outside hardy's window, glancing at it sideways as he stood giving his orders. there it was, wide open, generally--he hardly knew whether he hoped to catch a glimpse of the owner, but he did hope that hardy might hear his voice. he watched him in chapel and hall furtively, but constantly, and was always fancying what he was doing and thinking about. was it as painful an effort to hardy, he wondered, as to him to go on speaking, as if nothing had happened, when they met at the boats, as they did now again almost daily (for diogenes was bent on training some of the torpids for next year), and yet never to look one another in the face; to live together as usual during part of every day, and yet to feel all the time that a great wall had risen between them, more hopelessly dividing them for the time than thousands of miles of ocean or continent? amongst other distractions which tom tried at this crisis of his life, was reading. for three or four days running, he really worked hard--very hard, if we were to reckon by the number of hours he spent in his own rooms over his books with his oak sported--hard, even though we should only reckon by results. for, though scarcely an hour passed that he was not balancing on the hind legs of his chair with a vacant look in his eyes, and thinking of anything but greek roots or latin constructions, yet on the whole he managed to get through a good deal, and one evening, for the first time since his quarrel with hardy, felt a sensation of real comfort--it hardly amounted to pleasure--as he closed his sophocles some hour or so after hall, having just finished the last of the greek plays which he meant to take in for his first examination. he leaned back in his chair and sat for a few minutes, letting his thoughts follow their own bent. they soon took to going wrong, and he jumped up in fear lest he should be drifting back into the black stormy sea, in the trough of which he had been laboring so lately, and which he felt he was by no means clear of yet. at first he caught up his cap and gown as though he were going out. there was a wine party at one of his acquaintance's rooms; or he could go and smoke a cigar in the pool room, or at any one of a dozen other places. on second thoughts, however, he threw his academicals back on to the sofa and went to his book-case. the reading had paid so well that evening that he resolved to go on with it. he had no particular object in selecting one book more than another, and so took down carelessly the first that came to hand. it happened to be a volume of plato, and opened of its own accord at the "apology." he glanced at a few lines. what a flood of memories they called up! this was almost the last book he had read at school; and teacher, and friends, and lofty oak-shelved library stood out before him at once. then the blunders that he himself and others had made rushed through his mind, and he almost burst into a laugh as he wheeled his chair round to the window, and began reading where he had opened, encouraging every thought of the old times when he first read that marvellous defense, and throwing himself back into them with all his might. and still, as he read, forgotten words of wise comment, and strange thoughts of wonder and longing, came back to him. the great truth which he had been led to the brink of in those early days rose in all its awe and all its attractiveness before him. he leaned back in his chair, and gave himself up to his thought; and how strangely that thought bore on the struggle which had been raging in him of late; how an answer seemed to be trembling to come out of it to all the cries, now defiant, now plaintive, which had gone up out of his heart in this time of trouble! for his thought was of that spirit, distinct from himself, and yet communing with his inmost soul, always dwelling in him, knowing him better than he knew himself, never misleading him, always leading him to light and truth, of which the old philosopher spoke. "the old heathen, socrates, did actually believe that--there can be no question about it;" he thought, "has not the testimony of the best men through these two thousand years borne witness that he was right--that he did not believe a lie? that was what we were told. surely i don't mistake! were we not told, too, or did i dream it, that what was true for him was true for every man--for me? that there is a spirit dwelling in me, striving with me, ready to lead me into all truth if i will submit to his guidance?" "ay! submit, submit, there's the rub! give yourself up to his guidance! throw up the reins, and say you've made a mess of it. well, why not? haven't i made a mess of it? am i fit to hold the reins?" "not i"--he got up and began walking about his rooms--"i give it up." "give it up!" he went on presently; "yes, but to whom? not to the daemon spirit, whatever it was, who took up abode in the old athenian--at least, so he said, and so i believe. no, no! two thousand years and all that they have seen have not passed over the world to leave us just where he was left. we want no daemons or spirits. and yet the old heathen was guided right, and what can a man want more? and who ever wanted guidance more than i now--here--in this room--at this minute? i give up the reins; who will take them?" and so there came on him one of those seasons when a man's thoughts cannot be followed in words. a sense of awe came on him, and over him, and wrapped him round; awe at a presence of which he was becoming suddenly conscious, into which he seemed to have wandered, and yet which he felt must have been there around him, in his own heart and soul, though he knew it not. there was hope and longing in his heart, mingling with the fear of that presence, but withal the old reckless and daring feeling which he knew so well, still bubbling up untamed, untamable it seemed to him. the room stifled him now; so he threw on his cap and gown, and hurried down into the quadrangle. it was very quiet; probably there was not a dozen men in college. he walked across to the low, dark entrance of the passage which led to hardy's rooms, and there paused. was he there by chance, or was he guided there? yes, this was the right way for him, he had no doubt now as to that; down the dark passage and into the room he knew so well--and what then? he took a short turn or two before the entrance. how could he be sure that hardy was alone? and, if not, to go in would be worse than useless. if he were alone, what should he say? after all, _must_ he go in there? was there no way but that? the college clock struck a quarter to seven. it was his usual time for "the choughs;" the house would be quiet now; was there not one looking out for him there who would be grieved if he did not come? after all, might not that be his way, for this night at least? he might bring pleasure to one human being by going there at once. that he knew; what else could he be sure of? at this moment he heard hardy's door open and a voice saying "good-night," and the next grey came out of the passage, and was passing close to him. "join yourself to him." the impulse came so strongly into tom's mind this time, that it was like a voice speaking him. he yielded to it, and, stepping to grey's side, wished him good-evening. the other returned his salute in his shy way, and was hurrying on, but tom kept by him. "have you been reading with hardy?" "yes." "how is he? i have not seen anything of him for some time." "oh, very well, i think," said grey, glancing sideways at his questioner, and adding, after a moment, "i have wondered rather not to see you there of late." "are you going to your school?" said tom, breaking away from the subject. "yes, and i am rather late; i must make haste on; good night." "will you let me go with you to-night? it would be a real kindness. indeed," he added, as he saw how embarrassing his proposal was to grey, "i will do whatever you tell me--you don't know how grateful i should be to you. do let me go--just for to-night. try me once." grey hesitated, turned his head sharply once or twice as they walked on together, and then said with something like a sigh-- "i don't know, i'm sure. did you ever teach in a night school?" "no, but i have taught in the sunday-school at home sometimes. indeed, i will do whatever you tell me." "oh! but this is not at all like a sunday-school. they are a very rough, wild lot." "the rougher the better," said tom; "i shall know how to manage them then." "but you must not really be rough with them." "no, i won't; i didn't mean that," said tom, hastily, for he saw his mistake at once. "i shall take it as a great favor, if you will let me go with you to-night. you won't repent it, i'm sure." grey did not seem at all sure of this, but saw no means of getting rid of his companion, and so they walked on together and turned down a long, narrow court in the lowest part of the town. at the doors of the houses laboring men, mostly irish, lounged or stood about, smoking and talking to one another, or to the women who leant out of the windows, or passed to and fro on their various errands of business or pleasure. a group of half-grown lads were playing at pitch-farthing at the farther end, and all over the court were scattered children of all ages, ragged and noisy little creatures most of them, on whom paternal and maternal admonitions and cuffs were constantly being expended, and to all appearances in vain. at the sight of grey a shout arose amongst the smaller boys, of "here's the teacher!" and they crowded around him and tom as they went up the court. several of the men gave him a half-surly half-respectful nod, as he passed along, wishing them good evening. the rest merely stared at him and his companion. they stopped at a door which grey opened, and led the way into the passage of an old tumble-down cottage, on the ground floor of which were two low rooms which served for the school-rooms. a hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who kept the house, was waiting, and said to grey, "mr. jones told me to say, sir, he would not be here to night, as he has got a bad fever case--so you was to take only the lower classes, sir, he said; and the policeman would be near to keep out the big boys if you wanted him. shall i go and tell him to step round, sir?" grey looked embarrassed for a moment, and then said, "no, never mind; you can go;" and then turning to tom, added, "jones is the curate; he won't be here to-night; and some of the bigger boys are very noisy and troublesome, and only come to make a noise. however, if they come we must do our best." meantime, the crowd of small ragged urchins had filled the room, and were swarming on to the benches and squabbling for the copy-books which were laid out on the thin desks. grey set to work to get them into order, and soon the smallest were draughted off into the inner room with slates and spelling-books, and the bigger ones, some dozen in number, settled to their writing. tom seconded him so readily, and seemed so much at home, that grey felt quite relieved. "you seem to get on capitally," he said; "i will go into the inner room to the little ones, and you stay and take these. there are the class-books when they have done their copies," and so went off into the inner room and closed the door. tom set himself to work with a will, and as he bent over one after another of the pupils, and guided the small grubby hands which clutched the inky pens with cramped fingers, and went spluttering and blotching along the lines of the copy-books, felt the yellow scales dropping from his eyes, and more warmth coming back into his heart than he had known there for many a day. all went on well inside, notwithstanding a few small out-breaks between the scholars, but every now and then mud was thrown against the window, and noises outside and in the passages threatened some interruption. at last, when the writing was finished, the copy-books cleared away, and the class-books distributed, the door opened, and two or three big boys of fifteen or sixteen lounged in, with their hands in their pockets and their caps on. there was an insolent look about them which set tom's back up at once; however, he kept his temper, made them take their caps off, and, as they said they wanted to read with the rest, let them take their places on the benches. but now came the tug of war. he could not keep his eyes on the whole lot at once, and, no sooner did he fix his attention on the stammering reader for the time being and try to help him, than anarchy broke out all round him. small stones and shot were thrown about, and cries arose from the smaller fry, "please, sir, he's been and poured some ink down my back," "he's stole my book, sir," "he's gone and stuck a pin in my leg." the evil-doers were so cunning that it was impossible to catch them; but as he was hastily turning in his own mind what to do, a cry arose, and one of the benches went suddenly over backwards on to the floor, carrying with it its whole freight of boys, except two of the bigger ones, who were the evident authors of the mishap. tom sprang at the one nearest him, seized him by the collar, hauled him into the passage, and sent him out of the street-door with a sound kick; and then rushing back, caught hold of the second, who went down on his back and clung round tom's legs, shouting for help to his remaining companions, and struggling and swearing. it was all the work of a moment, and now the door opened, and grey appeared from the inner room. tom left off hauling his prize towards the passage, and felt and looked very foolish. "this fellow, and another whom i have turned out, upset that form with all the little boys on it," he said, apologetically. "it's a lie, t'wasn't me," roared the captive, to whom tom administered a sound box on the ear, while the small boys, rubbing different parts of their bodies, chorused, "'twas him, teacher, 'twas him," and heaped further charges of pinching, pin-sticking, and other atrocities on him. grey astonished tom by his firmness. "don't strike him again," he said. "now, go out at once, or i will send for your father." the fellow got up, and, after standing a moment and considering his chance of successful resistance to physical force in the person of tom, and moral in that of grey, slunk out. "you must go, too, murphy," went on grey to another of the intruders. "oh, your honor let me bide. i'll be as quiet as a mouse," pleaded the irish boy; and tom would have given in, but grey was unyielding. "you were turned out last week, and mr. jones said you were not to come back for a fortnight." "well, good night to your honor," said murphy, and took himself off. "the rest may stop," said grey. "you had better take the inner room now; i will stay here." "i'm very sorry," said tom. "you couldn't help it; no one can manage those two. murphy is quite different, but i should have spoiled him if i had let him stay now." the remaining half hour passed off quietly. tom retired into the inner room, and took up grey's lesson, which he had been reading to the boys from a large bible with pictures. out of consideration for their natural and acquired restlessness, the little fellows, who were all between eight and eleven years old, were only kept sitting at their pothooks and spelling for the first half hour or so, and then were allowed to crowd round the teacher, who read and talked to them, and showed them the pictures. tom found the bible open at the story of the prodigal son, and read it out to them as they clustered round his knees. some of the outside ones fidgeted about a little, but those close round him listened with ears, and eyes, and bated breath; and two little blue-eyed boys, without shoes--their ragged clothes concealed by long pinafores which their widowed mother had put on clean to send them to school--leaned against him and looked up in his face, and his heart warmed to the touch and the look. "please, teacher, read it again," they said when he finished; so he read it again and sighed when grey came in and lighted a candle (for the room was getting dark) and said it was time for prayers. a few collects, and the lord's prayer, in which all the young voices joined, drowning for a minute the noises from the court outside, finished the evening's schooling. the children trooped out, and grey went to speak to the woman who kept the house. tom, left to himself, felt strangely happy, and, for something to do, took the snuffers and commenced a crusade against a large family of bugs, who, taking advantage of the quiet, came cruising out of a crack in the otherwise neatly papered wall. some dozen had fallen on his spear when grey reappeared, and was much horrified at the sight. he called the woman and told her to have the hole carefully fumigated and mended. "i thought we had killed them all long ago," he said; "but the place is tumbling down." "it looks well enough," said tom. "yes, we have it kept as tidy as possible. it ought to be at least a little better than what the children see at home." and so they left the school and court and walked up to college. "where are you going?" tom said, as they entered the gate. "to hardy's rooms; will you come?" "no, not to-night," said tom; "i know that you want to be reading; i should only interrupt." "well, good night, then," said grey, and went on, leaving tom standing in the porch. on the way up from the school he had almost made up his mind to go to hardy's rooms that night. he longed and yet feared to do so; and, on the whole, was not sorry for an excuse. their first meeting must be alone, and it would be a very embarrassing one, for him at any rate. grey, he hoped, would tell hardy of his visit to the school, and that would show that he was coming round, and make the meeting easier. his talk with grey, too, had removed one great cause of uneasiness from his mind. it was now quite clear that he had no suspicion of the quarrel, and, if hardy had not told him, no one else could know of it. altogether, he strolled into the quadrangle a happier and sounder man than he had been since his first visit to "the choughs", and looked up and answered with his old look and voice when he heard his name called from one of the first-floor windows. the hailer was drysdale, who was leaning out in lounging coat and velvet cap, and enjoying a cigar as usual, in the midst of the flowers of his hanging garden. "you've heard the good news, i suppose?" "no, what do you mean?" "why, blake has got the latin verse." "hurrah! i'm so glad." "come up and have a weed." tom ran up the staircase and into drysdale's rooms, and was leaning out of the window at his side in another minute. "what does he get by it?" he said, "do you know?" "no; some books bound in russia, i dare say, with the oxford arms, and 'dominus illuminatio mea,' on the back." "no money?" "not much--perhaps a ten'ner," answered drysdale, "but no end of [greek text] kudoz, i suppose." "it makes it look well for his first, don't you think? but i wish he had got some money for it. i often feel very uncomfortable about that bill, don't you?" "not i, what's the good? it's nothing when you are used to it. besides, it don't fall due for another six weeks." "but if blake can't meet it then?" said tom. "well, it will be vacation, and i'll trouble greasy benjamin to catch me then." "but you don't mean to say you won't pay it?" said tom in horror. "pay it! you may trust benjamin for that. he'll pull round his little usuries somehow." "only we have promised to pay on a certain day, you know." "oh, of course, that's the form. that only means that he can't pinch us sooner." "i do hope, though, drysdale, that it will be paid on the day," said tom, who could not quite swallow the notion of forfeiting his word, even though it were only a promise to pay to a scoundrel. "all right. you've nothing to do with it, remember. he won't bother you. besides, you can plead infancy, if the worst comes to the worst. there's such a queer old bird gone to your friend hardy's rooms." the mention of hardy broke the disagreeable train of thought into which tom was falling, and he listened eagerly as drysdale went on. "it was about half an hour ago. i was looking out here, and saw an old fellow come hobbling into quad on two sticks, in a shady blue uniform coat and white trousers. the kind of old boy you read about in books, you know. commodore trunnion, or uncle toby, or one of that sort. well, i watched him backing and filling about the quad, and trying one staircase and another; but there was nobody about. so down i trotted and went up to him for fun, and to see what he was after. it was as good as a play, if you could have seen it. i was ass enough to take off my cap and make a low bow as i came up to him, and he pulled off his uniform cap in return, and we stood there bowing to one another. he was a thorough old gentleman, and i felt rather foolish for fear that he should see that i expected a lark when i came out. but i don't think he had an idea of it, and only set my capping him down to the wonderful good manners of the college. so we got quite thick, and i piloted him across to hardy's staircase in the back quad. i wanted him to come up and quench, but he declined, with many apologies. i'm sure he is a character." "he must be hardy's father," said tom. "i shouldn't wonder. but is his father in the navy?" "he is a retired captain." "then no doubt you're right. what shall we do? have a hand at picquet. some men will be here directly. only for love." tom declined the proffered game, and went off soon after to his own rooms, a happier man than he had been since his first night at "the choughs." chapter xx--the reconciliation tom rose in the morning with a presentiment that all would be over now before long, and to make his presentiment come true, resolved, before night, to go himself to hardy and give in. all he reserved to himself was the liberty to do it in the manner which would be least painful to himself. he was greatly annoyed, therefore, when hardy did not appear at morning chapel; for he had fixed on the leaving chapel as the least unpleasant time in which to begin his confession, and was going to catch hardy then, and follow him to his rooms. all the morning, too, in answer to his inquiries by his scout wiggins, hardy's scout replied that his master was out, or busy. he did not come to the boats, he did not appear in hall; so that, after hall, when tom went back to his own rooms, as he did at once, instead of sauntering out of college, or going to a wine party, he was quite out of heart at his bad luck, and began to be afraid that he would have to sleep on his unhealed wound another night. he sat down in an arm-chair, and fell to musing, and thought how wonderfully his life had been changed in these few short weeks. he could hardly get back across the gulf which separated him from the self who had come back into those rooms after easter, full of anticipations of the pleasures and delights of the coming summer term and vacation. to his own surprise he didn't seem much to regret the loss of his _chateaux en espange_, and felt a sort of grim satisfaction in their utter overthrow. while occupied with these thoughts, he heard talking on his stairs, accompanied by a strange lumbering tread. these came nearer; and at last stopped just outside his door, which opened in another moment, and wiggins announced-- "capting hardy, sir." tom jumped to his legs, and felt himself colour painfully. "here, wiggins," said he, "wheel round that arm-chair for captain hardy. i am so very glad to see you, sir," and he hastened round himself to meet the old gentleman, holding out his hand, which the visitor took very cordially, as soon as he had passed his heavy stick to his left hand, and balanced himself safely upon it. "thank you, sir; thank you," said the old man after a few moments' pause, "i find your companion ladders rather steep;" and then he sat down with some difficulty. tom took the captain's stick and undress cap, and put them reverentially on his sideboard; and then, to get rid of some little nervousness which he couldn't help feeling, bustled to his cupboard, and helped wiggins to place glasses and biscuits on the table. "now, sir, what will you take? i have port, sherry and whisky here, and can get you anything else. wiggins, run to hinton's and get some dessert." "no dessert, thank you, for me," said the captain; "i'll take a cup of coffee, or a glass of grog, or anything you have ready. don't open wine for me, pray, sir." "oh, it is all the better for being opened," said tom, working away at a bottle of sherry with his corkscrew, "and wiggins, get some coffee and anchovy toast in a quarter of an hour; and just put out some tumblers and toddy ladles, and bring up boiling water with the coffee." while making his hospitable preparations, tom managed to get many side glances at the old man, who sat looking steadily and abstractly before him into the fireplace, and was much struck and touched by the picture. the sailor wore a well-preserved old undress uniform coat and waistcoat, and white drill trousers; he was a man of middle height, but gaunt and massive, and tom recognized the framework of the long arms and grand shoulders and chest which he had so often admired in the son. his right leg was quite stiff from an old wound on the knee cap; the left eye was sightless, and the scar of a cutlass travelled down the drooping lid and on to the weather-beaten cheek below. his head was high and broad, his hair and whiskers silver white, while the shaggy eyebrows were scarcely grizzled. his face was deeply lined, and the long, clean-cut lower jaw, and drawn look about the mouth, gave a grim expression to the face at the first glance, which wore off as you looked, leaving, however, on most men who thought about it, the impression which fastened on our hero, "an awkward man to have met at the head of boarders towards the end of the great war." in a minute or two, tom, having completed his duties, faced the old sailor, much reassured by his covert inspection; and, pouring himself out a glass of sherry, pushed the decanter across, and drank to his guest. "your health, sir," he said, "and thank you very much for coming up to see me." "thank _you_, sir," said the captain, rousing himself and filling, "i drink to you, sir. the fact is, i took a great liberty in coming up to your rooms in this off-hand way, without calling or sending up, but you'll excuse it in an old sailor." here the captain took to his glass, and seemed a little embarrassed. tom felt embarrassed also, feeling that something was coming, and could only think of asking how the captain liked the sherry. the captain liked the sherry very much. then, suddenly clearing his throat, he went on. "i felt, sir, that you would excuse me, for i have a favor to ask of you." he paused again, while tom muttered something about "great pleasure," and then went on. "you know my son, mr. brown?" "yes, sir; he has been my best friend up here; i owe more to him than to any man in oxford." the captain's eye gleamed with pleasure as he replied, "jack is a noble fellow, mr. brown, though i say it who am his father. i've often promised myself a cruise to oxford since he has been here. i came here at last yesterday, and have been having a long yarn with him. i found there was something on his mind. he can't keep anything from his old father; and so i drew out of him that he loves you as david loved jonathan. he made my old eye very dim while he was talking of you, mr. brown. and then i found that you two are not as you used to be. some coldness sprung up between you; but what about i couldn't get at. young men are often hasty--i know i was, forty years ago--jack says he has been hasty with you. now, that boy is all i have in the world, mr. brown. i know my boy's friend will like to send an old man home with a light heart. so i made up my mind to come over to you and ask you to make it up with jack. i gave him the slip after dinner and here i am." "oh, sir, did he really ask you to come to me?" "no, sir," said the captain, "he did not--i am sorry for it--i think jack must be in the wrong, for he said he had been too hasty, and yet he wouldn't ask me to come to you and make it up. but he is young, sir; young and proud. he said he couldn't move in it, his mind was made up; he was wretched enough over it, but the move must come from you. and so that's the favor i have to ask, that you will make it up with jack. it isn't often a young man can do such a favor to an old one--to an old father with one son. you'll not feel the worse for having done it, if it's ever so hard to do, when you come to be my age." and the old man looked wistfully across the table, the muscles about his mouth quivering as he ended. tom sprang from his chair, and grasped the old sailor's hand, as he felt the load pass out of his heart. "favour, sir!" he said, "i have been a mad fool enough already in this business--i should have been a double-dyed scoundrel, like enough, by this time but for your son, and i've quarrelled with him for stopping me at the pit's mouth. favor! if god will, i'll prove somehow where the favor lies, and what i owe to him; and to you, sir, for coming to me tonight. stop here two minutes, sir, and i'll run down and bring him over." tom tore away to hardy's door and knocked. there was no pausing in the passage now. "come in." he opened the door but did not enter, and for a moment or two could not speak. the rush of associations which the sight of the well-known old rickety furniture, and the figure which was seated, book in hand, with its back to the door and its feet against one side of the mantel-piece, called up, choked him. "_may_ i come in?" he said at last. he saw the figure give a start, and the book trembled a little, but then came the answer, slow but firm-- "i have not changed my opinion." "no; dear old boy, but i have," and tom rushed across to his friend, dearer than ever to him now, and threw his arm round his neck; and, if the un-english truth must out had three parts of a mind to kiss the rough face which was now working with strong emotion. "thank god!" said hardy, as he grasped the hand which hung over his shoulder. "and now come over to my room; your father is there waiting for us." "what, the dear old governor? that's what he has been after, is it? i couldn't think where he could have 'hove to,' as he would say." hardy put on his cap, and the two hurried back to tom's rooms, the lightest hearts in the university of oxford. chapter xxi--captain hardy entertained by st. ambrose. there are moments in the life of the most self-contained and sober of us all, when we fairly bubble over, like a full bottle of champagne with the cork out; and this was one of them for our hero who however, be it remarked, was neither self-contained nor sober by nature. when they got back to his rooms, he really hardly knew what to do to give vent to his lightness of heart; and hardy, though self-contained and sober enough in general, was on this occasion almost as bad as his friend. they rattled on, talked out the thing which came uppermost, whatever the subject might chance to be; but whether grave or gay, it always ended after a minute or two in jokes not always good, and chaff, and laughter. the poor captain was a little puzzled at first, and made one or two endeavours to turn the talk into improving channels. but very soon he saw that jack was thoroughly happy, and that was always enough for him. so he listened to one and the other, joining cheerily in the laugh whenever he could; and when he couldn't catch the joke, looking like a benevolent old lion, and making as much belief that he had understood it all as the simplicity and truthfulness of his character would allow. the spirits of the two friends seemed inexhaustible. they lasted out the bottle of sherry which tom had uncorked, and the remains of a bottle of his famous port. he had tried hard to be allowed to open a fresh bottle, but the captain had made such a point of his not doing so, that he had given in for hospitality's sake. they lasted out the coffee and anchovy toast; after which the captain made a little effort at moving, which was supplicatingly stopped by tom. "oh, pray don't go, captain hardy. i haven't been so happy for months. besides, i must brew you a glass of grog. i pride myself on my brew. your son there will tell you that i am a dead hand at it. here, wiggins, a lemon!" shouted tom. "well, for once in a way, i suppose, eh, jack?" said the captain, looking at his son. "oh yes, father. you mayn't know it, brown, but, if there is one thing harder to do than another, it is to get an old sailor like my father to take a glass of grog at night." the captain laughed a little laugh, and shook his thick stick at his son, who went on. "and as for asking him to take a pipe with it--" "dear me," said tom, "i quite forgot. i really beg your pardon, captain hardy; and he put down the lemon he was squeezing, and produced a box of cigars. "it's all jack's nonsense, sir," said the captain, holding out his hand, nevertheless, for the box. "now, father, don't be absurd," interrupted hardy, snatching the box away from him. "you might as well give him a glass of absinthe. he is church-warden at home and can't smoke anything but a long clay." "i'm very sorry i haven't one here, but i can send out in a minute." and tom was making for the door to shout for wiggins. "no, don't call. i'll fetch some from my rooms." when hardy left the room, tom squeezed away at his lemon, and was preparing himself for a speech to captain hardy full of confession and gratitude. but the captain was before him, and led the conversation into a most unexpected channel. "i suppose, now, mr. brown," he began, "you don't find any difficulty in construing your thucydides?" "indeed, i do, sir," said tom, laughing. "i find him a very tough old customer, except in the simplest narrative." "for my part," said the captain, "i can't get on at all, i find, without a translation. but you see, sir, i had none of the advantages which you young men have up here. in fact, mr. brown, i didn't begin greek till jack was nearly ten years old." the captain in his secret heart was prouder of his partial victory over the greek tongue in his old age, than of his undisputed triumphs over the french in his youth, and was not averse to talking of it. "i wonder that you ever began it at all, sir," said tom. "you wouldn't wonder if you knew how an uneducated man like me feels, when he comes to a place like oxford." "uneducated, sir!" said tom. "why your education has been worth twice as much, i'm sure, as any we get here." "no, sir; we never learnt anything in the navy when i was a youngster, except a little rule-of-thumb mathematics. one picked up a sort of smattering of a language or two knocking about the world, but no grammatical knowledge, nothing scientific. if a boy doesn't get a method, he is beating to windward in a crank craft all his life. he hasn't got any regular place to stow away what he gets into his brains, and so it lies tumbling about in the hold, and he loses it, or it gets damaged and is never ready for use. you see what i mean, mr. brown?" "yes, sir. but i'm afraid we don't all of us get much method up here. do you really enjoy reading thucydides now, captain hardy?" "indeed i do, sir, very much," said the captain. "there's a great deal in his history to interest an old sailor, you know. i dare say, now, that i enjoy those parts about the sea-fights more than you do." the captain looked at tom as if he had made an audacious remark. "i am sure you do, sir," said tom, smiling. "because you see, mr. brown," said the captain, "when one has been in that sort of thing oneself, one likes to read how people in other times managed, and to think what one would have done in their place. i don't believe that the greeks just at that time were very resolute fighters, though. nelson or collingwood would have finished that war in a year or two." "not with triremes, do you think, sir?" said tom. [illustration: ] "yes, sir, with any vessels which were to be had," said the captain. "but you are right about triremes. it has always been a great puzzle to me how those triremes could have been worked. how do you understand the three banks of oars, mr. brown?" "well, sir, i suppose they must have been one above the other somehow." "but the upper bank must have had oars twenty feet long, and more, in that case," said the captain. "you must allow for leverage, you see." "of course, sir. when one comes to think of it, it isn't easy to see how they were manned and worked," said tom. "now my notion about triremes--" began the captain, holding the head of his stick with both hands, and looking across at tom. "why, father!" cried hardy, returning at the moment with the pipes, and catching the captain's last word, "on one of your hobby horses already! you're not safe!--i can't leave you for two minutes. here's a long pipe for you. how in the world did he get on triremes?" "i hardly know," said tom; "but i want to hear what captain hardy thinks about them. you were saying, sir, that the upper oars must have been twenty feet long at least." "my notion is--" said the captain, taking the pipe and tobacco-pouch from his son's hand. "stop one moment," said hardy; "i found blake at my rooms, and asked him to come over here. you don't object?" "object, my dear fellow! i'm much obliged to you. now, hardy, would you like to have anyone else? i can send in a minute." "no one, thank you." "you won't stand on ceremony now, will you, with me?" said tom. "you see i haven't." "and you never will again?" "no, never. now, father, you can heave ahead about those oars." the captain went on charging his pipe, and proceeded: "you see, mr. brown, they must have been at least twenty feet long, because, if you allow the lowest bank of oars to have been three feet above the water-line, which even jack thinks they must have been--" "certainly. that height at least to do any good," said hardy. "not that i think jack's opinion worth much on the point," went on his father. "it's very ungrateful of you, then, to say so, father," said hardy, "after all the time i've wasted trying to make it all clear to you." "i don't say that jack's is not a good opinion on most things, mr. brown," said the captain; "but he is all at sea about triremes. he believes that the men of the uppermost bank rowed somehow like lightermen on the thames, walking up and down." "i object to your statement of my faith, father," said hardy. "now you know, jack, you have said so, often." "i have said they must have stood up to row, and so--" "you would have had awful confusion, jack. you must have order between decks when you're going into action. besides, the rowers had cushions." "that old heresy of yours again." "well, but jack, they _had_ cushions. didn't the rowers who were marched across the isthmus to man the ships which were to surprise the piraeus, carry their oars, thongs and cushions?" "if they did, your conclusion doesn't follow, father, that they sat on them to row." "you hear, mr. brown," said the captain; "he admits my point about the cushions." "oh, father, i hope you used to fight the french more fairly," said hardy. "but didn't he? didn't jack admit my point?" "implicitly, sir, i think," said tom, catching hardy's eye, which was dancing with fun. "of course he did. you hear that, jack. now my notion about triremes--" a knock at the door interrupted the captain again, and blake came in and was introduced. "mr. blake is almost our best scholar, father; you should appeal to him about the cushions." "i am very proud to make your acquaintance, sir," said the captain; "i have heard my son speak of you often." "we were talking about triremes," said tom; "captain hardy thinks the oars must have been twenty feet long." "not easy to come forward well with that sort of oar," said blake; "they must have pulled a slow stroke." "our torpid would have bumped the best of them," said hardy. "i don't think they could have made more than six knots," said the captain; "but yet they used to sink one another, and a light boat going only six knots couldn't break another in two amid-ships. it's a puzzling subject, mr. blake." "it is, sir," said mr. blake; "if we only had some of their fo'castle songs we should know more about it. i'm afraid they had no dibdin." "i wish you would turn one of my father's favorite songs into anapaests for him," said hardy. "what are they?" said blake. "'tom bowling,' or 'the wind that blows, and the ship that goes, and the lass that loves a sailor.'" "by the way, why shouldn't we have a song?" said tom. "what do you say, captain hardy?" the captain winced a little as he saw his chance of expounding his notion as to triremes slipping away, but answered: "by all means, sir; jack must sing for me though. did you ever hear him sing 'tom bowling!'" "no, never, sir. why, hardy, you never told me you could sing." "you never asked me," said hardy, laughing; "but if i sing for my father, he must spin us a yarn." "oh yes; will you, sir!" "i'll do my best, mr. brown; but i don't know that you'll care to listen to my old yarns. jack thinks everybody must like them as well as he, who used to hear them when he was a child." "thank you, sir; that's famous. now hardy, strike up." "after you. you must set the example in your own rooms." so tom sang his song. and the noise brought drysdale and another man up, who were loitering in quad on the lookout for something to do. drysdale and the captain recognised one another, and were friends at once. and then hardy sang "tom bowling," in a style which astonished the rest not a little, and as usual nearly made his father cry; and blake sang, and drysdale and the other man. and then the captain was called on for his yarn; and, the general voice being for "something that had happened to him," "the strangest thing that had ever happened to him at sea," the old gentleman laid down his pipe and sat up in his chair with his hands on his stick and began. the captain's story it will be forty years ago next month since the ship i was then in came home from the west indies station, and was paid off. i had nowhere in particular to go just then, and so was very glad to get a letter, the morning after i went ashore at portsmouth, asking me to go down to plymouth for a week or so. it came from an old sailor, a friend of my family, who had been commodore of the fleet. he lived at plymouth; he was a thorough old sailor--what you young men would call "an old salt"--and couldn't live out of sight of the blue sea and the shipping. it is a disease that a good many of us take who have spent our best years on the sea. i have it myself--a sort of feeling that we want to be under another kind of providence, when we look out and see a hill on this side and a hill on that. it's wonderful to see the trees come out and the corn grow, but then it doesn't come so home to an old sailor. i know that we're all just as much under the lord's hand on shore as at sea; but you can't read in a book you haven't been used to, and they that go down to the sea in ships, they see the works of the lord and his wonders in the deep. it isn't their fault if they don't see his wonders on the land so easily as other people. but, for all that, there's no man enjoys a cruise in the country more than a sailor. it's forty years ago since i started for plymouth, but i haven't forgotten the road a bit or how beautiful it was; all through the new forest, and over salisbury plain, and then by the mail to exeter, and through devonshire. it took me three days to get to plymouth, for we didn't get about so quick in those days. the commodore was very kind to me when i got there, and i went about with him to the ships in the bay, and through the dock-yard, and picked up a good deal that was of use to me afterwards. i was a lieutenant in those days, and had seen a good deal of service, and i found the old commodore had a great nephew whom he had adopted, and had set his whole heart upon. he was an old bachelor himself, but the boy had come to live with him, and was to go to sea; so he wanted to put him under some one who would give an eye to him for the first year or two. he was a light slip of a boy then, fourteen years old, with deep set blue eyes and long eyelashes, and cheeks like a girl's, but brave as a lion and as merry as a lark. the old gentleman was very pleased to see that we took to one another. we used to bathe and boat together; and he was never tired of hearing my stories about the great admirals, and the fleet, and the stations i had been on. well, it was agreed that i should apply for a ship again directly, and go up to london with a letter to the admiralty from the commodore, to help things on. after a month or two i was appointed to a brig, lying at spithead; and so i wrote off to the commodore and he got his boy a midshipman's berth on board, and brought him to portsmouth himself a day or two before we sailed for the mediterranean. the old gentleman came on board to see the boy's hammock slung, and went below into the cockpit to make sure that all was right. he only left us by the pilot boat when we were well out in the channel. he was very low at parting with his boy, but bore up as well as he could; and we promised to write to him from gibraltar, and as often afterwards as we had a chance. i was soon as proud and fond of little tom holdsworth as if he had been my own younger brother; and, for that matter, so were all the crew, from our captain to the cook's boy. he was such a gallant youngster, and yet so gentle. in one cutting-out business we had, he climbed over the boatswain's shoulder, and was almost first on deck; how he came out of it without a scratch i can't think to this day. but he hadn't a bit of bluster in him, and was as kind as a woman to anyone who was wounded or down with sickness. after we had been out about a year we were sent to cruise off malta, on the look-out for the french fleet. it was a long business, and the post wasn't so good then as it is now. we were sometimes for months without getting a letter, and knew nothing of what was happening at home, or anywhere else. we had a sick time too on board, and at last he got a fever. he bore up against it like a man, and wouldn't knock off duty for a long time. he was midshipman of my watch; so i used to make him turn in early, and tried to ease things to him as much as i could; but he didn't pick up, and i began to get very anxious about him. i talked to the doctor, and turned matters over in my own mind, and at last i came to think he wouldn't get any better unless he could sleep out of the cockpit. so one night, the th of october it was--i remember it well enough, better than i remember any day since; it was a dirty night, blowing half a gale of wind from the southward, and we were under close-reefed top-sails--i had the first watch, and at nine o'clock i sent him down to my cabin to sleep there, where he would be fresher and quieter, and i was to turn into his hammock when my watch was over. i was on deck three hours or so after he went down, and the weather got dirtier and dirtier, and the scud drove by, and the wind sang and hummed through the rigging--it made me melancholy to listen to it. i could think of nothing but the youngster down below, and what i should say to his poor old uncle if anything happened. well, soon after midnight i went down and turned into his hammock. i didn't go to sleep at once, for i remember very well listening to the creaking of the ship's timbers as she rose to the swell, and watching the lamp, which was slung from the ceiling, and gave light enough to make out the other hammocks swinging slowly altogether. at last, however, i dropped off, and i reckon i must have been asleep about an hour, when i woke with a start. for the first moment i didn't see anything but the swinging hammocks and the lamp; but then suddenly i became aware that some one was standing by my hammock, and i saw the figure as plainly as i see any one of you now, for the foot of the hammock was close to the lamp, and the light struck full across on the head and shoulders, which was all that i could see of him. there he was, the old commodore; his grizzled hair coming out from under a red woolen nightcap, and his shoulders wrapped in an old thread-bare blue dressing-gown which i had often seen him in. his face looked pale and drawn, and there was a wistful disappointed look about the eyes. i was so taken aback i could not speak, but lay watching him. he looked full at my face once or twice, but didn't seem to recognise me; and, just as i was getting back my tongue and going to speak, he said slowly: "where's tom? this is his hammock. i can't see tom;" and then he looked vaguely about and passed away somehow, but how, i couldn't see. in a moment or two i jumped out and hurried to my cabin, but young holdsworth was fast asleep. i sat down, and wrote down just what i had seen, making a note of the exact time, twenty minutes to two. i didn't turn in again, but sat watching the youngster. when he woke i asked him if he had heard anything of his great uncle by the last mail. yes, he had heard; the old gentleman was rather feeble, but nothing particular the matter. i kept my own counsel and never told a soul in the ship; and, when the mail came to hand a few days afterwards with a letter from the commodore to his nephew, dated late in september, saying that he was well, i thought the figure by my hammock must have been all my own fancy. however, by the next mail came the news of the old commodore's death. it had been a very sudden break up, his executor said. he had left all his property, which was not much, to his great nephew, who was to get leave to come home as soon as he could. the first time we touched at malta, tom holdsworth left us and went home. we followed about two years afterwards, and the first thing i did after landing was to find out the commodore's executor. he was a quiet, dry little plymouth lawyer, and very civilly answered all my questions about the last days of my old friend. at last i asked him to tell me as near as he could the time of his death; and he put on his spectacles, and got his diary, and turned over the leaves. i was quite nervous till he looked up and said,--"twenty-five minutes to two, sir, a.m., on the morning of october st; or it might be a few minutes later." "how do you mean, sir?" i asked. "well," he said, "it is an odd story. the doctor was sitting with me, watching the old man, and, as i tell you, at twenty-five minutes to two, he got up and said it was all over. we stood together, talking in whispers for, it might be, four or five minutes, when the body seemed to move. he was an odd old man, you know, the commodore, and we never could get him properly to bed, but he lay in his red nightcap and old dressing-gown, with a blanket over him. it was not a pleasant sight, i can tell you, sir. i don't think one of you gentlemen, who are bred to face all manner of dangers, would have liked it. as i was saying, the body first moved, and then sat up, propping itself behind with its hands. the eyes were wide open, and he looked at us for a moment, and said slowly, 'i've been to the mediterranean, but i didn't see tom.' then the body sank back again, and this time the old commodore was really dead. but it was not a pleasant thing to happen to one, sir. i do not remember anything like it in my forty years' practice." chapter xxii--departures expected and unexpected there was a silence of a few seconds after the captain had finished his story, all the men sitting with eyes fixed on him, and not a little surprised at the results of their call. drysdale was the first to break the silence, which he did with a "by george!" and a long respiration; but, as he did not seem prepared with any further remark, tom took up the running. "what a strange story," he said; "and that really happened to you, captain hardy?" "to me sir, in the mediterranean, more than forty years ago." "the strangest thing about it is that the old commodore should have managed to get all the way to the ship, and then not have known where his nephew was," said blake. "he only knew his nephew's berth, you see, sir," said the captain. "but he might have beat about through the ship till he had found him." "you must remember that he was at his last breath, sir," said the captain; "you can't expect a man to have his head clear at such a moment." "not a man, perhaps; but i should a ghost," said blake. "time was everything to him," went on the captain, without regarding the interruption, "space nothing. but the strangest part of it is that _i_ should have seen the figure at all. it's true i had been thinking of the old uncle, because of the boy's illness; but i can't suppose he was thinking of me, and, as i say, he never recognized me. i have taken a great deal of interest in such matters since that time, but i have never met with just such a case as this." "no, that is the puzzle. one can fancy his appearing to his nephew well enough," said tom. "we can't account for these things, or for a good many other things which ought to be quite as startling, only we see them every day. but now i think it is time for us to be going, eh jack?" and the captain and his son rose to go. tom saw that it would be no kindness to them to try to prolong the sitting, and so he got up too, to accompany them to the gates. this broke up the party. before going, drysdale, after whispering to tom, went up to captain hardy, and said,-- "i want to ask you to do me a favour, sir. will you and your son breakfast with me to-morrow?" "we shall be very happy, sir," said the captain. "i think, father, you had better breakfast with me, quietly. we are much obliged to mr. drysdale, but i can't give up a whole morning. besides, i have several things to talk to you about." "nonsense, jack," blurted out the old sailor, "leave your books alone for one morning. i'm come up here to enjoy myself, and see your friends." hardy gave a slight shrug of his shoulder at the word friends, and drysdale, who saw it, looked a little confused. he had never asked hardy to his rooms before. the captain saw that something was the matter, and hastened in his own way to make all smooth again. "never mind jack, sir," he said, "he shall come. it's a great treat to me to be with young men, especially when they are friends of my boy." "i hope you'll come as a personal favor to me," said drysdale, turning to hardy. "brown, you'll bring him, won't you?" "oh yes, i'm sure he'll come," said tom. "that's all right. good night, then;" and drysdale went off. hardy and tom accompanied the captain to the gate. during his passage across the two quadrangles, the old gentleman was full of the praises of the men and of protestations as to the improvement in social manners and customs since his day, when there could have been no such meeting, he declared, without blackguardism and drunkenness, at least among young officers; but then they had less to think of than oxford men, no proper education. and so the captain was evidently traveling back into the great trireme question when they reached the gate. as they could go no farther with him, however, he had to carry away his solution of the three-banks-of-oars difficulty in his own bosom to the "mitre". "don't let us go in," said tom, as the gate closed on the captain, and they turned back into the quadrangle, "let us take a turn or two;" so they walked up and down the inner quad in the starlight. just at first they were a good deal embarrassed and confused; but before long, though not without putting considerable force on himself, tom got back into something like his old familiar way of unbosoming himself to his re-found friend, and hardy showed more than his old anxiety to meet him half-way. his ready and undisguised sympathy soon dispersed the remaining clouds which were still hanging between them; and tom found it almost a pleasure, instead of a dreary task, as he had anticipated, to make a full confession, and state the case clearly and strongly against himself to one who claimed neither by word nor look the least superiority over him, and never seemed to remember that he himself had been ill-treated in the matter. "he had such a chance of lecturing me, and didn't do it," thought tom afterwards, when he was considering why he felt so very grateful to hardy. "it was so cunning of him, too. if he had begun lecturing, i should have begun to defend myself, and never have felt half such a scamp as i did when i was telling it all out to him in my own way." the result of hardy's management was that tom made a clean breast of it, telling everything down to his night at the ragged school; and what an effect his chance-opening of the "apology" had had on him. here for the first time hardy came in with his usual dry, keen voice. "you needn't have gone so far back as plato for that lesson." "i don't understand," said tom. "well, there's something about an indwelling spirit which guideth every man, in st. paul, isn't there?" "yes, a great deal," tom answered, after a pause; "but it isn't the same thing." "why not the same thing?" "oh, surely you must feel it. it would be almost blasphemy in us to talk as st. paul talked. it is much easier to face the notion, or the fact, of a daemon or spirit such as socrates felt to be in him, than to face what st. paul seems to be meaning." "yes, much easier. the only question is whether we will be heathens or not." "how do you mean?" said tom. "why, a spirit was speaking to socrates, and guiding him. he obeyed the guidance, but knew not whence it came. a spirit is striving with us too, and trying to guide us--we feel that just as much as he did. do we know what spirit it is? whence it comes? will we obey it? if we can't name it--know no more of it then he knew about his daemon, of course, we are in no better position than he--in fact, heathens." tom made no answer, and after a slight turn or two more, hardy said, "let us go in;" and they went to his rooms. when the candles were lighted, tom saw the array of books on the table, several of them open, and remembered how near the examinations were. "i see you want to work," he said. "well, good-night. i know how fellows like you hate being thanked--there, you needn't wince; i'm not going to try it on. the best way to thank you, i know, is to go straight for the future. i'll do that, please god, this time at any rate. now what ought i to do, hardy?" "well, it's very hard to say. i've thought about it a great deal this last few days--since i felt you coming round--but i can't make up my mind. how do you feel yourself? what's your own instinct about it?" "of course, i must break it all off at once, completely," said tom, mournfully, and half hoping that hardy might not agree with him. "of course," answered hardy, "but how?" "in the way that will pain her least. i would sooner lose my hand or bite my tongue off than that she should feel lowered, or lose any self-respect, you know," said tom, looking helplessly at his friend. "yes, that's all right--you must take all you can on your own shoulders. it must leave a sting though for both of you, manage how you will." "but i can't bear to let her think i don't care for her--i needn't do that--i can't do that." "i don't know what to advise. however, i believe i was wrong in thinking she cared for you so much. she will be hurt, of course--she can't help being hurt--but it won't be so bad as i used to think." tom made no answer; in spite of all his good resolutions, he was a little piqued at this last speech. hardy went on presently. "i wish she were well out of oxford. it's a bad town for a girl to be living in, especially as a barmaid in a place which we haunt. i don't know that she will take much harm now; but it's a very trying thing for a girl of that sort to be thrown every day amongst a dozen young men above her in rank, and not one in ten of whom has any manliness about him." "how do you mean--no manliness?" "i mean that a girl in her position isn't safe with us. if we had any manliness in us she would be--" "you can't expect all men to be blocks of ice, or milksops," said tom, who was getting nettled. "don't think that i meant you," said hardy; "indeed i didn't. but surely, think a moment; is it a proof of manliness that the pure and weak should fear you and shrink from you? which is the true--aye, and the brave--man, he who trembles before a woman or he before whom a woman trembles?" "neither," said tom; "but i see what you mean, and when you put it that way it's clear enough." "but you're wrong in saying 'neither' if you do see what i mean." tom was silent. "can there be any true manliness without purity?" went on hardy. tom drew a deep breath but said nothing. "and where then can you point to a place where there is so little manliness as here? it makes my blood boil to see what one must see every day. there are a set of men up here, and have been ever since i can remember the place, not one of whom can look at a modest woman without making her shudder." "there must always be some blackguards," said tom. "yes; but unluckily the blackguards set the fashion, and give the tone to public opinion. i'm sure both of us have seen enough to know perfectly well that up here, amongst us undergraduates, men who are deliberately and avowedly profligates, are rather admired and courted,--are said to know the world, and all that,--while a man who tries to lead a pure life, and makes no secret of it, is openly sneered at by them, looked down on more or less by the great mass of men, and, to use the word you used just now, thought a milksop by almost all." "i don't think it so bad as that," said tom. "there are many men who would respect him, though they might not be able to follow him." "of course, i never meant that there are not many such, but they don't set the fashion. i am sure i'm right. let us try it by the best test. haven't you and i in our secret hearts this cursed feeling, that the sort of man we are talking about is a milksop?" after a moment's thought, tom answered, "i am afraid i have, but i really am thoroughly ashamed of it now, hardy. but you haven't it. if you had it you could never have spoken to me as you have." "i beg your pardon. no man is more open than i to the bad influences of any place he lives in. god knows i am even as other men, and worse; for i have been taught ever since i could speak, that the crown of all real manliness, of all christian manliness, is purity." neither of the two spoke for some minutes. then hardy looked at his watch-- "past eleven," he said; "i must do some work. well, brown, this will be a day to be remembered in my calendar." tom wrung his hand, but did not venture to reply. as he got to the door, however, he turned back, and said,-- "do you think i ought to write to her?" "well, you can try. you'll find it a bitter business, i fear." "i'll try then. good night." tom went to his own rooms, and set to work to write his letter; and certainly found it as difficult and unpleasant a task as he had ever set himself to work upon. half a dozen times he tore up sheet after sheet of his attempts; and got up and walked about, and plunged and kicked mentally against the collar and traces in which he had harnessed himself by his friend's help,--trying to convince himself that hardy was a puritan, who had lived quite differently from other men, and knew nothing of what a man ought to do in a case like this. that after all very little harm had been done! the world would never go on at all if people were to be so scrupulous! probably, not another man in the college, except grey, perhaps, would think anything of what he had done!--done! why, what had he done? he couldn't be taking it more seriously if he had ruined her! at this point he managed to bring himself up sharp again more than once. "no thanks to _me_ at any rate, that she isn't ruined. had i any pity, any scruples? my god, what a mean, selfish rascal i have been!" and then he sat down again, and wrote, and scratched out what he had written, till the other fit came on, and something of the same process had to be gone through again. we must all recognize the process, and remember many occasions on which we have had to put bridle and bit on, and ride ourselves as if we had been horses or mules without understanding; and what a trying business it was--as bad as getting a young colt past a gipsy encampment in a narrow lane. at last, after many trials, tom got himself well in hand, and produced something which seemed to satisfy him; for, after reading it three or four times, he put it in a cover with a small case, which he produced from his desk, sealed it, directed it, and then went to bed. next morning, after chapel, he joined hardy, and walked to his rooms with him, and after a few words on indifferent matters, said-- "well, i wrote my letter last night." "did you satisfy yourself?" "yes, i think so. i don't know, though, on second thoughts; it was very tough work." "i was afraid you would find it so." "but wouldn't you like to see it?" "no thank you. i suppose my father will be here directly." "but i wish you would read it through," said tom, producing a copy. "well, if you wish it, i suppose i must; but i don't see how i can do any good." hardy took the letter, and sat down, and tom drew a chair close to him, and watched his face while he read:-- "it is best for us both that i should not see you any more, at least at present. i feel that i have done you a great wrong. i dare not say much to you, for fear of making that wrong greater. i cannot, i need not tell you how i despise myself now--how i long to make you any amends in my power. if ever i can be of any service to you, i do hope that nothing which has passed will hinder you from applying to me. you will not believe how it pains me to write this; how should you? i don't deserve that you should believe anything i say. i must seem heartless to you; i have been, i am heartless. i hardly know what i am writing. i shall long all my life to hear good news of you. i don't ask you to pardon me, but if you can prevail on yourself not to send back the enclosed, and will keep it as a small remembrance of one who is deeply sorry for the wrong he has done you, but who cannot and will not say he is sorry he ever met you, you will be adding another to the many kindnesses which i have to thank you for, and which i shall never forget." hardy read it over several times, as tom watched impatiently, unable to make out anything from his face. "what do you think? you don't think there's anything wrong in it, i hope?" "no, indeed, my dear fellow. i really think it does you credit. i don't know what else you could have said very well, only--" "only what?" "couldn't you have made it a little shorter?" "no, i couldn't; but you don't mean that. what did you mean by that 'only'?" "why, i don't think this letter will end the business; at least, i'm afraid not." "but what more could i have said?" "nothing _more_, certainly; but couldn't you have keep a little quieter--it's difficult to get the right word--a little cooler, perhaps. couldn't you have made the part about not seeing her again a little more decided?" "but you said i needn't pretend i didn't care for her." "did i?" "yes. besides, it would have been a lie." "i don't want you to tell a lie, certainly. but how about this 'small remembrance' that you speak of? what's that?" "oh, nothing; only a little locket i bought for her." "with some of your hair in it?" "well of course. come now, there's no harm in that." "no; no harm. do you think she will wear it?" "how can i tell?" "it may make her think it isn't all at an end, i'm afraid. if she always wears your hair--" "by jove, you're too bad, hardy. i wish you had had to write it yourself. it's all very easy to pull my letter to pieces, i dare say, but--" "i didn't want to read it, remember." "no more you did. i forgot. but i wish you would just write down now what you would have said." "yes, i think i see myself at it. by the way, of course you have sent your letter?" "yes, i sent it off before chapel." "i thought so. in that case i don't think we need trouble ourselves further with the form of the document." "oh, that's only shirking. how do you know i may not want it for the next occasion?" "no, no! don't let us begin laughing about it. a man never ought to have to write such letters twice in his life. if he has, why, he may get a good enough precedent for the second out of the 'complete letter writer'. "so you won't correct my copy?" "no, not i." at this point in their dialogue, captain hardy appeared on the scene, and the party went off to drysdale's to breakfast. captain hardy's visit to st. ambrose was a great success. he stayed some four or five days, and saw everything that was to be seen, and enjoyed it all in a sort of reverent way which was almost comic. tom devoted himself to the work of cicerone, and did his best to do the work thoroughly. oxford was a sort of utopia to the captain, who was resolutely bent on seeing nothing but beauty and learning and wisdom within the precincts of the university. on one or two occasions his faith was tried sorely by the sight of young gentlemen gracefully apparelled, dawdling along two together in low easy pony carriages, or lying on their backs in punts for hours, smoking, with not even a _bell's life_ by them to pass the time. dawdling and doing nothing were the objects of his special abhorrence; but, with this trifling exception, the captain continued steadily to behold towers and quadrangles, and chapels, and the inhabitants of the colleges, through rose-coloured spectacles. his respect for a "regular education" and for the seat of learning at which it was dispensed was so strong, that he invested not only the tutors, doctors and proctors (of whom he saw little except at a distance), but even the most empty-headed undergraduate whose acquaintance he made, with a sort of fancy halo of scientific knowledge, and often talked to those youths in a way which was curiously bewildering and embarrassing to them. drysdale was particularly hit by it. he had humour and honesty enough himself to appreciate the captain, but it was a constant puzzle to him to know what to make of it all. "he's a regular old brick, is the captain," he said to tom, on the last evening of the old gentleman's visit, "but by jove, i can't help thinking he must be poking fun at us half his time. it is rather too rich to hear him talking on as if we were all as fond of greek as he seems to be, and as if no man ever got drunk up here." "i declare i think he believes it," said tom. "you see we're all careful enough before him." "that son of his, too, must be a good fellow. don't you see he can never have peached? his father was telling me last night what a comfort it was to him to see that jack's poverty had been no drawback to him. he had always told him it would be so amongst english gentlemen, and now he found him living quietly and independently, and yet on equal terms, and friends, with men far above him in rank and fortune 'like you, sir,' the old boy said. by jove, brown, i felt devilish foolish. i believe i blushed, and it isn't often i indulge in that sort of luxury. if i weren't ashamed of doing it now, i should try to make friends with hardy. but i don't know how to face him, and i doubt whether he wouldn't think me too much of a rip to be intimate with." tom, at his own special request, attended the captain's departure, and took his seat opposite to him and his son at the back of the southampton coach, to accompany him a few miles out of oxford. for the first mile the captain was full of the pleasures of his visit, and of invitations to tom to come and see them in the vacation. if he did not mind homely quarters, he would find a hearty welcome, and there was no finer bathing or boating place on the coast. if he liked to bring his gun, there were plenty of rock-pigeons and sea-otters in the caves at the point. tom protested with the greatest sincerity that there was nothing he should enjoy so much. then the young men got down to walk up bagley hill, and when they mounted again, found the captain with a large leather case in his hand, out of which he took two five-pound notes, and began pressing them on his son, while tom tried to look as if he did not know what was going on. for some time hardy steadily refused, and the contention became animated, and it was useless to pretend any longer not to hear. "why, jack, you're not too proud, i hope, to take a present from you own father," the captain said at last. "but, my dear father, i don't want the money. you make me a very good allowance already." "now, jack, just listen to me and be reasonable. you know a great many of your friends have been very hospitable to me; i could not return their hospitality myself, but i wish you to do so for me." "well, father, i can do that without this money." "now, jack," said the captain, pushing forward the notes again, "i insist on your taking them. you will pain me very much if you don't take them." so the son took the notes at last, looking as most men of his age would if they had just lost them, while the father's face was radiant as he replaced his pocket book in the breast pocket inside his coat. his eye caught tom's in the midst of the operation, and the latter could not help looking a little confused, as if he had been unintentionally obtruding on their privacy. but the captain at once laid his hand on his knee and said,-- "a young fellow is never the worse for having a ten-pound note to veer and haul on, eh, mr. brown?" "no, indeed, sir. a great deal better i think," said tom, and was quite comfortable again. the captain had no new coat that summer, but he always looked like a gentleman. soon the coach stopped to take up a parcel at a crossroad, and the young men got down. they stood watching it until it disappeared round a corner of the road, and then turned back towards oxford, and struck into bagley wood, hardy listening with evident pleasure to his friend's enthusiastic praise of his father. but he was not in a talking humour, and they were soon walking along together in silence. this was the first time they had been alone together since the morning after their reconciliation; so presently tom seized the occasion to recur to the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts. "she has never answered my letter," he began abruptly. "i am very glad of it," said hardy. "but why?" "because you know, you want it all broken off completely." "yes, but still she might have just acknowledged it. you don't know how hard it is for me to keep away from the place." "my dear fellow, i know it must be hard work, but you are doing the right thing." "yes, i hope so," said tom, with a sigh. "i haven't been within a hundred yards of 'the choughs' this five days. the old lady must think it so odd." hardy made no reply. what could he say but that no doubt she did? "would you mind doing me a great favor?" said tom, after a minute. "anything i can do.--what is it?" "why, just to step round on our way back,--i will stay as far off as you like,--and see how things are going on;--how she is." "very well. don't you like this view of oxford? i always think it is the best of them all." "no. you don't see anything of half the colleges," said tom, who was very loath to leave the other subject for the picturesque. "but you get all the spires and towers so well, and the river in the foreground. look at that shadow of a cloud skimming over christchurch meadow. it's a splendid old place after all." "it may be from a distance, to an outsider," said tom; "but i don't know--it's an awfully chilly, deadening kind of place to live in. there's something in the life of the place that sits on me like a weight, and makes me feel dreary." "how long have you felt that? you're coming out in a new line." "i wish i were. i want a new line. i don't care a straw for cricket; i hardly like pulling; and as for those wine parties day after day, and suppers night after night, they turn me sick to think of." "you have the remedy in your own hands, at any rate," said hardy, smiling. "how do you mean?" "why, you needn't go to them." "oh, one can't help going to them. what else is there to do!" tom waited for an answer, but his companion only nodded to show that he was listening, as he strolled on down the path, looking at the view. "i can say what i feel to you, hardy. i always have been able, and it's such a comfort to me now. it was you who put these sort of thoughts into my head, too, so you ought to sympathize with me." "i do, my dear fellow. but you'll be all right again in a few days." "don't you believe it. it isn't only what you seem to think, hardy. you don't know me so well as i do you, after all. no, i'm not just love-sick, and hipped because i can't go and see her. that has something to do with it, i dare say, but it's the sort of shut-up selfish life we lead here that i can't stand. a man isn't meant to live only with fellows like himself, with good allowances paid quarterly, and no care but how to amuse themselves. one is old enough for something better than that, i'm sure." "no doubt," said hardy with provoking taciturnity. "and the moment one tries to break through it, one only gets into trouble." "yes, there's a good deal of danger of that, certainly," said hardy. "don't you often long to be in contact with some of the realities of life, with men and women who haven't their bread and butter already cut for them? how can a place be a university where no one can come up who hasn't two hundred a year or so to live on?" "you ought to have been at oxford four hundred years ago, when there were more thousands here than we have hundreds." "i don't see that. it must have been ten times as bad then." "not at all. but it must have been a very different state of things from ours; they must have been almost all poor scholars, who worked for their living, or lived on next to nothing." "how do you really suppose they lived, though?" "oh, i don't know. but how should you like it now, if we had fifty poor scholars at st. ambrose, besides us servitors--say ten tailors, ten shoemakers, and so on, who came up from love of learning, and attended all the lectures with us, and worked for the present undergraduates while they were hunting, and cricketing, and boating?" "well, i think it would be a very good thing--at any rate, we should save in tailors' bills." "even if we didn't get our coats so well built," said hardy, laughing. "well, brown, you have a most catholic taste, and 'a capacity for talking in new truths', all the elements of a good radical in you." "i tell you, i hate radicals," said tom indignantly. "well, here we are in the town. i'll go round by 'the choughs' and catch you up before you get to high street." tom, left, to himself, walked slowly on for a little way, and then quickly back again in an impatient, restless manner, and was within a few yards of the corner where they had parted, when hardy appeared again. he saw at a glance that something had happened. "what is it--she is not ill?" he said quickly. "no; quite well, her aunt says." "you didn't see her then?" "no. the fact is she has gone home." chapter xxiii--the englebourn constable on the afternoon of a splendid day in the early part of june, some four or five days after the sunday on which the morning service at englebourn was interrupted by the fire at farmer groves', david johnson, tailor and constable of the parish, was sitting at his work in a small erection, half shed, half summer-house, which leaned against the back of his cottage. not that david had not a regular workshop, with a window looking into the village street, and a regular counter close under it, on which passersby might see him stitching, and from which he could gossip with them easily, as was his wont. but although the constable kept the king's peace and made garments of all kinds for his livelihood--from the curate's frock down to the ploughboy's fustians--he was addicted for his pleasure and solace to the keeping of bees. the constable's bees inhabited a row of hives in the narrow strip of garden which ran away at the back of the cottage. this strip of garden was bordered along the whole of one side by the rector's premises. now honest david loved gossip well, and considered it a part of his duty as constable to be well up in all events and rumours which happened or arose within his liberties. but he loved his bees better than gossip, and, as he was now in hourly expectation that they would be swarming, was working, as has been said, in his summer-house, that he might be at hand at the critical moment. the rough table on which he was seated commanded a view of the hives; his big scissors and some shreds of velveteen lay near him on the table, also the street-door key and an old shovel, of which the uses will appear presently. on his knees lay the black velveteen coat, the sunday garment of harry winburn, to which he was fitting new sleeves. in his exertions at the top of the chimney in putting out the fire, harry had grievously damaged the garment in question. the farmer had presented him with five shillings on the occasion, which sum was quite inadequate to the purchase of a new coat, and harry, being too proud to call the farmer's attention to the special damage which he had suffered in his service, had contented himself with bringing his old coat to be new sleeved. harry was a favorite with the constable on account of his intelligence and independence, and because of his relations with the farmers of englebourn on the allotment question. although by his office the representative of law and order in the parish, david was a man of the people, and sympathized with the peasantry more than with the farmers. he had passed some years of his apprenticeship at reading, where he had picked up notions on political and social questions much ahead of the englebourn worthies. when he returned to his native village, being a wise man, he had kept his new lights in the background, and consequently had succeeded in the object of his ambition, and had been appointed constable. his reason for seeking the post was a desire to prove that the old joke as to the manliness of tailors had no application to his case, and this he had established to the satisfaction of all the neighborhood by the resolute manner in which, whenever called on, he performed his duties. and, now that his character was made and his position secure, he was not so careful of betraying his leanings, and had lost some custom amongst the farmers in consequence of them. the job on which he was employed naturally turned his thoughts to harry. he stitched away, now weighing in his mind whether he should not go himself to farmer groves, and represent to him that he ought to give harry a new coat; now rejoicing over the fact that the rector had decided to let harry have another acre of the allotment land, now speculating on the attachment of his favorite to the gardener's daughter, and whether he could do any thing to forward his suit. in the pursuit of which thoughts he had forgotten all about his bees, when suddenly a great humming arose, followed by a rush through the air like the passing of an express train, which recalled him to himself. he jumped from the table, casting aside the coat, and seizing the key and shovel, hurried out into the garden, beating the two together with all his might. the process in question, known in country phrase as "tanging", is founded upon the belief that the bees will not settle unless under the influence of this peculiar music; and the constable, holding faithfully to the popular belief, rushed down his garden, "tanging" as though his life depended upon it, in the hopes that the soothing sound would induce the swarm to settle at once on his own apple trees. is "tanging" a superstition or not? people learned in bees ought to know, but i never happened to meet one who had settled the question. it is curious how such beliefs or superstitions fix themselves in the popular mind of a countryside, and are held by wise and simple alike. david the constable was a most sensible and open-minded man of his time and class, but kemble or akerman, or other learned anglo-saxon scholars would have vainly explained to him that "tang", is but the old word for "to hold", and that the object of "tanging" is, not to lure the bees with sweet music of key and shovel, but to give notice to the neighbours that they have swarmed, and that the owner of the maternal hive means to hold on to his right to the emigrants. david would have listened to the lecture with pity, and have retained unshaken belief in his music. in the present case, however, the tanging was of little avail, for the swarm, after wheeling once or twice in the air, disappeared from the eyes of the constable over the rector's wall. he went on "tanging" violently for a minute or two, and then paused to consider what was to be done. should he get over the wall into the rector's garden at once, or should he go round and ask leave to carry his search into the parsonage grounds? as a man and bee-fancier he was on the point of following straight at once, over wall and fence; but the constable was also strong within him. he was not on the best of terms with old simon, the rector's gardener, and his late opposition to miss winter in the matter of the singing also came into his mind. so he resolved that the parish constable would lose caste by disregarding his neighbour's boundaries, and was considering what to do next, when he heard a footstep and short cough on the other side of the wall which he recognized. "be you there, maester simon?" he called out. where upon the walker on the other side pulled up, and after a second appeal answered shortly-- "e'es." "hev'ee seed ought o' my bees? thaay've a bin' and riz, and gone off somweres athert the wall." "e'es, i seen 'em." "wer' be 'em then?" "aal-amang wi' ourn in the limes." "aal-amang wi'yourn," exclaimed the constable. "drattle 'em. thaay be more trouble than they be wuth." "i knowd as thaay wur yourn zoon as ever i sot eyes on 'em," old simon went on. "how did'ee know 'em then?" asked the constable. "'cause thine be aal zettin' crass-legged," said simon, with a chuckle. "thee medst cum and pick 'em all out if thee'st a mind to 't." simon was mollified by his own joke, and broke into a short, dry cachinnation, half laugh, half cough; while the constable, who was pleased and astonished to find his neighbour in such a good humour, hastened to get an empty hive and a pair of hedger's gloves--fortified with which he left his cottage and made the best of his way up street towards the rectory gate, hard by which stood simon's cottage. the old gardener was of an impatient nature, and the effect of the joke had almost time to evaporate, and simon was fast relapsing into his usual state of mind towards his neighbour before the latter made his appearance. "wher' hast been so long?" he exclaimed, when the constable joined him. "i seed the young missus and t'other young lady a standin' talkin' afore the door," said david; "so i stopped back, so as not to dlsturve 'em." "be 'em gone in? who was 'em talkin' to?" "to thy missus, and thy daarter too, i b'lieve 'twas. thaay be both at whoam, bean't 'em?" "like enough. but what was 'em zayin'?" "i couldn't heer nothin' partic'lar, but i judged as 'twas summat about sunday and the fire." "'tis na use for thaay to go on fillin' our place wi' bottles. i dwon't mean to take no mwore doctor's stuff." simon, it may be said, by the way, had obstinately refused to take any medicine since his fall, and had maintained a constant war on the subject, both with his own women and miss winter, whom he had impressed more than ever with a belief in his wrongheadedness. "ah! and how be'ee, tho', maester simon?" said david, "i didn't mind to ax afore'. you dwon't feel no wus for your fall, i hopes?" "i feels a bit stiffish like, and as if summat wur cuttin' m' at times, when i lifts up my arms." "'tis a mercy 'tis no wus," said david; "we bean't so young nor lissom as we was; maester simon." to which remark simon replied by a grunt. he disliked allusions to his age--a rare dislike amongst his class in that part of the country. most of the people are fond of making themselves out older than they are, and love to dwell on their experiences, and believe, as firmly as the rest of us, that everything has altered for the worse in the parish and district since their youth. but simon, though short of words and temper, and an uncomfortable acquaintance in consequence, was inclined to be helpful enough in other ways. the constable, with his assistance, had very soon hived his swarm of cross-legged bees. then the constable insisted on simon's coming with him and taking a glass of ale, which, after a little coquetting, simon consented to do. so, after carrying his re-capture safely home, and erecting the hive on a three-legged stand of his own workmanship, he hastened to rejoin simon, and the two soon found themselves in the bar of the "red lion." the constable wished to make the most of this opportunity, and so began at once to pump simon as to his intentions with regard to his daughter. but simon was not easy to lead in anyway whatever, and seemed in a more than usually no-business-of-yours line about his daughter. whether he had anyone in his eye for her or not, david could not make out; but one thing he did make out, and it grieved him much. old simon was in a touchy and unfriendly state of mind against harry, who, he said, was falling into bad ways, and beginning to think much too much of his self. why was he to be wanting more allotment ground than anyone else? simon had himself given harry some advice on the point, but not to much purpose, it would seem, as he summed up his notions on the subject by the remark that, "'twas waste of soap to lather an ass." the constable now and then made a stand for his young friend, but very judiciously; and, after feeling his way for some time, he came to the conclusion--as, indeed, the truth was--that simon was jealous of harry's talent for growing flowers, and had been driven into his present frame of mind at hearing miss winter and her cousin talking about the flowers, at dame winburn's under his very nose for the last four or five days. they had spoken thus to interest the old man, meaning to praise harry to him. the fact was, that the old gardener was one of those men who never can stand hearing other people praised, and think that all such praise must be meant in depreciation of themselves. when they had finished their ale, the afternoon was getting on, and the constable rose to go back to his work; while old simon declared his intention of going down to the hay-field, to see how the mowing was getting on. he was sure that the hay would never be made properly, now that he couldn't be about as much as usual. in another hour the coat was finished, and the constable being uneasy in his mind, resolved to carry the garment home himself at once, and to have a talk with dame winburn. so he wrapped the coat in a handkerchief, put it under his arm, and set off down the village. he found the dame busy with her washing; and after depositing his parcel, sat down on the settle to have a talk with her. they soon got on the subject which was always uppermost in her mind, her son's prospects, and she poured out to the constable her troubles. first there was this sweet-hearting after old simon's daughter,--not that dame winburn was going to say anything against her, though she might have her thoughts as well as other folk, and for her part she liked to see girls that were fit for something besides dressing themselves up like their betters,--but what worried her was to see how harry took it to heart. he wasn't like himself, and she couldn't see how it was all to end. it made him fractious, too, and he was getting into trouble about his work. he had left his regular place, and was gone mowing with a gang, most of them men out of the parish that she knew nothing about, and likely not to be the best of company. and it was all very well in harvest time, when they could go and earn good wages at mowing and reaping any where about, and no man could earn better than her harry, but when it came to winter again she didn't see but what he might find the want of a regular place, and then the farmers mightn't take him on; and his own land, that he had got, and seemed to think so much of, mightn't turn out all he thought it would. and so in fact the old lady was troubled in her mind, and only made the constable more uneasy. he had a vague sort of impression that he was in some way answerable for harry, who was a good deal with him, and was fond of coming about his place. and although his cottage happened to be next to old simon's, which might account for the fact to some extent, yet the constable was conscious of having talked to his young friend on many matters in a way which might have unsettled him, and encouraged his natural tendency to stand up for his own rights and independence, and he knew well enough that this temper was not the one which was likely to keep a labouring man out of trouble in the parish. he did not allow his own misgivings, however, to add to the widow's troubles, but, on the contrary, cheered her by praising up harry as much as even she could desire, and prophesying that all would come right, and that those that lived would see her son as respected as any man in the parish; he shouldn't be surprised, indeed, if he were church-warden before he died. and then, astonished at his own boldness, and feeling that he was not capable of any higher flight of imagination, the constable rose to take his leave. he asked where harry was working, and, finding that he was at mowing in the danes' close, set off to look after him. the kind-hearted constable could not shake off the feeling that something was going to happen to harry which would get him into trouble, and he wanted to assure himself that as yet nothing had gone wrong. whenever one has this sort of vague feeling about a friend, there is a natural and irresistible impulse to go and look after him, and to be with him. the danes' close was a part of the glebe, a large field of some ten acres or so in extent, close to the village. two footpaths ran across it, so that it was almost common property, and the village children considered it as much their playground as the green itself. they trampled the grass a good deal more than seemed endurable in the eyes of simon, who managed the rector's farming operations as well as the garden; but the children had their own way, notwithstanding the threats he sometimes launched at them. miss winter would have sooner lost all the hay than have narrowed their amusements. it was the most difficult piece of mowing in the parish, in consequence of the tramplings and of the large crops it bore. the danes, or some other unknown persons, had made the land fat, perhaps with their carcasses, and the benefit had lasted to the time of our story. at any rate, the field bore splendid crops, and the mowers always got an extra shilling an acre for cutting it, by miss winter's special order, which was paid by simon in the most ungracious manner, and with many grumblings that it was enough to ruin all the mowers in the countryside. as the constable got over the stile into the hay-field, a great part of his misgivings passed out of his head. he was a simple kindly man, whose heart lay open to all influences of scene and weather, and the danes' close, full of life and joy and merry sounds, as seen under the slanting rays of the evening sun, was just the place to rub all the wrinkles out of him. the constable, however, is not singular in this matter. what man amongst us all, if he will think the matter over calmly and fairly, can honestly say that there is any one spot on the earth's surface in which he has enjoyed so much real, wholesome, happy life as in a hay field? he may have won renown on horseback or on foot at the sports and pastimes in which englishmen glory; he may have shaken off all rivals, time after time, across the vales of aylesbury, or of berks, or any other of our famous hunting counties; he may have stalked the oldest and shyest buck in scotch forests, and killed the biggest salmon of the year in the tweed, and the trout in the thames; he may have made topping averages in first-rate matches of cricket; or have made long and perilous marches, dear to memory, over boggy moor, or mountain, or glacier; he may have successfully attended many breakfast-parties, within drive of mayfair, on velvet lawns, surrounded by all the fairyland of pomp, and beauty, and luxury, which london can pour out; he may have shone at private theatricals and at-homes; his voice may have sounded over hushed audiences at st. stephen's, or in the law courts; or he may have had good times in any other scenes of pleasure or triumph open to englishmen; but i much doubt whether, on putting his recollections fairly and quietly together, he would not say at last that the fresh mown hay field is the place where he has spent the most hours which he would like to live over again, the fewest which he would wish to forget. as children, we stumble about the new-mown hay, revelling in the many colors of the prostrate grass and wild flowers, and in the power of tumbling where we please without hurting ourselves; as small boys, we pelt one another and the village schoolgirls and our nursemaids and young lady cousins with the hay, till, hot and weary, we retire to tea or syllabub beneath the shade of some great oak or elm, standing up like a monarch out of the fair pasture; or, following the mowers, we rush with eagerness on the treasures disclosed by the scythe-stroke,--the nest of the unhappy late laying titlark, or careless field-mouse; as big boys, we toil ambitiously with the spare forks and rakes, or climb into the wagons and receive with open arms the delicious load as it is pitched up from below, and rises higher and higher as we pass along the long lines of haycocks; a year or two later we are strolling there with our first sweethearts, our souls and tongues, loaded with sweet thoughts and soft speeches; we take a turn with the scythe as the bronzed mowers lie in the shade for their short rest, and willingly pay our footing for the feat. again, we come back with book in pocket, and our own children tumbling about as we did before them; now romping with them, and smothering them with the sweet-smelling load--now musing and reading and dozing away the delicious summer evenings. and so shall we not come back to the end, enjoying as grandfathers the lovemaking and the rompings of younger generations yet? were any of us ever really disappointed or melancholy in a hay-field? did we ever lie fairly back on a haycock and look up into the blue sky and listen to the merry sounds, the whetting of scythes and the laughing prattle of women and children, and think evil thoughts of the world and of or our brethren? not we! or if we have so done, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves, and deserve never to be out of town again during hay-harvest. there is something in the sights and sounds of a hay-field which seems to touch the same chord in one as lowell's lines in the "lay of sir launfal," which end-- "for a cap and bells our lives we pay; we wear out our lives with toiling and tasking; it is only heaven that is given away; it is only god may be had for the asking. there is no price set on the lavish summer, and june may be had by the poorest comer." but the philosophy of the hay-field remains to be written. let us hope that whoever takes the subject in hand will not dissipate all its sweetness in the process of the inquiry wherein the charm lies. the constable had not the slightest notion of speculating on his own sensations, but was very glad, nevertheless, to find his spirits rising as he stepped into the danes' close. all the hay was down, except a small piece in the further corner, which the mowers were upon. there were groups of children in many parts of the field, and women to look after them, mostly sitting on the fresh swarth, working and gossiping, while the little ones played about. he had not gone twenty yards before he was stopped by the violent crying of a child; and turning toward the voice, he saw a little girl of six or seven, who had strayed from her mother, scrambling out of the ditch, and wringing her hands in an agony of pain and terror. the poor little thing had fallen into a bed of nettles, and was very much frightened, and not a little hurt. the constable caught her up in his arms, soothing her as well as he could, and hurrying along till he found some dock-leaves, sat down with her on his knee, and rubbed her hands with the leaves, repeating the old saw-- "our nettle, in dock; dock shall ha' a new smock; nettle shan't ha' narrun'." what with the rubbing, and the constable's kind manner, and listening to the doggerel rhyme, and feeling that nettle would get her deserts, the little thing soon ceased crying. but several groups had been drawn towards the place, and amongst the rest came miss winter and her cousin, who had been within hearing of the disaster. the constable began to feel very nervous and uncomfortable, when he looked up from his charitable occupation, and suddenly found the rector's daughter close to him. but his nervousness was uncalled for. the sight of what he was about, and of the tender way in which he was handling the child, drove all remembrance of his heresies and contumaciousness in the matter of psalmody out of her head. she greeted him with frankness and cordiality, and presently--when he had given up his charge to the mother, who was inclined at first to be hard with the poor little sobbing truant--came up, and said she wished to speak a few words to him. david was highly delighted at miss winter's manner; but he walked along at her side not quite comfortable in his mind, for fear lest she should start the old subject of dispute, and then his duty as a public man would have to be done at all risk of offending her. he was much comforted when she began by asking him whether he had seen much of widow winburn's son lately. david admitted that he generally saw him every day. did he know that he had left his place, and had quarrelled with mr. tester? yes, david knew that harry had had words with farmer tester; but farmer tester was a sort that was very hard not to have words with. "still, it is very bad, you know, for so young a man to be quarrelling with the farmers," said miss winter. "'twas the varmer as quarreled wi' he, you see, miss," david answered, "which makes all the odds. he cum to harry all in a fluster, and said as how he must drow up the land as he'd a'got, or he's place--one or t'other on 'em. and so you see, miss, as harry wur kind o' druv to it. 'twarn't likely as he wur to drow up the land now as he were just reppin' the benefit ov it, and all for varmer tester's place, wich be no sich gurt things, miss, arter all." "very likely not; but i fear it may hinder his getting employment. the other farmers will not take him on now if they can help it." "no; thaay falls out wi' one another bad enough, and calls all manner o' names. but thaay can't abide a poor man to speak his mind, nor take his own part, not one on 'em," said david, looking at miss winter, as if doubtful how she might take his strictures; but she went on without any show of dissent,-- "i shall try to get him work for my father, but i am sorry to find that simon does not seem to like the idea of taking him on. it is not easy always to make out simon's meaning. when i spoke to him, he said something about a bleating sheep losing a bite; but i should think this young man is not much of a talker in general?"--she paused. "that's true, miss," said david, energetically; "there ain't a quieter spoken or steadier man at his work in the parish." "i'm very glad to hear you say so," said miss winter, "and i hope we may soon do something for him. but what i want you to do just now is to speak a word to him about the company he seems to be getting into." the constable looked somewhat aghast at this speech of miss winter's, but did not answer, not knowing to what she was alluding. she saw that he did not understand, and went on-- "he is mowing to-day with a gang from the heath and the next parish; i am sure they are very bad men for him to be with. i was so vexed when i found simon had given them the job; but he said they would get it all down in a day, and be done with it, and that was all he cared for." "and 'tis a fine day's work, miss, for five men," said david, looking over the field; "and 'tis good work too, you mind the swarth else," and he picked up a handful of the fallen grass to show her how near the ground it was cut. "oh, yes, i have no doubt they are very good mowers, but they are not good men, i'm sure. there, do you see now who it is that is bringing them beer? i hope you will see widow winburn's son, and speak to him, and try to keep him out of bad company. we should be all so sorry if he were to get into trouble." david promised to do his best, and miss winter wished him good evening, and rejoined her cousin. "well, katie, will he do your behest?" "yes, indeed; and i think he is the best person to do it. widow winburn thinks her son minds him more than any one." "do you know, i don't think it will ever go right. i'm sure she doesn't care the least for him." "oh, you have only just seen her once for two or three minutes." "and then that wretched old simon is so perverse about it," said the cousin. "you will never manage him." "he is very provoking, certainly; but i get my own way generally, in spite of him. and it is such a perfect plan, isn't it!" "oh, charming! if you can only bring it about." "now we must be really going home; papa will be getting restless." so the young ladies left the hay-field deep in castle-building for harry winburn and the gardener's daughter, miss winter being no more able to resist a tale of true love than her cousin, or the rest of her sex. they would have been more or less than woman if they had not taken an interest in so absorbing a passion as poor harry's. by the time they reached the rectory gate they had installed him in the gardener's cottage with his bride and mother (for there would be plenty of room for the widow, and it would be so convenient to have the laundry close at hand) and had pensioned old simon, and sent him and his old wife to wrangle away the rest of their time in the widow's cottage. castle-building is a delightful and harmless exercise. meantime david the constable had gone towards the mowers, who were taking a short rest before finishing off the last half-acre which remained standing. the person whose appearance had so horrified miss winter was drawing beer for them from a small barrel. this was an elderly raw-boned woman with a skin burnt as brown as that of any of the mowers. she wore a man's hat and spencer and had a strong harsh voice, and altogether was not a prepossessing person. she went by the name of daddy cowell in the parish, and had been for years a proscribed person. she lived up on the heath, often worked in the fields, took in lodgers, and smoked a short clay pipe. these eccentricities, when added to her half-male clothing, were quite enough to account for the sort of outlawry in which she lived. miss winter, and other good people of englebourn, believed her capable of any crime, and the children were taught to stop talking and playing, and run away when she came near them; but the constable, who had had one or two search-warrants to execute in her house, and had otherwise had frequent occasions of getting acquainted with her in the course of his duties, had by no means so evil an opinion of her. he had never seen much harm in her, he had often been heard to say, and she never made pretence to much good. nevertheless, david was by no means pleased to see her acting as purveyor to the gang which harry had joined. he knew how such contact would damage him in the eyes of all the parochial respectabilities, and was anxious to do his best to get him clear of it. with these views he went up to the men, who were resting under a large elm tree, and complimented them on their day's work. they were themselves well satisfied with it, and with one another. when men have had sixteen hours or so hard mowing in company, and none of them can say that the others have not done their fair share, they are apt to respect one another more at the end of it. it was harry's first day with this gang, who were famous for going about the neighbourhood, and doing great feats in hay and wheat harvest. they were satisfied with him and he with them, none the less so probably in his present frame of mind, because they also were loose on the world, servants of no regular master. it was a bad time to make his approaches, the constable saw; so, after sitting by harry until the gang rose to finish off their work in the cool of the evening, and asking him to come round by his cottage on his way home, which harry promised to do, he walked back to the village. chapter xxiv--the schools. there is no more characteristic spot in oxford than the quadrangle of the schools. doubtless in the times when the university held and exercised the privileges of infang-thief and outfang-thief, and other such old-world rights, there must have been a place somewhere within the liberties devoted to examinations even more exciting than the great-go. but since _alma mater_ has ceased to take cognizance of "treasons, insurrections, felonies, and mayhem," it is here, in that fateful and inexorable quadrangle, and the buildings which surround it, that she exercises her most potent spells over the spirits of her children. i suppose that a man being tried for his life must be more uncomfortable than an undergraduate being examined for his degree, and that to be hung--perhaps even to be pilloried--must be worse than to be plucked. but after all, the feeling in both cases must be essentially the same, only more intense in the former; and an institution which can examine a man (_in literis humanitoribus_, in humanities, so called) once a year for two or three days at a time, has nothing to complain of, though it has no longer the power of hanging him at once out of hand. the schools' quadrangle is for the most part a lonely place. men pass through the melancholy iron-gates by which that quadrangle is entered on three sides--from broad street, from the ratcliff, and from new college-lane--when necessity leads them that way, with alert step and silently. no nursemaids or children play about it. nobody lives in it. only when the examinations are going on you may see a few hooded figures who walk as though conscious of the powers of academic life and death which they wield, and a good deal of shuddering undergraduate life flitting about the place--luckless youths, in white ties and bands, who are undergoing the _peine forte et dure_ with different degrees of composure; and their friends who are there to look after them. you may go in and watch the torture yourself if you are so minded, for the _viva voce_ schools are open to the public. but one such experiment will be enough for you, unless you are very hard-hearted. the sight of the long table, behind which sit minos, rhadamanthus & co., full-robed, stern of face, soft of speech, seizing their victim in turn, now letting him run a little way as a cat does a mouse, then drawing him back, with claw of wily question, probing him on this side and that, turning him inside out,--the row of victims opposite, pale or flushed, of anxious or careless mien, according to temperament, but one and all on the rack as they bend over the allotted paper, or read from the well-thumbed book--the scarcely-less-to-be-pitied row behind of future victims, "sitting for the schools" as it is called, ruthlessly brought hither by statutes, to watch the sufferings they must hereafter undergo--should fill the friend of suffering humanity with thoughts too deep for tears. through the long day till four o'clock, or later, the torture lasts. then the last victim is dismissed; the men who are "sitting for the schools" fly all ways to their colleges, silently, in search of relief to their over-wrought feelings--probably also of beer, the undergraduate's universal specific. the beadles close those ruthless doors for a mysterious half-hour on the examiners. outside in the quadrangle collect by twos and threes the friends of the victims, waiting for the reopening of the door, and the distribution of the "testamurs." the testamurs, lady readers will be pleased to understand, are certificates under the hands of the examiners that your sons, brothers, husbands, perhaps, have successfully undergone the torture. but, if husbands, oh, go not yourselves, and send not your sons to wait for the testamur of the head of your house; for oxford has seldom seen a sight over which she would more willingly draw the veil, with averted face, than that of the youth rushing wildly, dissolved in tears from the schools' quadrangle, and shouting, "mamma! papa's plucked! papa's plucked!" the examination is nearly over which is to decide the academical fate of some of our characters; the paper-work of the candidates for honors has been going on for the last week. every morning our three st. ambrose acquaintances have mustered with the rest for the anxious day's work, after such breakfasts as they have been able to eat under the circumstances. they take their work in very different ways. grey rushes nervously back to his rooms whenever he is out of the schools for ten minutes, to look up dates and dodges. he worries himself sadly over every blunder which he discovers himself to have made, and sits up nearly all night cramming, always hoping for a better to-morrow. blake keeps up his affected carelessness to the last, quizzing the examiners, laughing over the shots he has been making in the last paper. his shots, it must be said, turn out well for the most part; in the taste paper particularly, as they compare notes, he seems to have almost struck the bull's-eye in his answers to one or two questions which hardy and grey have passed over altogether. when he is wide of the mark, he passes it off with some jesting remark; "that a fool can ask in five minutes more questions than a wise man can answer in a week," or wish "that the examiners would play fair, and change sides of the table for an hour with the candidates for a finish." but he, too, though he does it on the sly, is cramming with his coach at every available spare moment. hardy had finished his reading a full thirty-six hours before the first day of paper-work, and had braced himself for the actual struggle by two good nights' rest and a long day on the river with tom. he had worked hard from the first, and so had really mastered his books. and now, feeling that he had fairly and honestly done his best, and that if he fails it will be either from bad luck or natural incapacity, and not from his own fault, he manages to keep a cooler head than any of his companions in trouble. the week's paper-work passed off uneventfully; then comes the _viva voce_ work for the candidates for honors. they go in, in alphabetical order, four a day, for one more day's work, the hardest of all, and then there is nothing more to do but wait patiently for the class list. on these days there is a good attendance in the enclosed space to which the public are admitted. the front seats are often occupied by the private tutors of the candidates, who are there, like newmarket trainers, to see the performance of their stables, marking how each colt bears pressing, and comports himself when the pinch comes. they watch the examiners, too, carefully to see what line they take, whether science or history, or scholarship is likely to tell most, that they may handle the rest of their starts accordingly. behind them, for the most part on the hindermost benches of the flight of raised steps, anxious younger brothers and friends sit, for a few minutes at a time, flitting in and out in much unrest, and making the objects of their solicitude more nervous than ever by their sympathy. it is now the afternoon of the second day of the _viva voce_ examinations in honors. blake is one of the men in. his tutor, hardy, grey, tom, and other st. ambrose men, have all been in the schools more or less during his examination, and now hardy and tom are waiting outside the doors for the issuing of the testamurs. the group is small enough. it is so much of course that a class-man should get his testamur that there is no excitement about it; generally the man himself stops to receive it. the only anxious faces in the group are tom's and hardy's. they have not exchanged a word for the last few minutes in their short walk before the door. now the examiners come out and walk away towards their colleges, and the next minute the door again opens and the clerk of the schools appears with a slip of paper in his hand. "now you'll see if i am not right," said hardy, as they gathered to the door with the rest. "i tell you there isn't the least chance for him." [illustration: ] the clerk read out the names inscribed on the testamurs which he held, and handed them to the owners. "haven't you one for mr. blake of st. ambrose?" said tom desperately as the clerk was closing the door. "no, sir; none but those i have just given out," answered the clerk, shaking his head. the door closed, and they turned away in silence for the first minute. "i told you how it would be," said hardy, as they passed out of the south gate into the ratcliff quadrangle. "but he seemed to be doing so well when i was in." "you were not there at the time. i thought at first they would have sent him out of the schools at once." "in his divinity, wasn't it?" "yes; he was asked to repeat one of the articles, and didn't know three words of it. from that moment i saw it was all over. the examiner and he both lost their tempers, and it went from bad to worse, till the examiner remarked that he could have answered one of the questions he was asking when he was ten years old, and blake replied, so could he. they gave him a paper in divinity afterwards, but you could see there was no chance for him." "poor fellow! what will he do, do you think? how will he take it?" "i can' tell. but i'm afraid it will be a very serious matter for him. he was the ablest man in our year too. what a pity." they got into st. ambrose just as the bell for afternoon chapel was going down, and went in. blake was there, and one look showed him what had happened. in fact he had expected nothing else all day since his breakdown in the articles. tom couldn't help watching him during chapel; and afterwards, on that evening, acknowledged to a friend that whatever else you might think of blake, there was no doubt about his gameness. after chapel he loitered outside the door in the quadrangle, talking just as usual, and before hall he loitered on the steps in well-feigned carelessness. everybody else was thinking of his breakdown; some with real sorrow and sympathy; others as of any other nine days' wonder--pretty much as if the favourite for the derby had broken down; others with ill-concealed triumph, for blake had many enemies amongst the men. he himself was conscious enough of what they were thinking, but maintained his easy, gay manner through it all, though the effort it cost him was tremendous. the only allusion he made to what had happened which tom heard was when he asked him to wine. "are you engaged to-night, brown?" he said. tom answered in the negative. "come to me, then" he went on. "you won't get another chance in st. ambrose. i have a few bottles of old wine left; we may as well floor them; they won't bear moving to a hall with their master." and then he turned to some other men and asked them, everyone in fact who he came across, especially the dominant fast set with whom he had chiefly lived. these young gentlemen (of whom we had a glimpse at the outset, but whose company we have carefully avoided ever since, seeing that their sayings and doings were of a kind of which the less said the better) had been steadily going on in their way, getting more and more idle, reckless and insolent. their doings had been already so scandalous on several occasions as to call for solemn meetings of the college authorities; but, no vigorous measures having followed, such deliberations had only made matters worse, and given the men a notion that they could do what they pleased with impunity. this night the climax had come; it was as though the flood of misrule had at last broken banks and overflowed the whole college. for two hours the wine party in blake's large ground-floor rooms was kept up with a wild, reckless mirth, in keeping with the host's temper. blake was on his mettle. he had asked every man with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, as if he wished to face out his disaster at once to the whole world. many of the men came feeling uncomfortable, and would sooner have stayed away and treated the pluck as real misfortune. but after all blake was the best judge of how he liked to be treated, and, if he had a fancy for giving a great wine on the occasion, the civilest thing to do was to go to it. and so they went, and wondered as much as he could desire at the brilliant coolness of their host, speculating and doubting nevertheless in their own secret hearts whether it wasn't acting after all. acting it was, no doubt, and not worth the doing; no acting is. but one must make allowances. no two men take a thing just alike, and very few can sit down quietly when they have lost a fall in life's wrestle, and say: "well, here i am, beaten no doubt this time. but my own fault, too. now, take a good look at me, my good friends, as i know you all want to do, and say your say out, for i mean getting up again directly and having another turn at it." blake drank freely himself, and urged his guests to drink, which was a superfluous courtesy for the most part. many of the men left his room considerably excited. they had dispersed for an hour or so to billiards, or a stroll in the town, and at ten o'clock reassembled at supper parties, of which there were several in college this evening, especially a monster one at chanter's rooms--a "champagne supper," as he had carefully and ostentatiously announced on the cards of invitation. this flaunting the champagne in their faces had been resented by drysdale and others, who drank his champagne in tumblers, and then abused it and clamored for beer in the middle of the supper. chanter, whose prodigality in some ways was only exceeded by his general meanness, had lost his temper at this demand, and insisted that, if they wanted beer, they might send for it themselves, for he wouldn't pay for it. this protest was treated with uproarious contempt, and gallons of ale soon made their appearance in college jugs and tankards. the tables were cleared, and songs (most of them of more than doubtful character), cigars, and all sorts of compounded drinks, from claret cup to egg flip, succeeded. the company, recruited constantly as men came into the college, was getting more and more excited every minute. the scouts cleared away and carried off the relics of the supper, and then left; still the revel went on, till, by midnight, the men were ripe for any mischief or folly which those among them who retained any brains at all could suggest. the signal for breaking up was given by the host's falling from his seat. some of the men rose with a shout to put him to bed, which they accomplished with difficulty, after dropping him several times, and left him to snore off the effects of his debauch with one of his boots on. others took to doing what mischief occurred to them in his rooms. one man mounted on a chair with a cigar in his mouth which had gone out, was employed in pouring the contents of a champagne bottle with unsteady hand into the clock on the mantel-piece. chanter was a particular man in this sort of furniture, and his clock was rather a specialty. it was a large bronze figure of atlas, supporting the globe in the shape of a time-piece. unluckily, the maker, not anticipating the sort of test to which his work would be subjected, had ingeniously left the hole for winding up in the top of the clock, so that unusual facilities existed for drowning the world-carrier, and he was already almost at his last tick. one or two men were morally aiding and abetting, and physically supporting the experimenter on clocks, who found it difficult to stand to his work by himself. another knot of young gentlemen stuck to the tables, and so continued to shout out scraps of song, sometimes standing on their chairs, and sometimes tumbling off them. another set were employed on the amiable work of pouring beer and sugar into three new pairs of polished leather dress boots, with colored tops to them, which they discovered in the dressing-room. certainly, as they remarked, chanter could have no possible use for so many dress boots at once, and it was a pity the beer should be wasted; but on the whole, perhaps, the materials were never meant for combination, and had better have been kept apart. others had gone away to break into the kitchen, headed by one who had just come into college and vowed he would have some supper; and others, to screw up an unpopular tutor, or to break into the rooms of some inoffensive freshman. the remainder mustered on the grass in the quadrangle, and began playing leap-frog and larking one another. amongst these last was our hero, who had been at blake's wine and one of the quieter supper parties; and, though not so far gone as most of his companions, was by no means in a state in which he would have cared to meet the dean. he lent his hearty aid accordingly to swell the noise and tumult, which was becoming something out of the way even for st. ambrose's. as the leap-frog was flagging, drysdale suddenly appeared carrying some silver plates which were used on solemn occasions in the common room, and allowed to be issued on special application for gentlemen-commoners' parties. a rush was made towards him. "halloa, here's drysdale with lots of swag," shouted one. "what are you going to do with it?" cried another. drysdale paused a moment with the peculiarly sapient look of a tipsy man who has suddenly lost the thread of his ideas, and then suddenly broke out with-- "hang it! i forgot. but let's play at quoits with them." the proposal was received with applause, and the game began, but drysdale soon left it. he had evidently some notion in his head which would not suffer him to turn to anything else till he had carried it out. he went off accordingly to chanter's rooms, while the quoits went on in the front quadrangle. about this time, however, the dean and bursar, and the tutors who lived in college, began to be conscious that something unusual was going on. they were quite used to distant choruses, and great noises in the men's rooms, and to a fair amount of shouting and skylarking in the quadrangle, and were long-suffering men, not given to interfering, but there must be an end to all endurance, and the state of things which had arrived could no longer be met by a turn in bed and a growl at the uproars and follies of undergraduates. presently some of the rioters on the grass caught sight of a figure gliding along the side quadrangle towards the dean's staircase. a shout arose that the enemy was up, but little heed was paid to it by the greater number. then another figure passed from the dean's staircase to the porter's lodge. those of the men who had any sense left saw that it was time to quit, and, after warning the rest, went off towards their rooms. tom, on his way to his staircase, caught sight of a figure seated in a remote corner of the inner quadrangle, and made for it, impelled by natural curiosity. he found drysdale seated on the ground with several silver tankards by his side, employed to the best of his powers in digging a hole with one of the college carving-knives. "halloa, drysdale! what are you up to?" he shouted, laying his hand on his shoulder. "providing for posterity," replied drysdale, gravely, without looking up. "what the deuce do you mean? don't be such an ass. the dean will be out in a minute. get up and come along." "i tell you, old fellow," said drysdale, somewhat inarticulately, and driving his knife into the ground again, "the dons are going to spout the college plate. so i am burying these articles for poshterity--" "hang posterity," said tom; "come along directly, or you'll be caught and rusticated." "go to bed, brown--you're drunk, brown," replied drysdale, continuing his work, and striking the carving-knife into the ground so close to his own thigh that it made tom shudder. "here they are then," he cried the next moment, seizing drysdale by the arm, as a rush of men came through the passage into the quadrangle, shouting and tumbling along, and making in small groups for the different stair-cases. the dean and two of the tutors followed, and the porter bearing a lantern. there was no time to be lost; so tom, after one more struggle to pull drysdale up and hurry him off, gave it up, and leaving him to his fate, ran across to his own staircase. for the next half-hour the dean and his party patrolled the college, and succeeded at the last in restoring order, though not without some undignified and disagreeable passages. the lights on the staircases, which generally burnt all night, were of course put out as they approached. on the first staircase which they stormed, the porter's lantern was knocked out of his hand by an unseen adversary, and the light put out on the bottom stairs. on the first landing the bursar trod on a small terrier belonging to a fast freshman, and the dog naturally thereupon bit the bursar's leg; while his master and other _enfants perdus_, taking advantage of the diversion, rushed down the dark stairs, past the party of order, and into the quadrangle, where they scattered amidst a shout of laughter. while the porter was gone for a light, the dean and his party rashly ventured on a second ascent. here an unexpected catastrophy awaited them. on the top landing lived one of the steadiest men in college, whose door had been tried shortly before. he had been roused out of his first sleep, and, vowing vengeance on the next comers, stood behind his oak, holding his brown george, or huge earthenware receptacle, half full of dirty water, in which his bed-maker had been washing up his tea-things. hearing stealthy steps and whisperings on the stairs below, he suddenly threw open his oak, discharging the whole contents of his brown george on the approaching authorities, with a shout of, "take that for your skulking." the exasperated dean and tutors rushing on, seized their astonished and innocent assailant, and after receiving explanations, and the offer of clean towels, hurried off again after the real enemy. and now the porter appeared again with a light, and, continuing their rounds, they apprehended and disarmed drysdale, collected the college plate, marked down others of the rioters, visited chanter's rooms, held a parley with the one of their number who was screwed up in his rooms, and discovered that the bars had been wrenched out of the kitchen window. after which they retired to sleep on their indignation, and quiet settled down again on the ancient and venerable college. the next morning at chapel many of the revellers met; in fact, there was a fuller attendance than usual, for every one felt that something serious must be impending. after such a night the dons must make a stand, or give up altogether. the most reckless only of the fast set were absent. st. cloud was there, dressed even more precisely than usual, and looking as if he were in the habit of going to bed at ten, and had never heard of milk punch. tom turned out not much the worse himself, but in his heart feeling not a little ashamed of the whole business; of the party, the men, but, above all, of himself. he thrust the shame back, however, as well as he could, and put a cool face on it. probably most of the men were in much the same state of mind. even in st. ambrose's, reckless and vicious as the college had become, by far the greater part of the undergraduates would gladly have seen a change in the direction of order and decency, and were sick of the wretched license of doing right in their own eyes and wrong in every other person's. as the men trooped out of chapel, they formed in corners of the quadrangle, except the reading set, who went off quietly to their rooms. there was a pause of a minute or two. neither principal, dean, tutor, nor fellow followed as on ordinary occasions. "they're hatching something in the outer chapel," said one. "it'll be a coarse time for chanter, i take it," said another. "was your name sent to the buttery for his supper?" "no, i took d-d good care of that," said st. cloud, who was addressed. "drysdale was caught, wasn't he?" "so i hear, and nearly frightened the dean and the porter out of their wits by staggering after them with a carving-knife." "he'll be sacked, of course." "much he'll care for that." "here they come, then; by jove, how black they look!" the authorities now came out of the antechapel door, and walked slowly across towards the principal's house in a body. at this moment, as ill-luck would have it, jack trotted into the front quadrangle, dragging after him the light steel chain, with which he was usually fastened up in drysdale's scout's room at night. he came innocently towards one and another of the groups, and retired from each much astonished at the low growl with which his acquaintance was repudiated on all sides. "porter, whose dog is that?" said the dean catching sight of him. "mr. drysdale's dog, sir, i think, sir," answered the porter. "probably the animal who bit me last night," said the bursar. his knowledge of dogs was small; if jack had fastened on him, he would probably have been in bed from the effects. "turn the dog out of college," said the dean. "please, sir he's a very savage dog, sir," said the porter, whose respect for jack was unbounded. "turn him out immediately," replied the dean. the wretched porter, arming himself with a broom, approached jack, and after some coaxing, managed to catch hold of the end of his chain, and began to lead him towards the gates, carefully holding out the broom towards jack's nose with his other hand to protect himself. jack at first hauled away at his chain, and then began circling round the porter at the full extent of it, evidently meditating an attack. notwithstanding the seriousness of the situation, the ludicrous alarm of the porter set the men laughing. "come along, or jack will be pinning the wretched copas," said jervis; and he and tom stepped up to the terrified little man, and, releasing him, led jack, who knew them both well, out of college. "were you at that supper party?" said jervis, as they deposited jack with an ostler, who was lounging outside the gates, to be taken to drysdale's stables. "no," said tom. "i'm glad to hear it; there will be a pretty clean sweep after last night's doings." "but i was in the quadrangle when they came out." "not caught, eh?" said jervis. "no, luckily, i got to my own rooms at once." "were any of the crew caught?" "not that i know of." "well, we shall hear enough of it before lecture time." jervis was right. there was a meeting in the common room directly after breakfast. drysdale, anticipating his fate, took his name off before they sent for him. chanter and three or four others were rusticated for a year, and blake was ordered to go down at once. he was a scholar, and what was to be done in his case would be settled at the meeting at the end of the term. for twenty-four hours it was supposed that st. cloud had escaped altogether; but at the end of that time he was summoned before a meeting in the common room. the tutor whose door had been so effectually screwed up that he had been obliged to get out of his window by a ladder to attend morning chapel, proved wholly unable to appreciate the joke, and set himself to work to discover the perpetrators of it. the door was fastened with long gimlets, which had been screwed firmly in, and when driven well home, their heads knocked off. the tutor collected the shafts of the gimlets from the carpenter, who came to effect an entry for him; and, after careful examination discovered the trade mark, so, putting them into his pocket, he walked off into the town, and soon came back with the information he required, which resulted in the rustication of st. cloud, an event which was borne by the college with the greatest equanimity. shortly afterwards, tom attended in the schools' quadrangle again, to be present at the posting of the class list. this time there were plenty of anxious faces; the quadrangle was full of them. he felt almost as nervous himself as if he were waiting for the third gun. he thrust himself forward, and was amongst the first who caught sight of the document. one look was enough for him, and the next moment he was off at full speed for st. ambrose, and, rushing headlong into hardy's rooms, seized him by the hand and shook it vehemently. "it's all right, old fellow," he cried, as soon as he could catch his breath; "it's all right. four firsts; you're one of them; well done!" "and grey, where's he; is he all right?" "bless me, i forgot to look," said tom; "i only read the firsts, and then came off as hard as i could." "then he is not a first." "no; i'm sure of that." "i must go and see him; he deserved it far more than i." "no, by jove, old boy," said tom, seizing him again by the hand, "that he didn't; nor any man that ever went into the schools." "thank you, brown," said hardy, returning his warm grip. "you do one good. now to see poor grey, and to write to my dear old father before hall. fancy him opening the letter at breakfast the day after to-morrow! i hope it won't hurt him." "never, fear. i don't believe in people dying of joy, and anything short of sudden death he won't mind at the price." hardy hurried off, and tom went to his own rooms, and smoked a cigar to allay his excitement, and thought about his friend, and all they had felt together, and laughed and mourned over in the short months of their friendship. a pleasant, dreamy half-hour he spent thus, till the hall bell roused him, and he made his toilette and went to his dinner. it was with very mixed feelings that hardy walked by the servitors' table and took his seat with the bachelors, an equal at last amongst equals. no man who is worth his salt can leave a place where he has gone through hard and searching discipline, and been tried in the very depths of his heart, without regret, however much he may have winced under the discipline. it is no light thing to fold up and lay by forever a portion of one's life even when it can be laid by with honor and in thankfulness. but it was with no mixed feelings, but with a sense of entire triumph and joy, that tom watched his friend taking his new place, and the dons, one after another, coming up and congratulating him, and treating him as the man who had done honor to them and his college. chapter xxv--commemoration the end of the academic year was now at hand, and oxford was beginning to put on her gayest clothing. the college gardeners were in a state of unusual activity, and the lawns and flower-beds which form such exquisite settings to many of the venerable grey, gabled buildings, were as neat and as bright as hands could make them. cooks, butlers and their assistants were bestirring themselves in kitchen and buttery, under the direction of bursars jealous of the fame of their houses, in the preparation of the abundant and solid fare with which oxford is wont to entertain all comers. everything the best of its kind, no stint but no nonsense, seems to be the wise rule which the university hands down and lives up to in these matters. however we may differ as to her degeneracy in other departments, all who have ever visited her will admit that in this of hospitality she is still a great national teacher, acknowledging and preaching by example the fact, that eating and drinking are important parts of man's life, which are to be allowed their due prominence, and not thrust into a corner, but are to be done soberly and thankfully, in the sight of god and man. the coaches were bringing in heavy loads of visitors; carriages of all kinds were coming in from the neighbouring counties; and lodgings in the high-street were going up to fabulous prices. in one of these high-street lodgings, on the evening of the saturday before commemoration, miss winter and her cousin are sitting. they have been in oxford during the greater part of the day, having posted up from englebourn; but they have only just come in, for the younger lady is still in her bonnet, and miss winter's lies on the table. the windows are wide open, and miss winter is sitting at one of them; while her cousin is busied in examining the furniture and decorations of their temporary home, now commenting upon these, now pouring out praises of oxford. "isn't it too charming? i never dreamt that any town could be so beautiful. don't you feel wild about it, katie?" "it is the queen of towns, dear. but i know it well, you see, so that i can't be quite so enthusiastic as you." "oh, those dear gardens! what was the name of those ones with the targets up, where they were shooting? don't you remember?" "new college gardens, on the old city wall, you mean?" "no, no. they were nice and sentimental. i should like to go and sit and read poetry there. but i mean the big ones, the gorgeous, princely ones, with wicked old bishop laud's gallery looking into them." "oh! st. john's, of course." "yes, st. john's. why do you hate laud so, katie?" "i don't hate him, dear. he was a berkshire man, you know. but i think he did a great deal of harm to the church." "how did you think my new silk looked in the garden? how lucky i brought it, wasn't it? i shouldn't have liked to have been in nothing but muslin. they don't suit here; you want something richer amongst the old buildings, and on the beautiful velvety turf of the gardens. how do you think i looked?" "you looked like a queen, dear; or a lady-in-waiting, at least." "yes, a lady-in-waiting on henrietta maria. didn't you hear one of the gentlemen say that she was lodged in st. john's when charles marched to relieve gloucester? ah! can't you fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her ladies following her, and bishop laud walking just a little behind her, and talking in a low voice about--let me see--something very important?" "oh, mary, where has your history gone? he was archbishop, and was safely locked up in the tower." "well, perhaps he was; then he couldn't be with her, of course. how stupid of you to remember, katie. why can't you make up your mind to enjoy yourself when you come out for a holiday?" "i shouldn't enjoy myself any the more for forgetting dates," said katie, laughing. "oh, you would though; only try. but let me see, it can't be laud. then it shall be that cruel drinking old man, with the wooden leg made of gold, who was governor of oxford when the king was away. he must be hobbling along after the queen in a buff coat and breastplate, holding his hat with a long drooping white feather in his hand. "but you wouldn't like it at all, mary; it would be too serious for you. the poor queen would be too anxious for gossip, and you ladies-in-waiting would be obliged to walk after her without saying a word." "yes, that would be stupid. but then she would have to go away with the old governor to write dispatches; and some of the young officers with long hair and beautiful lace sleeves, and large boots, whom the king had left behind, wounded, might come and walk perhaps, or sit in the sun in the quiet gardens." mary looked over her shoulder with the merriest twinkle in her eye, to see how her steady cousin would take this last picture. "the college authorities would never allow that," she said quietly, still looking out the window; "if you wanted beaus, you must have had them in black gowns." "they would have been jealous of the soldiers, you think? well, i don't mind; the black gowns are very pleasant, only a little stiff. but how do you think my bonnet looked. "charmingly, but when are you going to have done looking in the glass? you don't care for the buildings, i believe, a bit. come and look at st. mary's; there is such a lovely light on the steeple!" "i'll come directly, but i must get these flowers right. i'm sure there are too many in this trimming." mary was trying her new bonnet on over and over again before the mantel-glass, and pulling out and changing the places of the blush-rose buds with which it was trimmed. just then a noise of wheels, accompanied by a merry tune on a cornopean, came in from the street. "what's that, katie?" she cried, stopping her work for a moment. "a coach coming up from magdalen bridge. i think it is a cricketing party coming home." "oh, let me see," and she tripped across to the window, bonnet in hand, and stood beside her cousin. and, then, sure enough, a coach covered with cricketers returning from a match drove past the window. the young ladies looked out at first with great curiosity; but, suddenly finding themselves the mark for a whole coach load of male eyes, shrank back a little before the cricketers had passed on towards the "mitre." as the coach passed out of sight, mary gave a pretty toss of her head, and said-- "well, they don't want for assurance, at any rate. i think they needn't have stared so." "it was our fault," said katie; "we shouldn't have been at the window. besides, you know you are to be a lady-in-waiting on henrietta maria up here, and of course you must get used to being stared at." "oh yes, but that was to be by young gentlemen wounded in the wars, in lace ruffles, as one sees them in pictures. that's a very different thing from young gentlemen in flannel trousers and straw hats, driving up the high street on coaches. i declare one of them had the impudence to bow as if he knew you." "so he does. that was my cousin." "your cousin! ah, i remember. then he must be my cousin, too." "no, not at all. he is no relation of yours." "well i sha'n't break my heart. but is he a good partner?" "i should say, yes. but i hardly know. we used to be a great deal together as children, but papa has been such an invalid lately." "ah, i wonder how uncle is getting on at the vice-chancellor's. look, it is past eight by st. mary's. when were we to go?" "we were asked for nine." "then we must go and dress. will it be very slow and stiff, katie? i wish we were going to something not quite so grand." "you'll find it very pleasant, i dare say." "there won't be any dancing, though, i know, will there?" "no; i should think certainly not." "dear me! i hope there will be some young men there--i shall be so shy, i know, if there are nothing but wise people. how do you talk to a regius professor, katie? it must be awful." "he will probably be at least as uncomfortable as you, dear," said miss winter, laughing, and rising from the window; "let us go and dress." "shall i wear my best gown?--what shall i put in my hair?" at this moment the door opened, and the maid-servant introduced mr. brown. it was the st. ambrose drag which had passed along shortly before, bearing the eleven home from a triumphant match. as they came over magdalen bridge, drysdale, who had returned to oxford as a private gentleman after his late catastrophe, which he had managed to keep a secret from his guardian, and was occupying his usual place on the box, called out-- "now, boys, keep your eyes open, there must be plenty of lionesses about;" and thus warned, the whole load, including the cornopean player, were on the look-out for lady visitors, profanely called lionesses, all the way up the street. they had been gratified by the sight of several walking in the high street or looking out of the windows, before they caught sight of miss winter and her cousin. the appearance of these young ladies created a sensation. "i say, look! up there in that first floor." "by george, they're something like." "the sitter for choice." "no, no, the standing-up one; she looks so saucy." "hello, brown, do you know them?" "one of them is my cousin," said tom, who had just been guilty of the salutation which, as we saw, excited the indignation of the younger lady. "what luck!--you'll ask me to meet them--when shall it be? to-morrow at breakfast, i vote." "i say, you'll introduce me before the ball on monday? promise now," said another. "i don't know that i shall see anything of them," said tom; "i shall just leave a pasteboard, but i'm not in the humour to be dancing about lionizing." a storm of indignation arose at this speech; the notion that any of the fraternity who had any hold on lionesses, particularly if they were pretty, should not use it to the utmost for the benefit of the rest, and the glory and honor of the college, was revolting to the undergraduate mind. so the whole body escorted tom to the door of the lodgings, impressing upon him the necessity of engaging both his lionesses for every hour of every day in st. ambrose's, and left him not till they had heard him ask for the young ladies, and seen him fairly on his way upstairs. they need not have taken so much trouble, for in his secret soul he was no little pleased at the appearance of creditable ladies, more or less belonging to him, and would have found his way to see them quickly and surely enough without any urging. moreover, he had been really fond of his cousin, years before, when they had been boy and girl together. so they greeted one another very cordially, and looked one another over as they shook hands, to see what changes time had made. he makes his changes rapidly enough at that age, and mostly for the better, as the two cousins thought. it was nearly three years since they had met, and then he was a fifth-form boy and she a girl in the school-room. they were both conscious of a strange pleasure in meeting again, mixed with a feeling of shyness and wonder whether they should be able to step back into their old relations. mary looked on demurely, really watching them, but ostensibly engaged on the rosebud trimming. presently miss winter turned to her and said, "i don't think you two ever met before; i must introduce you, i suppose;--my cousin tom, my cousin mary." "then we must be cousins, too," said tom, holding out his hand. "no, katie says not," she answered. "i don't mean to believe her, then," said tom; "but what are you going to do now, to-night? why didn't you write and tell me you were coming?" "we have been so shut up lately, owing to papa's bad health, that i really had almost forgotten that you were at oxford." "by the bye," said tom, "where is uncle?" "oh, he is dining at the vice-chancellor's, who is an old college friend of his. we have only been up here three or four hours, and it has done him so much good. i am so glad we spirited him up to coming." "you haven't made any engagements yet, i hope?" "indeed we have; i can't tell how many. we came in time for luncheon in balliol. mary and i made it our dinner, and we have been seeing sights ever since, and have been asked to go to i don't know how many luncheons and breakfasts." "what, with a lot of dons, i suppose?" said tom, spitefully; "you won't enjoy oxford, then; they'll bore you to death." "there now, katie; that is just what i was afraid of," joined in mary; "you remember we didn't hear a word about balls all the afternoon." "you haven't got your tickets for the balls, then?" said tom, brightening up. "no, how shall we get them?" "oh, i can manage that, i've no doubt." "stop; how are we to go? papa will never take us." "you needn't think about that; anybody will chaperone you. nobody cares about that sort of thing at commemoration." "indeed i think you had better wait till i have talked to papa." "then all the tickets will be gone," said tom. "you must go. why shouldn't i chaperone you? i know several men whose sisters are going with them." "no, that will scarcely do, i'm afraid. but really, mary, we must go and dress." "where are you going, then?" said tom. "to an evening party at the vice-chancellor's; we are asked for nine o'clock, and the half hour has struck." "hang the dons; how unlucky that i didn't know before! have you any flowers, by the way?" "not one." "then i will try to get you some by the time you are ready. may i?" "oh yes, pray, do," said mary. "that's capital, katie, isn't it? now i shall have some thing to put in my hair; i couldn't think what i was to wear." tom took a look at the hair in question, and then left them and hastened out to scour the town for flowers, as if his life depended on success. in the morning he would probably have resented as insulting, or laughed at as wildly improbable, the suggestion that he would be so employed before night. a double chair was drawn up opposite the door when he came back, and the ladies were coming down into the sitting-room. "oh look, katie! what lovely flowers! how very kind of you." tom surrendered as much of his burden as that young lady's little round white hands could clasp, to her, and deposited the rest on the table. "now, katie, which shall i wear--this beautiful white rose all by itself, or a wreath of these pansies? here, i have a wire; i can make them up in a minute." she turned to the glass, and held the rich cream-white rose against her hair, and then turning on tom, added, "what do you think?" "i thought fern would suit your hair better than anything else," said tom; "and so i got these leaves," and he picked out two slender fern-leaves. "how very kind of you! let me see, how do you mean? ah! i see; it will be charming;" and so saying, she held the leaves one in each hand to the sides of her head, and then floated about the room for needle and thread, and with a few nimble stitches fastened together the simple green crown, which her cousin put on for her, making the points meet above her forehead. mary was wild with delight at the effect, and full of thanks to tom as he helped them hastily to tie up bouquets, and then, amidst much laughing, they squeezed into the wheel chair together (as the fashions of that day allowed two young ladies to do), and went off to their party, leaving a last injuction on him to go up and put the rest of the flowers in water, and to call directly after breakfast the next day. he obeyed his orders, and pensively arranged the rest of the flowers in the china ornaments on the mantle-piece, and in a soup plate which he got and placed in the middle of the table, and then spent some minutes examining a pair of gloves and other small articles of women's gear which lay scattered about the room. the gloves particularly attracted him, and he flattened them out and laid them on his own large brown hand, and smiled at the contrast, and took further unjustifiable liberties with them; after which he returned to college and endured much banter as to the time his call had lasted, and promised to engage his cousins as he called them, to grace some festivities in st. ambrose's at their first spare moment. the next day, being show sunday, was spent by the young ladies in a ferment of spiritual and other dissipation. they attended morning service at eight at the cathedral; breakfasted at a merton fellow's, from whence they adjourned to university sermon. here mary, after two or three utterly ineffectual attempts to understand what the preacher was meaning, soon relapsed into an examination of the bonnets present, and the doctors and proctors on the floor, and the undergraduates in the gallery. on the whole, she was, perhaps, better employed than her cousin, who knew enough of religious party strife to follow the preacher, and was made very uncomfortable by his discourse, which consisted of an attack upon the recent publications of the most eminent and best men in the university. poor miss winter came away with a vague impression of the wickedness of all persons who dare to travel out of beaten tracks, and that the most unsafe state of mind in the world is that which inquires and aspires, and cannot be satisfied with the regulation draught of spiritual doctors in high places. being naturally of a reverent turn of mind, she tried to think that the discourse had done her good. at the same time she was somewhat troubled by the thought that somehow the best men in all times of which she had read seemed to her to be just those whom the preacher was in fact denouncing, although in words he had praised them as the great lights of the church. the words which she had heard in one of the lessons kept running in her head, "truly ye bear witness that ye do allow the deeds of your fathers, for they indeed killed them, but ye build their sepulchres." but she had little leisure to think on the subject, and, as her father praised the sermon as a noble protest against the fearful tendencies of the day to popery and pantheism, smothered the questionings of her own heart as well as she could, and went off to luncheon in a common room; after which her father retired to their lodgings, and she and her cousin were escorted to afternoon service at magdalen, in achieving which last feat they had to encounter a crush only to be equaled by that at the pit entrance to the opera on a jenny lind night. but what will not a delicately nurtured british lady go through when her mind is bent either on pleasure or duty? poor tom's feelings throughout the day may be more easily conceived than described. he had called according to order, and waited at their lodgings after breakfast. of course they did not arrive. he had caught a distant glimpse of them in st. mary's, but had not been able to approach. he had called again in the afternoon unsuccessfully, so far as seeing them was concerned; but he had found his uncle at home, lying upon the sofa. at first he was much dismayed by this rencontre, but, recovering his presence mind, he proceeded, i regret to say, to take the length of the old gentleman's foot, by entering into a minute and sympathizing in quiry into the state of his health. tom had no faith whatever in his uncle's ill-health, and believed--as many persons of robust constitution are too apt to do when brought face to face with nervous patients--that he might shake off the whole of his maladies at any time by a resolute effort, so that his sympathy was all a sham, though, perhaps, one may pardon it, considering the end in view, which was that of persuading the old gentleman to entrust the young ladies to his nephew's care for that evening in the long walk; and generally to look upon his nephew, thomas brown, as his natural prop and supporter in the university, whose one object in life just now would be to take trouble off his hands, and who was of that rare and precocious steadiness of character that he might be as safely trusted as a spanish duenna. to a very considerable extent the victim fell into the toils. he had many old friends at the colleges, and was very fond of good dinners, and long sittings afterwards. this very evening he was going to dine at st. john's, and had been much troubled at the idea of having to leave the unrivalled old port of that learned house to escort his daughter and niece to the long walk. still he was too easy and good-natured not to wish that they might get there, and did not like the notion of their going with perfect strangers. here was a compromise. his nephew was young, but still he was a near relation, and in fact it gave the poor old man a plausible excuse for not exerting himself as he felt he ought to do, which was all he ever required for shifting his responsibilities and duties upon other shoulders. so tom waited quietly till the young ladies came home, which they did just before hall-time. mr. winter was getting impatient. as soon as they arrived he started for st. john's, after advising them to remain at home for the evening, as they looked quite tired and knocked up; but if they resolved to go to the long walk, his nephew would escort them. "how can uncle robert say we look so tired?" said mary, consulting the glass on the subject; "i feel quite fresh. of course, katie, you mean to go to the long walk?" "i hope you will go," said tom; "i think you owe me some amends. i came here according to order this morning, and you were not in, and i have been trying to catch you ever since." "we couldn't help it," said miss winter; "indeed we have not had a minute to ourselves all day. i was very sorry to think that we should have brought you here for nothing this morning." "but about the long walk, katie?" "well, don't you think we have done enough for to-day? i should like to have tea and sit quietly at home, as papa suggested." "do you feel very tired, dear?" said mary, seating herself by her cousin on the sofa, and taking her hand. "no, dear, i only want a little quiet and a cup of tea." "then let us stay here quietly till it is time to start. when ought we to get to the long walk?" "about half-past seven," said tom; "you shouldn't be much later than that." "there you see, katie, we shall have two hours' perfect rest. you shall lie upon the sofa, and i will read to you, and then we shall go on all fresh again." miss winter smiled and said, "very well." she saw that her cousin was bent on going, and she could deny her nothing. "may i send you in anything from college?" said tom; "you ought to have something more than tea, i'm sure." "oh no, thank you. we dined in the middle of the day." "then i may call you about seven o'clock," said tom, who had come unwillingly to the conclusion that he had better leave them for the present. "yes, and mind you come in good time; we mean to see the whole sight, remember. we are country cousins." "you must let me call you cousin then, just for the look of the thing." "certainly, just for the look of the thing, we will be cousins till further notice." "well, you and tom seem to get on together, mary," said miss winter, as they heard the front door close. "i'm learning a lesson from you, though i doubt whether i shall ever be able to put it in practice. what a blessing it must be not to be shy!" "are you shy, then?" said mary, looking at her cousin with a playful loving smile. "yes, dreadfully. it is positive pain to me to walk into a room where there are people i do not know." "but i feel that too. i'm sure, now, you were much less embarrassed than i last night at the vice chancellor's. i quite envied you, you seemed so much at your ease." "did i? i would have given anything to be back here quietly. but it is not the same thing with you. you have no real shyness, or you would never have got on so fast with my cousin." "oh! i don't feel at all shy with him," said mary, laughing. "how lucky it is that he found us out so soon. i like him so much. there is a sort of way about him, as if he couldn't help himself. i am sure one could turn him round one's finger. don't you think so?" "i'm not so sure of that. but he always was soft-hearted, poor boy. but he isn't a boy any longer. you must take care, mary. shall we ring for tea?" chapter xxvi--the long walk in christchurch meadows "do well unto thyself and men will speak good of thee," is a maxim as old as king david's time, and just as true now as it was then. hardy had found it so since the publication of the class list. within a few days of that event it was known that his was a very good first. his college tutor had made his own inquiries, and repeated on several occasions in a confidential way the statement that, "with the exception of a want of polish in his latin and greek verses, which we seldom get except in the most finished public school men--etonians in particular--there has been no better examination in the schools for several years." the worthy tutor went on to take glory to the college, and in a lower degree to himself. he called attention, in more than one common room, to the fact that hardy had never had any private tuition, but had attained his intellectual development solely in the _curriculum_ provided by st. ambrose's college for the training of the youth entrusted to her. "he himself, indeed," he would add, "had always taken much interest in hardy, and had, perhaps, done more for him than would be possible in every case, but only with direct reference to, and in supplement of the college course." the principal had taken marked and somewhat pompous notice of him, and had graciously intimated his wish, or, perhaps i should say, his will (for he would have been much astonished to be told that a wish of his could count for less than a royal mandate to any man who had been one of his servitors) that hardy should stand for a fellowship, which had lately fallen vacant. a few weeks before, this excessive affability and condescension of the great man would have wounded hardy; but, somehow, the sudden rush of sunshine and prosperity, though it had not thrown him off his balance, or changed his estimate of men and things had pulled a sort of comfortable sheath over his sensitiveness, and gave him a second skin, as it were, from which the principal's shafts bounded off innocuous, instead of piercing and rankling. at first, the idea of standing for a fellowship at st ambrose's was not pleasant to him. he felt inclined to open up entirely new ground for himself, and stand at some other college, where he had neither acquaintance nor association. but on second thoughts, he resolved to stick to his old college, moved thereto partly by the lamentations of tom when he heard of his friends meditated emigration but chiefly by the unwillingness to quit a hard post for an easier one, which besets natures like his to their own discomfort, but, may one hope, to the single benefit of the world at large. such men may see clearly enough all the advantages of a move of this kind--may quite appreciate the ease which it would bring them--may be impatient with themselves for not making it at once, but when it comes to the actual leaving the old post, even though it may be a march out with all the honours of war, drums beating and colors flying, as it would have been in hardy's case, somehow or another, nine times out of ten, they throw up the chance at the last moment, if not earlier; pick up their old arms--growling perhaps at the price they are paying to keep their own self-respect--and shoulder back into the press to face their old work, muttering, "we are asses; we don't know what's good for us; but we must see this job through somehow, come what may." so hardy stayed on at st. ambrose, waiting for the fellowship examination, and certainly, i am free to confess, not a little enjoying the change in his position and affairs. he had given up his low dark back rooms to the new servitor, his successor, to whom he had presented all the rickety furniture, except his two windsor chairs and oxford reading-table. the intrinsic value of the gift was not great, certainly, but was of importance to the poor raw boy who was taking his place; and it was made with the delicacy of one who knew the situation. hardy's good offices did not stop here. having tried the bed himself for upwards of three long years, he knew all the hard places, and was resolved while he stayed up that they should never chafe another occupant as they had him. so he set himself to provide stuffing, and took the lad about with him, and cast a skirt of his newly-acquired mantle of respectability over him, and put him in the way of making himself as comfortable as circumstances would allow, never disguising from him all the while that the bed was not to be a bed of roses. in which pursuit, though not yet a fellow, perhaps he was qualifying himself better for a fellowship than he could have done by any amount of cramming for polish in his versification. not that the electors of st. ambrose would be likely to hear of or appreciate this kind of training. polished versification would no doubt have told more in that quarter. but we who are behind the scenes may disagree with them, and hold that he who is thus acting out and learning to understand the meaning of the word "fellowship," is the man for our votes. so hardy had left his rooms and gone out of college into lodgings near at hand. the sword, epaulettes, and picture of his father's old ship--his tutelary divinities, as tom called them--occupied their accustomed places in his new rooms, except that there was a looking-glass over the mantel-piece here, by the side of which the sword hung--instead of in the centre, as it had done while he had no such luxury. his windsor chairs occupied each side of the pleasant window of his sitting-room, and already the taste for luxuries of which he had so often accused himself to tom began to peep out in the shape of one or two fine engravings. altogether fortune was smiling on hardy, and he was making the most of her, like a wise man, having brought her round by proving that he could get on without her, and was not going out of the way to gain her smiles. several men came at once, even before he had taken his b. a. degree, to read with him, and others applied to know whether he would take a reading party in the long vacation. in short, all things went well with hardy, and the oxford world recognized the fact, and tradesmen and college servants became obsequious, and began to bow before him, and recognize him as one of their lords and masters. it was to hardy's lodgings that tom repaired straight-way, when he left his cousin by blood, and cousin by courtesy, at the end of the last chapter. for, running over in his mind all his acquaintance, he at once fixed upon hardy as the man to accompany him in escorting the ladies to the long walk. besides being his own most intimate friend, hardy was the man whom he would prefer to all others to introduce to ladies now. "a month ago it might have been different," tom thought; "he was such an old guy in his dress. but he has smartened up, and wears as good a coat as i do, and looks well enough for anybody, though he never will be much of a dresser. then he will be in a bachelor's gown too, which will look respectable." "here you are; that's all right; i'm so glad you're in," he said as he entered the room. "now i want you to come to the long walk with me to-night." "very well--will you call for me?" "yes, and mind you come in your best get-up, old fellow; we shall have two of the prettiest girls who are up, with us." "you won't want me then; they will have plenty of escort." "not a bit of it. they are deserted by their natural guardian, my old uncle, who has gone out to dinner. oh, it's all right; they are my cousins, more like sisters, and my uncle knows we are going. in fact it was he who settled that i should take them." "yes, but you see i don't know them." "that doesn't matter, i can't take them both myself--i must have somebody with me, and i'm so glad to get the chance of introducing you to some of my people. you'll know them all, i hope, before long." "of course i should like it very much, if you are sure it's all right." tom was perfectly sure as usual, and so the matter was arranged. hardy was very much pleased and gratified at this proof of his friend's confidence; and i am not going to say that he did not shave again, and pay most unwonted attention to his toilet before the hour fixed for tom's return. the fame of brown's lionesses had spread through st. ambrose's already, and hardy had heard of them as well as other men. there was something so unusual to him in being selected on such an occasion, when the smartest men in the college were wishing and plotting for that which came to him unasked, that he may be pardoned for feeling something a little like vanity, while he adjusted the coat which tom had recently thought of with such complacency, and looked in the glass to see that his gown hung gracefully. the effect on the whole was so good, that tom was above measure astonished when he came back, and could not help indulging in some gentle chaff as they walked towards the high-street arm in arm. the young ladies were quite rested, and sitting dressed and ready for their walk, when tom and hardy were announced, and entered the room. miss winter rose up, surprised and a little embarrassed at the introduction of a total stranger in her father's absence. but she put a good face on the matter, as became a well-bred young woman, though she secretly resolved to lecture tom in private, as he introduced "my great friend, mr. hardy, of our college. my cousins." mary dropped a pretty little demure courtesy, lifting her eyes for one moment for a glance at tom which said as plain as look could speak, "well, i must say you are making the most of your new-found relationship." he was a little put out for a moment, but then recovered himself, and said apologetically, "mr. hardy is a bachelor, kate--i mean a bachelor of arts, and he knows all the people by sight up here. we couldn't have gone to the walk without some one to show us the lions." "indeed, i'm afraid you give me too much credit," said hardy. "i know most of our dons by sight, certainly, but scarcely any of the visitors." the awkwardness of tom's attempted explanation set everything wrong again. then came one of those awkward pauses which will occur so very provokingly at the most inopportune times. miss winter was seized with one of the uncontrollable fits of shyness, her bondage to which she had so lately been grieving over to mary; and in self-defence, and without meaning in the least to do so, drew himself up, and looked as proud as you please. hardy, whose sensitiveness was almost as keen as a woman's, felt in a moment the awkwardness of the situation, and became as shy as miss winter herself. if the floor would have suddenly opened, and let him through into the dark shop, he would have been thankful; but, as it would not, there he stood, meditating a sudden retreat from the room and a tremendous onslaught on tom, as soon as he could catch him alone, for getting him into such a scrape. tom was provoked with them all for not at once feeling at ease with one another, and stood twirling his cap by the tassel, and looking fiercely at it, resolved not to break the silence. he had been at all the trouble of bringing about this charming situation, and now nobody seemed to like it, or to know what to say or do. they ought to get themselves out of it as they could, for anything he cared; he was not going to bother himself any more. mary looked in the glass, to see that her bonnet was quite right, and then from one to another of her companions, in a little wonder at their unaccountable behavior, and a little pique that two young men should be standing there like unpleasant images, and not availing themselves of the privilege of trying, at least, to make themselves agreeable to her. luckily, however, for the party, the humorous side of the tableau struck her with great force, so that when tom lifted his misanthropic eyes for a moment, and caught hers, they were so full of fun that he had nothing to do but to allow herself, not without a struggle, to break first into a smile and then into a laugh. this brought all eyes to bear on him, and the ice, being once broken, dissolved as quickly as it had gathered. "i really can't see what there is to laugh at, tom," said miss winter, smiling herself, nevertheless, and blushing a little, as she worked or pretended to work at buttoning one of her gloves. "can't you, kate? well, then, isn't it very ridiculous, and enough to make one laugh, that we four should be standing here in a sort of quaker's meeting, when we ought to be half-way to the long walk by this time?" "oh do let us start," said mary; "i know we shall be missing all the best of the sight. "come along, then," said tom, leading the way down stairs, and hardy and the ladies followed, and they descended into the high street, walking all abreast, the two ladies together, with a gentleman on either flank. this formation answered well enough on high street, the broad pavement of that celebrated thoroughfare being favourable to an advance in line. but when they had wheeled into oriel lane the narrow pavement at once threw the line into confusion, and after one or two fruitless attempts to take up the dressing, they settled down into the more natural formation of close column of couples, the leading couple consisting of mary and tom, and the remaining couple of miss winter and hardy. it was a lovely midsummer evening, and oxford was looking her best under the genial cloudless sky, so that, what with the usual congratulations on the weather, and explanatory remarks on the buildings as they passed along, hardy managed to keep up a conversation with his companion without much difficulty. miss winter was pleased with his quiet, deferential manner, and soon lost her feeling of shyness; and, before hardy had come to the end of such remarks as it occurred to him to make, she was taking her fair share in the talk. in describing their day's doings she spoke with enthusiasm of the beauty of magdalen chapel, and betrayed a little knowledge of traceries and mouldings, which gave an opening to her companion to travel out of the weather and the names of colleges. church architecture was just one of the subjects which was sure at that time to take more or less hold on every man at oxford whose mind was open to the influences of the place. hardy had read the usual text-books, and kept his eyes open as he walked about the town and neighborhood. to miss winter he seemed so learned on the subject, that she began to doubt his tendencies, and was glad to be reassured by some remarks which fell from him as to the university sermon which she had heard. she was glad to find that her cousin's most intimate friend was not likely to lead him into the errors of tractarianism. meantime the leading couple were getting on satisfactorily in their own way. "isn't it good of uncle robert? he says that he shall feel quite comfortable as long as you and katie are with me. in fact, i feel quite responsible already, like an old dragon in a story-book watching a treasure." "yes, but what does katie say to being made a treasure of? she has to think a good deal for herself; and i am afraid you are not quite certain of being our sole knight and guardian because uncle robert wants to get rid of us. poor old uncle!" "but you wouldn't object, then?" "oh, dear, no--at least, not unless you take to looking as cross as you did just now in our lodgings. of course, i'm all for dragons who are mad about dancing, and never think of leaving a ball-room till the band packs up and the old man shuffles in to put out the lights." "then i shall be a model dragon," said tom. twenty-four hours earlier he had declared that nothing should induce him to go to the balls; but his views on the subject had been greatly modified, and he had been worrying all his acquaintance, not unsuccessfully, for the necessary tickets, ever since his talk with his cousins on the preceding evening. the scene became more and more gay and lively as they passed out of christchurch towards the long walk. the town turned out to take its share in the show; and citizens of all ranks, the poorer ones accompanied by children of all ages, trooped along cheek by jowl with members of the university, of all degrees, and their visitors, somewhat indeed to the disgust of certain of these latter, many of whom declared that the whole thing was spoilt by the miscellaneousness of the crowd, and that "those sort of people" ought not to be allowed to come to the long walk on show sunday. however, "those sort of people" abounded nevertheless, and seemed to enjoy very much, in sober fashion, the solemn march up and down beneath the grand avenue of elms in the midst of their betters. the university was there in strength, from the vice-chancellor downwards. somehow or another, though it might seem an unreasonable thing at first sight for grave and reverend persons to do, yet most of the gravest of them found some reason for taking a turn in the long walk. as for the undergraduates, they turned out almost to a man, and none of them more certainly than the young gentlemen, elaborately dressed, who had sneered at the whole ceremony as snobbish an hour or two before. as for our hero, he sailed into the meadows thoroughly satisfied for the moment with himself and his convoy. he had every reason to be so, for though there were many gayer and more fashionably dressed ladies present than his cousin, and cousin by courtesy, there were none there whose faces, figures and dresses carried more unmistakably the marks of that thorough quiet high breeding, that refinement which is no mere surface polish, and that fearless unconsciousness which looks out from pure hearts, which are still, thank god, to be found in so many homes of the english gentry. the long walk was filling rapidly, and at every half-dozen paces tom was greeted by some of his friends or acquaintance, and exchanged a word or two with them. but he allowed them one after another to pass by without effecting any introduction. "you seem to have a great many acquaintances," said his companion, upon whom none of these salutations were lost. "yes, of course; one gets to know a great many men up here." "it must be very pleasant. but does it not interfere a great deal with your reading?" "no; because one meets them at lectures, and in hall and chapel. besides," he added in a sudden fit of honesty, "it is my first year. one doesn't read much in one's first year. it is a much harder thing than people think to take to reading, except just before an examination." "but your great friend who is walking with katie--what did you say his name is?" "hardy." "well, he is a great scholar, didn't you say?" "yes, he has just taken a first class. he is the best man of his year." "how proud you must be of him! i suppose, now, he is a great reader?" "yes, he is great at everything. he is nearly the best oar in our boat. by the way, you will come to the procession of boats to-morrow night? we are the head boat on the river." "oh, i hope so. is it a pretty sight? let us ask katie about it." "it is the finest sight in the world," said tom, who had never seen it; "twenty-four eight oars with their flags flying, and all the crews in uniform. you see the barges over there, moored along the side of the river? you will sit on one of them as we pass." "yes, i think i do," said mary, looking across the meadow in the direction in which he pointed; "you mean those great gilded things. but i don't see the river." "shall we walk round there. it won't take up ten minutes." "but we must not leave the walk and all the people. it is so amusing here." "then you will wear our colors at the procession to-morrow?" "yes, if katie doesn't mind. at least if they are pretty. what are your colors?" "blue and white. i will get you some ribbons to-morrow morning." "very well, and i will make them up into rosettes." "why, do you know them?" asked tom, as she bowed to two gentlemen in masters' caps and gowns, whom they met in the crowd. "yes; at least we met them last night." "but do you know who they are?" "oh, yes; they were introduced to us, and i talked a great deal to them. and katie scolded me for it when we got home. no; i won't say scolded me, but looked very grave over it." "they are two of the leaders of the tractarians." "yes. that was the fun of it. katie was so pleased and interested with them at first; much more than i was. but when she found out who they were, she fairly ran away, and i stayed and talked on. i don't think they said anything very dangerous. perhaps one of them wrote no. . do you know?" "i dare say. but i don't know much about it. however, they must have a bad time of it, i should think, up here with the old dons." "but don't you think one likes people who are persecuted? i declare i would listen to them for an hour, though i didn't understand a word, just to show them that i wasn't afraid of them, and sympathized with them. how can people be so ill-natured? i'm sure they only write what they believe and think will do good." "that's just what most of us feel," said tom; "we hate to see them put down because they don't agree with the swells up here. you'll see how they will be cheered in the theatre." "then they are not unpopular and persecuted after all?" "oh yes, by the dons. and that's why we all like them. from fellow-feeling you see, because the dons bully them and us equally." "but i thought they were dons too?" "well, so they are, but not regular dons, you know, like the proctors, and deans, and that sort." his companion did not understand this delicate distinction, but was too much interested in watching the crowd to inquire further. presently they met two of the heads of houses walking with several strangers. everyone was noticing them when they passed, and of course tom was questioned as to who they were. not being prepared with an answer, he appealed to hardy, who was just behind them talking to miss winter. they were some of the celebrities on whom honorary degrees were to be conferred, hardy said; a famous american author, a foreign ambassador, a well-known indian soldier, and others. then came some more m.a.'s, one of whom this time bowed to miss winter. "who was that, katie?" "one of the gentlemen we met last night. i did not catch his name, but he was very agreeable." "oh, i remember. you were talking to him for a long time after you ran away from me. i was very curious to know what you were saying, you seemed so interested." "well, you seem to have made the most of your time last night," said tom; "i should have thought, katie, you would hardly have approved of him either." "but who is he?" "why, the most dangerous man in oxford. what do they call him--a germanizer and a rationalist, isn't it, hardy?" "yes, i believe so," said hardy. "oh, think of that! there, katie; you had much better have stayed by me after all. a germanizer, didn't you say? what a hard word. it must be much worse than tractarian, isn't it, now?" "mary dear, pray take care; everybody will hear you," said miss winter. "i wish i thought that everybody would listen to me," replied miss mary. "but i really will be quiet, katie, only i must know which is the worst, my tractarians or your germanizer?" "oh, the germanizer, of course," said tom. "but why?" said hardy, who could do no less than break a lance for his companion. moreover, he happened to have strong convictions on these subjects. "why? because one knows the worst of where the tractarians are going. they may go to rome and there's an end of it. but the germanizers are going into the abysses, or no one knows where." "there, katie, you hear, i hope," interrupted miss mary, coming to her companion's rescue before hardy could bring his artillery to bear, "but what a terrible place oxford must be. i declare it seems quite full of people whom it is unsafe to talk with." "i wish it were, if they were all like miss winter's friend," said hardy. and then the crowd thickened and they dropped behind again. tom was getting to think more of his companion and less of himself every minute, when he was suddenly confronted in the walk by benjamin, the jew money-lender, smoking a cigar, and dressed in a gaudy figured satin waistcoat and waterfall of the same material, and resplendent with jewelry. he had business to attend to in oxford at this time of the year. nothing escaped the eyes of tom's companion. "who was that?" she said; "what a dreadful-looking man! surely he bowed as if he knew you?" "i dare say. he is impudent enough for anything," said tom. "but who is he?" "oh, a rascally fellow who sells bad cigars and worse wine." tom's equanimity was much shaken by the apparition of the jew. the remembrance of the bill scene at the public house in the corn-market, and the unsatisfactory prospect in that matter, with blake plucked and drysdale no longer a member of the university, and utterly careless as to his liabilities, came across him, and made him silent and absent. he answered at hazard to his companion's remarks for the next minute or two, until after some particularly inappropriate reply, she turned her head and looked at him for a moment with steady wide open eyes, which brought him to himself, or rather drove him into himself, in no time. "i really beg your pardon," he said; "i was very rude, i fear. it is so strange to me to be walking here with ladies. what were you saying?" "nothing of any consequence--i really forget. but it is a very strange thing for you to walk with ladies here?" "strange! i should think it was! i have never seen a lady that i knew up here, till you came." "indeed! but there must be plenty of ladies living in oxford?" "i don't believe there are. at least, we never see them," "then you ought to be on your best behavior when we do come. i shall expect you now to listen to everything i say, and to answer my silliest questions." "oh, you ought not to be so hard on us." "you mean that you find it hard to answer silly questions? how wise you must all grow, living up here together!" "perhaps. but the wisdom doesn't come down to the first-year men; and so--" "well, why do you stop?" "because i was going to say something you might not like." "then i insist on hearing it. now, i shall not let you off. you were saying that wisdom does not come so low as first-year men; and so--what?" "and so--and so, they are not wise." "yes, of course; but that was not what you were going to say; and so--" "and so they are generally agreeable, for wise people are always dull; and so--ladies ought to avoid the dons." "and not avoid first-year men?" "exactly so." "because they are foolish, and therefore fit company for ladies. now, really--" "no, no; because they are foolish, and, therefore, they ought to be made wise; and ladies are wiser than dons." "and therefore, duller, for all wise people, you said, were dull." "not all wise people; only people who are wise by cramming,--as dons; but ladies are wise by inspiration." "and first-year men, are they foolish by inspiration and agreeable by cramming, or agreeable by inspiration and foolish by cramming?" "they are agreeable by inspiration in the society of ladies." "then they can never be agreeable, for you say they never see ladies." "not with the bodily eye, but with the eye of fancy." "then their agreeableness must be all fancy." "but it is better to be agreeable in fancy than dull in reality." "that depends upon whose fancy it is. to be agreeable in your own fancy is compatible with being dull in reality as--" "how you play with words! i see you won't leave me a shred either of fancy or agreeableness to stand on." "then i shall do you good service. i shall destroy your illusions; you cannot stand on illusions." "but remember what my illusions were--fancy and agreeableness." "but your agreeableness stood on fancy, and your fancy on nothing. you had better settle down at once on the solid basis of dullness like the dons." "then i am to found myself on fact, and try to be dull? what a conclusion! but perhaps dullness is no more a fact than fancy; what is dullness?" "oh, i do not undertake to define; you are the best judge." "how severe you are! now, see how generous i am. dullness in society is the absence of ladies." "alas, poor oxford! who is that in the velvet sleeves? why do you touch your cap?" "that is the proctor. he is our cerberus; he has to keep all undergraduates in good order." "what a task! he ought to have three heads." "he has only one head, but it is a very long one. and he has a tail like any basha, composed of pro-proctors, marshals and bull-dogs, and i don't know what all. but to go back to what we were saying--" "no, don't let us go back. i'm tired of it; besides you were just beginning about dullness. how can you expect me to listen now?" "oh, but do listen, just for two minutes. will you be serious? i do want to know what you really think when you hear the case." "well, i will try--for two minutes, mind." upon gaining which permission, tom went off into an interesting discourse on the unnaturalness of men's lives at oxford, which it is by no means necessary to inflict on our readers. as he was waxing eloquent and sentimental, he chanced to look from his companion's face for a moment in search of a simile, when his eyes alighted on that virtuous member of society, dick, the factotum of "the choughs," who was taking his turn in the long walk with his betters. dick's face was twisted into an uncomfortable grin; his eyes were fixed on tom and his companion; and he made a sort of half motion towards touching his hat, but couldn't quite carry it through, and so passed by. "ah! ain't he a going of it again," he muttered to himself; "jest like 'em all." tom didn't hear the words, but the look had been quite enough for him, and he broke off short in his speech, and turned his head away, and, after two or three flounderings which mary seemed not to notice, stopped short, and let miss winter and hardy join them. "it's getting dark," he said, as they came up; "the walk is thinning; ought we not to be going? remember, i am in charge." "yes, i think it is time." at this moment the great christchurch bell--tom by name--began to toll. "surely that can't be tom?" miss winter said, who had heard the one hundred and one strokes on former occasions. "indeed it is, though." "but how very light it is." "it is almost the longest day in the year, and there hasn't been a cloud all day." they started to walk home all together, and tom gradually recovered himself, but left the labouring oar to hardy, who did his work very well, and persuaded the ladies to go on and see the ratcliffe by moonlight--the only time to see it, as he said, because of the shadows--and just to look in at the old quadrangle of st. ambrose. it was almost ten o'clock when they stopped at the lodgings in high-street. while they were waiting for the door to be opened, hardy said-- "i really must apologize, miss winter, to you, for my intrusion to-night. i hope your father will allow me to call on him." "oh yes! pray do; he will be so glad to see any friend of my cousin's." "and if i can be of any use to him; or to you, or your sister--" "my sister! oh, you mean mary? she is not my sister." "i beg your pardon. but i hope you will let me know if there is anything i can do for you." "indeed we will. now, mary, papa will be worrying about us." and so the young ladies said their adieus and disappeared. "surely you told me they were sisters," said hardy, as the two walked away towards college. "no, did i? i don't remember." "but they are your cousins?" "yes, at least katie is. don't you like her?" "of course, one can't help liking her. but she says you have not met for two years or more." "no more we have." "then i suppose you have seen more of her companion lately?" "well, if you must know, i never saw her before yesterday." "you don't mean to say that you took me in there tonight when you had never seen one of the young ladies before, and the other not for two years! well, upon my word, brown--" "now don't blow me up, old fellow, to-night--please don't. there, i give in. don't hit a fellow when he's down. i'm so low." tom spoke in such a depreciating tone that hardy's wrath passed away. "why, what's the matter?" he said. "you seemed to be full of talk. i was envying your fluency i know, often." "talk! yes so i was. but didn't you see dick in the walk? you have never heard anything more?" "no! but no news is good news." "heigho! i'm awfully down. i want to talk to you. let me come up." "come along then." and so they disappeared into hardy's lodgings. the two young ladies, meanwhile, soothed old mr. winter, who had eaten and drank more than was good for him, and was naturally put out thereby. they soon managed to persuade him to retire, and then followed themselves--first to mary's room, where that young lady burst out at once, "what a charming place it is! oh! didn't you enjoy your evening, katie!" "yes, but i felt a little awkward without a chaperone. you seemed to get on very well with my cousin. you scarcely spoke to us in the long walk till just before we came away. what were you talking about?" mary burst into a gay laugh. "all sorts of nonsense," she said. "i don't think i ever talked so much nonsense in my life. i hope he isn't shocked. i don't think he is. but i said anything that came into my head. i couldn't help it. you don't think it wrong?" "wrong, dear? no, i'm sure you could say nothing wrong." "i'm not so sure of that. but, katie dear, i know there is something on his mind." "why do you think so?" "oh, because he stopped short twice, and became quite absent, and seemed not to hear anything i said." "how odd! i never knew him do so. did you see any reason for it?" "no; unless it was two men we passed in the crowd. one was a vulgar-looking wretch, who was smoking--a fat black thing, with such a thick nose, covered with jewelry--" "not his nose, dear?" "no, but his dress; and the other was a homely, dried-up little man, like one of your englebourn troubles. i'm sure there is some mystery about them, and i shall find it out. but how did you like his friend, katie?" "very much, indeed. i was rather uncomfortable at walking so long with a stranger. but he was very pleasant, and is so fond of tom. i am sure he is a very good friend for him." "he looks a good man; but how ugly!" "do you think so? we shall have a hard day to-morrow. good night, dear." "good night, katie. but i don't feel a bit sleepy." and so the cousins kissed one another, and miss winter went to her own room. chapter xxvii--lecturing a lioness the evening of show sunday may serve as a fair sample of what this eventful commemoration was to our hero. the constant intercourse with ladies--with such ladies as miss winter and mary--young, good-looking, well spoken, and creditable in all ways, was very delightful, and the more fascinating, from the sudden change which their presence wrought in the ordinary mode of life of the place. they would have been charming in any room, but were quite irrepressible in his den, which no female presence, except that of his blowsy old bed-maker, had lightened since he had been in possession. all the associations of the freshman's room were raised at once. when he came in at night now, he could look sentimentally at his arm chair (christened "the captain," after captain hardy), on which katie had sat to make breakfast; or at the brass peg on the door, on which mary had hung her bonnet and shawl, after displacing his gown. his very teacups and saucers, which were already a miscellaneous set of several different patterns, had made a move almost into his affections; at least the two--one brown, one blue--which the young ladies had used. a human interest belonged to them now, and they were no longer mere crockery. he had thought of buying two very pretty china ones, the most expensive he could find in oxford, and getting them to use these for the first time, but rejected the idea. the fine new ones, he felt, would never be the same to him. they had come in and used his own rubbish; that was the great charm. if he had been going to give _them_ cups, no material would have been beautiful enough; but for his own use after them, the commoner the better. the material was nothing, the association everything. it is marvellous the amount of healthy sentiment of which a naturally soft-hearted undergraduate is capable by the end of the summer term. but sentiment is not all one-sided. the delights which spring from sudden intimacy with the fairest and best part of the creation, are as far above those of the ordinary, unmitigated undergraduate life, as the british citizen of is above the rudimentary personage in prehistoric times from whom he has been gradually improved up to his present state of enlightenment and perfection. but each state has also its own troubles as well as its pleasures; and, though the former are a price which no decent fellow would boggle at for a moment, it is useless to pretend that paying them is pleasant. now, at commemoration, as elsewhere, where men do congregate, if your lady-visitors are not pretty or agreeable enough to make your friends and acquaintances eager to know them, and to cater for their enjoyment, and try in all ways to win their favor and cut you out, you have the satisfaction at any rate of keeping them to yourself, though you lose the pleasures which arise from being sought after, and made much of for their sakes, and feeling raised above the ruck of your neighbors. on the other hand, if they are all like this, you might as well try to keep the sunshine and air to yourself. universal human nature rises up against you; and besides, they will not stand it themselves. and, indeed, why should they? women, to be very attractive to all sorts of different people, must have great readiness of sympathy. many have it naturally, and many work hard in acquiring a good imitation of it. in the first case it is against the nature of such persons to be monopolized for more than a very short time; in the second, all their trouble would be thrown away if they allowed themselves to be monopolized. once in their lives, indeed, they will be, and ought to be, and that monopoly lasts, or should last, forever; but instead of destroying in them that which was their great charm, it only deepens and widens it, and the sympathy which was before fitful, and, perhaps, wayward, flows on in a calm and healthy stream, blessing and cheering all who come within reach of its exhilarating and life-giving waters. but man of all ages is a selfish animal, and unreasonable in his selfishness. it takes every one of us in turn many a shrewd fall in our wrestlings with the world, to convince us that we are not to have everything our own way. we are conscious in our inmost souls that man is the rightful lord of creation; and, starting from this eternal principle, and ignoring, each man-child of us in turn, the qualifying truth that it is to man in general, including women, and not to thomas brown in particular, that the earth has been given, we set about asserting our kingships each in his own way, and proclaiming ourselves kings from our little ant-hills of thrones. and then come the strugglings and the down-fallings, and some of us learn our lesson, and some learn it not. but what lesson? that we have been dreaming in the golden hours when the vision of a kingdom rose before us? that there is in short no kingdom at all, or that, if there be, we are no heirs of it? no--i take it that, while we make nothing better than that out of our lesson, we shall have to go on spelling at it and stumbling over it, through all the days of our life, till we make our last stumble, and take our final header out of this riddle of a world, which we once dreamed we were to rule over, exclaiming "vanitas vanitatum" to the end. but man's spirit will never be satisfied without a kingdom, and was never intended to be satisfied so; and one wiser than solomon tells us day by day that our kingdom is about us here, and that we may rise up and pass in when we will at the shining gates which he holds open, for that it is his, and we are joint heirs of it with him. on the whole, however, making allowances for all drawbacks, those commemoration days were the pleasantest days tom had ever known at oxford. he was with his uncle and cousins early and late, devising all sorts of pleasant entertainments and excursions for them, introducing all the pleasantest men of his acquaintance and taxing the resources of the college, which at such times were available for undergraduates as well as their betters, to minister to their comfort and enjoyment. and he was well repaid. there was something perfectly new to the ladies, and very piquaut in the life and habits of the place. they found it very diverting to be receiving in tom's rooms, presiding over his breakfasts and luncheons, altering the position of his furniture, and making the place look as pretty as circumstances would allow. then there was pleasant occupation for every spare hour, and the fetes and amusements were all unlike everything but themselves. of course the ladies at once became enthusiastic st. ambrosians, and managed in spite of all distractions to find time for making up rosettes and bows of blue and white, in which to appear at the procession of the boats, which was the great event of the monday. fortunately mr. winter had been a good oar in his day, and had pulled in one of the first four-oars in which the university races had commenced some thirty-five years before; and tom, who had set his mind on managing his uncle, worked him up almost into enthusiasm and forgetfulness of his maladies, so that he raised no objection to a five o'clock dinner, and an adjournment to the river almost immediately afterwards. jervis, who was all-powerful on the river, at tom's instigation got an arm-chair for him in the best part of the university barge, while the ladies, after walking along the bank with tom and others of the crew, and being instructed in the colors of the different boats, and the meaning of the ceremony, took their places in the front row on the top of the barge, beneath the awning and the flags, and looked down with hundreds of other fair strangers on the scene, which certainly merited all that tom had said of it on faith. the barges above and below the university barge, which occupied the post of honor, were also covered with ladies, and christchurch meadow swarmed with gay dresses and caps and gowns. on the opposite side the bank was lined with a crowd in holiday clothes, and the punts plied across without intermission loaded with people, till the groups stretched away down the towing path in an almost continuous line to the starting place. then one after another of the racing-boats, all painted and polished up for the occasion, with the college flags drooping at their sterns, put out and passed down to their stations, and the bands played, and the sun shone his best. and then, after a short pause of expectation, the distant bank became all alive, and the groups all turned one way, and came up the towing path again, and the foremost boat with the blue and white flag shot through the gut and came up the reach, followed by another, and another, and another, till they were tired of counting, and the leading boat was already close to them before the last had come within sight. and the bands played up all together, and the crowd on both sides cheered as the st. ambrose boat spurted from the cherwell, and took the place of honor at the winning-post, opposite the university barge, and close under where they were sitting. "oh, look, katie dear; here they are. there's tom, and mr. hardy, and mr. jervis;" and mary waved her handkerchief and clapped her hands, and was in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, in which her cousin was no whit behind her. the gallant crew of st. ambrose were by no means unconscious of, and fully appreciated, the compliment. then the boats passed up one by one; and, as each came opposite to the st. ambrose boat, the crews tossed their oars and cheered, and the st. ambrose crew tossed their oars and cheered in return; and the whole ceremony went off in triumph, notwithstanding the casualty which occurred to one of the torpids. the torpids, being filled with the refuse of the rowing men--generally awkward or very young oarsmen--find some difficulty in the act of tossing--no safe operation for an unsteady crew. accordingly, the torpid in question, having sustained her crew gallantly till the saluting point, and allowed them to get their oars fairly into the air, proceeded gravely to turn over on her side, and shoot them out into the stream. a thrill ran along the top of the barges, and a little scream or two might have been heard even through the notes of "annie laurie", which were filling the air at the moment; but the band played on, and the crew swam ashore, and two of the punt-men laid hold of the boat and collected the oars, and nobody seemed to think anything of it. katie drew a long breath. "are they all out, dear?" she said; "can you see? i can only count eight." "oh, i was too frightened to look. let me see; yes, there are nine; there's one by himself, the little man pulling the weeds off his trousers." and so they regained their equanimity, and soon after left the barge, and were escorted to the hall of st. ambrose by the crew, who gave an entertainment there to celebrate the occasion, which mr. winter was induced to attend and pleased to approve, and which lasted till it was time to dress for the ball, for which a proper chaperone had been providentially found. and so they passed the days and nights of commemoration. but is not within the scope of this work to chronicle all their doings--how, notwithstanding balls at night, they were up to chapel in the morning, and attended flower-shows at worcester and musical promenades in new college, and managed to get down the river for a picnic at nuneham, besides seeing everything that was worth seeing in all the colleges. how it was done, no man can tell; but done it was, and they seemed only the better for it all. they were waiting at the gates of the theatre amongst the first, tickets in hand, and witnessed the whole scene, wondering no little at the strange mixture of solemnity and license, the rush and crowding of the undergraduates into their gallery, and their free and easy way of taking the whole proceedings under their patronage, watching every movement in the amphitheatre and on the floor, and shouting approval and disapproval of the heads of their republic of learning, or of the most illustrious visitors, or cheering with equal vigor, the ladies, her majesty's ministers, or the prize poems. it is a strange scene certainly, and has probably puzzled many persons besides young ladies. one can well fancy the astonishment of the learned foreigner, for instance, when he sees the head of the university, which he has reverenced at a distance from his youth up, rise in his robes in solemn convocation to exercise one of the highest of university functions, and hears his sonorous latin periods interrupted by "three cheers for the ladies in pink bonnets!" or, when some man is introduced for an honorary degree, whose name may be known throughout the civilized world, and the vice-chancellor, turning to his compeers, inquires, "placetne vobis, domini doctores? placetne vobis, magistri?" and he hears the voice of doctors and masters drowned in contradictory shouts from the young _demus_ in the gallery, "who is he?" "non placet!" "_placet_!" "why does he carry an umbrella?" it is thoroughly english, and that is just all that need, or indeed can, be said for it all; but not one in a hundred of us would alter it if we could, beyond suppressing some of the personalities, which of late years have gone somewhat too far. after the theatre there was sumptuous lunch in all souls', and then a fete in st. john's gardens. now, at the aforesaid luncheon, tom's feelings had been severely tried; in fact, the little troubles, which, as has been before hinted, are incident to persons, especially young men in his fortunate predicament, had here come to a head. he was separated from his cousin a little way. being a guest, and not an important one in the eyes of the all souls' fellows, he had to find his level, which was very much below that allotted to his uncle and cousins. in short, he felt that they were taking him about, instead of he them--which change of position was in itself trying; and mary's conduct fanned his slumbering discontent into a flame. there she was, sitting between a fellow of all souls', who was a collector of pictures and an authority in fine art matters, and the indian officer who had been so recently promoted to the degree of d.c.l. in the theatre. there she sat, so absorbed in their conversation that she did not even hear a remark which he was pleased to address to her. whereupon he began to brood on his wrongs, and to take umbrage at the catholicity of her enjoyment and enthusiasm. so long as he had been the medium through which she was brought in contact with others, he had been well enough content that they should amuse and interest her; but it was a very different thing now. so he watched her jealously, and raked up former conversations, and came to the conclusion that it was his duty to remonstrate with her. he had remarked, too, that she never could talk with him now without breaking away after a short time into badinage. her badinage certainly was very charming and pleasant, and kept him on the stretch; but why should she not let him be serious and sentimental when he pleased? she did not break out in this manner with other people. so he really felt it to be his duty to speak to her on the subject--not in the least for his own sake, but for hers. accordingly, when the party broke up, and they started for the fete at st. john's, he resolved to carry out his intentions. at first he could not get an opportunity while they were walking about on the beautiful lawn of the great garden, seeing and being seen, and listening to music, and looking at choice flowers. but soon a chance offered. she stayed behind the rest without noticing it, to examine some specially beautiful plant, and he was by her side in a moment, and proposed to show her the smaller garden, which lies beyond, to which she innocently consented; and they were soon out of the crowd, and in comparative solitude. she remarked that he was somewhat silent and grave, but thought nothing of it, and chatted on as usual, remarking upon the pleasant company she had been in at luncheon. this opened the way for tom's lecture. "how easily you seem to get interested with new people!" he began. "do i?" she said. "well, don't you think it very natural?" "wouldn't it be a blessing if people would always say just what they think and mean, though?" "yes, and a great many do," she replied, looking at him in some wonder, and not quite pleased with the turn things were taking. "any ladies, do you think? you know we haven't many opportunities of observing." "yes, i think quite as many ladies as men. more, indeed, as far as my small experience goes." "you really maintain deliberately that you have met people--men and women--who can talk to you or anyone else for a quarter of an hour quite honestly, and say nothing at all which they don't mean--nothing for the sake of flattery, or effect, for instance?" "oh dear me, yes, often." "who, for example?" "our cousin katie. why are you so suspicious and misanthropical? there is your friend mr. hardy again; what do you say to him?" "well, i think you may have hit on an exception. but i maintain the rule." "you look as if i ought to object. but i sha'n't. it is no business of mine if you choose to believe any such disagreeable thing about your fellow-creatures." "i don't believe anything worse about them than i do about myself. i know that i can't do it." "well, i am very sorry for you." "but i don't think i am any worse than my neighbours." "i don't suppose you do. who are your neighbors?" "shall i include you in the number?" "oh, by all means, if you like." "but i may not mean that you are like the rest. the man who fell among thieves, you know, had one good neighbor." "now, cousin tom," she said, looking up with sparkling eyes, "i can't return the compliment. you meant to make me feel that i _was_ like the rest--at least like what you say they are. you know you did. and now you are just turning round, and trying to slip out of it by saying what you don't mean." "well, cousin mary, perhaps i was. at any rate i was a great fool for my pains. i might have known by this time that you would catch me out fast enough." "perhaps you might. i didn't challenge you to set up your palace of truth. but, if we are to live in it, you are not to say all the disagreeable things and hear none of them." "i hope not, if they must be disagreeable. but why should they be? i can't see why you and i, for instance, should not say exactly what we are thinking to one another without being disagreeable." "well, i don't think you made a happy beginning just now." "but i am sure we should all like one another the better for speaking the truth." "yes; but i don't admit that i haven't been speaking the truth." "you won't understand me. have i said that you don't speak the truth?" "yes, you said just now that i don't say what i think and mean. well, perhaps you didn't exactly say that, but that is what you meant:" "you are very angry, cousin mary. let us wait till--" "no, no. it was you who began, and i will not let you off now." "very well, then. i did mean something of the sort. it is better to tell you than to keep it to myself." "yes; and now tell me your reasons," said mary, looking down and biting her lip. tom was ready to bite his tongue off, but there was nothing now but to go through with it. "you make everybody that comes near you think that you are deeply interested in them and their doings. poor grey believes that you are as mad as he is about rituals and rubrics. and the boating men declare that you would sooner see a race than go to the best ball in the world. and you listened to the dean's stale old stories about his schools, and went into raptures in the bodleian about pictures and art with that follow of all souls'. even our old butler and the cook--" here mary, despite her vexation, after a severe struggle to control it, burst into a laugh, which made tom pause. "now you can't say that i am not really fond of jellies," she said. "and you can't say that i have said anything so very disagreeable." "oh, but you have, though." "at any rate i have made you laugh." "but you didn't mean to do it. now, go on." "i have nothing more to say. you see my meaning, or you never will." "if you have nothing more to say, you should not have said so much," said mary. "you wouldn't have me rude to all the people i meet, and i can't help it if the cook thinks i am a glutton." "but you could help letting grey think that you should like to go and see his night schools." "but i should like to see them of all things." "and i suppose you would like to go through the manuscripts in the bodleian with the dean. i heard you talking to him as if it was the dearest wish of your heart, and making a half engagement to go with him this afternoon, when, you know that you are tired to death of him, and so full of other engagements that you don't know where to turn." mary began to bite her lips again. she felt half inclined to cry, and half inclined to get up and box his ears. however she did neither, but looked up after a moment or two and said-- "well, have you any more unkind words to say?" "unkind, mary?" "yes, they _are_ unkind. how can i enjoy anything now when i shall know you are watching me, and thinking all sorts of harm of everything i say and do? however, it doesn't much matter, for we go to-morrow morning." "but you will give me credit at least for meaning you well." "i think you are very jealous and suspicious." "you don't know how you pain me when you say that." "but i must say what i think." mary set her little mouth, and looked down, and began tapping her boot with her parasol. there was an awkward silence while tom considered within himself whether she was not right, and whether, after all, his own jealousy had not been the cause of the lecture he had been delivering, much more than any unselfish wish for mary's improvement. "it is your turn now," he said presently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and looking hard at the gravel. "i may have been foolishly jealous, and i thank you for telling me so. but you can tell me a great deal more if you will, quite as good for me to hear." "no, i have nothing to say. i daresay you are open and true, and have nothing to hide or disguise, not even about either of the men we met in the long walk on sunday." he winced at this random shaft as if he had been stung, and she saw that it had gone home, and repented the next moment. the silence became more and more embarrassing. by good luck, however, their party suddenly appeared strolling towards them from the large garden. "here are uncle robert and katie, and all of them. let us join them." she rose up, and he with her, and as they walked towards the rest, he said quickly in a low voice, "will you forgive me if i have pained you? i was very selfish, and i am sorry." "oh yes, we were both very foolish, but we won't do it again." "here you are at last. we have been looking for you everywhere," said miss winter, as they came up. "i'm sure i don't know how we missed you. we came straight from the music tent to this seat, and have not moved. we knew you must come by sooner or later." "but it is quite out of the way. it is quite by chance that we came round here." "isn't uncle robert tired, katie?" said tom; "he doesn't look well this afternoon." katie instantly turned to her father, and mr. winter declared himself to be much fatigued. so they wished their hospitable entertainers good-bye, and tom hurried off and got a wheel chair for his uncle, and walked by his side to their lodgings. the young ladies walked near the chair also, accompanied by one or two of their acquaintances; in fact they could not move without an escort. but tom never once turned his head for a glance at what was going on, and talked steadily on to his uncle, that he might not catch a stray word of what the rest were saying. despite of all this self-denial, however, he was quite aware somehow when he made his bow at the door that mary had been very silent all the way home. mr. winter retired to his room to lie down, and his daughter and niece remained in the sitting-room. mary sat down and untied her bonnet, but did not burst into her usual flood of comments on the events of the day. miss winter looked at her and said-- "you look tired, dear, and over-excited." "oh yes, so i am. i've had such a quarrel with tom." "a quarrel--you're not serious?" "indeed i am, though. i quite hated him for five minutes at least." "but what did he do?" "why, he taunted me with being too civil to everybody, and it made me so angry. he said i pretended to take an interest in ever so many things, just to please people, when i didn't really care about them. and it isn't true, now, katie, is it?" "no, dear. he never could have said that. you must have misunderstood him." "there, i knew you would say so. and if it were true, i'm sure it isn't wrong. when people talk to you, it 's so easy to seem pleased and interested in what they are saying; and then they like you, and it is so pleasant to be liked. now, katie, do you ever snap people's noses off, or tell them you think them very foolish, and that you don't care, and that what they are saying is all of no consequence?" "i, dear? i couldn't do it to save my life." "oh, i was sure you couldn't. and he may say what he will, but i am quite sure he would not have been pleased if we had not made ourselves pleasant to his friends." "that's quite true. he has told me himself half a dozen times how delighted he was to see you so popular." "and you too, katie?" "oh yes. he was very well pleased with me. but it is you who have turned all the heads in the college, mary. you are queen of st. ambrose beyond a doubt just now." "no, no, katie; not more than you at any rate." "i say yes, yes, mary. you will always be ten times as popular as i; some people have the gift of it; i wish i had. but why do you look so grave again?" "why, katie, don't you see you are just saying over again, only in a different way, what your provoking cousin--i shall call him mr. brown, i think, in future--was telling me for my good in st. john's gardens. you saw how long we were away from you; well, he was lecturing me all the time, only think; and now you are going to tell it me all over again. but go on, dear; i sha'n't mind anything from you." she put her arm round her cousin's waist, and looked up playfully into her face. miss winter saw at once that no great harm, perhaps some good, had been done in the passage of arms between her relatives. "you made it all up," she said, smiling, "before we found you." "only just, though. he begged my pardon just at last, almost in a whisper, when you were quite close to us." "and you granted it?" "yes, of course; but i don't know that i shall not recall it." "i was sure you would be falling out before long, you got on so fast. but he isn't quite so easy to turn round your finger as you thought, mary." "oh, i don't know that," said mary, laughing; "you saw how humble he looked at last, and what good order he was in." "well, dear, it's time to think whether we shall go out again." "let me see; there's the last ball. what do you say?" "why, i'm afraid poor papa is too tired to take us, and i don't know with whom we could go. we ought to begin packing, too i think." "very well. let us have tea quietly at home." "i will write a note to tom to tell him. he has done his best for us, poor fellow, and we ought to consider him a little." "oh yes, and ask him and his friend mr. hardy to tea, as it is the last night." "if you wish it, i shall be very glad; they will amuse papa." "certainly, and then he will see that i bear him no malice. and now i will go and just do my hair." "very well; and we will pack after they leave. how strange home will seem after all this gayety." "yes, we seem to have been here a month." "i do hope we shall find all quiet at englebourn. i am always afraid of some trouble there." chapter xxviii--the end of the freshman's year on the morning after commemoration, oxford was in a bustle of departure. the play had been played, the long vacation had begun, and visitors and members seemed equally anxious to be off. at the gates of the colleges, groups of men in travelling-dresses waited for the coaches, omnibuses, dog-carts and all manner of vehicles, which were to carry them to the great western railway station at steventon, or elsewhere, to all points of the compass. porters passed in and out with portmanteaus, gun-cases, and baggage of all kinds, which they piled outside the gates, or carried off to "the mitre" or "the angel," under the vigorous and not too courteous orders of the owners. college servants flitted round the groups to take instructions, and, it so might be, to extract the balances of extortionate bills out of their departing masters. dog-fanciers were there also, holding terriers; and scouts from the cricketing grounds, with bats and pads under their arms; and hostlers, and men from the boats, all on the same errand of getting the last shilling out of their patrons--a fawning, obsequious crowd for the most part, with here and there a sturdy briton who felt that he was only there for his due. through such a group, at the gate of st. ambrose, tom and hardy passed soon after breakfast time, in cap and gown, which costume excited no small astonishment. "hullo, brown, old fellow! ain't you off this morning?" "no, i shall be up for a day or two yet." "wish you joy. i wouldn't be staying up over to-day for something." "but you'll be at henley to-morrow?" said diogenes, confidently, who stood at the gate in boating coat and flannels, a big stick and knapsack, waiting for a companion, with whom he was going to walk to henley. "and at lord's on friday," said another. "it will be a famous match. come and dine somewhere afterwards, and go to the haymarket with us." "you know the leander are to be at henley," put in diogenes; "and cambridge is very strong. there will be a splendid race for the cup, but jervis thinks we are all right." "bother your eternal races! haven't we had enough of them already?" said the londoner. "you had much better come up to the little village at once, brown, and stay there while the coin lasts." "if i get away at all, it will be to henley," said tom. "of course, i knew that," said diogenes, triumphantly, "our boat ought to be on for the ladies' plate. if only jervis were not in the university crew! i thought you were to pull at henley, hardy?" "i was asked to pull, but i couldn't manage the time with the schools coming on, and when the examinations were over it was too late. the crew were picked and half trained, and none of them have broken down." "what! every one of them stood putting through the sieve? they must be a rare crew, then," said another. "you're right," said diogenes. "oh, here you are at last," he added, as another man in flannels and knapsack came out of college. "well, good-bye all, and a pleasant vacation; we must be off, if we are to be in time to see our crew pull over the course to-night;" and the two marched off towards magdalen bridge. "by jove!" remarked a fast youth, in most elaborate toilette, looking after them, "fancy two fellows grinding off to henley, five miles an hour, in this sun, when they might drop up to the metropolis by train in half the time? isn't it marvellous?" "i should like to be going with them," said tom. "well, there's no accounting for tastes. here's our coach." "good-bye, then;" and tom shook hands, and, leaving the coach to get packed with portmanteaus, terriers, and undergraduates, he and hardy walked off towards the high-street. "so you're not going to-day?" hardy said. "no; two or three of my old schoolfellows are coming up to stand for scholarships, and i must be here to receive them. but it's very unlucky; i should have liked so to have been at henley." "look, their carriage is already at the door," said hardy, pointing up high-street, into which they now turned. there were a dozen postchaises and carriages loading in front of different houses in the street, and amongst them mr. winter's old-fashioned travelling barouche. "so it is," said tom; "that's some of uncle's fidgetiness; but he will be sure to dawdle at the last. come along in." "don't you think i had better stay downstairs? it may seem intrusive." "no, come along. why, they asked you to come and see the last of them last night, didn't they?" hardy did not require any further urging to induce him to follow his inclination; so the two went up together. the breakfast things were still on the table, at which sat miss winter, in her bonnet, employed in examining the bill, with the assistance of mary, who leant over her shoulder. she looked up as they entered. "oh! i'm so glad you are come. poor katie is so bothered, and i can't help her. do look at the bill; is it all right?" "shall i, katie?" "yes, please do. i don't see anything to object to, except, perhaps, the things i have marked. do you think we ought to be charged half a crown a day for the kitchen fire?" "fire in june! and you have never dined at home once?" "no, but we have had tea several times." "it is a regular swindle," said tom, taking the bill and glancing at it. "here, hardy, come and help me cut down this precious total." they sat down to the bill, the ladies willingly giving place. mary tripped off to the glass to tie her bonnet. "now that is all right!" she said merrily; "why can't one go on without bills or horrid money?" "ah! why can't one?" said tom, "that would suit most of our complaints. but where's uncle; has he seen the bill?" "no; papa is in his room; he must not be worried, or the journey will be too much for him." here the ladies'-maid arrived, with a message that her father wished to see miss winter. "leave your money, katie," said her cousin, "this is gentlemen's business, and tom and mr. hardy will settle it all for us, i am sure." tom professed his entire willingness to accept the charge, delighted at finding himself reinstated in his office of protector at mary's suggestion. had the landlord been one or his own tradesmen, or the bill his own bill, he might not have been so well pleased, but, as neither of these was the case, and he had hardy to back him, he went into the matter with much vigor and discretion, and had the landlord up, made the proper deductions, and got the bill settled and receipted in a few minutes. then he and hardy addressed themselves to getting the carriage comfortably packed, and vied with one another in settling and stowing away in the most convenient places, the many little odds and ends which naturally accompany young ladies and invalids on their travels; in the course of which employment he managed to snatch a few words here and there with mary and satisfied himself that she bore him no ill-will for the events of the previous day. at last all was ready for the start, and tom reported the fact in the sitting-room. "then i will go and fetch papa," said miss winter. tom's eyes met mary's at the moment. he gave a slight shrug with his shoulders, and said, as the door closed after his cousin, "really i have no patience with uncle robert, he leaves poor katie to do everything." "yes; and how beautifully she does it all, without a word or, i believe, a thought of complaint! i could never be so patient." "i think it is a pity. if uncle robert were obliged to exert himself, it would be much better for him. katie is only spoiling him and wearing herself out." "yes, it is very easy for you and me to think and say so. but he is her father, and then he is really an invalid. so she goes on devoting herself to him more and more, and feels she can never do too much for him." "but if she believed it would be better for him to exert himself? i'm sure it is the truth. couldn't you try to persuade her?" "no, indeed; it would only worry her, and be so cruel. but then i am not used to give advice," she added, after a moment's pause, looking demurely at her gloves; "it might do good, perhaps, now, if you were to speak to her." "you think me so well qualified, i suppose, after the specimen you had yesterday? thank you; i have had enough of lecturing for the present." "i am very much obliged to you, really, for what you said to me," said mary, still looking at her gloves. the subject was a very distasteful one to tom. he looked at her for a moment to see whether she was laughing at him, and then broke it off abruptly-- "i hope you have enjoyed your visit?" "oh yes, so very much. i shall think of it all the summer." "where shall you be all the summer?" asked tom. "not so very far from you. papa has taken a house only eight miles from englebourn, and katie says you live within a day's drive of them." "and shall you be there all the vacation?" "yes; and we hope to get katie over often. could not you come and meet her? it would be so pleasant." "but do you think i might? i don't know your father or mother." "oh, yes; papa and mamma are very kind, and will ask anybody i like. besides, you are a cousin, you know." "only up at oxford, i am afraid." "well now, you will see. we are going to have a great archery party next month, and you shall have an invitation." "will you write it for me yourself?" "very likely; but why?" "don't you think i shall value a note in your hand more than--" "nonsense; now, remember your lecture. oh here are uncle robert and katie." mr. winter was very gracious, and thanked tom for all his attentions. he had been very pleased, he said, to make his nephew's acquaintance again so pleasantly, and hoped he would come and pass a day or two at englebourn in the vacation. in his sad state of health he could not do much to entertain a young man, but he could procure him some good fishing and shooting in the neighborhood. tom assured his uncle that nothing would please him so much as a visit to englebourn. perhaps the remembrance of the distance between that parish and the place where mary was to spend the summer may have added a little to his enthusiasm. "i should have liked also to have thanked your friend for his hospitality," mr. winter went on. "i understood my daughter to say he was here." "yes, he was here just now," said tom; "he must be below, i think." "what, that good mr. hardy?" said mary, who was looking out of the window; "there he is in the street. he has just helped hopkins into the rumble, and handed her things to her just as if she were a duchess. she has been so cross all the morning, and now she looks quite gracious." "then i think, papa, we had better start." "let me give you an arm down stairs, uncle," said tom; and so he helped his uncle down to the carriage, the two young ladies following behind, and the landlord standing with obsequious bows at his shop door, and looking as if he had never made an overcharge in his life. while mr. winter was making his acknowledgments to hardy, and being helped by him into the most comfortable seat in the carriage, tom was making tender adieus to the two young ladies behind, and even succeeded in keeping a rose-bud which mary was carrying, when they took their seats. she parted from it half-laughingly, and the post-boy cracked his whip and the barouche went lumbering along high-street. hardy and tom watched it until it turned down st. aldate's towards folly bridge, the latter waving his hand as it disappeared, and then they turned and strolled slowly away side by side in silence. the sight of all the other departures increased the uncomfortable, unsatisfied feeling which that of his own relatives had already produced in tom's mind. "well, it isn't lively stopping up here when everybody is going, is it? what is one to do?" "oughtn't you to be looking after your friends who are coming up to try for the scholarships?" "no, they won't be up till afternoon, by coach." "shall we go down to the river, then?" "no, it would be miserable. hullo, look here, what's up?" the cause of tom's astonishment was the appearance of the usual procession of university beadles carrying silver-headed maces, and escorting the vice-chancellor towards st. mary's. "why, the bells are going for service; there must be a university sermon. is it a saint's day?" "where's the congregation to come from? why, half oxford is off by this time, and those that are left won't want to be hearing sermons." "well, i don't know. a good many seem to be going. i wonder who is to preach?" "i vote we go. it will help to pass the time." hardy agreed, and they followed the procession and went up into the gallery of st. mary's. there was a very fair congregation in the body of the church, and the staffs of the colleges had not yet broken up, and even in the gallery the undergraduates mustered in some force. the restless feeling which had brought our hero there seemed to have had a like effect on most of the men who were for one reason or another unable to start on that day. tom looked steadily into his cap during the bidding prayer, and sat down composedly afterwards, expecting not to be much interested or benefitted, but comforted with the assurance that at any rate it would be almost luncheon time before he would be again thrown on his own resources. but he was mistaken in his expectations, and before the preacher had been speaking for three minutes, was all attention. the sermon was upon the freedom of the gospel, the power by which it bursts all bonds and lets the oppressed go free. its burthen was, "ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." the preacher dwelt on many sides of these words; the freedom of nations, of societies, of universities, of the conscience of each individual man, were each glanced at in turn; and then, reminding his hearers of the end of the academical year, he went on-- "we have heard it said in the troubles and toils and temptations of the world,* 'oh that i could begin life over again! oh that i could fall asleep, and wake up twelve, six, three mouths hence, and find my difficulties solved!' that which we may vainly wish elsewhere, by a happy providence is furnished to us by the natural divisions of meeting and parting in this place. to everyone of us, old and young, the long vacation on which we are now entering gives us a breathing space, and time to break the bonds which place and circumstance have woven round us during the year that is past. from all our petty cares, and confusions, and intrigues; from the dust and clatter of this huge machinery amidst which we labor and toil; from whatever cynical contempt of what is generous and devout; from whatever fanciful disregard of what is just and wise; from whatever gall of bitterness is secreted in our best motives; from whatever bonds of unequal dealings in which we may have entangled ourselves or others, we are now for a time set free. we stand on the edge of a river which shall for a time at least sweep them away--that ancient river, the kishon, the river of fresh thoughts, and fresh scenes, and fresh feelings, and fresh hopes--one surely amongst the blessed means whereby god's free and loving grace works out our deliverance, our redemption from evil, and renews the strength of each succeeding year, so that we may 'mount up again as eagles, may run and not be weary, may walk and not faint.'" "and if, turning to the younger part of my hearers, i may still more directly apply this general lesson to them. is there no one who, in some shape or other, does not feel the bondage of which i have been speaking? he has something on his conscience; he has something on his mind; extravagance, sin, debt, falsehood. every morning in the first few minutes after waking, it is the first thought that occurs to him. he drives it away in the day; he drives it off by recklessness, which only binds it more and more closely round him. is there any one who has ever felt, who is at this moment feeling this grievous burden. what is the deliverance? how shall he set himself free? in what special way does the redemption of christ, the free grace of god, present itself to him? there is at least one way clear and simple. he knows it better than anyone can tell him. it is those same words which i used with another purpose. 'the truth shall make him free.' it is to tell the truth to his friend, to his parent, to any one, whosoever it be, from whom he is concealing that which he ought to make known. one word of open, frank disclosure--one resolution to act sincerely and honestly by himself and others, one ray of truth let into that dark corner will indeed set the whole man free." "_liberavi animam meam_. 'i have delivered my soul.' what a faithful expression is this of the relief, the deliverance effected by one strong effort of will in one moment of time. 'i will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. so we heard the prodigal's confession this morning. so may the thought well spring up in the minds of any who in the course of this last year have wandered into sin, have found themselves beset with evil habits of wicked idleness, of wretched self-indulgence. now that you are indeed in the literal sense of the word about to rise and go to your father, now that you will be able to shake off the bondage of bad companionship, now that the whole length of this long absence will roll between you and the past, take a long breath; break off the yoke of your sin, of your fault, of your wrong doing, of your folly, of your perverseness, of your pride, of your vanity, of your weakness; break it off by truth; break it off by one stout effort, in one steadfast prayer; break it off by innocent and free enjoyment; break it off by honest work. put your 'hand to the nail and your right hand to the workman's hammer;' strike through the enemy which has ensnared you, pierce and strike him through and through. however powerful he seems, at your feet he will bow, he will fall, he will lie down; at your feet he will bow and fall, and where he bows, there will he rise up no more. so let all thine enemies perish, o lord; but let them that love thee be as the sun when he goeth forth in his might.'" * this quotation is from the sermon preached by dr. stanley before the university, on act sunday, (published by j. h. parker, of oxford). i hope the distinguished professor whose words they are will pardon the liberty i have taken in quoting them. no words of my own could have given so vividly what i wanted to say. the two friends separated themselves from the crowd in the porch and walked away, side by side, towards their college. "well, that wasn't a bad move of ours. it is worth something to hear a man preach that sort of doctrine," said hardy. "how does he get to know it all?" said tom, meditatively. "all what? i don't see your puzzle." "why, all sorts of things that are in a fellow's mind--what he thinks about the first thing in the morning, for instance." "pretty much like the rest of us, i take it; by looking at home. you don't suppose university preachers are unlike you and me." "well, i don't know. now do you think he ever had anything on his mind that was always coming up and plaguing him, and which he never told to anybody?" "yes, i should think so; most of us must have had." "have you?" "ay, often and often." "and you think his remedy the right one?" "the only one. make a clean breast of it and the sting is gone. there's a great deal to be done afterwards, of course; but there can be no question about step no. ." "did you ever owe a hundred pounds that you couldn't pay?" said tom, with a sudden effort; and his secret had hardly passed his lips before he felt a relief which surprised himself. "my dear fellow," said hardy, stopping in the street "you don't mean to say you are speaking of yourself?" "i do, though," said tom, "and it has been on my mind ever since easter term, and has spoilt my temper and everything--that and something else that you know of. you must have seen me getting more and more ill-tempered, i'm sure; and i have thought of it the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night; and tried to drive the thought away just as he said one did in his sermon. by jove, i thought he knew all about it, for he looked right at me, just when he came to that place." "but, brown, how do you mean you owe a hundred pounds? you haven't read much certainly; but you haven't hunted, or gambled, or tailored much, or gone into any other extravagant folly. you must be dreaming." "am i though? come up to my rooms and i'll tell you all about it; i feel better already now i've let it out. i'll send over for your commons, and we'll have some lunch." hardy followed his friend in much trouble of mind, considering in himself whether with the remainder of his savings he could not make up the sum which tom had named. fortunately for both of them a short calculation showed him that he could not, and he gave up the idea of delivering his friend in this summary manner with a sigh. he remained closeted with tom for an hour, and then came out, looking serious still, but not uncomfortable, and went down to the river. he sculled down to sandford, bathed in the lasher, and returned in time for chapel. he stayed outside afterwards, and tom came up to him and seized his arm. "i've done it, old fellow," he said; "look here;" and produced a letter. hardy glanced at the direction, and saw that it was to his father. "come along and post it," said tom, "and then i shall feel all right." they walked off quickly to the post-office and dropped the letter into the box. "there," he said, as it disappeared, "_liberavi animam meam_. i owe the preacher a good turn for that; i've a good mind to write and thank him. fancy the poor old governor's face to-morrow at breakfast!" "well, you seem to take it easy enough now," said hardy. "i can't help it. i tell you i haven't felt so jolly this two months. what a fool i was not to have done it before. after all now i come to think of it, i can pay it myself, at least as soon as i am of age, for i know i've some money--a legacy or something--coming to me then. but that isn't what i care about now." "i'm very glad, though, that you have the money of your own." "yes, but the having told it is all the comfort. come along, and let's see whether these boys are come. the old pig ought to be in by this time, and i want them to dine in hall. it's only ten months since i came up on it to matriculate, and it seems twenty years. but i'm going to be a boy again for to-night; you'll see if i'm not." chapter xxix--the long vacation letter-bag. "june , -. "my dear tom,--your letter came to hand this morning, and it has, of course, given your mother and me much pain. it is not the money that we care about, but that our son should have deliberately undertaken, or pretended to undertake, what he must have known at the time he could not perform himself. "i have written to my bankers to pay l. at once to your account at the oxford bank. i have also requested my solicitor to go over to oxford, and he will probably call on you the day after you receive this. you say that this person who holds your note of hand is now in oxford. you will see him in the presence of my solicitor, to whom you will hand the note when you have recovered it. i shall consider afterwards what further steps will have to be taken in the matter. "you will not be of age for a year. it will be time enough then to determine whether you will repay the balance of this money out of the legacy to which you will be entitled under your grandfather's will. in the meantime, i shall deduct at the rate of l. a year from your allowance and i shall hold your bond in honor to reduce your expenditure by this amount. you are no longer a boy, and one of the first duties which a man owes to his friends and to society is to live within his income. "i make this advance to you on two conditions. first, that you will never again put your hand to a note or bill in a transaction of this kind. if you have money, lend it or spend it. you may lend or spend foolishly, but that is not the point here; at any rate you are dealing with what is your own. but in transactions of this kind you are dealing with what is not your own. a gentleman should shrink from the possibility of having to come on others, even on his own father, for the fulfillment of his obligations, as he would from a lie. i would sooner see a son of mine in his grave than crawling on through life a slave to wants and habits which he must gratify at other people's expense. "my second condition is, that you put an end to your acquaintance with these two gentlemen who have led you into this scrape, and have divided the proceeds of your joint note between them. they are both your seniors in standing, you say, and they appear to be familiar with this plan of raising money at the expense of other people. the plain english word for such doings is, swindling. what pains me most is, that you have become intimate with young men of this kind. i am not sure that it will not be my duty to lay the whole matter before the authorities of the college. you do not mention their names, and i respect the feeling which has led you not to mention them. i shall know them quite soon enough through my solicitor, who will forward me a copy of the note of hand and signatures in due course. "your letter makes general allusion to other matters; and i gather from it that you are dissatisfied with the manner in which you have spent your first year at oxford. i do not ask for specific confessions, which you seem inclined to offer me; in fact, i would sooner not have them, unless there is any other matter in which you want assistance or advice from me. i know from experience that oxford is a place full of temptation of all kinds, offered to young men at the most critical time of their lives. knowing this, i have deliberately accepted the responsibility of sending you there, and i do not repent it. i am glad that you are dissatisfied with your first year. if you had not been i should have felt much more anxious about your second. let bygones be bygones between you and me. you know where to go for strength, and to make confessions which no human ear should hear, for no human judgment can weigh the cause. the secret places of a man's heart are for himself and god. your mother sends her love. "i am, ever your affectionate father,--john brown." june th, -. "my dear boy,--i am not sorry that you have taken my last letter as you have done. it is quite right to be sensitive on these points, and it will have done you no harm to have fancied for forty-eight hours that you had in my judgment lost caste as a gentleman. but now i am very glad to be able to ease your mind on this point. you have done a very foolish thing; but it is only the habit, and the getting others to bind themselves, and not the doing it oneself for others, which is disgraceful. you are going to pay honourably for your folly, and will owe me neither thanks nor money in the transaction. i have chosen my own terms for repayment, which you have accepted, and so the financial question is disposed of. "i have considered what you say as to your companions--friends i will not call them--and will promise you not to take any further steps, or to mention the subject to anyone. but i must insist on my second condition, that you avoid all further intimacy with them. i do not mean that you are to cut them, or do anything that will attract attention. but, no more intimacy. "and now, my dear boy, as to the rest of your letter. mine must indeed have failed to express my meaning. god forbid that there should not be the most perfect confidence between us. there is nothing which i desire or value more. i only question whether special confessions will conduce to it. my experience is against them. i almost doubt whether they can be perfectly honest between man and man; and, taking into account the difference of our ages, it seems to be much more likely that we should misunderstand one another. but having said this, i leave it to you to follow your own conscience in the matter. if there is any burthen which i can help you to bear, it will be my greatest pleasure, as it is my duty, to do it. so now, say what you please, or say no more. if you speak, it will be to one who has felt and remembers a young man's trials. "we hope you will be able to come home to-morrow, or the next day, at latest. your mother is longing to see you, and i should be glad to have you here a day or two before the assizes, which are held next week. i should rather like you to accompany me to them, as it will give me the opportunity of introducing you to my brother magistrates from other parts of the county, whom you are not likely to meet elsewhere, and it is a good thing for a young man to know his own county well. "the cricket club is very flourishing, you will be glad to hear, and they have put off their best matches till your return; so you are in great request, you see. i am told that the fishing is very good this year, and am promised several days for you in the club water. "september is a long way off, but there is nothing like being before hand; i have put your name down for a license; and it is time you should have a good gun of your own; so i have ordered one for you from a man who has lately settled in the county. he was purdy's foreman, with whom i used to build, and, i can see, understands his business thoroughly. his locks are as good as any i have ever seen. i have told him to make the stock rather longer, and not quite so straight as that of my old double with which you shot last year. i think i remember you criticized my weapon on these points; but there will be time for you to alter the details after you get home, if you disapprove of my orders. it will be more satisfactory if it is built under your own eye. "if you continue in the mind for a month's reading with your friend mr. hardy, we will arrange it towards the end of the vacation; but would he not come here? from what you say we should very much like to know him. pray ask him from me whether he will pass the last month of the vacation here, reading with you. i should like you to be his first regular pupil. of course this will be my affair. and now, god bless you, and come home as soon as you can. your mother sends her best love. "ever your most affectionate, "john brown." "englebourn rectory, "june th, -' "dearest mary;--how good of you to write to me so soon! your letter has come like a gleam of sunshine. i am in the midst of worries already. indeed, as you know, i could never quite throw off the fear of what might be happening here, while we were enjoying ourselves at oxford, and it has all turned out even worse than i expected. i shall never be able to go away again in comfort, i think. and yet, if i had been here, i don't know that i could have done any good. it is so very sad that poor papa is unable to attend to his magistrate's business, and he has been worse than usual, quite laid up in fact, since our return. there is no other magistrate--not even a gentleman in the place, as you know, except the curate; and they will not listen to him, even if he would interfere in their quarrels. but he says he will not meddle with secular matters; and, poor man, i cannot blame him, for it is very easy and sad and wearing to be mixed up in it all. "but now i must tell you all my troubles. you remember the men whom we saw mowing together just before we went to oxford. betty winburn's son was one of them, and i am afraid the rest are not at all good company for him. when they had finished papa's hay, they went to mow for farmer tester. you must remember him, dear, i am sure; the tall, gaunt man, with heavy, thick lips and a broken nose, and the top of his head quite flat, as if it had been cut off a little above his eyebrows. he is a very miserly man, and a hard master; at least all the poor people tell me so, and he looks cruel. i have always been afraid of him, and disliked him, for i remember as a child hearing papa complain how troublesome he was in the vestry; and except old simon, who, i believe, only does it from perverseness, i have never heard anybody speak well of him. "the first day that the men went to mow for farmer tester, he gave them sour beer to drink. you see, dear, they bargained to mow for so much money and their beer. they were very discontented at this, and they lost a good deal of time going to complain to him about it, and they had high words with him. "the men said the beer wasn't fit for pigs, and the farmer said it was quite good enough 'for such as they,' and if they didn't like his beer they might buy their own. in the evening, too, he came down and complained that the mowing was bad, and then there were more high words, for the men are very jealous about their work. however they went to work as usual the next morning, and all might have gone off quietly, but in the day farmer tester found two pigs in his turnip field which adjoins the common, and had them put in the pound. one of these pigs belonged to betty winburn's son, and the other to one of the men who was mowing with him; so, when they came home at night, they found what had happened. "the constable is our pound-keeper, the little man who amused you so much; he plays the bass-viol in church. when he puts any beasts into the pound he cuts a stick in two, and gives one piece to the person who brings the beasts, and keeps the other himself, and the owner of the beasts has to bring the other end of the stick to him before he can let them out. therefore, the owner, you see, must go to the person who has pounded his beasts, and make a bargain with him for payment of the damage which has been done, and so get back the other end of the stick, which they call the 'tally,' to produce to the pound-keeper. "well, the men went off to the constable's when they heard their pigs were pounded, to find who had the 'tally,' and, when they found it was farmer tester, they went in a body to his house to remonstrate with him, and learn what he set the damages at. the farmer used dreadful language to them, i hear, and said they weren't fit to have pigs, and must pay half a crown for each pig, before they could have the 'tally;' and the men irritated him by telling him that his fences were a shame to the parish, because he was too stingy to have them mended, and that the pigs couldn't have found half a crown's worth of turnips in the whole field, for he never put any manure on it except what he could get off the road, which ought to belong to the poor. at last the farmer drove them away saying he should stop the money out of the price he was to pay for their mowing. "then there was very near being a riot in the parish; for some of the men are very reckless people, and they went in the evening and blew horns and beat kettles before his house, till the constable, who has behaved very well, persuaded them to go away. "in the morning one of the pigs had been taken out of the pound; not betty's son's, i am glad to say--for no doubt it was very wrong of the men to take it out. the farmer was furious, and went with the constable in the morning to find the pig, but they could hear nothing of it anywhere. james pope, the man to whom it belonged, only laughed at them, and said he never could keep his pig in himself, because it was grandson to one of the acting pigs that went about to the fairs, and all the pigs of that family took to climbing naturally; so his pig must have climbed out of the pound. this of course was all a story; the men had lifted the pig out of the pound, and then killed it, so that the farmer might not find it, and sold the meat cheap all over the parish. betty went to the farmer that morning and paid the half crown, and got her son's pig out before he came home; but farmer tester stopped the other half crown out of the men's wages, which made matters worse then ever. "the day that we were in the theatre at oxford, farmer tester was away at one of the markets. he turns his big cattle out to graze on the common, which the poor people say he has no right to do, and in the afternoon a pony of his got into the allotments, and betty's son caught it, and took it to the constable, and had it put in the pound. the constable tried to persuade him not to do it, but it was of no use; and so, when farmer tester came home, he found that his turn had come. i am afraid that he was not sober, for i hear that he behaved dreadfully both to the constable and to betty's son, and, when he found that he could not frighten them, he declared he would have the law of them if it cost him twenty pounds. so in the morning he went to fetch his lawyer, and when we got home you can fancy what a scene it was. "you remember how poorly papa was when you left us at lambourn. by the time we got home he was quite knocked up, and so nervous that he was fit for nothing except to have a quiet cup of tea in his own room. i was sure as we drove up the street, there was something the matter. the ostler was watching outside the red lion, and ran in as soon as we came in sight; and, as we passed the door, out came farmer tester, looking very flushed in the face, and carrying his great iron-handled whip, and a person with him, who i found was his lawyer, and they marched after the carriage. then the constable was standing at his door too, and he came after us, and there was a group of men outside the rectory gate. we had not been in the house five minutes before a servant came in to say that farmer tester and a gentlemen wanted to see papa on particular business. papa sent out word that he was very unwell, and that it was not the proper time to come on business; he would see them the next day at twelve o'clock. but they would not go away, and then papa asked me to go out and see them. you can fancy how disagreeable it was; and i was so angry with them for coming, when they knew how nervous papa is after a journey, that i could not have patience to persuade them to leave; and so at last they made poor papa see them after all. "he was lying on a sofa, and quite unfit to cope with a hard bad man like farmer tester, and a fluent plausible lawyer. they told their story all their own way, and the farmer declared that the man had tempted the pony into the allotment with corn. and the lawyer said that the constable had no right to keep the pony in the pound, that he was liable to all sorts of punishments. they wanted papa to make an order at once for the pound to be opened, and i think he would have done so, but i asked him in a whisper to send for the constable, and hear what he had to say. the constable was waiting in the kitchen, so he came in in a minute. you can't think how well he behaved; i have quite forgiven him all his obstinacy about the singing. he told the whole story about the pigs, and how farmer tester had stopped money out of the men's wages. and when the lawyer tried to frighten him, he answered him quite boldly, that he mightn't know so much about the law, but he knew what was always the custom long before his time at englebourn about the pound, and if farmer tester wanted his beast out, he must bring the 'tally' like another man. then the lawyer appealed to papa about the law, and said how absurd it was, and that if such a custom were to be upheld, the man who had the 'tally' might charge l. for the damage. and poor papa looked through his law books, and could find nothing about it at all; and while he was doing it farmer tester began to abuse the constable, and said he sided with all the good-for-nothing fellows in the parish, and that bad blood would come of it. but the constable quite fired up at that, and told him that it was such as he who made bad blood in the parish, and that poor folks had their rights as well as their betters, and should have them as long as he was constable. if he got papa's order to open the pound, he supposed he must do it, and 'twas not for him to say what was law, but henry winburn had had to get the 'tally' for his pig from farmer tester, and what was fair for one was fair for all. "i was afraid papa would have made the order, but the lawyer said something at last which made him take the other side. so he settled that the farmer should pay five shillings for the 'tally,' which was what he had taken from betty, and had stopped out of the wages, and that was the only order he would make, and the lawyer might do what he pleased about it. the constable seemed satisfied with this, and undertook to take the money down to harry winburn, for farmer tester declared he would sooner let the pony starve than go himself. and so papa got rid of them after an hour and more of this talk. the lawyer and farmer tester went away grumbling and very angry to the red lion. i was very anxious to hear how the matter ended; so i went after the constable to ask him to come back and see me when he had settled it all, and about nine o'clock he came. he had had a very hard job to get harry winburn to take the money, and give up the 'tally.' the men said that, if farmer tester could make them pay half-a-crown for a pig in his turnips, which were no bigger than radishes, he ought to pay ten shillings at least for his pony trampling down their corn, which was half grown, and i couldn't help thinking this seemed very reasonable. in the end, however, the constable had persuaded them to take the money, and so the pony was let out. "i told him how pleased i was at the way he had behaved, but the little man didn't seem quite satisfied himself. he should have liked to have given the lawyer a piece of his mind, he said, only he was no scholar, 'but i've a got all the feelin's of a man, miss, though i medn't have the ways o' bringin' on 'em out.' you see i'm quite coming round to your opinion about him. but when i said that i hoped all the trouble was over, he shook his head, and he seems to think that the men will not forget it, and that some of the wild ones will be trying to pay farmer tester out in the winter nights, and i could see he was very anxious about harry winburn; so i promised him to go and see betty. "i went down to her cottage yesterday, and found her very low, poor old soul, about her son. she has had a bad attack again, and i am afraid her heart is not right. she will not live long if she has much to make her anxious, and how is that to be avoided? for her son's courting is all going wrong, she can see, though he will not tell her anything about it; but he gets more moody and restless, she says, and don't take a pride in anything, not even in his flowers or his allotment; and he takes to going about, more and more every day, with these men, who will be sure to lead him into trouble. "after i left her, i walked up to the hawk's lynch, to see whether the view and the air would not do me good. and it did do me a great deal of good, dear, and i thought of you, and when i should see your bright face and hear your happy laugh again. the village looked so pretty and peaceful. i could hardly believe, while i was up there, that there were all these miserable quarrels and heartburnings going on in it. i suppose they go on everywhere, but one can't help feeling as if there was something specially hard in those which come under one's own eyes, and touch one's self. and then they are so frivolous, and everything might go on so comfortably if people would only be reasonable. i ought to have been a man, i am sure, and then i might, perhaps, be able to do more, and should have more influence. if poor papa were only well and strong! "but, dear, i shall tire you with all these long histories and complainings. i have run on till i have no room left for anything else; but you can't think what a comfort it is to me to write it all to you, for i have no one to tell it to. i feel so much better, and more cheerful, since i sat down to write this. you must give my dear love to uncle and aunt, and let me hear from you again whenever you have time. if you could come over again and stay for a few days, it would be very kind; but i must not press it, as there is nothing to attract you here, only we might talk over all that we did and saw at oxford.--ever, dearest mary, your affectionate cousin, "katie" "p. s.--i should like to have the pattern of the jacket you wore the last day at oxford. could you cut it out in thin paper and send it in your next?" "july-, -. "my dear brown,--i was very glad to see your hand, and to hear such flourishing accounts of your vacation doings. you won't get any like announcement of me, for cricket has not yet come so far west as this, at least not to settle. we have a few pioneers and squatters in the villages; but, i am sorry to say, nothing yet like matches between the elevens of districts. neighbors we have none, except the rector; so i have plenty of spare time, some of which i feel greatly disposed to devote to you; and i hope you won't find me too tedious to read. "it is very kind of your father to wish that you should be my first pupil, and to propose that i should spend the last month of this vacation with you in berkshire. but i do not like to give up a whole month. my father is getting old and infirm, and i can see that it would be a great trial to him, although he urges it, and is always telling me not to let him keep me at home. what do you say to meeting me half way? i mean, that you should come here for half of the time, and then that i should return with you for the last fortnight of the vacation. this i could manage perfectly. "but you cannot in any case be my first pupil; for not to mention that i have been, as you know, teaching for some years, i have a pupil here, at this minute. you are not likely to guess who it is, though you know him well enough--perhaps i should say too well--so, in a word, it is blake. i had not been at home three days before i got a letter from him, asking me to take him, and putting it in such a way that i couldn't refuse. i would sooner not have had him, as i had already got out of taking a reading party with some trouble, and felt inclined to enjoy myself here in dignified idleness till next term. but what can you do when a man puts it to you as a great personal favor, &c. &c.? so i wrote to accept. you may imagine my disgust a day or two afterwards, at getting a letter from an uncle of his, some official person in london apparently, treating the whole matter in a _business_ point of view, and me as if i were a training groom. he is good enough to suggest a stimulant to me in the shape of extra pay and his future patronage in the event of his nephew's taking a first in michaelmas term. if i had received this letter before, i think it would have turned the scale, and i should have refused. but the thing was done, and blake isn't fairly responsible for his relative's views. "so here he has been for a fortnight. he took a lodging in the village at first; but of course my dear old father's ideas of hospitality were shocked at this, and here he is, our inmate. "he reads fiercely by fits and starts. a feeling of personal hatred against the examiners seems to urge him on more than any other motive; but this will not be strong enough to keep him to regular work, and without regular work he won't do, notwithstanding all his cleverness, and he is a marvellously clever fellow. so the first thing i have to do is to get him steadily to the collar, and how to do it is a pretty particular puzzle. for he hasn't a grain of enthusiasm in his composition, nor any power, as far as i can see, of throwing himself into the times and scenes of which he is reading. the philosophy of greece and the history of rome are matters of perfect indifference to him--to be got up by catch-words and dates for examination and nothing more. i don't think he would care a straw if socrates had never lived, or hannibal had destroyed rome. the greatest names and deeds of the old world are just so many dead counters to him--the jewish just as much as the rest. i tried him with the story of the attempt of antiochus epiphanes to conquer the jews, and the glorious rising of all that was living in the holy land under the maccabees. not it bit of it; i couldn't get a spark out of him. he wouldn't even read the story because it is in the apocrypha, and so, as he said, the d----d examiners couldn't ask him anything about it in the schools. "then his sense of duty is quiet undeveloped. he has no notion of going on doing anything disagreeable because he ought. so here i am at fault again. ambition he has in abundance; in fact so strongly, that very likely it may in the end pull him through, and make him work hard enough for his oxford purposes at any rate. but it wants repressing rather than encouragement, and i certainly shan't appeal to it. "you will begin to think i dislike him and want to get rid of him, but it isn't the case. you know what a good temper he has, and how remarkably well he talks; so he makes himself very pleasant, and my father evidently enjoys his company; and then to be in constant intercourse with a subtle intellect like his, is pleasantly exciting, and keeps one alive and at high pressure, though one can't help always wishing that it had a little heat in it. you would be immensely amused if you could drop in on us. "i think i have told you or you must have seen it for yourself, that my father's principles are true blue, as becomes a sailor of the time of the great war, while his instincts and practice are liberal in the extreme. our rector, on the contrary, is liberal in principles, but an aristocrat of the aristocrats in instinct and practice. they are always ready enough therefore to do battle, and blake delights in the war, and fans it and takes part in it as a sort of free lance, laying little logical pitfalls for the combatants alternately, with that deferential manner of his. he gets some sort of intellectual pleasure, i suppose, out of seeing where they ought to tumble in; for tumble in they don't, but clear his pit-falls in their stride--at least my father does--quite innocent of having neglected to distribute his middle term; and the rector, if he has some inkling of these traps, brushes them aside, and disdains to spend powder on anyone but his old adversary and friend. i employ myself in trying to come down ruthlessly on blake himself; and so we spend our evenings after dinner, which comes off at the primitive hour of five. we used to dine at three, but my father has comformed now to college hours. if the rector does not come, instead of argumentative talk, we get stories out of my father. in the morning we bathe, and boat, and read. so, you see, he and i have plenty of one another's company; and it is certainly odd that we get on so well with so very few points of sympathy. but, luckily, besides his good temper and cleverness, he has plenty of humor. on the whole, i think we shall rub through the two months which he is to spend here without getting to hate one another, though there is little chance of our becoming friends. besides putting some history and science into him (scholarship he does not need), i shall be satisfied if i can make him give up his use of the pronoun 'you' before he goes. in talking of the corn laws, or foreign policy, or india, or any other political subject, however interesting, he never will identify himself as an englishman; and 'you do this,' or 'you expect that' is for ever in his mouth, speaking of his own countrymen. i believe if the french were to land to-morrow on portland, he would comment on our attempts to dislodge them as if he had no concern with the business except as a looker-on. "you will think all this rather a slow return for your jolly gossiping letter, full of cricket, archery, fishing, and i know not what pleasant goings-on. but what is one to do? one can only write about what is one's subject of interest for the time being, and blake stands in that relation to me just now. i should prefer it otherwise, but _si on n'a pas ce qu'on aime il faut aimer ce qu'on a_. i have no incident to relate; these parts get on without incidents somehow, and without society. i wish there were some, particularly ladies' society. i break the tenth commandment constantly, thinking of commemoration, and that you are within a ride of miss winter and her cousin. when you see them next, pray present my respectful compliments. it is a sort of consolation to think that one may cross their fancy for a moment and be remembered as part of a picture which gives them pleasure. with such piece of sentiment i may as well shut up. don't you forget my message now, and-- "believe me, ever yours most truly, "john hardy. "p.s.--i mean to speak to blake, when i get a chance, of that wretched debt which you have paid, unless you object. i should think better of him if he seemed more uncomfortable about his affairs. after all he may be more so than i think, for he is very reserved on such subjects." "englebourn rectory, "july, -' "dearest mary.--i send the coachman with this note in order that you may not be anxious about me. i have just returned from poor betty winburn's cottage to write it. she is very very ill, and i do not think can last out more than a day or two; and she seems to cling to me so that i cannot have the heart to leave her. indeed, if i could make up my mind to do it, i should never get her poor white eager face out of my head all day, so that i should be very bad company, and quite out of place at your party, making everybody melancholy and uncomfortable who came near me. so, dear, i am not coming. of course it is a great disappointment. i had set my heart on being with you, and enjoying it all thoroughly; and even at breakfast this morning knew of nothing to hinder me. my dress is actually lying on the bed at this minute, and it looks very pretty, especially the jacket like yours, which i and hopkins have managed to make up from the pattern you sent, though you forgot the sleeves, which made it rather hard to do. ah, well; it is no use to think of how pleasant things would have been which one cannot have. you must write me an account of how it all went off, dear; or perhaps you can manage to get over here before long to tell me. "i must now go back to poor betty. she is such a faithful, patient old thing, and has been such a good woman all her life that there is nothing painful in being by her now, and one feels sure that it will be much happier and better for her to be at rest. if she could only feel comfortable about her son, i am sure she would think so herself. oh, i forgot to say that her attack was brought on by the shock of hearing that he had been summoned for an assault. farmer tester's son, a young man about his own age, has, it seems, been of late waylaying simon's daughter and making love to her. it is so very hard to make out the truth in matters of this kind. hopkins says she is a dressed-up little minx who runs after all the young men in the parish; but really, from what i see and hear from other persons, i think she is a good girl enough. even betty, who looks on her as the cause of most of her own trouble, has never said a word to make me think that she is at all a light person, or more fond of admiration than any other good-looking girl in the parish. "but those testers are a very wicked set. you cannot think what a misfortune it is in a place like this to have these rich families with estates of their own, in which the young men begin to think themselves above the common farmers. they ape the gentlemen, and give themselves great airs, but of course no gentleman will associate with them, as they are quite uneducated; and the consequence is that they live a great deal at home, and give themselves up to all kinds of wickedness. this young tester is one of these. his father is a very bad old man, and does a great deal of harm here; and the son is following in his steps, and is quite as bad, or worse. so you see that i shall not easily believe that harry winburn has been much in the wrong. however, all i know of it at present is that young tester was beaten by harry yesterday evening in the village street, and that they came to papa at once for a summons. "oh, here is the coachman ready to start; so i must conclude, dear, and go back to my patient. i shall often think of you during the day. i am sure you will have a charming party. with best love to all, believe me, ever dearest, "your most affectionate, "katie. "p. s.--i am very glad that uncle and aunt take to tom, and that he is staying with you for some days. you will find him very useful in making the party go off well, i am sure." chapter xxx--amusements at barton manor "a letter, miss, from englebourn," said a footman, coming up to mary with the note given at the end of the last chapter, on a waiter. she took it and tore it open; and while she is reading it, the reader may be introduced to the place and company in which we find her. the scene is a large old-fashioned square brick house, backed by fine trees, in the tops of which the rooks live, and the jackdaws and starlings in the many holes which time has worn in the old trunks; but they are all away on this fine summer morning, seeking their meal and enjoying themselves in the neighbouring fields. in the front of the house is a pretty flower garden, separated by a haw-haw from a large pasture, sloping southwards gently down to a stream, which glides along through water-cress and willow beds to join the kennet. the beasts have all been driven off, and on the upper part of the field, nearest the house, two men are fixing up a third pair of targets on the rich short grass. a large tent is pitched near the archery ground, to hold quivers and bow-cases, and luncheon, and to shelter lookers-on from the mid-day sun. beyond the brook, a pleasant, well-timbered, country lies, with high chalk-downs for an horizon, ending in marlborough hill, faint and blue in the west. this is the place which mary's father has taken for the summer and autumn, and where she is fast becoming the pet of the neighborhood. it will not perhaps surprise our readers to find that our hero has managed to find his way to barton manor in the second week of the vacation, and having made the most of his opportunities, is acknowledged as a cousin by mr. and mrs. porter. their boys are at home for the holidays, and mr. porter's great wish is that they should get used to the country in their summer holidays. and as they have spent most of their childhood and boyhood in london, to which he has been tied pretty closely hitherto, this is a great opportunity. the boys only wanted a preceptor, and tom presented himself at the right moment, and soon became the hero of charley and neddy porter. he taught them to throw flies and bait crawfish nets, to bat-fowl, and ferret for rabbits, and to saddle and ride their ponies, besides getting up games of cricket in the spare evenings, which kept him away from mr. porter's dinner-table. this last piece of self-denial, as he considered it, quite won over that gentleman, who agreed with his wife that tom was just the sort of companion they would like for the boys, and so the house was thrown open to him. the boys were always clamouring for him when he was away, and making their mother write off to press him to come again; which he, being a very good-natured young man, and particularly fond of boys, was ready enough to do. so this was the third visit he had paid in a month. mr. and mrs. brown wondered a little that he should be so very fond of the young porters, who were good boys enough, but very much like other boys of thirteen and fifteen, of whom there were several in the neighborhood. he had indeed just mentioned an elder sister, but so casually that their attention had not been drawn to the fact, which had almost slipped out of their memories. on the other hand, tom seemed so completely to identify himself with the boys and their pursuits, that it never occurred to their father and mother, who were doatingly fond of them, that, after all, they might not be the only attraction. mary seemed to take very little notice of him, and went on with her own pursuits much as usual. it was true that she liked keeping the score at cricket, and coming to look at them fishing or rabbiting in her walks; but all that was very natural. it is a curious and merciful dispensation of providence that most fathers and mothers seem never to be capable of remembering their own experience, and will probably go on till the end of time thinking of their sons of twenty and daughters of sixteen or seventeen as mere children who may be allowed to run about together as much as they please. and, where it is otherwise, the results are not very different, for there are certain mysterious ways of holding intercourse implanted in the youth of both sexes, against which no vigilance can prevail. so on this, her great fete day, tom had been helping mary all the morning in dressing the rooms with flowers and arranging all the details--where people were to sit at cold dinner; how to find the proper number of seats; how the dining-room was to be cleared in time for dancing when the dew began to fall. in all which matters there were many obvious occasions for those little attentions which are much valued by persons in like situations; and tom was not sorry that the boys had voted the whole preparations a bore, and had gone off to the brook to 'gropple' in the bank for crayfish till the shooting began. the arrival of the note had been the first _contre-temps_ of the morning, and they were now expecting guests to arrive every minute. "what is the matter? no bad news i hope," he said, seeing her vexed expression. "why, katie can't come. i declare i could sit down and cry. i sha'n't enjoy the party a bit now, and i wish it were all over." "i am sure katie would be very unhappy if she thought you were going to spoil your day's pleasure on her account." "yes, i know she would. but it is so provoking when i had looked forward so to having her." "you have never told me why she cannot come. she was quite full of it all a few days since." "oh, there is a poor old woman in the village dying, who is a great friend of katie's. here is her letter; let me see," she said, glancing over it to see that there is nothing in it that she did not wish him to read, "you may read it if you like." tom began reading. "betty winburn," he said, when he came to the name, "what, poor dear old betty? why i've known her ever since i was born. she used to live in our parish, and i haven't seen her this eight years nearly. and her boy harry, i wonder what has become of him?" "you will see if you read on," said mary; and so he read to the end, and then folded it up and returned it. "so poor old betty is dying. well she was always a good soul, and very kind to me when i was a boy. i should like to see her once again, and perhaps i might be able to do something for her son." "why should we not ride over to englebourn to-morrow? they will be glad to get us out of the way while the house is being straightened." "i should like it of all things, if it can be managed." "oh, i will manage it somehow, for i must go and see that dear katie. i do feel so ashamed of myself when i think of all the good she is doing, and i do nothing but put flowers about, and play the piano. isn't she an angel, now?" "of course she is." "yes, but i won't have that sort of matter-of-course acquiescence. now--do you really mean that katie is as good as an angel?" "as seriously as if i saw the wings growing out of her shoulders, and dew drops hanging on them." "you deserve to have some thing not at all like wings growing out of your head. how is it that you never see when i don't want you to talk your nonsense?" "how am i to talk sense about angels? i don't know anything about them." "you know what i mean perfectly. i say that dear katie is an angel, and i mean that i don't know anything in her--no not one single thing--which i should like to have changed. if the angels are all as good as she"-- "_if_! why i shall begin to doubt your orthodoxy." "you don't know what i was going to say." "it doesn't matter what you were going to say. you couldn't have brought that sentence into an orthodox conclusion. oh, please don't look so angry, now. yes, i quite see what you mean. you can think of katie just as she is now in heaven without being shocked." mary paused for a moment before she answered, as if taken by surprise at this way of putting her meaning, and then said seriously-- "indeed, i can. i think we should all be perfectly happy if we were all as good as she is." "but she is not very happy herself, i am afraid." "of course not. how can she be, when all the people about her are so troublesome and selfish?" "i can't fancy an angel the least bit like uncle robert, can you?" "i won't talk about angels any more. you have made me feel quite as if i had been saying something wicked." "now really it is too hard that you should lay all the blame on me, when you began the subject yourself. you ought at least to let me say what i have to say about angels." "why, you said you knew nothing about them half a minute ago." "but i may have my notions, like other people. you have your notions. katie is your angel." "well, then, what are your notions?" "katie is rather too dark for my idea of an angel. i can't fancy a dark angel." "why, how can you call katie dark!" "i only say she is too dark for my idea of an angel." "well, go on." "then, she is rather too grave!" "too grave for an angel!" "for my idea of an angel,--one doesn't want one's angel to be like oneself, and i am so grave, you know." "yes, very. then your angel is to be a laughing angel. a laughing angel, and yet very sensible; never talking nonsense?" "oh, i didn't say that." "but you said he wasn't to be like you." "_he_! who in the world do you mean by _he_?" "why, your angel, of course." "my angel! you don't really suppose that my angel is to be a man." "i have no time to think about it. look, they are putting those targets quite crooked. you are responsible for the targets; we must go and get them straight." they walked across the ground towards the targets, and tom settled them according to his notions of opposites. "after all, archery is slow work," he said, when the targets were settled satisfactorily. "i don't believe anybody really enjoys it." "now that is because you men haven't it all to yourselves. you are jealous of any sort of game in which we can join. i believe you are afraid of being beaten by us." "on the contrary, that is its only recommendation, that you can join in it." "well, i think that ought to be recommendation enough. but i believe it is much harder than most of your games. you can't shoot half so well as you can play cricket, can you?" "no, because i never practice. it isn't exciting to be walking up and down between two targets, and doing the same thing over and over again. why, you don't find it so yourself. you hardly ever shoot." "indeed, i do though, constantly." "why, i have scarcely ever seen you shooting." "that is because you are away with the boys all day." "oh, i am never too far to know what is going on. i'm sure you have never practised for more than a quarter of an hour any day i have been here." "well, perhaps i may not have. but i tell you i am very fond of it." here the two boys came up from the brook, neddy with his scotch cap full of crayfish. "why, you wretched boys, where have you been? you are not fit to be seen," said mary, shaking the arrows at them which she was carrying in her hand. "go and dress directly, or you will be late. i think i heard a carriage driving up just now." "oh, there's plenty of time. look what whackers, cousin tom," said charley, holding out one of his prizes by its back towards tom, while the indignant crayfish flapped its tail and worked around with its claws, in hopes of getting hold of something to pinch. "i don't believe those boys have been dry for two hours together in daylight since you first came here," said mary, to tom. "well, and they're all the better for it, i'm sure," said tom. "yes, that we are," said charley. "i say charley," said tom, "your sister says she is very fond of shooting." "ay, and so she is. and isn't she a good shot too? i believe she would beat you at fifty yards." "there now, you see, you need not have been so unbelieving," said mary. "will you give her a shot at your new hat, cousin tom?" said neddy. "yes, neddy, that i will;" and he added to mary, "i will bet you a pair of gloves that you don't hit it in three shots." "very well," said mary; "at thirty yards." "no, no! fifty yards was the named distance." "no, fifty yards is too far. why, you hat is not much bigger than the gold." "well, i don't mind splitting the difference; we will say forty." "very well--three shots at forty yards." "yes; here, charley, run and hang my hat on that target." the boys rushed off with the hat--a new white one--and hung it with a bit of string over the center of one of the targets, and then, stepping a little aside, stood, clapping their hands, shouting to mary to take good aim. "you must string my bow," she said, handing it to him as she buckled on her guard. "now, do you repent? i am going to do my best, mind, if i do shoot." "i scorn repentance; do your worst," said tom, stringing the bow and handing it back to her. "and now i will hold your arrows; here is the forty yards." mary came to the place which he had stepped, her eyes full of fun and mischief; and he saw at once that she knew what she was about, as she took her position and drew the first arrow. it missed the hat by some three inches only; and the boys clapped and shouted. "too near to be pleasant," said tom, handing the second arrow. "i see you can shoot." "well, i will let you off still." "gloves and all?" "no, of course you must pay the gloves." "shoot away, then. ah, that will do," he cried, as the second arrow struck considerably above the hat, "i shall get my gloves yet," and he handed the third arrow. they were too intent on the business in hand to observe that mr. and mrs. porter and several guests were already on the hand-bridge which crossed the haw-haw. mary drew her third arrow, paused a moment, loosed it, and this time with fatal aim. the boys rushed to the target, towards which mary and tom also hurried, mr. and mrs. porter and the new comers following more quietly. "oh, look here--what fun," said charley, as tom came up, holding up the hat, spiked on the arrow, which he had drawn out of the target. "what a wicked shot," he said, taking the hat and turning to mary. "look here, you have actually gone through three places--through crown, and side, and brim." mary began to feel quite sorry at her own success, and looked at the wounded hat sorrowfully. "hullo, look here--here's papa and mamma and some people, and we ain't dressed. come along, neddy," and the boys made off towards the back premises, while mary and tom, turning round, found themselves in the presence of mr. and mrs. porter, mrs. brown, and two or three other guests. chapter xxxi--behind the scenes mr. and mrs. brown had a long way to drive home that evening, including some eight miles of very indifferent chalky road over the downs, which separate the vale of kennet from the vale of white horse. mr. brown was an early man, and careful of his horses, who responded to his care by being always well up to much more work than they were ever put to. the drive to barton manor and back in a day was a rare event in their lives. their master, taking this fact into consideration, was bent on giving them plenty of time for the return journey, and had ordered his groom to be ready to start by eight o'clock. but, that they might not disturb the rest, by their early departure, he had sent the carriage to the village inn, instead of to the porter's stables. at the appointed time, therefore, and when the evening's amusements were just beginning at the manor house, mr. brown sought out his wife; and, after a few words of leave-taking to their host and hostess, the two slipped quietly away; and walked down the village. the carriage was standing before the inn all ready for them, with the hostler and mr. brown's groom at the horses' heads. the carriage was a high phaeton having a roomy front seat with a hood to it, specially devised by mr. brown with a view to his wife's comfort, and that he might with a good conscience enjoy at the same time the pleasures of her society and of driving his own horses. when once in her place, mrs. brown was as comfortable as she would have been in the most luxurious barouche with c springs, but the ascent was certainly rather a drawback. the pleasure of sitting by her husband and of receiving his assiduous help in the preliminary climb, however, more than compensated to mrs. brown for this little inconvenience. mr. brown helped her up as usual, and arranged a plaid carefully over her knees, the weather being too hot for the apron. he then proceeded to walk round the horses, patting them, examining the bits, and making inquiries as to how they had fed. having satisfied himself on these points, and fee'd the hostler, he took the reins, seated himself by his wife, and started at a steady pace towards the hills at the back of barton village. for a minute or two neither of them spoke, mr. brown being engrossed with his horses and she with her thoughts. presently, however, he turned to her, and, having ascertained that she was quite comfortable, went on-- "well, my dear, what do you think of them?" "oh, i think they are agreeable people," answered mrs. brown; "but one can scarcely judge from seeing them to-day. it is too far for a drive; we shall not be home till midnight." "but i am very glad we came. after all, they are connexions through poor robert, and he seems anxious that they should start well in the county. why, he has actually written twice, you know, about our coming up to-day. we must try to show them some civility." "it is impossible to come so far often," mrs. brown persisted. "it is too far for ordinary visiting. what do you say to asking them to come and spend a day or two with us?" "certainly, my dear, if you wish it," answered mrs. brown, but without much cordiality in her voice. "yes, i should like it; and it will please robert so much. we might have him and katie over to meet them, don't you think?" "let me see," said mrs. brown, with much more alacrity, "mr. and mrs. porter will have the best bed-room and dressing-room; robert must have the south room, and katie the chintz. yes, that will do; i can manage it very well." "and their daughter; you have forgotten her." "well, you see, dear, there is no more room." "why; there is the dressing-room, next to the south room, with a bed in it. i'm sure nobody can want a better room." "you know, john, that robert cannot sleep if there is the least noise. i could never put any-one into his dressing-room; there is only a single door between the rooms, and even if they made no noise, the fancy that some one was sleeping there would keep him awake all night." "plague take his fancies! robert has given way to them till he is fit for nothing. but you can put him in the chintz room, and give the two girls the south bed room and dressing-room." "what, put robert in a room which looks north? my dear john; what can you be thinking about?" mr. brown uttered an impatient grunt, and, as a vent to his feelings more decorous on the whole than abusing his brother-in-law, drew his whip more smartly than usual across the backs of his horses. the exertion of muscle necessary to reduce those astonished animals to their accustomed steady trot restored his temper, and he returned to the charge-- "i suppose we must manage it on the second floor, then, unless you could get a bed run up in the school-room." "no, dear; i really should not like to do that--it would be so very inconvenient. we are always wanting the room for workwomen or servants; besides, i keep my account books and other things there." "then i'm afraid it must be on the second floor. some of the children must be moved. the girl seems a nice girl with no nonsense about her, and won't mind sleeping up there. or, why not put katie upstairs?" "indeed, i should not think of it. katie is a dear good girl, and i will not put anyone over her head." "nor i, dear. on the contrary, i was asking you to put her over another person's head," said mr. brown, laughing at his own joke, this unusual reluctance on the part of his wife to assist in carrying out any hospitable plans of his began to strike him; so, not being an adept at concealing his thoughts, or gaining his point by any attack except a direct one, after driving on for a minute in silence, he turned suddenly on his wife, and said,-- "why, lizzie, you seem not to want to ask the girl?" "well, john, i do not see the need of it at all." "no, and you don't want to ask her?" "if you must know, then, i do not." "don't you like her?" "i do not know her well enough either to like or dislike." "then, why not ask her, and see what she is like? but the truth is, lizzie, you have taken a prejudice against her?" "well, john, i think she is a thoughtless girl, and extravagant; not the sort of girl, in fact, that i should wish to be much with us." "thoughtless and extravagant!" said mr. brown, looking grave; "how you women can be so sharp on one another! her dress seemed to me simple and pretty, and her manners very lady-like and pleasing." "you seem to have quite forgotten about tom's hat," said mrs. brown. "tom's white hat--so i had," said mr. brown, and he relapsed into a low laugh at the remembrance of the scene. "i call that _his_ extravagance, and not hers." "it was a new hat, and a very expensive one, which he had bought for the vacation, and it is quite spoilt." "well, my dear; really, if tom will let girls shoot at his hats, he must take the consequences. he must wear it with the holes, or buy another." "how can he afford another, john? you know how poor he is." mr. brown drove on now for several minutes without speaking. he knew perfectly well what his wife was coming to now, and, after weighing in his mind the alternatives of accepting battle or making sail and changing the subject altogether, said,-- "you know, my dear, he has brought it on himself. a headlong, generous sort of youngster, like tom, must be taught early that he can't have his cake and eat his cake. if he likes to lend his money, he must find out that he hasn't it to spend." "yes, dear, i quite agree with you. but l a year is a great deal to make him pay." "not a bit too much, lizzie. his allowance is quite enough without it to keep him like a gentleman. besides, after all, he gets it in meal or in malt; i have just paid l for his gun." "i know how kind and liberal you are to him; only i am so afraid of his getting into debt." "i wonder what men would do, if they hadn't some soft-hearted woman always ready to take their parts and pull them out of scrapes," said mr. brown. "well, dear, how much do you want to give the boy!" "twenty-five pounds, just for this year. but out of my own allowance, john." "nonsense!" replied mr. brown; "you want your allowance for yourself and the children." "indeed, dear john, i would sooner not do it at all, then, if i may not do it out of my own money." "well, have it your own way. i believe you would always look well-dressed, if you never bought another gown. then, to go back to what we were talking about just now--you will find a room for the girl somehow?" "yes, dear, certainly, as i see you are bent on it." "i think it would be scarcely civil not to ask her, especially if katie comes. and i own i think her very pretty, and have taken a great fancy to her." "isn't it odd that tom should never have said anything about her to us? he has talked of all the rest till i knew them quite well before i went there." "no; it seems to me the most natural thing in the world." "yes, dear, very natural. but i can't help wishing he had talked about her more; i should think it less dangerous." "oh, you think master tom is in love with her, eh?" said mr. brown, laughing. "more unlikely things have happened. you take it very easily, john." "well, we have all been boys and girls, lizzie. the world hasn't altered much, i suppose, since i used to get up at five on winter mornings, to ride some twenty miles to cover, on the chance of meeting a young lady on a grey pony. i remember how my poor dear old father used to wonder at it, when our hounds met close by in a better country. i'm afraid i forgot to tell him what a pretty creature 'gipsy' was, and how well she was ridden." "but tom is only twenty, and he must go into a profession." "yes, yes; much to young, i know--too young for anything serious. we had better see them together and then if there is anything in it, we can keep them apart. there cannot be much the matter yet." "well, dear, if you are satisfied, i am sure i am." and so the conversation turned on other subjects, and mr. and mrs. brown enjoyed their moonlight drive home through the delicious summer night, and were quite sorry when the groom got down from the hind-seat to open their own gates, at half-past twelve. about the same time the festivities at barton manor were coming to a close. there had been cold dinner in the tent at six, after the great match of the day; and, after dinner, the announcement of the scores, and the distribution of prizes to the winners. a certain amount of toasts and speechifying followed, which the ladies sat through with the most exemplary appearance of being amused. when their healths had been proposed and acknowledged they retired, and were soon followed by the younger portion of the male sex; and, while the j. p.'s and clergymen sat quietly at their wine, which mr. porter took care should be remarkably good, and their wives went to look over the house and have tea, their sons and daughters split up into groups, and some shot handicaps, and some walked about and flirted, and some played at bowls and lawn billiards. and soon the band appeared again from the servants' hall, mightily refreshed; and dancing began on the grass, and in due time was transferred to the tent, when the grass got damp with the night dew; and then to the hall of the house, when the lighting of the tent began to fail. and then there came a supper, extemporized out of the remains of the dinner; after which, papas and mammas began to look at their watches, and remonstrate with daughters, coming up with sparkling eyes and hair a little shaken out of place, and pleading for "just one more dance." "you have been going on ever since one o'clock," remonstrate the parents; "and are ready to go on till one to-morrow," replied the children. by degrees, however, the frequent sound of wheels was heard, and the dancers got thinner and thinner, till, for the last half hour, some half-dozen couples of young people danced at interminable reel, while mr. and mrs. porter, and a few of the most good-natured matrons of the neighborhood looked on. soon after midnight the band struck; no amount of negus could get anything more out of them but "god save the queen," which they accordingly played and departed; and then came the final cloaking and driving off of the last guests. tom and mary saw the last of them into their carriage at the hall-door, and lingered a moment in the porch. "what a lovely night!" said mary. "how i hate going to bed!" "it is a dreadful bore," answered tom; "but here is the butler waiting to shut up; we must go in." "i wonder where papa and mama are." "oh, they are only seeing things put a little to rights. let us sit here till they come; they must pass by to get to their rooms." so the two sat down on some hall chairs. "oh dear! i wish it were all coming over again to-morrow," said tom, leaning back, and looking up at the ceiling. "by the way, remember i owe you a pair of gloves; what color shall they be?" "any color you like. i can't bear to think of it. i felt so dreadfully ashamed when they all came up, and your mother looked so grave; i am sure she was very angry." "poor mother! she was thinking of my hat with three arrow-holes in it." "well, i am very sorry, because i wanted them to like me." "and so they will; i should like to know who can help it." "now, i won't have any of your nonsensical compliments. do you think they enjoyed the day?" "yes, i am sure they did. my father said he had never liked an archery meeting so much." "but they went away so early." "they had a very long drive, you know. let me see," he said, feeling in his breast-pocket, "mother left me a note, and i have never looked at it till now." he took a slip of paper out and read it, and his face fell. "what is it?" said mary leaning forward. "oh, nothing; only i must go to-morrow morning." "there, i was sure she was angry." "no, no; it was written this morning before she came here. i can tell by the paper." "but she will not let you stay here a day, you see." "i have been here a good deal, considering all things. i should like never to go away." "perhaps papa might find a place for you, if you asked him. which should you like,--to be tutor to the boys or gamekeeper?" "on the whole, i should prefer the tutorship at present; you take so much interest in the boys." "yes, because they have no one to look after them now in the holidays. but, when you come as tutor, i shall wash my hands of them." "then i shall decline the situation." "how are you going home to-morrow?" "i shall ride round by englebourn. they wish me to go round and see katie and uncle robert. you talked about riding over there yourself this morning." "i should like it so much. but how can we manage it? i can't ride back again by myself." "couldn't you stay and sleep there?" "i will ask mamma. no, i'm afraid it can hardly be managed;" and so saying, mary leant back in her chair and began to pull to pieces some flowers she held in her hand. "don't pull them to pieces; give them to me," said tom. "i have kept the rosebud you gave me at oxford folded up in"-- "which you took, you mean to say. no, i won't give you any of them--or, let me see--yes, here is a sprig of lavender; you may have that." "thank you. but, why lavender?" "lavender stands for sincerity. it will remind you of the lecture you gave me." "i wish you would forget that. but you know what flowers mean, then? do give me a lecture; you owe me one. what do those flowers mean which you will not give me,--the piece of heather for instance?" "heather signifies constancy." "and the carnations?" "jealousy." "and the heliotrope?" "oh, never mind the heliotrope." "but it is such a favorite of mine. do tell me what it means?" "_je vous aime_," said mary with a laugh, and a slight blush; "it is all nonsense. oh, here's mamma at last," and she jumped up and went to meet her mother, who came out of the drawing-room, candle in hand. "my dear mary, i thought you were gone to bed," said mrs. porter, looking from one to the other seriously. "oh, i'm not the least tired, and i couldn't go without wishing you and papa good night, and thanking you for all the trouble you have taken." "indeed we ought all to thank you," said tom; "everybody said it was the pleasantest party they had ever been at." "i am very glad it went off so well," said mrs. porter, gravely; "and now, mary, you must go to bed." "i am afraid i must leave you to-morrow morning," said tom. "yes; mrs. brown said they expect you at home tomorrow." "i am to ride round by uncle robert's; would you like one of the boys to go with me?" "oh, dear mamma, could not charley and i ride over to englebourn? i do so long to see katie." "no, dear; it is much too far for you. we will drive over in a few days' time." and so saying, mrs. porter wished tom good night, and led off her daughter. tom went slowly up stairs to his room, and, after packing his portmanteau for the carrier to take in the morning, threw up his window and leant out into the night, and watched the light clouds swimming over the moon, and the silver mist folding the water-meadows and willows in its soft cool mantle. his thoughts were such as will occur to any reader who has passed the witching age of twenty; and the scent of the heliotrope-bed in the flower-garden below, seemed to rise very strongly on the night air. chapter xxxii--a crisis in the forenoon of the following day, tom rode slowly along the street of englebourn towards the rectory gate. he had left barton soon after breakfast, without having been able to exchange a word with mary except in the presence of her mother, and yet he had felt more anxious than ever before at least to say good bye to her without witnesses. with this view he had been up early, and had whistled a tune in the hall, and held a loud conversation with the boys, who appeared half dressed in the gallery above, while he brushed the dilapidated white hat to let all whom it might concern know that he was on the move. then he had walked up and down the garden in full view of the windows till the bell rang for prayers. he was in the breakfast room before the bell had done ringing, and mrs. porter, followed by her daughter, entered at the same moment. he could not help fancying that the conversation at breakfast was a little constrained, and particularly remarked that nothing was said by the heads of the family when the boys vociferously bewailed his approaching departure, and tried to get him to name some day for his return before their holidays ended. instead of encouraging the idea, mrs. porter reminded neddy and charley that they had only ten days more, and had not yet looked at the work they had to do for their tutor in the holidays. immediately after breakfast mrs. porter had wished him good bye herself very kindly, but (he could not help thinking), without that air of near relationship which he had flattered himself was well established between himself and all the members of the porter family; and then she had added, "now mary, you must say good bye; i want you to come and help me this morning." he had scarcely looked at her all morning, and now one shake of the hand and she was spirited away in a moment, and he was left standing, dissatisfied and uncomfortable, with a sense of incompleteness in his mind, and as if he had had a thread in his life suddenly broken off, which he could not tell how to get joined again. however, there was nothing for it but to get off. he had no excuse for delay, and had a long ride before him; so he and the boys went round to the stable. on their passage through the garden, the idea of picking a nosegay and sending it to her by one of the boys came into his head. he gathered the flowers, but then thought better of it and threw them away. what right, after all, had he to be sending flowers to her--above all, flowers to which they had attached a meaning, jokingly it was true; but still a meaning? no, he had no right to do it; it would not be fair to her, or her father or mother, after the kind way in which they had all received him. so he threw away the flowers, and mounted and rode off, watched by the boys, who waved their straw hats as he looked back just before coming to a turn in the road which would take him out of sight of the manor house. he rode along at a foot's pace for some time, thinking over the events of the past week; and then, beginning to feel purposeless, and somewhat melancholy, urged his horse into a smart trot along the waste land which skirted the road. but, go what pace he would, it mattered not; he could not leave his thoughts behind; so he pulled up again after a mile or so, slackened his reins, and, leaving his horse to pick his own way along the road, betook himself to the serious consideration of his position. the more he thought of it, the more discontented he became, and the day clouded over as if to suit his temper. he felt as if within the last twenty-four hours he had been somehow unwarrantably interfered with. his mother and mrs. porter had both been planning something about him, he felt sure. if they had anything to say, why couldn't they say it out to him? but what could there be to say? couldn't he and mary be trusted together without making fools of themselves? he did not stop to analyze his feelings towards her, or to consider whether it was very prudent or desirable for her that they should be thrown so constantly and unreservedly together. he was too much taken up with what he chose to consider his own wrongs for any such consideration.--"why can't they let me alone?" was the question which he asked himself perpetually, and it seemed to him the most reasonable one in the world, and that no satisfactory answer was possible to it, except that he ought to be, and should be let alone. and so at last he rode along englebourn street, convinced that what he had to do before all other things just now was to assert himself properly, and show everyone, even his own mother, that he was no longer a boy to be managed according to anyone's fancies except his own. he rode straight to the stables and loosed the girths of his horse, and gave particular directions about grooming and feeding him, and stayed in the stall for a few minutes rubbing his ears and fondling him. the antagonism which possessed him for the moment against mankind perhaps made him appreciate the value of his relations with a well-trained beast. he had not been in englebourn for some years, and the servant did not know him, and answered that mr. winter was not out of his room and never saw strangers till the afternoon. where was miss winter, then? she was down the village at widow winburn's, and he couldn't tell when she would be back, the man said. the contents of katie's note of the day before had gone out of his head, but the mention of betty's name recalled them, and with them something of the kindly feeling which had stirred within him on hearing of her illness. so, saying he would call later to see his uncle, he started again to find the widow's cottage, and his cousin. the servant had directed him to the last house in the village, but, when he got outside of the gate, there were houses in two directions. he looked about for some one and from whom to inquire further, and his eye fell upon our old acquaintance, the constable, coming out of his door with a parcel under his arm. the little man was in a brown study, and did not notice tom's first address. he was in fact anxiously thinking over his old friend's illness and her son's trouble; and was on his way to farmer grove's, (having luckily the excuse of taking a coat to be tried on) in the hopes of getting him to interfere and patch up the quarrel between young tester and harry. tom's first salute had been friendly enough; no one knew better how to speak to the poor, amongst whom he had lived all his life, than he. but, not getting any answer, and being in a touchy state of mind, he was put out, and shouted-- "hello, my man, can't you hear me?" "ees, i beant dunch," replied the constable, turning and looking at his questioner. "i thought you were, for i spoke loud enough before. which is mrs. winburn's cottage?" "the furdest house down ther," he said, pointing, "'tis in my way if you've a mind to come." tom accepted the offer and walked along by the constable. "mrs. winburn is ill, isn't she," he asked, after looking his guide over. "ees, her be--terrible bad," said the constable. "what is the matter with her, do you know?" "zummat o' fits, i hears. her've had 'em this six year, on and off." "i suppose it's dangerous. i mean she isn't likely to get well?" "'tis in the lord's hands," replied the constable, "but her's that bad wi' pain, at times, 'twould be a mussy if 'twould plaase he to tak' her out on't." "perhaps she mightn't think so," said tom, superciliously; he was not in the mind to agree with anyone. the constable looked at him solemnly for a moment, and then said-- "her's been a god-fearin' woman from her youth up, and her's had a deal o' trouble. thaay as the lord loveth he chasteneth, and 'tisn't such as thaay as is afeared to go afore him." "well, i never found that having troubles made people a bit more anxious to get 'out on't,' as you call it," said tom. "it don't seem to me as you can 'a had much o' trouble to judge by," said the constable, who was beginning to be nettled by tom's manner. "how can you tell that?" "leastways 'twould be whoam-made, then," persisted the constable; "and ther's a sight o' odds atween whoam made troubles and thaay as the lord sends." "so there may; but i may have seen both sorts for anything you can tell." "nay, nay; the lord's troubles leaves his marks." "and you don't see any of _them_ in my face, eh?" the constable jerked his head after his own peculiar fashion, but declined to reply directly to this interrogatory. he parried it by one of his own. "in the doctorin' line, make so bould?" "no," said tom. "you don't seem to have such very good eyes, after all." "oh, i seed you wasn't old enough to be doin' for yourself, like; but i thought you med ha' been a 'sistant, or summat." "well, then, you're just mistaken," said tom, considerably disgusted at being taken for a country doctor's assistant. "i ax your pill-don," said the constable. "but if you beant in the doctorin' line, what be gwine to widow winburn's for, make so bould?" "that's my look out, i suppose," said tom, almost angrily. "that's the house, isn't it?" and he pointed to the cottage already described, at the corner of englebourn copse. "ees." "good day, then." "good day," muttered the constable, not at all satisfied with this abrupt close of the conversation, but too unready to prolong it. he went on his own way slowly, looking back often, till he saw the door open, after which he seemed better satisfied, and ambled out of sight. "the old snuffler!" thought tom, as be strode up to the cottage door,--"a ranter, i'll be bound, with his lord's troubles,' and 'lord's hands,' and 'lord's marks.' i hope uncle robert hasn't many such in the parish." he knocked at the cottage door, and in a few seconds it opened gently, and katie slipped out with her finger on her lips. she made a slight gesture of surprise at seeing him, and held out her hand. "hush!" she said, "she is asleep. you are not in a hurry?" "no, not particularly," he answered, abruptly; for there was something in her voice and manner which jarred with his humor. "hush!" she said again, "you must not speak so loud. we can sit down here, and talk quietly. i shall hear if she moves." so he sat down opposite to her in the little porch of the cottage. she left the door ajar, so that she might catch the least movement of her patient, and then turned to him with a bright smile, and said,-- "well, i am so glad to see you! what good wind blows you here?" "no particularly good wind, that i know of. mary showed me your letter yesterday, and mother wished me to come round here on my way home; and so here i am." "and how did the party go off? i long to hear about it." "very well; half the county were there, and it was all very well done." "and how did dear mary look?" "oh, just as usual. but now, katie, why didn't you come? mary and all of us were so disappointed." "i thought you read my letter?" "yes, so i did." "then you know the reason." "i don't call it a reason. really, you have no right to shut yourself up from everything. you will be getting moped to death." "but do i look moped?" she said; and he looked at her, and couldn't help admitting to himself, reluctantly, that she did not. so he re-opened fire from another point. "you will wear yourself out, nursing every old woman in the parish." "but i don't nurse every old woman." "why, there is no one here but you to-day, now," he said, with a motion of his head towards the cottage. "no, because i have let the regular nurse go home for a few hours. besides, this is a special case. you don't know what a dear old soul betty is." "yes, i do; i remember her ever since i was a child." "ah, i forgot; i have often heard her talk of you. then you ought not to be surprised at anything i may do for her." "she is a good, kind old woman, i know. but still i must say, katie, you ought to think of your friends and relations a little, and what you owe to society." "indeed, i do think of my friends and relations very much, and i should have liked, of all things, to have been with you yesterday. you ought to be pitying me, instead of scolding me." "my dear katie, you know i didn't mean to scold you; and nobody admires the way you give yourself up to visiting, and all that sort of thing, more than i; only you ought to have a little pleasure sometimes. people have a right to think of themselves and their own happiness a little." "perhaps i don't find visiting and all that sort of thing so very miserable. but now, tom, you saw in my letter that poor betty's son has got into trouble?" "yes; and that is what brought on her attack, you said." "i believe so. she was in a sad state about him all yesterday,--so painfully eager and anxious. she is better today, but still i think it would do her good if you would see her, and say you will be a friend to her son. would you mind?" "it was just what i wished to do yesterday. i will do all i can for him, i'm sure. i always liked him as a boy; you can tell her that. but i don't feel, somehow--today, at least--as if i could do any good by seeing her." "oh, why not?" "i don't think i'm in the right humor. is she very ill?" "yes, very ill indeed; i don't think she can recover." "well, you see, katie, i'm not used to death-beds. i shouldn't say the right sort of thing." "how do you mean--the right sort of thing?" "oh, you know. i couldn't talk to her about her soul. i'm not fit for it, and it isn't my place." "no, indeed, it isn't. but you can remind her of old times and say a kind word about her son." "very well, if you don't think i shall do any harm." "i'm sure it will comfort her. and now tell me about yesterday." they sat talking for some time in the same low tone, and tom began to forget his causes of quarrel with the world, and gave an account of the archery party from his own point of view. katie saw, with a woman's quickness, that he avoided mentioning mary, and smiled to herself and drew her own conclusions. at last, there was a slight movement in the cottage, and laying her hand on his arm, she got up quickly, and went in. in a few minutes she came to the door again. "how is she?" asked tom. "oh, much the same; but she has waked without pain, which is a great blessing. now, are you ready?" "yes; you must go with me." "come in, then." she turned, and he followed into the cottage. betty's bed had been moved into the kitchen, for the sake of light and air. he glanced at the corner where it stood with almost a feeling of awe, as he followed his cousin on tip-toe. it was all he could do to recognize the pale, drawn face which lay on the coarse pillow. the rush of old memories which the sight called up, and the thought of the suffering of his poor old friend touched him deeply. katie went to the bed-side, and, stooping down, smoothed the pillow, and placed her hand for a moment on the forehead of her patient. then she looked up, and beckoned to him, and said, in her low, clear voice,-- "betty, here is an old friend come to see you; my cousin, squire brown's son. you remember him quite a little boy?" the old woman moved her head towards the voice, and smiled, but gave no further sign of recognition. tom stole across the floor, and sat down by the bed-side. "oh, yes, betty," he said, leaning towards her and speaking softly, "you must remember me. master tom who used to come to your cottage on baking days for hot bread, you know." "to be sure i minds un, bless his little heart," said the old woman faintly. "hev he come to see poor betty? do'ee let un com', and lift un up so as i med see un. my sight be getting dim-like." "here he is, betty," said tom, taking her hand--a hardworking hand, lying there with the skin all puckered from long and daily acquaintance with the washing-tub--"i'm master tom." "ah, dearee me," she said slowly, looking at him with lustreless eyes. "well, you be growed into a fine young gentleman, surely. and how's the squire and madam brown, and all the fam'ly?" "oh, very well, betty,--they will be so sorry to hear of your illness." "but there ain't no hot bread for un. 'tis ill to bake wi' no fuz bushes, and the bakers' stuff is poor for hungry folk." "i'm within three months as old as your harry, you know," said tom, trying to lead her back to the object of his visit. "harry," she repeated, and then collecting herself went on, "our harry; where is he? they haven't sent un to prison, and his mother a dyin'?" "oh, no, betty; he will be here directly. i came to ask whether there is anything i can do for you." "you'll stand by un, poor buoy--our harry, as you used to play wi' when you was little--'twas they as aggravated un so he couldn't abear it, afore ever he'd a struck a fly." "yes, betty; i will see that he has fair play. don't trouble about that, it will be all right. you must be quite quiet, and not trouble yourself about anything, that you may get well and about again." "nay, nay, master tom. i be gwine whoam; ees, i be gwine whoam to my maester, harry's father--i knows i be--and you'll stand by un when i be gone; and squire brown 'll say a good word for un to the justices?" "yes, betty, that he will. but you must cheer up, and you'll get better yet; don't be afraid." "i beant afeard, master tom; no, bless you, i beant afeard but what the lord'll be mussiful to a poor lone woman like me, as has had a sore time of it since my measter died wi' a hungry boy like our harry to kep, back and belly; and the rheumatics terrible bad all winter time." "i'm sure, betty, you have done your duty by him, and everyone else." "dwontee speak o' doin's, master tom. 'tis no doin's o' ourn as'll make any odds where i be gwine." tom did not know what to answer; so he pressed her hand and said,-- "well, betty, i am very glad i have seen you once more; i sha'n't forget it. harry sha'n't want a friend while i live." "the lord bless you, master tom, for that word," said the dying woman, returning the pressure, as her eyes filled with tears. katie, who had been watching her carefully from the other side of the bed, made him a sign to go. "good-bye, betty" he said; "i won't forget, you may be sure; god bless you;" and then, disengaging his hand gently, went out again into the porch, where he sat down to wait for his cousin. in a few minutes the nurse returned, and katie came out of the cottage soon afterwards. "now i will walk up home with you," she said. "you must come in and see papa. well, i'm sure you must be glad you went in. was not i right?" "yes, indeed; i wish i could have said something more to comfort her." "you couldn't have said more. it was just what she wanted." "but where is her son? i ought to see him before i go." "he has gone to the doctor's for some medicine. he will be back soon." "well, i must see him; and i should like to do something for him at once. i'm not very flush of money, but i must give you something for him. you'll take it; i shouldn't like to offer it to him." "i hardly think he wants money; they are well off now. he earns good wages, and betty has done her washing up to this week." "yes, but he will be fined, i suppose, for this assault; and then, if she should die, there will be the funeral expenses." "very well; as you please," she said; and tom proceeded to hand over to her all his ready money, except a shilling or two. after satisfying his mind thus, he looked at her, and said-- "do you know, katie, i don't think i ever saw you so happy and in such spirits?" "there now! and yet you began talking to me as if i were looking sad enough to turn all the beer in the parish sour." "well, so you ought to be, according to cocker, spending all your time in sick rooms." "according to who?" "according to cocker." "who is cocker?" "oh, i don't know; some old fellow who wrote the rules of arithmetic, i believe; it's only a bit of slang. but, i repeat, you have a right to be sad, and it's taking an unfair advantage of your relations to look as pleasant as you do." katie laughed. "you ought not to say so, at any rate," she said, "for you look all the pleasanter for your visit to a sick room." "did i look very unpleasant before?" "well, i don't think you were in a very good humor." "no, i was in a very bad humor, and talking to you and poor old betty has set me right, i think. but you said hers was a special case. it must be very sad work in general." "only when one sees people in great pain, or when they are wicked, and quarreling, or complaining about nothing; then i do get very low sometimes. but even then it is much better than keeping to one's self. anything is better than thinking of one's self, and one's own troubles." "i dare say you are right," said tom, recalling his morning's meditations, "especially when one's troubles are homemade. look, here's an old fellow who gave me a lecture on that subject before i saw you this morning, and took me for the apothecary's boy." they were almost opposite david's door, at which he stood with a piece of work in his hand. he had seen miss winter from his look-out window, and had descended from his board in hopes of hearing news. katie returned his respectful and anxious salute, and said, "she is no worse, david. we left her quite out of pain and very quiet." "ah, 'tis to be hoped as she'll hev a peaceful time on't now, poor soul," said david; "i've a been to farmer groves', and i hope as he'll do summat about harry." "i'm glad to hear it," said miss winter, "and my cousin here, who knew harry very well when they were little boys together, has promised to help him. this is harry's best friend," she said to tom, "who has done more than anyone to keep him right." david seemed a little embarrassed, and began jerking his head about when his acquaintance of the morning, whom he had scarcely noticed before, was introduced by miss winter as "my cousin." "i wish to do all i can for him," said tom, "and i'm very glad to have made your acquaintance. you must let me know whenever i can help;" and he took out a card and handed it to david, who looked at it, and then said,-- "and i be to write to you, sir, then, if harry gets into trouble?" "yes; but we must keep him out of trouble, even home-made ones, which don't leave good marks, you know," said tom. "and thaay be nine out o' ten o' aal as comes to a man, sir" said david "as i've a told harry scores o' times." "that seems to be your text, david," said tom, laughing. "ah, and 'tis a good un too, sir. ax miss winter else. 'tis a sight better to hev the lord's troubles while you be about it, for thaay as hasn't makes wus for themselves out o' nothin'. dwon't 'em, miss?" "yes; you know that i agree with you, david." "good-bye, then," said tom, holding out his hand, "and mind you let me hear from you." "what a queer old bird, with his whole wisdom of man packed up small for ready use, like a quack doctor," he said, as soon as they were out of hearing. "indeed, he isn't the least like a quack doctor. i don't know a better man in the parish, though he is rather obstinate, like all the rest of them." "i didn't mean to say anything against him, i assure you," said tom; "on the contrary, i think him a fine old fellow. but i didn't think so this morning, when he showed me the way to betty's cottage." the fact was that tom saw all things and persons with quite a different pair of eyes from those which he had been provided with when he arrived in englebourn that morning. he even made allowances for old mr. winter, who was in his usual querulous state at luncheon, though perhaps it would have been difficult in the whole neighborhood to find a more pertinent comment on, and illustration of, the constable's text than the poor old man furnished, with his complaints about his own health, and all he had to do and think of, for everybody about him. it did strike tom, however, as very wonderful how such a character as katie's could have grown up under the shade of, and in constant contact with, such a one as her father's. he wished his uncle good-bye soon after luncheon, and he and katie started again down the village--she to return to her nursing and he on his way home. he led his horse by the bridle and walked by her side down the street. she pointed to the hawk's lynch as they walked along, and said, "you should ride up there; it is scarcely out of your way. mary and i used to walk there every day when she was here, and she was so fond of it." at the cottage they found harry winburn. he came out, and the two young men shook hands, and looked one another over, and exchanged a few shy sentences. tom managed with difficulty to say the little he had to say, but tried to make up for it by a hearty manner. it was not the time or place for any unnecessary talk; so in a few minutes he was mounted and riding up the slope towards the heath. "i should say he must be half a stone lighter than i," he thought, "and not quite so tall; but he looks as hard as iron, and tough as whipcord. what a no. he'd make in a heavy crew! poor fellow, he seems dreadfully cut up. i hope i shall be able to be of use to him. now for this place which katie showed me from the village street." he pressed his horse up the steep side of the hawk's lynch. the exhilaration of the scramble, and the sense of power, and of some slight risk, which he felt as he helped on the gallant beast with hand and knee and heel, while the loose turf and stones flew from his hoofs and rolled down the hill behind them, made tom's eyes kindle and his pulse beat quicker as he reached the top and pulled up under the scotch firs. "this was her favorite walk, then. no wonder. what an air, and what a view!" he jumped off his horse, slipped the bridle over his arm, and let him pick away at the short grass and tufts of heath, as he himself first stood, and then sat, and looked out over the scene which she had so often looked over. she might have sat on the very spot he was sitting on; she must have taken in the same expanse of wood and meadow, village and park, and dreamy, distant hill. her presence seemed to fill the air round him. a rush of new thoughts and feelings swam through his brain and carried him, a willing piece of drift man, along with them. he gave himself up to the stream and revelled in them. his eye traced back the road along which he had ridden in the morning, and rested on the barton woods, just visible in the distance, on this side of the point where all outline except that of the horizon began to be lost. the flickering july air seemed to beat in a pulse of purple glory over the spot. the soft wind which blew straight from barton seemed laden with her name, and whispered it in the firs, over his head. every nerve in his body was bounding with new life, and he could sit still no longer. he rose, sprang on his horse, and, with a shout of joy, turned from the vale and rushed away on to the heath, northwards towards his home behind the chalk hills. he had ridden into englebourn in the morning an almost unconscious dabbler by the margin of the great stream; he rode from the hawk's lynch in the afternoon over head and ears and twenty, a hundred, ay, unnumbered fathoms below that, deep; consciously, and triumphantly in love. but at what a pace, and in what a form! love, at least in his first access, must be as blind a horseman as he is an archer. the heath was rough with peat-cutting and turf-cutting and many a deep-rutted farm road, and tufts of heather and furze. over them and through them went horse and man--horse rising seven and man twenty off, a well-matched pair in age for a wild ride--headlong towards the north, till a blind rut somewhat deeper than usual put an end to their career, and sent the good horse staggering forward some thirty feet on to his nose and knees, and tom over his shoulder, on to his back in the heather. "well, it's lucky it's no worse," thought our hero, as he picked himself up and anxiously examined the horse, who stood trembling and looking wildly puzzled at the whole proceeding; "i hope he hasn't overreached. what will the governor say? his knees are all right. poor old boy!" he said, patting him; "no wonder you look astonished. you're not in love. come along; we won't make fools of ourselves any more. what is it?-- 'a true love forsaken a new love may get, but a neck that's once broken can never be set.' what stuff! one may get a neck set for anything i know; but a new love--blasphemy!" the rest of the ride passed off soberly enough, except in tom's brain, wherein were built up in gorgeous succession castles such as we have all built, i suppose, before now. and with the castles were built up side by side good honest resolves to be worthy of her, and win her and worship her with body, and mind, and soul. and, as a first installment, away to the winds went all the selfish morning thoughts; and he rode down the northern slope of the chalk hills a dutiful and affectionate son, at peace with mrs. porter, honoring her for her care of the treasure which he was seeking, and in good time for dinner. "well, dear," said mrs. brown to her husband when they were alone that night, "did you ever see tom in such spirits, and so gentle and affectionate? dear boy; there can be nothing the matter." "didn't i tell you so," replied mr. brown; "you women have always got some nonsense in your heads as soon as your boys have a hair on their chin or your girls begin to put up their back hair." "well, john, say what you will, i'm sure mary porter is a very sweet, taking girl, and--" "i am quite of the same opinion," said mr. brown, "and am very glad you have written to ask them here." and so the worthy couple went happily to bed. chapter xxxiii--brown patronus on a saturday afternoon in august, a few weeks after the eventful ride, tom returned to the englebourn rectory to stay over sunday, and attend betty winburn's funeral. he was strangely attracted to harry by the remembrance of their old boyish rivalry; by the story which he had heard from his cousin, of the unwavering perseverance with which the young peasant clung to and pursued his suit for simon's daughter; but, more than all, by the feeling of gratitude with which he remembered the effect his visit to betty's sick room had had on him, on the day of his ride from barton manor. on that day he knew that he had ridden into englebourn in a miserable mental fog, and had ridden out of it in sunshine, which had lasted through the intervening weeks. somehow or another he had been set straight then and there, turned into the right road and out of the wrong one, at what he very naturally believed to be the most critical moment of his life. without stopping to weigh accurately the respective merits of the several persons whom he came in contact with that day, he credited them all with a large amount of gratitude and good-will, and harry with his mother's share as well as his own. so he had been longing to _do_ something for him ever since. the more he rejoiced in, and gave himself up to his own new sensations, the more did his gratitude become as it were a burden to him; and yet no opportunity offered of letting off some of it in action. the magistrates, taking into consideration the dangerous state of his mother, had let harry off with a reprimand for his assault; so there was nothing to be done there. he wrote to katie offering more money for the winburns; but she declined--adding, however, to her note, by way of postscript, that he might give it to her clothing club or coal club. then came the news of betty's death, and an intimation from katie that she thought harry would be much gratified if he would attend the funeral. he jumped at the suggestion. all englebourn, from the hawk's lynch to the rectory, was hallowed ground to him. the idea of getting back there, so much nearer to barton manor, filled him with joy, which he tried in vain to repress when he thought of the main object of his visit on the present occasion. he arrived in time to go and shake hands with harry before dinner; and, though scarcely a word passed between them, he saw with delight that he had evidently given pleasure to the mourner. then he had a charming long evening with katie, walking in the garden with her between dinner and tea, and after tea discoursing in low tones over her work-table, while mr. winter benevolently slept in his arm-chair. their discourse branched into many paths, but managed always somehow to end in the sayings, beliefs, and perfections of the young lady of barton manor. tom wondered how it had happened so when he got to his own room, as he fancied he had not betrayed himself in the least. he had determined to keep resolutely on his guard, and to make a confident of no living soul till he was twenty-one, and, though sorely tempted to break his resolution in favor of katie, had restrained himself. he might have spared himself all the trouble; but this he did not know, being unversed in the ways of women, and all unaware of the subtlety and quickness of their intuitions in all matters connected with the heart. poor, dear, stolid, dim-sighted mankind, how they do see through us and walk round us! the funeral on the sunday afternoon between churches had touched him much, being the first he had ever attended. he walked next behind the chief mourner--the few friends, amongst whom david was conspicuous, yielding place to him. he stood beside harry in church, and at the open grave, and made the responses as firmly as he could, and pressed his shoulder against his, when he felt the strong frame of the son trembling with the weight and burden of his resolutely suppressed agony. when they parted at the cottage door, to which tom accompanied the mourner and his old and tried friend david, though nothing but a look and a grasp of the hand passed between them, he felt that they were bound by a new and invisible bond; and, as he walked back up the village and passed the churchyard, where the children were playing about on the graves, stopping every now and then to watch the sexton as he stamped down and filled in the mould on the last made one beside which he himself stood as a mourner--and heard the bells beginning to chime for the afternoon service, he resolved within himself that he would be a true and helpful friend to the widow's son. on this subject he could talk freely to katie; and he did so that evening, expounding how much one in his position could do for a young laboring man if he was really bent on it, and building up grand castles for harry, the foundations of which rested on his own determination to benefit and patronize him. katie listened half doubtingly at first, but was soon led away by his confidence, and poured out the tea in the full belief that with tom's powerful aid all would go well. after which they took to reading the "christian year" together, and branched into discussions on profane poetry, which katie considered scarcely proper for the evening, but which, nevertheless, being of such rare occurrence with her, she had not the heart to stop. the next morning tom was to return home. after breakfast he began the subject of his future plans for harry again, when katie produced a small paper packet which she handed to him, saying-- "here is your money again." "what money?" "the money you left with me for harry winburn. i thought at the time that most probably he would not take it." "but are you sure he doesn't want it? did you try hard to get him to take it?" said tom, holding out his hand reluctantly for the money. "not myself. i couldn't offer him money myself, of course; but i sent it by david, and begged him to do all he could to persuade him to take it." "well, and why wouldn't he?" "oh, he said the club-money which was coming in was more than enough to pay for the funeral and for himself he didn't want it." "how provoking! i wonder if old david really did his best to get him to take it." "yes, i am sure he did. but you ought to be very glad to find some independence in a poor man." "bother his independence! i don't like to feel that it costs me nothing but talk--i want to pay." "ah, tom, if you knew the poor as well as i do, you wouldn't say so. i am afraid there are not two other men in the parish who would have refused your money. the fear of undermining their independence takes away all my pleasure in giving." "undermining! why, katie, i am sure i have heard you mourn over their stubbornness and unreasonableness." "oh, yes; they are often provokingly stubborn and unreasonable, and yet not independent about money, or anything they can get out of you. besides, i acknowledge that i have become wiser of late; i used to like to see them dependent and cringing to me, but now i dread it." "but you would like david to give in about the singing, wouldn't you?" "yes, if he would give in i should be very proud. i have learnt a great deal from him; i used positively to dislike him; but, now that i know him, i think him the best man in the parish. if he ever does give in--and i think he will--it will be worth anything, just because he is so independent." "that's all very well; but what am i to do to show harry winburn that i mean to be his friend, if he won't take money from me?" "you have come over to his mother's funeral--he will think more of that than of all the money you could give him; and you can show sympathy for him in a great many ways." "well, i must try. by the way, about his love affair; is the young lady at home? i have never seen her, you know." "no she is away with an aunt, looking out for a place. i have persuaded her to get one, and leave home again for the present. her father is quite well now, and she is not wanted." "well, it seems i can't do any good with her, then; but could i not go and talk to her father about harry? i might help him in that way." "you must be very careful; simon is such an odd-tempered old man." "oh, i'm not afraid; he and i are great chums; and a little soft soap will go a long way with him. fancy, if i could get him this very morning to 'sanction harry's suit,' as the phrase is, what should you think of me?" "i should think very highly of your powers of persuasion." not the least daunted by his cousin's misgivings, tom started in quest of simon, and found him at work in front of the greenhouse, surrounded by many small pots and heaps of finely sifted mould, and absorbed in his occupation. simon was a rough, stolid berkshire rustic, somewhat of a tyrant in the bosom of his family, an unmanageable servant, a cross-grained acquaintance; as a citizen, stiff-necked, and a grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went right in the parish; but, withal, a thoroughly honest worker; and, when allowed to go his own way--and no other way would he go, as his mistress had long since discovered--there was no man who earned his daily bread more honestly. he took a pride in his work, and the rectory garden was always trim and well kept, and the beds bright with flowers from early spring till late autumn. he was absorbed in what he was about, and tom came up close to him without attracting the least sign of recognition; so he stopped, and opened the conversation. "good day, simon; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gay as yours." simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it was, touched his battered old hat, and answered,-- "mornin' sir! ees, you finds me allus in blume" "indeed i do, simon; but how do you manage it? i should like to tell my father's gardener." "'tis no use to tell un if a haven't found out for hisself. 'tis nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does it." "well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet, somehow, we never look half so bright as you do." "may be as your gardener just takes and hits it auver the top o' the ground, and lets it lie. that's no kind o' good, that beant--'tis the roots as wants the stuff; and you med jist as well take and put a round o' beef agin my back bwone as hit the stuff auver the ground, and never see as it gets to the roots o' the plants." "no, i don't think it can be that," said tom laughing; "our gardener seems always to be digging his manure in, but somehow he can't make it come out in flowers as you do." "ther' be mwore waays o' killin' a cat besides choking on un wi' crame," said simon, chuckling in his turn. "that's true simon," said tom; "the fact is, a gardener must know his business as well as you to be always in bloom, eh?" "that's about it, sir," said simon, on whom the flattery was beginning to tell. tom saw this, and thought he might now feel his way a little further with the old man. "i'm over on a sad errand," he said; "i've been to poor widow winburn's funeral--she was an old friend of yours, i think?" "ees; i minds her long afore she wur married," said simon, turning to his pots again. "she wasn't an old woman, after all," said tom. "sixty-two year old cum michaelmas," said simon. "well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten years at least; why, you must be older than she by some years, simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man." simon went on with his potting without replying except by a carefully measured grunt, sufficient to show that he had heard the remark, and was not much impressed by it. tom saw that he must change his attack; so, after watching simon for a minute, he began again. "i wonder why it is that the men of your time of life are so much stronger than the young ones in constitution. now, i don't believe there are three young men in englebourn who would have got over that fall you had at farmer groves' so quick as you have; most young men would have been crippled for life by it." "zo 'em would, the young wosbirds. i dwont make no account on 'em," said simon. "and you don't feel any the worse for it, simon?" "narra mossel," replied simon; but presently he seemed to recollect something, and added, "i wun't saay but what i feels it at times when i've got to stoop about much." "ah, i'm sorry to hear that, simon. then you oughtn't to have so much stooping to do; potting, and that sort of thing, is the work for you, i should think, and just giving an eye to everything about the place. anybody could do the digging and setting out cabbages, and your time is only wasted at it."--tom had now found the old man's weak point. "ees, sir, and so i tells miss," he said, "but wi' nothin' but a bit o' glass no bigger'n a cowcumber frame, 'tis all as a man can do to keep a few plants alive droo' the winter." "of course," said tom, looking round at the very respectable greenhouse which simon had contemptuously likened to a cucumber-frame, "you ought to have at least another house as big as this for forcing." "master ain't pleased, he ain't," said simon, "if he dwon't get his things, his spring wegetables, and his strawberries, as early as though we'd a got forcin' pits and glass like other folk. 'tis a year and mwore since he promised as i sh'd hev glass along that ther' wall, but 'tis no nigher comin' as i can see. i be to spake to miss about it now, and, when i spakes to her, 'tis, 'oh, simon, we must wait till the 'spensary's 'stablished,' or 'oh, simon, last winter wur a werry tryin wun, and the sick club's terrible bad off for funds,'--and so we gwoes on, and med gwo on for aught as i can see, so long as there's a body sick or bad off in all the parish. and that'll be all us. for, what wi' wisitin' on 'em, and sendin' on 'em dinners, and a'al the doctor's stuff as is served out o' the 'spensary--wy, 'tis enough to keep 'em bad a'al ther' lives. ther ain't no credit in gettin' well. ther' wur no sich a caddle about sick folk when i wur a bwoy." simon had never been known to make such a long speech before, and tom argued well for his negotiation. "well, simon," he said, "i've been talking to my cousin, and i think she will do what you want now. the dispensary is set up, and the people are very healthy. how much glass should you want, now, along that wall?" "a matter o' twenty fit or so," said simon. "i think that can be managed," said tom; "i'll speak to my cousin about it; and then you would have plenty to do in the houses, and you'd want a regular man under you." "ees; 'twould take two on us reg'lar to kep things as they should be." "and you ought to have somebody who knows what he is about. can you think of anyone who would do, simon?" "ther's a young chap as works for squire wurley. i've heard as he wants to better hisself." "but he isn't an englebourn man. isn't there anyone in the parish?" "ne'er a one as i knows on." "what do you think of harry winburn--he seems a good hand with flowers?" the words had scarcely passed his lips when tom saw that he had made a mistake. old simon retired into himself at once, and a cunning, distrustful look came over his face. there was no doing anything with him. even the new forcing house had lost its attractions for him, and tom, after some further ineffectual attempts to bring him round, returned to the house somewhat crestfallen. "well, how have you succeeded?" said katie, looking up from her work, as he came in and sat down near her table. tom shook his head. "i'm afraid i've made a regular hash of it," he said. "i thought at first i had quite come round the old savage by praising the garden, and promising that you would let him have a new house." "you don't mean to say you did that?" said katie, stopping her work. "indeed, but i did, though. i was drawn on, you know. i saw it was the right card to play; so i couldn't help it." "oh, tom! how could you do so? we don't want another house the least in the world; it is only simon's vanity. he wants to beat the gardener at the grange at the flower shows. every penny will have to come out of what papa allows me for the parish." "don't be afraid, katie; you won't have to spend a penny. of course i reserved a condition. the new house was to be put up if he would take harry as an under-gardener. "what did he say to that?" "well, he said nothing. i never came across such an old turk. how you have spoiled him! if he isn't pleased, he won't take the trouble to answer you a word. i was very near telling him a piece of my mind. but he _looked_ all the more. i believe he would poison harry if he came here. what can have made him hate him so?" "he is jealous of him. mary and i were so foolish as to praise poor betty's flowers before simon, and he has never forgiven it. i think, too, that he suspects, somehow, that we talked about getting harry here. i ought to have told you, but i quite forgot it." "well, it can't be helped. i don't think i can do any good in that quarter; so now i shall be off to the grange to see what i can do there." "how do you mean?" "why, harry is afraid of being turned out of his cottage. i saw how it worried him, thinking about it; so i shall go to the grange, and say a good word for him. wurley can't refuse if i offer to pay the rent myself--it's only six pounds a year. of course, i sha'n't tell harry; and he will pay it all the same; but it may make all the difference with wurley, who is a regular screw." "do you know mr. wurley?" "yes, just to speak to. he knows all about me, and he will be very glad to be civil." "no doubt he will; but i don't like your going to his house. you don't know what a bad man he is. nobody but men on the turf, and that sort of people, go there now; and i believe he thinks of nothing but gambling and game-preserving." "oh, yes; i know all about him. the county people are beginning to look shy at him; so he'll be all the more likely to do what i ask him." "but you won't get intimate with him?" "you needn't be afraid of that." "it is a sad house to go to--i hope it won't do you any harm." "ah, katie!" said tom, with a smile not altogether cheerful, "i don't think you need be anxious about that. when one has been a year at oxford, there isn't much snow left to soil; so now i am off. i must give myself plenty of time to cook wurley." "well, i suppose i must not hinder you," said katie. "i do hope you will succeed in some of your kind plans for harry." "i shall do my best; and it is a great thing to have somebody besides oneself to think about and try to help--some poor person--don't you think so, even for a man?" "of course i do. i am sure you can't be happy without it, any more than i. we shouldn't be our mother's children if we could be." "well, good-bye, dear; you can't think how i enjoy these glimpses of you and your work. you must give my love to uncle robert." and so they bade each other adieu, lovingly, after the manner of cousins, and tom rode away with a very soft place in his heart for his cousin katie. it was not the least the same sort of passionate feeling of worship with which he regarded mary. the two feelings could lie side by side in his heart with plenty of room to spare. in fact, his heart had been getting so big in the last few weeks that it seemed capable of taking in the whole of mankind, not to mention woman, till, on the whole, it may be safely asserted that, had matters been at all in a more forward state, and could she have seen exactly what was passing in his mind, mary would probably have objected to the kind of affection which he felt for his cousin at this particular time. the joke about cousinly love is probably as old, and certainly as true, as solomon's proverbs. however, as matters stood, it could be no concern of mary's what his feelings were towards katie, or any other person. tom rode in at the lodge gate of the grange soon after eleven o'clock, and walked his horse slowly through the park, admiring the splendid timber, and thinking how he should break his request to the owner of the place. but his thoughts were interrupted by the proceedings of the rabbits, which were out by hundreds all along the sides of the plantations, and round the great trees. a few of the nearest just deigned to notice him by scampering to their holes under the roots of the antlered oaks, into which some of them popped with a disdainful kick of their hind legs, while others turned round, sat up, and looked at him. as he neared the house he passed a keeper's cottage, and was saluted by the barking of dogs from the neighboring kennel; and the young pheasants ran about round some twenty hen-coops, which were arranged along opposite the door where the keeper's children were playing. the pleasure of watching the beasts and birds kept him from arranging his thoughts, and he reached the hall door without having formed the plan of his campaign. a footman answered the bell, who doubted whether his master was down, but thought he would see the gentleman if he would send in his name. whereupon tom handed in his card, and, in a few minutes a rakish-looking stable boy came round after his horse, and the butler appeared with his master's compliments, and a request that he would step into the breakfast-room. tom followed this portly personage through the large handsome hall, on the walls of which hung a buff-coat or two and some old-fashioned arms, and large paintings of dead game and fruit--through a drawing room, the furniture of which was all covered up in melancholy cases--into the breakfast parlor, where the owner of the mansion was seated at table in a lounging jacket. he was a man of forty or thereabouts, who would have been handsome, but for the animal look about his face. his cheeks were beginning to fall into chaps, his full lips had a liquorish look about them, and bags were beginning to form under his light blue eyes. his hands were very white and delicate, and shook a little as he poured out his tea; and he was full and stout in body, with small shoulders, and thin arms and legs; in short, the last man whom tom would have chosen as bow in a pair oar. the only part of him which showed strength were his dark whiskers, which were abundant, and elaborately oiled and curled. the room was light and pleasant, with two windows looking over the park, and furnished luxuriously, in the most modern style, with all manner of easy chairs and sofas. a glazed case or two of well bound books, showed that some former owner had cared for such things; but the doors had, probably, never been opened in the present reign. the master and his usual visitors found sufficient food for the mind in the _racing calendar_, "boxiana," "the adventures of corinthian tom," and _bell's life_, which lay on a side table; or in the pictures and prints of racers, opera dancers, and steeple-chases, which hung in profusion on the walls. the breakfast table was beautifully appointed in the matter of china and plate; and delicate little rolls, neat pats of butter in ice, two silver hot dishes containing curry and broiled salmon, and a plate of fruit, piled in tempting profusion, appealed, apparently in vain, to the appetite of the lord of the feast. "mr. brown, sir," said the butler, ushering in our hero to his master's presence. "ah, brown, i'm very glad to see you here," said mr. wurley, standing up and holding out his hand. "have any breakfast?" "thank you, no, i have breakfasted," said tom, somewhat astonished at the intimacy of the greeting; but it was his cue to do the friendly thing,--so he took the proffered hand, which felt very limp, and sat down by the table, looking pleasant. "ridden from home this morning?" said wurley, picking over daintily some of the curry to which he had helped himself. "no, i was at my uncle's, at englebourn, last night. it is very little out of the way; so i thought i would just call on my road home." "quite right. i'm very glad you came without ceremony. people about here are so d-d full of ceremony. it don't suit me, all that humbug. but i wish you'd just pick a bit." "thank you. then i will eat some fruit," said tom, helping himself to some of the freshly picked grapes; "how very fine these are!" "yes, i'm open to back my houses against the field for twenty miles round. this curry isn't fit for a pig--take it out, and tell the cook so." the butler solemnly obeyed, while his master went on with one of the frequent oaths with which he garnished his conversation. "you're right, they can't spoil the fruit. they're a set of skulking devils, are servants. they think of nothing but stuffing themselves, and how they can cheat you most, and do the least work." saying which, he helped himself to some fruit; and the two ate their grapes for a short time in silence. but even fruit seemed to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away his plate. the butler came back with a silver tray, with soda water, and a small decanter of brandy, and long glasses on it. "won't you have something after your ride?" said the host to tom; "some soda water with a dash of bingo clears one's head in the morning." "no, thank you," said tom, smiling, "it's bad for training." "ah, you oxford men are all for training," said his host, drinking greedily of the foaming mixture which the butler handed to him. "a glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh? i know. get some ale for mr. brown." tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse this orthodox offer, and took his beer accordingly, after which his host produced a box of hudson's regalias, and proposed to look at the stables. so they lighted their cigars, and went out. mr. wurley had taken of late to the turf, and they inspected several young horses which were entered for country stakes. tom thought them weedy-looking animals, but patiently listened to their praises and pedigrees, upon which his host was eloquent enough; and, rubbing up his latest readings in _bell's life_, and the racing talk which he had been in the habit of hearing in drysdale's rooms, managed to hold his own, and asked, with a grave face, about the price of the coronation colt for the next derby, and whether scott's lot was not the right thing to stand on for the st. leger, thereby raising himself considerably in his host's eyes. there were no hunters in the stable, at which tom expressed his surprise. in reply, mr. wurley abused the country, and declared that it was not worth riding across, the fact being that he had lost his nerve, and that the reception which he was beginning to meet with in the field, if he came out by chance, was of the coldest. from the stables they strolled to the keeper's cottage, where mr. wurley called for some buckwheat and indian corn, and began feeding the young pheasants, which were running about, almost like barn-door fowls, close to them. "we've had a good season for the young birds," he said; "my fellow knows that part of his business, d--n him, and don't lose many. you had better bring your gun over in october; we shall have a week in the covers early in the month." "thank you, i shall be very glad," said tom; "but you don't shoot these birds?" "shoot 'em! what the devil should i do with 'em?" "why, they're so tame i thought you just kept them about the house for breeding. i don't care so much for pheasant shooting; i like a good walk after a snipe, or creeping along to get a wild duck much better. there's some sport in it, or even in partridge shooting with a couple of good dogs, now--" "you're quite wrong. there's nothing like a good dry ride in a cover with lots of game, and a fellow behind to load for you." "well, i must say, i prefer the open." "you've no covers over your way, have you?" "not many." "i thought so. you wait till you've had a good day in my covers, and you won't care for quartering all day over wet turnips. besides, this sort of thing pays. they talk about pheasants costing a guinea a head on one's table. it's all stuff; at any rate, mine don't cost _me_ much. in fact, i say it pays, and i can prove it." "but you feed your pheasants?" "yes, just round the house for a few weeks, and i sow a little buckwheat in the covers. but they have to keep themselves pretty much, i can tell you." "don't the farmers object?" "yes, d-n them; they're never satisfied. but they don't grumble to me; they know better. there are a dozen fellows ready to take any farm that's given up, and they know it. just get a beggar to put a hundred or two into the ground, and he won't quit hold in a hurry. will you play a game at billiards?" the turn which their conversation had taken hitherto had offered no opening to tom for introducing the object of his visit, and he felt less and less inclined to come to the point. he looked his host over and over again, and the more he looked the less he fancied asking anything like a favor of him. however, as it had to be done, he thought he couldn't do better than fall into his ways for a few hours, and watch for a chance. the man seemed good natured in his way; and all his belongings--the fine park and house, and gardens and stables--were not without their effect on his young guest. it is not given to many men of twice his age to separate a man from his possessions, and look at him apart from them. so he yielded easily enough, and they went to billiards in a fine room opening out of the hall; and tom, who was very fond of the game, soon forgot everything in the pleasure of playing on such a table. it was not a bad match. mr. wurley understood the game far better than his guest, and could give him advice as to what side to put on and how to play for cannons. this he did in a patronizing way, but his hand was unsteady and his nerve bad. tom's good eye and steady hand, and the practice he had had at the st. ambrose pool-table, gave him considerable advantage in the hazards. and so they played on, mr. wurley condescending to bet only half-a-crown a game, at first giving ten points, and then five, at which latter odds tom managed to be two games ahead when the butler announced lunch, at two o'clock. "i think i must order my horse," said tom, putting on his coat. "no, curse it, you must give me my revenge. i'm always five points better after lunch, and after dinner i could give you fifteen points. why shouldn't you stop and dine and sleep? i expect some men to dinner." "thank you, i must get home to-day." "i should like you to taste my mutton; i never kill it five years old. you don't get that every day." tom, however, was proof against the mutton; but consented to stay till towards the hour when the other guests were expected, finding that his host had a decided objection to be left alone. so after lunch, at which mr. wurley drank the better part of a bottle of old sherry to steady his nerves, they returned again to billiards and hudson's regalias. they played on for another hour; and, though mr. wurley's hand was certainly steadier, the luck remained with tom. he was now getting rather tired of playing, and wanted to be leaving, and he began to remember the object of his visit again. but mr. wurley was nettled at being beaten by a boy, as he counted his opponent, and wouldn't hear of leaving off. so tom played on carelessly game after game, and was soon again only two games ahead. mr. wurley's temper was recovering, and tom protested that he must go. just one game more, his host urged, and tom consented. wouldn't he play for a sovereign? no. so they played double or quits; and after a sharp struggle mr. wurley won the game, at which he was highly elated, and talked again grandly of the odds he could give after dinner. tom felt that it was now or never, and so, as he put on his coat, he said,-- "well, i'm much obliged to you for a very pleasant day, mr. wurley." "i hope you'll come over again, and stay and sleep. i shall always be glad to see you. it is so cursed hard to keep somebody always going in the country." "thank you; i should like to come again. but now i want to ask a favor of you before i go." "eh, well, what is it?" said mr. wurley, whose face and manner became suddenly anything but encouraging. "there's that cottage of yours, the one at the corner of englebourn copse, next the village." "the woodman's house, i know," said mr. wurley. "the tenant is dead, and i want you to let it to a friend of mine; i'll take care the rent is paid." mr. wurley pricked up his ears at this announcement. he gave a sharp look at tom; and then bent over the table, made a stroke, and said, "ah, i heard the old woman was dead. who's your friend, then?" "well, i mean her son," said tom, somewhat embarrassed; "he's an active young fellow, and will make a good tenant; i'm sure." "i daresay," said mr. wurley, with a leer; "and i suppose there's a sister to keep house for him, eh?" "no, but he wants to get married." "wants to get married, eh?" said mr. wurley, with another leer and oath. "you're right; that's a deal safer kind of thing for you." "yes," said tom, resolutely disregarding the insinuation, which he could not help feeling was intended; "it will keep him steady, and if he can get the cottage it might make all the difference. there wouldn't be much trouble about the marriage then, i dare say." "you'll find it a devilish long way. you're quite right, mind you, not to get them settled close at home; but englebourn is too far, i should say." "what does it matter to me?" "oh, you're tired of her! i see. perhaps it won't be too far, then." "tired of her! who do you mean?" "ha, ha!" said mr. wurley, looking up from the table over which he was leaning, for he went on knocking the balls about; "devilish well acted! but you needn't try to come the old soldier over me. i'm not quite such a fool as that." "i don't know what you mean by coming the old soldier. i only asked you to let the cottage, and i will be responsible for the rent. i'll pay in advance if you like." "yes, you want me to let the cottage for you to put in this girl?" "i beg your pardon," said tom, interrupting him, and scarcely able to keep his temper; "i told you it was for this young winburn." "of course you told me so. ha, ha!" "and you don't believe me." "come, now, all's fair in love and war. but, i tell you, you needn't be mealy-mouthed with me. you don't mind his living there; he's away at work all day, eh? and his wife stays at home." "mr. wurley, i give you my honor i never saw the girl in my life that i know of, and i don't know that she will marry him." "what did you talk about your friend for, then?" said mr. wurley, stopping and staring at tom, curiosity beginning to mingle with his look of cunning unbelief. "because i meant just what i said." "and the friend, then?" "i have told you several times that this young winburn is the man." "what, _your friend_?" "yes, my friend," said; tom; and he felt himself getting red at having to call harry his friend in such company. mr. wurley looked at him for a few moments, and then took his leg off the billiard table, and came round to tom with the sort of patronizing air with which he had lectured him on billiards. "i say, brown, i'll give you a piece of advice," he said. "you're a young fellow, and haven't seen anything of the world. oxford's all very well, but it isn't the world. now i tell you, a young fellow can't do himself greater harm than getting into low company and talking as you have been talking. it might ruin you in the county. that sort of radical stuff won't do, you know, calling a farm laborer your friend." tom chafed at this advice from a man who, he well knew, was notoriously in the habit of entertaining at his house, and living familiarly with, betting men and trainers, and all the riff-raff of the turf. but he restrained himself by a considerable effort, and, instead of retorting, as he felt inclined to do, said, with an attempt to laugh it off, "thank you, i don't think there's much fear of me turning radical. but will you let me the cottage?" "my agent manages all that. we talked about pulling it down. the cottage is in my preserves, and i don't mean to have some poaching fellow there to be sneaking out at night after my pheasants." "but his grandfather and great-grandfather lived there." "i dare say, but it's my cottage." "but surely that gives him a claim to it." "d-n it! it's my cottage. you're not going to tell me i mayn't do what i like with it, i suppose." "i only said that his family having lived there so long gives him a claim." "a claim to what? these are some more of your cursed radical notions. i think they might teach you something better at oxford." tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in such a tremendous fury of excitement that he forgot the interests of his client altogether. "i came here, sir," he said, very quietly and slowly, "not to request your advice on my own account, or your opinion on the studies of oxford, valuable as no doubt they are; i came to ask you to let this cottage to me, and i wish to have your answer." "i'll be d-d if i do; there's my answer." "very well," said tom; "then i have only to wish you good morning. i am sorry to have wasted a day in the company of a man who sets up for a country gentleman with the tongue of a thames bargee and the heart of a jew pawn-broker." mr. wurley rushed to the bell and rang it furiously. "by --!" he almost screamed, shaking his fist at tom, "i'll have you horse-whipped out of my house;" and then poured forth a flood of uncomplimentary slang, ending in another pull at the bell, and "by --! i'll have you horse-whipped out of my house." "you had better try it on--you and your flunkeys together," said tom, taking a cigar case out of his pocket and lighting up, the most defiant and exasperating action he could think of on the spur of the moment. "here's one of them; so i'll leave you to give him his orders, and wait five minutes in the hall, where there's more room." and so, leaving the footman gaping at his lord, he turned on his heel, with the air of bernardo del carpio after he had bearded king alphonso, and walked into the hall. he heard men running to and fro, and doors banging, as he stood there looking at the old buff-coats, and rather thirsting for a fight. presently a door opened, and the portly butler shuffled in, looking considerably embarrassed, and said,-- "please, sir, to go out quiet, else he'll be having one of his fits." "your master, you mean." "yes, sir," said the butler, nodding, "d. t., sir. after one of his rages the black dog comes, and it's hawful work, so i hope you'll go, sir." "very well, of course i'll go. i don't want to give him fit." saying which, tom walked out of the hall-door, and leisurely round to the stables, where he found already signs of commotion. without regarding them, he got his horse saddled and bridled, and, after looking him over carefully, and patting him, and feeling his girths in the yard, in the presence of a cluster of retainers of one sort or another, who were gathered from the house and offices, and looking sorely puzzled whether to commence hostilities or not, mounted and walked quietly out. after his anger had been a little cooled by the fresh air of the wild country at the back of hawk's lynch, which he struck into on his way home soon after leaving the park, it suddenly occurred to him that, however satisfactory to himself the results of his encounter with this unjust landlord might seem, they would probably prove anything but agreeable to the would-be tenant, harry winburn. in fact, as he meditated on the matter, it became clear to him that in the course of one morning he had probably exasperated old simon against his aspirant son-in-law, and put a serious spoke in harry's love-wheel, on the one hand, while on the other, he had ensured his speedy expulsion from his cottage, if not the demolition of that building. whereupon he became somewhat low under the conviction that his friendship, which was to work such wonders for the said harry, and deliver him out of all his troubles, had as yet only made his whole look-out in the world very much darker and more dusty. in short, as yet he had managed to do considerably less than nothing for his friend, and he felt very small before he got home that evening. he was far, however, from being prepared for the serious way in which his father looked upon his day's proceedings. mr. brown was sitting by himself after dinner when his son turned up, and had to drink several extra glasses of port to keep himself decently composed, while tom narrated the events of the day in the intervals of his attacks on the dinner, which was brought back for him. when the servant had cleared away, mr. brown proceeded to comment on the history in a most decided manner. tom was wrong to go to the grange in the first instance; and this part of the homily was amplified by a discourse on the corruption of the turf in general, and the special curse of small country races in particular, which such men as wurley supported, and which, but for them, would cease. racing, which used to be the pastime of great people, who could well afford to spend a few thousands a year on their pleasure, had now mostly fallen into the hands of the very worst and lowest men of all classes, most of whom would not scruple--as mr. brown strongly put it--to steal a copper out of a blind beggar's hat. if he must go, at any rate he might have done his errand and come away, instead of staying there all day accepting the man's hospitality. mr. brown himself really should be much embarrassed to know what to do if the man should happen to attend the next sessions or assizes. but, above all, having accepted his hospitality, to turn round at the end and insult the man in his own house? this seemed to brown, j. p., a monstrous and astounding performance. this new way of putting matters took tom entirely by surprise. he attempted a defense, but in vain. his father admitted that it would be a hard case if harry were turned out of his cottage, but wholly refused to listen to tom's endeavors to prove that a tenant in such a case had any claim or right as against his landlord. a weekly tenant was a weekly tenant, and no succession of weeks' holding could make him anything more. tom found himself rushing into a line of argument which astonished himself and sounded wild, but in which he felt sure there was some truth, and which, therefore, he would not abandon, though his father was evidently annoyed, and called it mere mischievous sentiment. each was more moved than he would have liked to own; each in his own heart felt aggrieved and blamed the other for not understanding him. but, though obstinate on the general question, upon the point of his leaving the grange, tom was fairly brought to shame, and gave in at last, and expressed his sorrow, though he could not help maintaining that, if his father could have heard what took place and seen the man's manner, he would scarcely blame him for what he had said and done. having owned himself in the wrong, however, there was nothing for it but to write an apology, the composition of which was as disagreeable a task as had ever fallen to his lot. chapter xxxiv--[greek text] mehden agan has any person of any nation or language, found out and given to the world any occupation, work, diversion, or pursuit, more subtlely dangerous to the susceptible youth of both sexes than that of nutting in pairs. if so, who, where, what? a few years later in life perhaps district visiting, and attending schools together, may in certain instances be more fatal; but, in the first bright days of youth, a day's nutting against the world! a day in autumn, warm enough to make sitting in the sheltered nooks in the woods, where ever the sunshine lies, very pleasant, and yet not too warm to make exercise uncomfortable--two young people who have been thrown much together, one of whom is conscious of the state of his feelings towards the other, and is, moreover, aware that his hours are numbered, and that in a few days at furthest they will be separated for many months, that persons in authority on both sides are beginning to suspect something (as is apparent from the difficulty they have had in getting away together at all on this same afternoon) here is a conjunction of persons and circumstances, if ever there was one in the world, which is surely likely to end in a catastrophe. indeed, so obvious to the meanest capacity is the danger of the situation, that, as tom had, in his own mind, staked his character for resolution with his private self on the keeping of his secret till after he was of age, it is hard to conceive how he can have been foolish enough to get himself into a hazel copse alone with miss mary on the earliest day he could manage it after the arrival of the porters, on their visit to mr. and mrs. brown. that is to say, it would be hard to conceive, if it didn't just happen to be the most natural thing in the world. for the first twenty-four hours after their meeting in the home of his fathers, the two young people, and tom in particular, felt very uncomfortable. mary, being a young lady of very high spirits, and, as our readers may probably have discovered, much given to that kind of conversation which borders as nearly upon what men commonly call chaff as a well-bred girl can venture on, was annoyed to find herself quite at fault in all her attempts to get her old antagonist of commemoration to show fight. she felt in a moment how changed his manner was, and thought it by no means changed for the better. as for tom, he felt foolish and shy at first, to an extent which drove him half wild; his words stuck in his throat, and he took to blushing again like a boy of fourteen. in fact, he got so angry with himself that he rather avoided her actual presence, though she was scarcely a moment out of his sight. mr. brown made the best of his son's retreat, devoted himself most gallantly to mary, and was completely captivated by her before bedtime on the first night of their visit. he triumphed over his wife when they were alone, and laughed at the groundlessness of her suspicions. but she was by no means so satisfied on the subject as her husband. in a day or two, however, tom began to take heart of grace, and to find himself oftener at mary's side, with something to say, and more to look. but now she, in her turn, began to be embarrassed; for all attempts to re-establish their old footing failed, and the difficulty of finding a satisfactory new one remained to be solved. so for the present, though neither of them found it quite satisfactory, they took refuge in the presence of a third party, and attached themselves to katie, talking at one another through her. nothing could exceed katie's judiciousness as a medium of communication; and through her a better understanding began to establish itself, and the visit which both of them had been looking forward to so eagerly seemed likely, after all, to be as pleasant in fact as it had been in anticipation. as they became more at ease, the vigilance of mrs. brown and mrs. porter seemed likely to revive. but in a country house there must be plenty of chances for young folks who mean it, to be together; and so they found and made use of their opportunities, giving at the same time as little cause to their natural guardians as possible for any serious interference. the families got on, on the whole, so well together, that the visit was prolonged from the original four or five days to a fortnight; and this time of grace was drawing to a close when the event happened which made the visit memorable to our hero. on the morning in question, mr. brown arranged at breakfast that he and his wife should drive mr. and mrs. porter to make calls on several of the neighbors. tom declared his intention of taking a long day after the partridges, and the young ladies were to go and make a sketch of the house from a point which katie had chosen. accordingly, directly after luncheon, the carriage came round, and the elders departed; and the young ladies started together, carrying their sketching apparatus with them. it was probably a bad day for scent; for they had not been gone a quarter of an hour when tom came home, deposited his gun, and followed on their steps. he found them sitting under the lee of a high bank, sufficiently intent on their drawings, but neither surprised nor sorry to find that he had altered his mind, and come back to interrupt them. so he lay down near them, and talked of oxford and englebourn, and so from one thing to another, till he got upon the subject of nutting, and the sylvan beauties of a neighbouring wood. mary was getting on badly with her drawing, and jumped at the idea of a ramble in the wood; but katie was obdurate, and resisted all their solicitations to move. she suggested, however, that they might go; and, as tom declared that they should not be out of call, and would be back in half an hour at furthest, mary consented; and they left the sketcher and strolled together out of the fields, and into the road, and so through a gate into the wood. it was a pleasant oak wood. the wild flowers were over, but the great masses of ferns, four or five feet high, made a grand carpet round the stems of the forest monarchs, and a fitting couch for here and there one of them which had been lately felled, and lay in fallen majesty, with bare shrouded trunk awaiting the sawyers. further on, the hazel underwood stood thickly on each side of the green rides, down which they sauntered side by side. tom talked of the beauty of the wood in spring-time, and the glorious succession of colouring--pale yellow, and deep blue and white, and purple--which the primroses, and hyacinths and starwort, and foxgloves gave, each in their turn, in the early year, and mourned over their absence. but mary preferred autumn, and would not agree with him. she was enthusiastic for ferns and heather. he gathered some sprigs of the latter for her, from a little sandy patch which they passed, and some more for his own button-hole, and then they engaged in the absorbing pursuit of nutting, and the talk almost ceased. he caught the higher branches, and bent them down to her, and watched her as she gathered them, and wondered at the ease and grace of all her movements, and the unconscious beauty of her attitudes. soon she became more enterprising herself, and made little excursions into the copse, surmounting briers, and passing through tangled places like a naiad, before he could be there to help her. and so they went on, along the rides and through the copse, forgetting katie and time, till they were brought up by the fence on the further side of the wood. the ditch was on the outside, and on the inside a bank with a hedge on the top, full of tempting hazel-bushes. she clapped her hands at the sight, and, declining his help, stepped lightly up the bank and began gathering. he turned away for a moment, jumped up the bank himself, and followed her example. he was standing up in the hedge, and reaching after a tempting cluster of nuts, when he heard a short sharp cry of pain behind him, which made him spring backwards, and nearly miss his footing as he came to the ground. recovering himself, and turning round, he saw mary lying at the foot of the bank, writhing in pain. he was at her side in a minute and dreadfully alarmed. "good heavens! what has happened?" he said. "my ankle!" she cried; and the effort of speaking brought the sudden flush of pain to her brow. "oh! what can i do?" "the boot! the boot!" she said, leaning forward to unlace it, and then sinking back against the bank. "it is so painful. i hope i sha'n't faint!" poor tom could only clasp his hands as he knelt by her, and repeat, "oh, what can i do--what can i do?" his utter bewilderment presently aroused mary, and her natural high courage was beginning to master the pain. "have you a knife?" "yes here," he said, pulling one out of his pocket, and opening it; "here it is." "please cut the lace." tom, with beating heart and trembling hand, cut the lace and then looked up at her. "oh, be quick--cut it again! don't be afraid." he cut it again; and, without taking hold of the foot, gently pulled out the ends of the lace. she again leaned forward, and tried to take off the boot; but the pain was too great, and she sank back, and put her hand up to her flushed face. "may i try?--perhaps i could do it." "yes, pray do. oh, i can't bear the pain!" she added, next moment; and tom felt ready to hang himself for having been the cause of it. "you must cut the boot off, please." "but perhaps i may cut you. do you really mean it?" "yes, really. there, take care. how your hand shakes. you will never do for a doctor." his hand did shake, certainly. he had cut a little hole the stocking; but, under the circumstances, we need not wonder--the situation was new and trying. urged on by her, he cut and cut away, and, at last, off came the boot, and her beautiful little foot lay on the green turf. she was much relieved at once, but still in great pain; and now he began to recover his head. "the ankle should be bound up; may i try?" "oh, yes; but what with?" tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and produced one of the large, many-colored neck-wrappers which were fashionable at oxford in those days. "how lucky!" he said, as he tore it into strips. "i think this will do. now, you'll stop me, won't you, if i hurt you, or don't do it right?" "don't be afraid, i'm much better. bind it tight, tighter than that." he wound the strips as tenderly as he could round her foot and ankle, with hands all alive with nerves, and wondering more and more at her courage as she kept urging him to draw the bandage tighter yet. then, still under her direction, he fastened and pinned down the ends; and as he was rather neat with his fingers, from the practice of tying flies and splicing rods and bats, produced, on the whole, a creditable sort of bandage. then he looked up at her, the perspiration standing on his forehead, as if he had been pulling a race, and said, "will that do? i'm afraid it's very awkward." "oh, no; thank you so much! but i'm so sorry you have torn your handkerchief." tom made no answer to this remark, except by a look. what could he say, but that he would gladly have torn his skin off for the same purpose, if it would have been of any use. but this speech did not seem quite the thing for the moment. "but how do you feel? is it very painful?" he asked. "rather. but don't look so anxious. indeed, it is very bearable. but what are we to do now?" he thought for a moment, and said, with something like a sigh-- "shall i run home, and bring the servants and a sofa, or something to carry you on?" "no, i shouldn't like to be left here alone." his face brightened again. "how near is the nearest cottage?" she asked. "there's none nearer than the one which we passed on the road--on the other side of the wood, you know." "then i must try to get there. you must help me up." he sprang to his feet and stooped over her, doubting how to begin helping her. he had never felt so shy in his life. he held out his hands. "i think you must put your arm round me," she said, after looking at him for a moment. he lifted her on to her feet. "now let me lean on your arm. there, i dare say i shall manage to hobble along well enough;" and she made a brave attempt to walk. but the moment the injured foot touched the ground, she stopped with a catch at her breath, and a shiver, which went through tom like a knife; and the flush came back into her face, and she would have fallen had he not again put his arm round her waist, and held her up. "i am better again now," she said, after a second or two. "but mary, dear mary, don't try to walk again. for my sake. i can't bear it." "but what am i to do?" she said. "i must get back somehow." "will you let me carry you?" she looked in his face again, and then dropped her eyes, and hesitated. "i wouldn't offer, dear, if there were any other way. but you mustn't walk. indeed, you must not; you may lame yourself for life." he spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, though his heart was beating so that he feared she would hear it. "very well," she said; "but i'm very heavy." so he lifted her gently, and stepped off down the ride, carrying his whole world in his arms, in an indescribable flutter of joy, and triumph, and fear. he had gone some forty yards or so, when he staggered, and stopped for a moment. "oh, pray put me down--pray do! you'll hurt yourself. i'm too heavy." for the credit of muscular christianity, one must say that it was not her weight, but the tumult in his own inner man, which made her bearer totter. nevertheless, if one is wholly unused to the exercise, the carrying of a healthy young english girl weighing a good eight stone, is as much as most men can conveniently manage. "i'll just put you down for a moment," he said. "now, take care of the foot;" and he stooped and placed her tenderly against one of the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by her side without looking at her. neither of them spoke for a minute. then he asked, still looking away down the ride, "how is the foot?" "oh, pretty well," she answered, cheerfully. "now, leave me here, and go for help. it is absurd of me to mind being left, and you mustn't carry me any more." he turned, and their eyes met for a moment, but that was enough. "are you ready?" he said. "yes, but take care. don't go far. stop directly you feel tired." then he lifted her again, and this time carried her without faltering, till they came to a hillock covered with soft grass. here they rested again, and so by easy stages he carried her through the wood, and out into the road, to the nearest cottage, neither of them speaking. an old woman came to the door in answer to his kick, and went off into ejaculations of pity and wonder in the broadest berkshire, at seeing master tom and his burthen. but he pushed into the house and cut her short with-- "now, mrs. pike, don't talk, that's a dear good woman, but bustle about, and bring that arm-chair here, and the other low one, with a pillow on it, for the young lady's foot to rest on." the old woman obeyed his injunctions, except as to talking; and, while she placed the chairs and shook up the pillow, descanted on the sovereign virtues of some green oil and opodeldoc, which was as good as a charm for sprains and bruises. mary gave him one grateful look as he lowered her tenderly and reluctantly into the chair, and then spoke cheerfully to mrs. pike, who was foraging in a cupboard, to find if there was any of her famous specific in the bottom of the bottle. as he stood up, and thought what to do next, he heard the sound of distant wheels, and looking through the window saw the carriage coming homewards. it was a sorrowful sight to him. "now, mrs. pike," he said, "never mind the oil. here's the carriage coming; just step out and stop it." the old dame scuttled out into the road. the carriage was within one hundred yards. he leant over the rough arm-chair in which mary was leaning back, looked once more into her eyes; and then, stooping forwards, kissed her lips, and the next moment was by the side of mrs. pike, signalling the coachman to stop. in the bustle which followed he stood aside, and watched mary with his heart in his mouth. she never looked at him, but there was no anger, but only a dreamy look in her sweet face, which seemed to him a thousand times more beautiful than ever before. then, to avoid inquiries, and to realize all that had passed in the last wonderful three hours, he slipped away while they were getting her into the carriage, and wandered back into the wood, pausing at each of their halting places. at last he reached the scene of the accident, and here his cup of happiness was likely to brim over, for he found the mangled little boot and the cut lace, and securing the precious prize, hurried back home, to be in time for dinner. mary did not come down; but katie, the only person of whom he dared to inquire, assured him that she was doing famously. the dinner was very embarrassing, and he had the greatest difficulty in answering the searching inquiries of his mother and mrs. porter, as to how, when, where, and in whose presence the accident had happened. as soon as the ladies rose, he left his father and mr. porter over their old port and politics, and went out in the twilight into the garden, burthened with the weight of sweet thought. he felt that he had something to do--to set himself quite right with mary; he must speak somehow, that night, if possible, or he should not be comfortable or at peace with his conscience. there were lights in her room. he guessed by the shadows that she was lying on a couch by the open window, round which the other ladies were flitting. presently lights appeared in the drawing-room; and, as the shutters were being closed, he saw his mother and mrs. porter come in, and sit down near the fire. listening intently, he heard katie talking in a low voice in the room above, and saw her head against the light as she sat down close to the window, probably at the head of the couch where mary was lying. should he call to her? if he did, how could he say what he wanted to say through her? a happy thought struck him. he turned to the flowerbeds, hunted about, and gathered a bunch of heliotrope, hurried up to his room, took the sprig of heather out of his shooting coat, tied them together, caught up a reel and line from his table, and went into the room over mary's. he threw the window open, and, leaning out, said gently, "katie." no answer. he repeated the name louder. no answer still, and, leaning out yet further, he saw that the window had been shut. he lowered the bunch of flowers, and, swinging it backwards and forward, made it strike the window below--once, twice; at the third stroke he heard the window open. "katie," he whispered again, "is that you?" "yes, where are you? what is this?" "for her," he said, in the same whisper. katie untied the flowers, and he waited a few moments, and then again called her name, and she answered. "has she the flowers?" he asked. "yes, and she sends you her love, and says you are to go down to the drawing-room;" and with that the window closed, and he went down with a lightened conscience into the drawing-room, and, after joining in the talk by the fire for a few minutes, took a book, and sat down at the further side of the table. whether he ever knew what the book was may be fairly questioned, but to all appearances he was deep in the perusal of it till the tea and katie arrived, and the gentlemen from the dining-room. then he tried to join in the conversation again; but, on the whole, life was a burthen to him that night, till he could get fairly away to his own room, and commune with himself, gazing at the yellow harvest moon, with his elbows on the window sill. the ankle got well very quickly, and mary was soon going about with a gold-headed stick which had belonged to mr. brown's father, and a limp which tom thought the most beautiful movement he had ever seen. but, though she was about again, by no amount of patient vigilance could he now get the chance of speaking to her alone. but he consoled himself with the thought that she must understand him; if he had spoken he couldn't have made himself clearer. and now the porters' visit was all but over, and katie and her father left for englebourn. the porters were to follow the next day, and promised to drive round and stop at the rectory for lunch. tom petitioned for a seat in their carriage to englebourn. he had been devoting himself to mrs. porter ever since the accident, and had told her a good deal about his own early life. his account of his early friendship for betty and her son, and the renewal of it on the day he left barton manor, had interested her, and she was moreover not insensible to his assiduous and respectful attentions to herself, which had of late been quite marked; she was touched, too, at his anxiety to hear all about her boys, and how they were getting on at school. so on the whole tom was in high favour with her, and she most graciously assented to his occupying the fourth seat in their barouche. she was not without her suspicions of the real state of the case with him; but his behavior had been so discreet that she had no immediate fears; and, after all, if anything should come of it some years hence, her daughter might do worse. in the meantime she would see plenty of society in london; where mr. porter's vocations kept him during the greater part of the year. they reached englebourn after a pleasant long morning's drive; and tom stole a glance at mary and felt that she understood him, as he pointed out the hawk's lynch and the clump of scotch firs to her mother; and told how you might see barton from the top of it, and how he loved the place, and the old trees, and the view. katie was at the door ready to receive them, and carried off mary and mrs. porter to her own room. tom walked round the garden with mr. porter, and then sat in the drawing-room, and felt melancholy. he roused himself, however, when the ladies came down and luncheon was announced. mary was full of her reminiscences of the englebourn people, and especially of poor mrs. winburn and her son, in whom she had begun to take a deep interest, perhaps from overhearing some of tom's talk to her mother. so harry's story was canvassed again, and katie told them how he had been turned out of his cottage, and how anxious she was as to what would come of it. "and is he going to marry your gardener's daughter after all?" asked mrs. porter. "i am afraid there is not much chance of it," said katie; "i cannot make martha out." "is she at home, katie?" asked mary; "i should like to see her again. i took a great fancy to her when i was here." "yes, she is at the lodge. we will walk there after luncheon." so it was settled that the carriage should pick them up at the lodge; and soon after luncheon, while the horses were being put to, the whole party started for the lodge, after saying good-bye to mr. winter, who retired to his room much fatigued by his unwonted hospitality. old simon's wife answered their knock at the lodge door, and they all entered, and mrs. porter paid her compliments on the cleanliness of the room. then mary said, "is your daughter at home, mrs. gibbons?" "ees, miss, someweres handy," replied mrs. gibbons; "her hav'n't been gone out, not dree minnit." "i should like so much to say good-bye to her," said mary. "we shall be leaving barton soon, and i shall not see her again till next summer." "lor bless'ee, miss, 'tis werry good ov'ee," said the old dame, very proud; "do'ee set down then while i gees her a call." and with that she hurried out of the door which led through the back kitchen into the little yard behind the lodge, and the next moment they heard her calling out-- "patty, patty, wher bist got to? come in and see the gentlefolk." the name which the old woman was calling out made tom start. "i thought you said her name was martha," said mrs. porter. "patty is short for martha in berkshire," said katie, laughing. "and patty is such a pretty name. i wonder you don't call her patty," said mary. "we had a housemaid of the same name a year or two ago, and it made such a confusion--and when one once gets used to a name it is so hard to change--so she has always been called martha." "well, i'm all for patty; don't you think so?" said mary, turning to tom. the sudden introduction of a name which he had such reasons for remembering, the memories and fears which it called up--above all, the bewilderment which he felt at hearing it tossed about and canvassed by mary in his presence, as if there were nothing more in it than in any other name--confused him so that he floundered and blundered in his attempt to answer, and at last gave it up altogether. she was surprised, and looked at him inquiringly. his eyes fell before hers, and he turned away to the window, and looked at the carriage, which had just drawn up at the lodge door. he had scarcely time to think how foolish he was to be so moved, when he heard the back-kitchen door open again, and the old woman and her daughter come in. he turned round sharply, and there on the floor of the room, courtseying to the ladies, stood the ex-barmaid of the "choughs". his first impulse was to hurry away--she was looking down, and he might not be recognized; his next, to stand his ground, and take whatever might come. mary went up to her and took her hand, saying that she could not go away without coming to see her. patty looked up to answer, and, glancing round the room, caught sight of him. he stepped forward, and then stopped and tried to speak, but no words would come. patty looked at him, dropped mary's hand, blushed up to the roots of her hair as she looked timidly round at the wondering spectators, and, putting her hands to her face, ran out of the back door again. "lawk a massy! what ever can ha' cum to our patty?" said mrs. gibbons, following her out. "i think we had better go," said mr. porter, giving his arm to his daughter, and leading her to the door, "goodbye, katie; shall we see you again at barton?" "i don't know, uncle," katie answered, following with mrs. porter, in a state of sad bewilderment. tom, with his brain swimming, got out a few stammering farewell words, which mr. and mrs. porter received with marked coldness, as they stepped into their carriage. mary's face was flushed and uneasy; but at her he scarcely dared to steal a look, and to her was quite unable to speak a word. then the carriage drove off, and he turned, and found katie standing at his side, her eyes full of serious wonder. his fell before them. "my dear tom," she said, "what is all this? i thought you had never seen martha?" "so i thought--i don't know--i can't talk now--i'll explain all to you--don't think very badly of me, katie--god bless you!" with which words he strode away, while she looked after him with increasing wonder, and then turned and went into the lodge. he hastened away from the rectory and down the village street, taking the road home mechanically, but otherwise wholly unconscious of roads and men. david, who was very anxious to speak to him about harry, stood at his door making signs to him to stop, in vain; and then gave chase, calling out after him, till he saw that all attempts to attract his notice were useless, and so ambled back to his shop-board much troubled in mind. the first object which recalled tom at all to himself was the little white cottage looking out of englebourn copse towards the village, in which he had sat by poor betty's death-bed. the garden was already getting wild and tangled, and the house seemed uninhabited. he stopped for a moment and looked at it with bitter searchings of heart. here was the place where he had taken such a good turn, as he had fondly hoped--in connection with the then inmates of which he had made the strongest good resolutions he had ever made in his life perhaps. what was the good of his trying to befriend anybody? his friendship turned to a blight; whatever he had as yet tried to do for harry had only injured him, and now how did they stand? could they ever be friends again after that day's discovery? to do him justice, the probable ruin of all his own prospects, the sudden coldness of mr. and mrs. porter's looks, and mary's averted face, were not the things he thought of first, and did not trouble him most. he thought of harry, and shuddered at the wrong he had done him as he looked at his deserted home. the door opened and a figure appeared. it was mr. wurley's agent, the lawyer who had been employed by farmer tester in his contest with harry and his mates about the pound. the man of law saluted him with a smirk of scarcely concealed triumph, and then turned into the house again and shut the door, as if he did not consider further communication necessary or safe. tom turned with a muttered imprecation on him and his master, and hurried away along the lane which led to the heath. the hawk's lynch lay above him, and he climbed the side mechanically and sat himself again on the old spot. he sat for some time looking over the landscape, graven on his mind as it was by his former visit, and bitterly, oh, how bitterly! did the remembrance of that visit, and of the exultation and triumph which then filled him, and carried him away over the heath with a shout towards his home, come back on him. he could look out from his watchtower no longer, and lay down with his face between his hands on the turf, and groaned as he lay. but his good angel seemed to haunt the place, and soon the cold fit began to pass away, and better and more hopeful thoughts to return. after all what had he done since his last visit to that place to be ashamed of? nothing. his attempts to do harry service, unlucky as they had proved, had been honest. had he become less worthy of the love which had first consciously mastered him there some four weeks ago? no; he felt on the contrary, that it had already raised him, and purified him, and made a man of him. but this last discovery, how could he ever get over that? well, after all, the facts were just the same as before; only now they had come out. it was right that they should have come out; better for him and for everyone that they should be known and faced. he was ready to face them, to abide any consequences that they might now bring in their train. his heart was right towards mary, towards patty, towards harry--that he felt sure of. and, if so, why should he despair of either his love or his friendship coming to a good end? and so he sat up again, and looked out bravely towards barton, and began to consider what was to be done. his eye rested on the rectory. that was the first place to begin with. he must set himself right with katie--let her know the whole story. through her he could reach all the rest, and do whatever must be done to clear the ground and start fresh again. at first he thought of returning to her at once, and rose to go down to englebourn. but anything like retracing his steps was utterly distasteful to him just then. before him he saw light, dim enough as yet, but still a dawning; towards that he would press, leaving everything behind him to take care of itself. so he turned northwards, and struck across the heath at his best pace. the violent exercise almost finished his cure, and his thoughts became clearer and more hopeful as he neared home. he arrived there as the household was going to bed, and found a letter waiting for him. it was from hardy, saying that blake had left him, and he was now thinking of returning to oxford, and would come for his long talked of visit to berkshire, if tom was still at home, and in the mind to receive him. never was a letter more opportune. here was the tried friend on whom he could rely for help and advice and sympathy--who knew all the facts too from beginning to end! his father and mother were delighted to hear that they should now see the friend of whom he had spoken so much. so he went up stairs and wrote an answer, which set hardy to work packing his portmanteau in the far west, and brought him speedily to the side of his friend under the lee of the berkshire hills. chapter xxxv--second year for some days after his return home--in fact, until his friend's arrival, tom was thoroughly beaten down and wretched, notwithstanding his efforts to look hopefully forward, and keep up his spirits. his usual occupations were utterly distasteful to him; and, instead of occupying himself, he sat brooding over his late misfortune, and hopelessly puzzling his head as to what he could do to set matters right. the conviction in which he always landed was that there was nothing to be done, and that he was a desolate and blighted being, deserted of gods and men. hardy's presence and company soon shook him out of this maudlin nightmare state, and he began to recover as soon as he had his old sheet-anchor friend to hold on to and consult with. their consultations were held chiefly in the intervals of woodcraft, in which they spent most of their hours between breakfast and dinner. hardy did not take out a certificate and wouldn't shoot without one; so, as the best autumn exercise, they selected a tough old pollard elm, infinitely ugly, with knotted and twisted roots, curiously difficult to get at and cut through, which had been long marked as a blot by mr. brown, and condemned to be felled as soon as there was nothing more pressing for his men to do. but there was always something of more importance; so that the cross-grained old tree might have remained until this day, had not hardy and tom pitched on him as a foeman worthy of their axes. they shoveled, and picked, and hewed away with great energy. the woodman who visited them occasionally, and who, on examining their first efforts, had remarked that the severed roots looked a little "as tho' the dogs had been a gnawin' at 'em," began to hold them in respect, and to tender his advice with some deference. by the time the tree was felled and shrouded, tom was in a convalescent state. their occupation had naturally led to discussions on the advantages of emigration, the delights of clearing one's own estate, building one's own house, and getting away from conventional life with a few tried friends. of course the pictures which were painted included foregrounds with beautiful children playing about the clearing, and graceful women, wives of the happy squatters, flitting in and out of log houses and sheds, clothed and occupied after the manner of our ideal grandmothers; with the health and strength of amazons, the refinement of high-bred ladies, and wondrous skill in all domestic works, confections, and contrivances. the log-houses would also contain fascinating select libraries, continually reinforced from home, sufficient to keep all the dwellers in the happy clearing in communion with all the highest minds of their own and former generations. wonderous games in the neighbouring forest, dear old home customs established and taking root in the wilderness, with ultimate dainty flower gardens, conservatories, and pianofortes--a millennium on a small scale, with universal education, competence, prosperity, and equal rights! such castle-building, as an accompaniment to the hard exercise of woodcraft, worked wonders for tom in the next week, and may be safely recommended to parties in like evil case with him. but more practical discussions were not neglected, and it was agreed that they should make a day at englebourn together before their return to oxford, hardy undertaking to invade the rectory with the view of re-establishing his friend's character there. tom wrote a letter to katie to prepare her for a visit. the day after the ancient elm was fairly disposed of, they started early for englebourn, and separated at the entrance to the village--hardy proceeding to the rectory to fulfill his mission, which he felt to be rather an embarrassing one, and tom to look after the constable, or whoever else could give him information about harry. he arrived at the "red lion," their appointed trysting place, before hardy, and spent a restless half-hour in the porch and bar waiting for his return. at last hardy came, and tom hurried him into the inn's best room, where bread and cheese and ale awaited them; and, as soon as the hostess could be got out of the room, began impatiently-- "well you have seen her?" "yes, i have come straight here from the rectory." "and is it all right, eh? has she got my letter?" "yes, she had had your letter." "and you think she is satisfied?" "satisfied? no, you can't expect her to be satisfied." "i mean, is she satisfied that it isn't so bad after all as it looked the other day? what does katie think of me?" "i think she is still very fond of you, but that she has been puzzled and outraged by this discovery, and cannot get over it all at once." "why didn't you tell her the whole story from beginning to end?" "i tried to do so as well as i could." "oh, but i can see you haven't done it. she doesn't really understand how it is." "perhaps not; but you must remember it is an awkward subject to be talking about to a young woman. i would sooner stand another fellowship examination than go through it again." "thank you, old fellow," said tom, laying his hand on hardy's shoulder; "i feel that i'm unreasonable and impatient; but you can excuse it; you know that i don't mean it." "don't say another word; i only wish i could have done more for you." "but what do you suppose katie thinks of me?" "why, you see, it sums itself up in this; she sees that you have been making serious love to patty, and have turned the poor girl's head, more or less, and that now you are in love with somebody else. why, put it how we will, we can't get out of that. there are the facts, pure and simple, and she wouldn't be half a woman if she didn't resent it." "but it's hard lines, too, isn't it, old fellow? no, i won't say that? i deserve it all, and much worse. but you think i may come round all right?" "yes, all in good time. i hope there's no danger in any other quarter?" "goodness knows. there's the rub, you see. she will go back to town disgusted with me. i sha'n't see her again, and she won't hear of me for i don't know how long; and she will be meeting heaps of men. has katie been over to barton?" "yes; she was there last week, just before they left." "well, what happened?" "she wouldn't say much; but i gathered that they are very well." "oh yes, bother it. of course they are very well. but didn't she talk to katie about what happened last week?" "of couse they did! what else should they talk about?" "but you don't know what they said?" "no. but you may depend on it that miss winter will be your friend. my dear fellow, there is nothing for it but time." "well, i suppose not," said tom, with a groan. "do you think i should call and see katie?" "no; i think better not." "well, then, we may as well get back," said tom, who was not sorry for his friend's decision. so they paid their bill and started for home, taking the hawk's lynch on the way, that hardy might see the view. "and what did you find out about young winburn?" he said as they passed down the street. "oh, no good," said tom; "he was turned out, as i thought, and has gone to live with an old woman on the heath here, who is no better than she should be; and none of the farmers will employ him. "you didn't see him, i suppose?" "no, he is away with some of the heath people, hawking besoms and chairs about the country. they make them when there is no harvest work, and loaf about in oxfordshire and buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling them." "no good will come of that sort of life, i'm afraid." "no, but what is he to do?" "i called at the lodge as i came away, and saw patty and her mother. it's all right in that quarter. the old woman doesn't seem to think anything of it, and patty is a good girl, and will make harry winburn, or anybody else, a capital wife. here are your letters." "and the locket?" "i quite forgot it. why didn't you remind me of it? you talked of nothing but the letters this morning." "i'm glad of it. it can do no harm now, and as it is worth something, i should have been ashamed to take it back. i hope she'll put harry's hair in it soon. did she seem to mind giving up the letters?" "not very much. no, you are lucky there. she will get over it." "but you told her that i am her friend for life, and that she is to let me know if i can ever do anything for her?" "yes. and now i hope this is the last job of the kind i shall ever have to do for you." "but what bad luck it has been? if i had only seen her before, or known who she was, nothing of all this would have happened." to this hardy made no reply; and the subject was not alluded to again in their walk home. a day or two afterwards they returned to oxford, hardy to begin his work as fellow and assistant-tutor of the college, and tom to see whether he could not make a better hand of his second year than he had of his first. he began with a much better chance of doing so, for he was thoroughly humbled. the discovery that he was not altogether such a hero as he had fancied himself, had dawned upon him very distinctly by the end of his first year; and the events of the long vacation had confirmed the impression, and pretty well taken all the conceit out of him for the time. the impotency of his own will, even when he was bent on doing the right thing, his want of insight and foresight in whatever matter he took in hand, the unruliness of his temper and passions just at the moments when it behooved him to have them most thoroughly in hand and under control, were a set of disagreeable facts which had been driven well home to him. the results, being even such as we have seen, he did not much repine at, for he felt he had deserved them; and there was a sort of grim satisfaction, dreary as the prospect was, in facing them, and taking his punishment like a man. this was what he had felt at the first blush on the hawk's lynch; and, as he thought over matters again by his fire, with his oak sported, on the first evening of term, he was still in the same mind. this was clearly what he had to do now. how to do it, was the only question. at first he was inclined to try to set himself right with the porters and the englebourn circle, by writing further explanations and confessions to katie. but, on trying his hand at a letter, he found that he could not trust himself. the temptation of putting everything in the best point of view for himself was too great; so he gave up the attempt, and merely wrote a few lines to david, to remind him that he was always ready and anxious to do all he could for his friend, harry winburn, and to beg that he might have news of anything which happened to him, and how he was getting on. he did not allude to what had lately happened, for he did not know whether the facts had become known, and was in no hurry to open the subject himself. having finished his letter, he turned again to his meditations over the fire, and, considering that he had some little right to reward resolution, took off the safety valve, and allowed the thoughts to bubble up freely which were always underlying all others that passed through his brain, and making constant low, delicious, but just now somewhat melancholy music, in his head and heart. he gave himself up to thinking of mary, and their walk in the wood, and the sprained ankle, and all the sayings and doings of that eventful autumn day. and then he opened his desk, and examined certain treasures therein concealed, including a withered rose-bud, a sprig of heather, a cut boot-lace, and a scrap or two of writing. having gone through some extravagant forms of worship, not necessary to be specified, he put them away. would it ever all come right? he made his solitary tea, and sat down again to consider the point. but the point would not be considered alone. he began to feel more strongly what he had had several hints of already, that there was a curiously close connexion between his own love story and that of harry winburn and patty--that he couldn't separate them, even in his thoughts. old simon's tumble, which had recalled his daughter from oxford at so critical a moment for him; mary's visit to englebourn at this very time; the curious yet natural series of little accidents which had kept him in ignorance of patty's identity until the final catastrophe--then, again, the way in which harry winburn and his mother had come across him on the very day of his leaving barton; the fellowship of a common mourning which had seemed to bind them together so closely; and this last discovery, which he could not help fearing must turn harry into a bitter enemy, when he heard the truth, as he must, sooner or later--as all these things passed before him, he gave in to a sort of superstitious feeling that his own fate hung, in some way or another, upon that of harry winburn. if he helped on his suit, he was helping on his own; but whether he helped on his own or not, was, after all, not that which was uppermost in his thoughts, he was much changed in this respect since he last sat in those rooms, just after his first days with her. since then an angel had met him, and had touched the cord of self, which, trembling, was passing "in music out of sight." the thought of harry and his trials enabled him to indulge in some good honest indignation, for which there was no room in his own case. that the prospects in life of such a man should be in the power, to a great extent, of such people as squire wurley and farmer tester; that, because he happened to be poor, he should be turned out of the cottage where his family had lived for a hundred years, at a week's notice, through the caprice of a drunken gambler; that because he had stood up for his rights, and had thereby offended the worst farmer in the parish, he should be a marked man, and unable to get work--these things appeared so monstrous to tom, and made him so angry, that he was obliged to get up and stamp about the room. and from the particular case he very soon got to generalizations. questions which had before now puzzled him gained a new significance every minute, and became real to him. why a few men should be rich, and all the rest poor; above all, why he should be one of the few? why the mere possession of property should give a man power over all his neighbors? why poor men who were ready and willing to work should only be allowed to work as a sort of favor, and should after all get the merest tithe of what their labor produced, and be tossed aside as soon as their work was done, or no longer required? these, and other such problems, rose up before him, crude and sharp, asking to be solved. feeling himself quite unable to give any but one answer to them--viz. that he was getting out of his depth, and that the whole business was in a muddle--he had recourse to his old method when in difficulties, and putting on his cap, started off to hardy's rooms to talk the matter over, and see whether he could not get some light on it from that quarter. he returned in an hour or so, somewhat less troubled in his mind inasmuch as he had found his friend in pretty much the same state of mind on such topics as himself. but one step he had gained. under his arm he carried certain books from hardy's scanty library, the perusal of which he hoped, at least, might enable him sooner or later to feel that he had got on to some sort of firm ground, at any rate, hardy had advised him to read them; so, without more ado, he drew his chair to the table and began to look into them. this glimpse of the manner in which tom spent the first evening of his second year at oxford, will enable intelligent readers to understand why, though he took to reading far more kindly and honestly than he had ever done before, he made no great advance in the proper studies of the place. not that he wholly neglected these, for hardy kept him pretty well up to the collar, and he passed his little go creditably, and was fairly placed at the college examinations. in some of the books which he had to get up for lectures he was genuinely interested. the politics of athens, the struggle between the roman plebs and patricians, mons sacer and the agrarian laws--these began to have a new meaning to him, but chiefly because they bore more or less on the great harry winburn problem; which problem, indeed, for him had now fairly swelled into the condition-of-england problem, and was becoming every day more and more urgent and importunate, shaking many old beliefs, and leading him whither he knew not. this very matter of leading was a sore trial to him. the further he got on his new road, the more he felt the want of guidance--the guidance of some man; for that of books he soon found to be bewildering. his college tutor, whom he consulted, only deprecated the waste of tune; but on finding it impossible to dissuade him, at last recommended the economic works of that day as the proper well springs of truth on such matters. to them tom accordingly went, and read with the docility and faith of youth, bent on learning and feeling itself in the presence of men who had, or assumed, the right of speaking with authority. and they spoke to him with authority, and he read on, believing much and hoping more; but somehow they did not really satisfy him, though they silenced him for the time. it was not the fault of the books, most of which laid down clearly enough, that what they professed to teach was the science of man's material interests, and the laws of the making and employment of capital. but this escaped him in his eagerness, and he wandered up and down their pages in search of quite another science, and of laws with which they did not meddle. nevertheless, here and there they seemed to touch upon what he was in search of. he was much fascinated, for instance, by the doctrine of "the greatest happiness of the greatest number," and for its sake swallowed for a time, though not without wry faces, the dogmas, that self-interest is the true pivot of all social action, that population has a perpetual tendency to outstrip the means of living, and that to establish a preventive check on population is the duty of all good citizens. and so he lived on for some time in a dreary uncomfortable state, fearing for the future of his country, and with little hope about his own. but, when he came to take stock of his newly acquired knowledge, to weigh it and measure it, and found it to consist of a sort of hazy conviction that society would be all right and ready for the millennium, when every man could do what he liked, and nobody could interfere with him, and there should be a law against marriage, the result was more than he could stand. he roused himself and shook himself, and began to think, "well, these my present teachers are very clever men, and well-meaning men, too. i see all that; but, if their teaching is only to land me here, why it was scarcely worth while going through so much to get so little." casting about still for guidance, grey occurred to him. grey was in residence as a bachelor, attending divinity lectures, and preparing for ordination. he was still working hard at the night-school, and tom had been there once or twice to help him when the curate was away. in short he was in very good books with grey, who had got the better of his shyness with him. he saw that tom was changed and sobered, and in his heart hoped some day to wean him from the pursuits of the body, to which he was still fearfully addicted, and to bring him into the fold. this hope was not altogether unfounded; for, notwithstanding the strong bias against them which tom had brought with him from school, he was now at times much attracted by many of the high church doctrines, and the men who professed them. such men as grey, he saw, did really believe something, and were in earnest about carrying their beliefs into action. the party might and did comprise many others of the weakest sort, who believed and were in earnest about nothing, but who liked to be peculiar. nevertheless, while he saw it laying hold of many of the best men of his time, it is not to be wondered at that he was drawn towards it. some help might lie in these men if he could only get at it! so he propounded his doubts and studies, and their results to grey. but it was a failure. grey felt no difficulty or very little, in the whole matter; but tom found that it was because he believed the world to belong to the devil. "_laissez faire_," "buying cheap and selling dear," grey held might be good enough for laws for the world--very probably were. the laws of the church were "self-sacrifice," and "bearing one another's burdens" her children should come out from the regions where the world's laws were acknowledged. tom listened, was dazzled at first, and thought he was getting on the right track. but very soon he found that grey's specific was not of the least use to him. it was no good to tell him of the rules of a society to which he felt that he neither belonged, nor wished to belong, for clearly it could not be the church of england. he was an outsider! grey would probably admit it to be so, if he asked him! he had no longing to be anything else, _if_ the church meant an exclusive body, which took no care of any but its own people, and had nothing to say to the great world in which he and most people had to live, and buying and selling, and hiring and working, had to go on. the close corporation might have very good laws, but they were nothing to him. what he wanted to know about was the law which this great world--the devil's world, as grey called it--was ruled by, or rather ought to be ruled by. perhaps, after all, bentham and the others, whose books he had been reading, might be right! at any rate, it was clear that they had had in their thoughts the same world that he had--the world which included himself and harry winburn, and all labourers and squires, and farmers. so he turned to them again, not hopefully, but more inclined to listen to them than he had been before he had spoken to grey. hardy was so fully occupied with college lectures and private pupils, that tom had scruples about taking up much of his spare time in the evenings. nevertheless, as grey had broken down, and there was nobody else on whose judgment he could rely who would listen to him, whenever he had a chance he would propound some of his puzzles to his old friend. in some respects he got little help, for hardy was almost as much at sea as he himself on such subjects as "value," and "wages," and the "laws of supply and demand." but there was an indomitable belief in him that all men's intercourse with one another, and not merely that of churchmen, must be founded on the principal of "doing as they would be done by," and not on "buying cheap and selling dear," and that these never would or could be reconciled with one another, or mean the same thing, twist them how you would. this faith of his friend's comforted tom greatly, and he was never tired of bringing it out; but at times he had his doubts whether grey might not be right--whether, after all, that and the like maxims and principles were meant to be the laws of the kingdoms of this world. he wanted some corroborative evidence on the subject from an impartial and competent witness, and at last hit upon what he wanted. for, one evening, on entering hardy's rooms, he found him on the last pages of a book, which he shut up with an air of triumph on recognizing his visitor. taking it up, he thrust it into tom's hands, and slapping him on the shoulder, said, "there, my boy, that's what we want, or pretty near it at any rate. now, don't say a word, but go back to your rooms, and swallow it whole and digest it, and then come back and tell me what you think of it." "but i want to talk to you." "i can't talk. i have spent the better part of two days over that book, and have no end of papers to look over. there; get back to your rooms, and do what i tell you, or sit down here and hold your tongue." so tom sat down and held his tongue, and was soon deep in carlyle's "past and present." how he did revel in it--in the humor, the power, the pathos, but, above all, in the root and branch denunciations of many of the doctrines in which he had been so lately voluntarily and wearily chaining himself! the chains went snapping off one after another, and, in his exultation, he kept spouting out passage after passage in a song of triumph, "enlightened egoism never so luminous is not the rule by which man's life can be led--_laissez-faire_, supply and demand, cash payment for the sole nexus, and so forth, were not, are not, and never will be, a practical law of union for a society of men," &c., &c., until hardy fairly got up and turned him out, and he retired with his new-found treasure to his own rooms. he had scarcely ever in his life been so moved by a book before. he laughed over it, and cried over it, and began half a dozen letters to the author to thank him, which he fortunately tore up. he almost forgot mary for several hours during his first enthusiasm. he had no notion how he had been mastered and oppressed before. he felt as the crew of a small fishing-smack, who are being towed away by an enemy's cruiser, might feel on seeing a frigate with the union jack flying, bearing down and opening fire on their captor; or as a small boy at school, who is being fagged against rules by the right of the strongest, feels when he sees his big brother coming around the corner. the help which he had found was just what he wanted. there was no narrowing of the ground here--no appeal to men as members of any exclusive body whatever to separate themselves and come out of the devil's world; but to men as men, to every man as a man--to the weakest and meanest, as well as to the strongest and most noble--telling them that the world is god's world, that everyone of them has a work in it, and bidding them find their work and set about it. the strong tinge of sadness which ran through the whole book, and its unsparing denunciations of the established order of things, suited his own unsettled and restless frame of mind. so he gave himself up to his new bondage, and rejoiced in it, as though he had found at last what he was seeking for; and, by the time that long vacation came round again, to which we are compelled to hurry him, he was filled full of a set of contradictory notions and beliefs, which were destined to astonish and perplex the mind of that worthy j. p. for the county of berks, brown the elder, whatever other effect they might have on society at large. readers must not suppose, however, that our hero had given up his old pursuits; on the contrary, he continued to boat, and cricket, and spar, with as much vigor as ever. his perplexities only made him a little more silent at his pastimes than he used to be. but, as we have already seen him thus employed, and know the ways of the animal in such matters, it is needless to repeat. what we want to do is to follow him into new fields of thought and action, and mark, if it may be, how he develops, and gets himself educated in one way and another; and this plunge into the great sea of social, political, and economical questions is the noticeable fact (so far as any is noticeable) of his second year's residence. during the year he had only very meagre accounts of matters at englebourn. katie, indeed, had come round sufficiently to write to him; but she scarcely alluded to her cousin. he only knew that mary had come out in london, and was much admired; and that the porters had not taken barton again, but were going abroad for the autumn and winter. the accounts of harry were bad; he was still living at daddy collins's, nobody knew how, and working gang-work occasionally with the outlaws of the heath. the only fact of importance in the neighborhood had been the death of squire wurley, which happened suddenly in the spring. a distant cousin had succeeded him, a young man of tom's own age. he was also in residence at oxford, and tom knew him. they were not very congenial; so he was much astonished when young wurley, on his return to college, after his relative's funeral, rather sought him out, and seemed to wish to know more of him. the end of it was an invitation to tom to come to the grange, and spend a week or so at the beginning of the long vacation. there was to be a party of oxford men there, and nobody else; and they meant to enjoy themselves thoroughly, wurley said. tom felt much embarrassed how to act, and, after some hesitation, told his inviter of his last visit to the mansion in question, thinking that a knowledge of the circumstances might change his mind. but he found that young wurley knew the facts already; and, in fact, he couldn't help suspecting that his quarrel with the late owner had something to say to his present invitation. however, it did not lie in his mouth to be curious on the subject; and so he accepted the invitation gladly, much delighted at the notion of beginning his vacation so near englebourn, and having the run of the grange fishing, which was justly celebrated. chapter xxxvi--the river side so, from henley, tom went home just to see his father and mother and pick up his fishing-gear, and then started for the grange. on his road thither, he more than once almost made up his mind to go round by englebourn, get his first interview with katie over, and find out how the world was really going with harry and his sweetheart, of whom he had such meagre intelligence of late. but, for some reason or another, when it came to taking the turn to englebourn, he passed it by, and, contenting himself for the time with a distant view of the village and the hawk's lynch, drove straight to the grange. he had not expected to feel very comfortable at first in the house which he had left the previous autumn in so strange a manner, and he was not disappointed. the rooms reminded him unpleasantly of his passage of arms with the late master, and the grave and portly butler was somewhat embarrassed in his reception of him; while the footman, who carried off his portmanteau, did it with a grin which put him out. the set of men whom he found there were not of his sort. they were young londoners, and he a thorough countryman. but the sight of the stream by which he took a hearty stroll before dinner made up for everything, and filled him with pleasurable anticipations. he thought he had never seen a sweeter bit of water. the dinner to which the party of young gentlemen sat down was most undeniable. the host talked a little too much, perhaps; under all the circumstances, of _my_ wine, _my_ plate, _my_ mutton, &c., provoking the thought of how long they had been his. but he was bent on hospitality after his fashion, and his guests were not disposed to criticize much. the old butler did not condescend to wait, but brought in a magnum of claret after dinner, carefully nursing it as if it were a baby, and placing it patronizingly before his young master. before they adjourned to the billiard-room they had disposed of several of the same; but the followers were brought in by a footman, the butler being employed in discussing a bottle of an older vintage with the steward in the still-room. then came pool, pool, pool, soda-water and brandy, and cigars, into the short hours; but tom stole away early, having an eye to his morning's fishing, and not feeling much at home with his companions. he was out soon after sunrise the next morning. he never wanted to be called when there was a trout-stream within reach; and his fishing instinct told him that, in these sultry dog-days, there would be little chance of sport when the sun was well up. so he let himself gently out of the hall door--paused a moment on the steps to fill his chest with the fresh morning air, as he glanced at the weathercock over the stables--and then set to work to put his tackle together on the lawn, humming a tune to himself as he selected an insinuating red hackle and alder fly from his well-worn book, and tied them on to his cast. then he slung his creel over his shoulder, picked up his rod, and started for the water. as he passed the gates of the stable-yard, the keeper came out--a sturdy bullet-headed fellow, in a velveteen coat, and cord breeches and gaiters--and touched his hat. tom returned the salute, and wished him good morning. "mornin', sir; you be about early." "yes; i reckon it's the best time for sport at the end of june." "'tis so, sir. shall i fetch a net, and come along!" "no, thank you, i'll manage the ladle myself. but which do you call the best water?" "they be both middling good. they ain't much odds atwixt 'em. but i see most fish movin' o' mornin's in the deep water down below." "i don't know; the night was too hot," said tom, who had examined the water the day before, and made up his mind where he was going. "i'm for deep water on cold days; i shall begin with the stickles up above. there's a good head of water on, i suppose?" "plenty down this last week, sir." "come along, then; we'll walk together, if you're going that way." so tom stepped off, brushing through the steaming long grass, gemmed with wild flowers, followed by the keeper; and, as the grasshoppers bounded chirruping out of his way, and the insect life hummed and murmured, and the lark rose and sang above his head, he felt happier than he had done for many a long month. so his heart opened towards his companion, who kept a little behind him. "what size do you take 'em out, keeper?" "anything over nine inches, sir. but there's a smartish few fish of three pounds, for them as can catch 'em." "well, that's good; but they ain't easy caught, eh?" "i don't rightly know, sir; but there's gents comes as stands close by the water, and flogs down stream with the sun in their backs, and uses all manner o' vlies, wi' long names; and then they gwoes away, and says, 'tain't no use flying here, 'cas there's so much cadis bait and that like." "ah, very likely," said tom, with a chuckle. "the chaps as catches the big fishes, sir," went on the keeper, getting confidential, "is thay cussed night-line poachers. there's one o' thay as has come here this last spring-tide--the artfullest chap as ever i come across, and down to every move on the board. he don't use no shove-nets, nor such-like tackle; not he; i s'pose he don't call that sport. besides, i got master to stake the whole water, and set old knives and razors about in the holes, but that don't answer; and this joker all'us goes alone--which, in course, he couldn't do with nets. now, i knows within five or six yards where that chap sets his lines, and i finds 'em, now and again, set the artfullest you ever see. but 'twould take a man's life to look arter him, and i knows he gets, maybe, a dozen big fish a week, do all as i knows." "how is it you can't catch him, keeper?" said tom, much amused. "why you see sir, he don't come at any hours. drat un!" said the keeper, getting hot; "blessed if i don't think he sometimes comes down among the haymakers and folk at noon, and up lines and off, while they chaps does nothing but snigger at un--all i knows is, as i've watched till midnight, and then on again at dawn for'n, and no good come on it but once." "how was that?" "well, one mornin', sir, about last lady-day, i comes quite quiet up stream about dawn. when i get's to farmer giles's piece (that little rough bit, sir, as you sees t'other side the stream, two fields from our outside bounds), i sees un a stooping down and hauling in's line. 'now's your time, billy,' says i, and up the hedge i cuts, hotfoot, to get betwixt he and our bounds. wether he seen me or not, i can't mind; leastways, when i up's head t'other side the hedge, vorights where i seen him last, there was he a-trotting up stream quite cool, a-pocketing a two-pounder. then he sees me and away we goes side by side for the bounds--he this side the hedge and i t'other; he takin' the fences like our old greyhound-bitch, clara. we takes the last fence on to that fuzzy field as you sees there, sir (parson's glebe and out of our liberty), neck and neck, and i turns short to the left, 'cos there warn't no fence now betwixt he and i. well, i thought he'd a dodged on about the fuz. not he; he slouches his hat over's eyes, and stands quite cool by fust fuz bush--i minded then as we was out o' our beat. hows'ever my blood was up; so i at's him then and there, no words lost, and fetches a crack at's head wi my stick.' he fends wi' his'n; and then, as i rushes in to collar'n, dash'd if 'e didn't meet i full, and catch i by the thigh and collar, and send i slap over's head into a fuz bush. "then he chuckles fit to bust hisself, and cuts his stick, while i creeps out full o' prickles, and wi' my breeches torn shameful. dang un!" cried the keeper, while tom roared, "he's a lissum wosbird, that i 'ool say, but i'll be up sides wi' he next time i sees un. whorson fool as i was, not to stop and look at 'n and speak to un! then i should ha' know'd 'n again; and now he med be our parish clerk for all as i know." "and you've never met him since?" "never sot eye on un, sir, arly or late--wishes i had." "well, keeper, here's a half crown to go towards mending the hole in your breeches, and better luck at the return match. i shall begin fishing here." "thank'ee, sir. you keep your cast pretty nigh that there off bank, and you med have a rare good un ther'. i seen a fish suck there just now as warn't spawned this year, nor last nether." and away went the communicative keeper. "stanch fellow, the keeper," said tom to himself, as he reeled out yard after yard of his tapered line, and with a gentle sweep dropped his collar of flies lightly on the water, each cast covering another five feet of the dimpling surface. "good fellow, the keeper--don't mind telling a story against himself--can stand being laughed at--more than master can. ah, there's the fish he saw sucking, i'll be bound. now, you beauties, over his nose, and fall light, don't disgrace your bringing up!" and away went the flies quivering through the air and lighting close to the opposite bank, under a bunch of rushes. a slight round eddy flowed below the rushes as the cast came gently back across the current. "ah, you see them, do you, old boy?" thought tom. "say your prayers, then, and get shrived!" and away went the flies again, this time a little below. no movement. the third throw, a great lunge and splash, and the next moment the lithe rod bent double, and the gut collar spun along, cutting through the water like mad. up goes the great fish twice into the air, tom giving him the point; then up stream again, tom giving him the butt, and beginning to reel up gently. down goes the great fish into the swaying weeds, working with his tail like a twelve-horse screw. "if i can only get my nose to ground," thinks he. so thinks tom, and trusts to his tackle, keeping a steady strain on trouty, and creeping gently down stream. "no go," says the fish as he feels his nose steadily hauled round, and turns a swirl downstream. away goes tom, reeling in, and away goes the fish in hopes of a slack--away, for twenty or thirty yards--the fish coming to the top lazily, and again, and holding on to get his second wind. now a cart track crosses the stream, no weeds, and shallow water at the side. "here we must have it out," thinks tom, and turns fish's nose up stream again. the big fish gets sulky, twice drifts towards the shallow, and twice plunges away at the sight of his enemy into the deep water. the third time he comes swaying in, his yellow side gleaming and his mouth open; and, the next moment tom scoops him out onto the grass, with a "whoop" that might have been heard at the house. "two pounder, if he's an ounce," says tom, as he gives him the _coup de grace_, and lays him out lovingly on the fresh green sward. who amongst you, dear readers, can appreciate the intense delight of grassing your first big fish after a nine month's fast? all first sensations have their special pleasure; but none can be named, in a small way, to beat this of the first fish of the season. the first clean leg-hit for four in your first match at lord's--the grating of the bows of your racing boat against the stern of the boat ahead in your first race--the first half-mile of a burst from the cover side in november, when the hounds in the field ahead may be covered with a table-cloth, and no one but the huntsman and a top sawyer or two lies between you and them--the first brief after your call to the bar, if it comes within the year--the sensations produced by these are the same in kind; but cricket, boating, getting briefs, even hunting lose their edge as time goes on. as to lady readers, it is impossible, probably, to give them an idea of the sensation in question. perhaps some may have experienced something of the kind at their first balls, when they heard whispers and saw all eyes turning their way, and knew that their dresses and gloves fitted perfectly. but this joy can be felt but once in a life, and the first fish comes back as fresh as ever, or ought to come, if all men had their rights, once in a season. so, good luck to the gentle craft, and its professors, may the fates send us much into their company! the trout fisher, like the landscape painter, haunts the loveliest places of the earth, and haunts them alone. solitude and his own thoughts--he must be on the best terms with all of these; and he who can take kindly the largest allowance of these is likely to be the kindliest and truest with his fellow men. tom had splendid sport that summer morning. as the great sun rose higher, the light morning breeze, which had curled the water, died away; the light mist drew up into light cloud, and the light cloud vanished, into cloudland, for anything i know; and still the fish rose, strange to say, though tom felt it was an affair of minutes, and acted accordingly. at eight o'clock he was about a quarter of a mile from the house, at a point in the stream of rare charms both for the angler and the lover of gentle river beauty. the main stream was crossed by a lock, formed of a solid brick bridge with no parapets, under which the water rushed through four small arches, each of which could be closed in an instant by letting down a heavy wooden lock gate, fitted in grooves on the upper side of the bridge. such locks are frequent in the west-country streams--even at long distances from mills and millers, for whose behoof they were made in old days, that the supply of water to the mill might be easily regulated. all pious anglers should bless the memories of the old builders of them, for they are the very paradises of the great trout, who frequent the old brickwork and timber foundations. the water in its rush through the arches, had of course worked for itself a deep hole, and then, some twenty yards below, spread itself out in wanton joyous ripples and eddies over a broad surface some fifty yards across, and dashed away towards a little island some two hundred yards below, or rolled itself slowly back towards the bridge again, up the backwater by the side of the bank, as if longing for another merry rush through one of those narrow arches. the island below was crowned with splendid alders, willows forty feet high, which wept into the water, and two or three poplars; a rich mile of water meadow, with an occasional willow or alder, lay gleaming beyond; and the view was bounded by a glorious wood, which crowned the gentle slope, at the foot of which the river ran. another considerable body of water, which had been carried off above from the main stream to flush the water meadows, joined its parent at this point; it came slowly down a broad artificial ditch running parallel with the main stream; and the narrow strip of land which divided the two streams ended abruptly just below the lock, forming a splendid point for bather or angler. tom had fixed on this pool as his _bonne bouche_, as a child keeps its plums till the last, and stole over the bridge, stooping low to gain the point indicated. having gained it, he glanced round to be aware of the dwarf ash-trees and willows which were scattered along the strip, and might catch heedless collars and spoil sport, when, lying lazily almost on the surface where the backwater met the stream from the meadows, he beheld the great grandfather of all trout, a fellow two feet long and a foot in girth at the shoulders, just moving fin enough to keep him from turning over on to his back. he threw himself flat on the ground and crept away to the other side of the strip; the king fish had not seen him; and the next moment tom saw him suck in a bee, laden with his morning's load of honey, who touched the water unwarily close to his nose. with trembling hand, tom took off his tail fly, and, on his knee, substituted a governor; then shortening his line, after wetting his mimic bee in the pool behind him, tossed it gently into the monster's very jaws. for a moment the fish seemed scared, but the next, conscious in his strength, lifted his nose slowly to the surface and sucked in the bait. tom struck gently, and then sprang to his feet. but the heavens had other work for the king fish, who dived swiftly under the bank; a slight jar followed, and tom's rod was straight over his head, the line and scarcely a yard of his trusty gut collar dangling about his face. he seized this remnant with horror and unsatisfied longing, and examined it with care. could he have overlooked any fraying which the gut might have got in the morning's work? no; he had gone over every inch of it not five minutes before, as he neared the pool. besides it was cut clean through, not a trace of bruise or fray about it. how could it have happened? he went to the spot and looked into the water; it was slightly discolored and he could not see the bottom. he threw his fishing coat off, rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and, lying on his side, felt about the bank and tried to reach the bottom but couldn't. so, hearing the half-hour bell ring, he deferred further inquiry, and stripped in silent disgust for a plunge in the pool. three times he hurled himself into the delicious rush of the cold chalk stream, with that utter abandon in which man, whose bones are brittle, can only indulge when there are six or seven feet of water between him and mother earth; and, letting the stream bear him away at its own sweet will to the shallows below, struck up again through the rush and the roar to his plunging place. then, slowly and luxuriously dressing, he lit his short pipe--companion of meditation--and began to ruminate on the escape of the king fish. what could have cut his collar? the more he thought, the less he could make it out. when suddenly he was aware of the keeper on his way back to the house for orders and breakfast. "what sport, sir?" "pretty fair," said tom, carelessly, lugging five plump speckled fellows, weighing some seven and a half pounds, out of his creel, and laying them out for the keeper's inspection. "well, they be in prime order, sir, surely," says the keeper, handling them; "they allus gets mortal thick across the shoulders while the may-fly be on. loose any sir?" "i put in some little ones up above, and lost one screamer just up the black ditch there. he must have been a four-pounder, and went off, and be hanged to him, with two yards of my collar and a couple of first-rate flies. how on earth he got off i can't tell!" and he went on to unfold the particulars of the short struggle. the keeper could hardly keep down a grin. "ah, sir," said he, "i thinks i knows what spwiled your sport. you owes it all to that chap as i was a telling you of, or my name's not willum goddard;" and then, fishing the lockpole with a hook at the end of it out of the rushes, he began groping under the bank, and presently hauled up a sort of infernal machine, consisting of a heavy lump of wood, a yard or so long, in which were carefully inserted the blades of four or five old knives and razors, while a crop of rusty jagged nails filled up the spare space. tom looked at it in wonder. "what devil's work have you got hold of there?" he said at last. "bless you, sir," said the keeper, "'tis only our shove net traps as i was a telling you of. i keeps hard upon a dozen on 'em and shifts 'em about in the likeliest holes; and i takes care to let the men as is about the water meadows see me a-sharpening on 'em up a bit wi' a file, now and again. and since master gev me orders to put 'em in, i don't think they tries that game on not once a month." "well but where do you and your master expect to go to if you set such things as those about?" said tom, looking serious. "why, you'll be cutting some fellow's hand or foot half off one of these days. suppose i'd waded up the bank to see what had become of my cast?" "lor', sir, i never thought o' that," said the keeper, looking sheepish and lifting the back of his short hat off his head to make room for a scratch; "but," added he turning the subject, "if you wants to keep they artful wosbirds off the water, you must frighten 'em wi' summat out o' the way. drattle 'em, i knows they puts me to my wit's end; but you'd never 'a had five such fish as them afore breakfast, sir, if we didn't stake the waters." "well, and i don't want 'em if i can't get 'em without. i'll tell you what it is, keeper, this razor business is going a bit too far; men ain't to be maimed for liking a bit of sport. you set spring-guns in the woods, and you know what that came to. why don't you, or one of your watchers, stop out here at night, and catch the fellows, like men? "why, you see, sir, master don't allow me but one watcher and he's mortal feared o' the water, he be, specially o' nights. he'd sooner by half stop up in the woods. daddy collins (that's an old woman as lives on the heath, sir, and a bad sort she be, too) well, she told him once, when he wouldn't gee her some baccy as he'd got, and she'd a mind to, as he'd fall twice into the water for once as he'd get out; and th' poor chap ever since can't think but what he'll be drownded. and there's queer sights and sounds by the river o' nights, too, i 'ool say, sir, let alone the white mist, as makes everything look unket, and gives a chap the rheumatics." "well, but _you_ ain't afraid of ghosts and rheumatism?" "no, i don't know as i be, sir. but then there's the pheasants a-breedin', and there's four brood of flappers in the withey bed, and a sight of young hares in the spinneys. i be hard put to to mind it all." "i daresay you are," said tom, putting on his coat and shouldering his rod; "i've a good mind to take a turn at it myself, to help you, if you'll only drop those razors." "i wishes you would, sir," said the keeper, from behind; "if genl'men'd sometimes take a watch at nights, they'd find out as keepers hadn't all fair weather work, i'll warrant, if they're to keep a good head o' game about a place. 'taint all popping off guns, and lunching under hayricks, i can tell 'em--no, nor half on it." "where do you think, now, this fellow we are talking of sells his fish?" said tom, after a minute's thought. "mostly at reading market, i hears tell, sir. there's the guard of the mail, as goes by the cross-roads three days a week, he wur a rare poaching chap hisself down in the west afore he got his place along of his bugle-playing. they do say as he's open to any game, he is, from a buck to a snipe, and drives a trade all down the road with the country chaps. "what day is reading market?" "tuesdays and saturdays, sir." "and what time does the mail go by?" "six o'clock in the morning, sir, at the cross-roads." "and they're three miles off, across the fields?" "thereabouts, sir. i reckons it about a forty minutes' stretch, and no time lost." "there'll be no more big fish caught on the fly to-day," said tom, after a minute's silence, as they neared the house. the wind had fallen dead, and not a spot of cloud in the sky. "not afore nightfall, i think, sir;" and the keeper disappeared towards the offices. chapter xxxvii--the night watch "you may do as you please, but i'm going to see it out." "no, but i say do come along; that's a good, fellow." "not i; why, we've only just come out. didn't you hear? wurley dared me to do a night's watching, and i said i meant to do it." "yes; so did i. but we can change our minds. what's the good of having a mind if you can't change it! [greek text] ai denterai poz phrontidez sophoterai--isn't that good greek and good sense?" "i don't see it. they'll only laugh and sneer if we go back now." "they'll laugh at us twice as much if we don't. fancy they're just beginning pool now, on that stunning table. come along, brown; don't miss your chance. we shall be sure to divide the pools, as we've missed the claret. cool hands and cool heads, you know. green on brown, pink your player in hand! that's a good deal pleasanter than squatting here all night on the damp grass." "very likely." "but you won't? now, do be reasonable. will you come if i stop with you another half-hour?" "no." "an hour then? say till ten o'clock?" "if i went at all i would go at once." "then you won't come?" "no." "i'll bet you a sovereign you never see a poacher, and then how sad you will be in the morning! it will be much worse coming in to breakfast with empty hands and a cold in the head, than going in now. they will chaff then, i grant you." "well, then, they may chaff and be hanged, for i shan't go in now." tom's interlocutor put his hands in the pockets of his heather mixture shooting coat, and took a turn or two of some dozen yards, backwards and forwards above the place where our hero was sitting. he didn't like going in and facing the pool players by himself; so he stopped once more and reopened the conversation. "what do you want to do by watching all night, brown?" "to show the keeper and those fellows indoors that i mean what i say. i said i'd do it, and i will." "you don't want to catch a poacher, then?" "i don't much care; i'll catch one if he comes in my way--or try it on, at any rate." "i say, brown, i like that; as if you don't poach yourself. why, i remember when the whiteham keeper spent the best part of a week outside the college gates, on the lookout for you and drysdale and some other fellows." "what has that to do with it?" "why, you ought to have more fellow-feeling. i suppose you go on the principle of set a thief to catch a thief?" tom made no answer, and his companion went on. "come along, now, like a good fellow. if you'll come in now, we can come out again all fresh, when the rest go to bed." "not we. i sha'n't go in. but you can come out again if you like; you'll find me hereabouts." the man in the heather mixture had now shot his last bolt, and took himself off to the house, leaving tom by the riverside. how they got there may be told in a few words. after his morning's fishing, and conversation with the keeper, he had gone in full of his subject and propounded it at the breakfast table. his strictures on the knife and razor business produced a rather warm discussion, which merged in the question whether a keeper's life was a hard one, till something was said implying that wurley's men were overworked. the master took this in high dudgeon, and words ran high. in the discussion, tom remarked (apropos of night-work) that he would never ask another man to do what he would not do himself; which sentiment was endorsed by, amongst others, the man in the heather mixture. the host had retorted, that they had better in that case try it themselves; which remark had the effect of making tom resolve to cut short his visit, and in the meantime had brought him and his ally to the river side on the night in question. the first hour, as we have seen, had been enough for the ally; and so tom was left in company with a plaid, a stick, and a pipe, to spend the night by himself. it was by no means the first night he had spent in the open air, and promised to be a pleasant one for camping out. it was almost the longest day in the year, and the weather was magnificent. there was yet an hour of daylight, and the place he had chosen was just the right one for enjoying the evening. he was sitting under one of a clump of huge old alders, growing on the thin strip of land already noticed, which divided the main stream from the deep artificial ditch which fed the water-meadows. on his left the emerald-green meadows stretched away till they met the inclosed corn-land. on his right ran the main stream, some fifty feet in breadth at this point; on the opposite side of which was a rough piece of ground, half withey-bed, half copse, with a rank growth of rushes at the water's edge. these were the chosen haunts of the moor-hen and water-rat, whose tracks could be seen by dozens, like small open doorways, looking out on to the river, through which ran a number of mysterious little paths into the rush-wilderness beyond. the sun was now going down behind the copse, through which his beams came aslant, chequered and mellow. the stream ran dimpling by him, sleepily swaying the masses of weed, under the surface and on the surface; and the trout rose under the banks, as some moth or gnat or gleaming beetle fell into the stream; here and there one more frolicsome than his brethren would throw himself joyously into the air. the swifts rushed close by him, in companies of five or six, and wheeled, and screamed, and dashed away again, skimming along the water, baffling his eye as he tried to follow their flight. two kingfishers shot suddenly up on to their supper station, on a stunted willow stump, some twenty yards below him, and sat there in the glory of their blue backs and cloudy red waistcoats, watching with long sagacious beaks pointed to the water beneath, and every now and then dropping like flashes of light into the stream, and rising again, with what seemed one motion, to their perches. a heron or two were fishing about the meadows; and he watched them stalking about in their sober quaker coats, or rising on slow heavy wing, and lumbering away home with a weird cry. he heard the strong pinions of the wood pigeon in the air, and then from the trees above his head came the soft call, "take-two-cow-taffy, take-two-cow-taffy," with which that fair and false bird is said to have beguilled the hapless welchman to the gallows. presently, as he lay motionless, the timid and graceful little water-hens peered out from their doors in the rushes opposite, and, seeing no cause for fear, stepped daintily into the water, and were suddenly surrounded by little bundles of black soft down, which went paddling about in and out of the weeds, encouraged by the occasional sharp, clear, parental "keck-keck," and merry little dabchicks popped up in mid-stream, and looked round, and nodded at him, pert and voiceless, and dived again; even old cunning water-rats sat up on the bank with round black noses and gleaming eyes, or took solemn swims out, and turned up their tails and disappeared for his amusement. a comfortable low came at intervals from the cattle, revelling in the abundant herbage. all living things seemed to be disporting themselves, and enjoying, after their kind, the last gleams of the sunset, which were making the whole vault of heaven glow and shimmer; and, as he watched them, tom blessed his stars as he contrasted the river-side with the glare of lamps and the click of balls in the noisy pool room. before it got dark he bethought him of making sure of his position once more; matters might have changed since he chose it before dinner. with all that he could extract from the keeper, and his own experience in such matters, it had taken him several hours' hunting up and down the river that afternoon before he had hit on a night-line. but he had persevered, knowing that this was the only safe evidence to start from, and at last had found several, so cunningly set that it was clear that it was a first-rate artist in the poaching line against whom he had pitted himself. these lines must have been laid almost under his nose on that very day, as the freshness of the baits proved. the one which he had selected to watch by was under the bank, within a few yards of the clump of alders where he was now sitting. there was no satisfactory cover near the others; so he had chosen this one, where he would be perfectly concealed behind the nearest trunk from any person who might come in due time to take up the line. with this view, then, he got up, and, stepping carefully on the thickest grass where his foot would leave no mark, went to the bank, and felt with the hook of his stick after the line. it was all right, and he returned to his old seat. and then the summer twilight came on, and the birds disappeared, and the hush of night settled down on river, and copse, and meadow--cool and gentle summer twilight after the hot bright day. he welcomed it too, as it folded up the landscape, and the trees lost their outline, and settled into soft black masses rising here and there out of the white mist, which seemed to have crept up to within a few yards all round him unawares. there was no sound now but the gentle murmur of the water and an occasional rustle of reeds, or of the leaves over his head, as a stray wandering puff of air passed through them on its way home to bed. nothing to listen to and nothing to look at; for the moon had not risen, and the light mist hid everything except a star or two right up above him. so, the outside world having left him for the present, he was turned inwards on himself. this was all very well at first; and he wrapped the plaid round his shoulders and leant against his tree, and indulged in a little self-gratulation. there was something of strangeness and adventure in his solitary night-watch, which had its charm for a youngster of twenty-one; and the consciousness of not running from his word, of doing what he had said he would do, while others shirked and broke down, was decidedly pleasant. but this satisfaction did not last very long, and the night began to get a little wearisome, and too cool to be quite comfortable. by degrees, doubts as to the wisdom of his self-imposed task crept into his head. he dismissed them for a time by turning his thoughts to other matters. the neighbourhood of englebourn, some two miles up above him, reminded him of the previous summer; and he wondered how he should get on with his cousin when they met. he should probably see her the next day, for he would lose no time in calling. would she receive him well? would she have much to tell him about mary? he had been more hopeful on this subject of late, but the loneliness, the utter solitude and silence of his position as he sat there in the misty night, away from all human habitations, was not favorable somehow to hopefulness. he found himself getting dreary and sombre in heart--more and more so as the minutes rolled on, and the silence and loneliness pressed on him more and more heavily. he was surprised at his own down-heartedness, and tried to remember how he had spent former nights so pleasantly out of doors. ah, he had always had a companion within call, and something to do--cray fishing, bat fowling, or something of the kind! sitting there doing nothing, he fancied, must make it so heavy to-night. by a strong effort of will he shook off the oppression. he moved, and hummed a tune to break the silence; he got up and walked up and down, lest it should again master him. if wind, storm, pouring rain, anything to make sound or movement, would but come! but neither of them came, and there was little help in sound or movement made by himself. besides it occurred to him that much walking up and down might defeat the object of his watch. no one would come near while he was on the move; and he was probably making marks already which might catch the eye of the setter of the nightlines at some distance, if that cunning party waited for the morning light, and might keep him away from the place altogether. so he sat down again on his old seat, and leant hard against the alder trunk, as though to steady himself, and keep all troublesome thoughts well in front of him. in this attitude of defense he reasoned with himself on the absurdity of allowing himself to be depressed by the mere accidents of place, and darkness, and silence; but all the reasoning at his command didn't alter the fact. he felt the enemy advancing again, and, casting, about for help, fell back on the thought that he was going through a task, holding to his word, doing what he had said he would do; and this brought him some relief for the moment, he fixed his mind steadily on this task of his; but alas, here again in his very last stronghold, the enemy began to turn his flank, and the position every minute became more and more untenable. he had of late fallen into a pestilent habit of cross-questioning himself on anything which he was about--setting up himself like a cock at shrovetide, and pelting himself with inexorable "whys?" and "wherefores?" a pestilent habit truly he had found it, and one which left a man no peace of his life--a relentless, sleepless habit, always ready to take advantage of him, but never so viciously alert, that he remembered, as on this night. and so this questioning self, which would never be denied for long, began to examine him, as to his proposed night's work. this precious task, which he was so proud of going through with, on the score of which he had been in his heart crowing over others, because they had not taken it on them, or had let it drop, what then was the meaning of it? "what was he out there for? what had he come out to do?" they were awkward questions. he tried several answers and was driven from one to another till he was bound to admit that he was out there that night partly out of pique, and partly out of pride; and that his object (next to earning the pleasure of thinking himself a better man than his neighbours) was, if so be, to catch a poacher. "to catch a poacher? what business had he to be catching poachers? if all poachers were to be caught, he would have to be caught himself." he had just had an unpleasant reminder of this fact from him of the heather mixture--a parthian remark which he had thrown over his shoulder as he went off, and which had stuck. "but then," tom argued, "it was a very different thing, his poaching--going out for a day's lark after game, which he didn't care a straw for, but only for the sport--and that of men making a trade of it, like the man the keeper spoke of." "why? how different? if there were any difference, was it one in his favour?" avoiding this suggestion, he took up new ground, "poachers were always the greatest blackguards in their neighbourhoods, pests of society, and ought to be put down." "possibly--at any rate he had been one of the fraternity in his time, and was scarcely the man to be casting stones at them." "but his poaching had always been done thoughtlessly. how did he know that others had worse motives?" and so he went on, tossing the matter backwards and forwards in his mind, and getting more and more uncomfortable, and unable to answer to his own satisfaction the simple question, "what right have you to be out here on this errand?" he got up a second time and walked up and down, but with no better success than before. the change of position, and exercise, did not help him out of his difficulties. and now he got a step further. if he had no right to be there, hadn't he better go up to the house and say so, and go to bed like the rest? no, his pride couldn't stand that. but if he couldn't go in, he might turn in to a barn or outhouse, nobody would be any the wiser then, and after all he was not pledged to stop on one spot all night? it was a tempting suggestion, and he was very near yielding to it at once. while he wavered, a new set of thoughts came up to back it. how, if he stayed there, and a gang of night-poachers came? he knew that many of them were desperate men. he had no arms; what could he do against them? nothing; but he might be maimed for life in a night row which he had no business to be in--murdered, perhaps. he stood still and listened long and painfully. every moment, as he listened, the silence mastered him more and more, and his reason became more and more powerless. it was such a silence--a great illimitable, vague silence? the silence of a deserted house where he could at least have felt that he was bounded somewhere, by wall, and floor, and roof--where men must have lived and worked once, though they might be there no longer--would have been nothing; but this silence of the huge, wide out-of-doors world, where there was nothing but air and space around and above him, and the ground beneath, it was getting irksome, intolerable, awful! the great silence seemed to be saying to him, "you are alone, alone, alone!" and he had never known before what horror lurked in that thought. every moment that he stood still the spell grew stronger on him, and yet he dared not move; and a strange, wild feeling of fear--unmistakable physical fear, which made his heart beat and his limbs tremble--seized on him. he was ready to cry out, to fall down, to run, and yet there he stood listening, still and motionless. the critical moment in all panics must come at last. a wild and grewsome hissing and snoring, which seemed to come from the air just over his head, made him start and spring forward, and gave him the use of his limbs again at any rate, though they would not have been worth much to him had the ghost or hobgoblin appeared whom he half expected to see the next moment. then came a screech, which seemed to flit along the rough meadow opposite, and come towards him. he drew a long breath, for he knew that sound well enough; it was nothing after all but the owls. the mere realized consciousness of the presence of some living creatures, were they only owls, brought him to his senses. and now the moon was well up, and the wayward mist had cleared away, and he could catch glimpses of the solemn birds every now and then, beating over the rough meadow backwards and forwards, and over the shallow water as regularly as trained pointers. he threw himself down again under his tree, and now bethought himself of his pipe. here was a companion which, wonderful to say, he had not thought of before since the night set in. he pulled it out, but paused before lighting. nothing was so likely to betray his whereabouts as tobacco. true, but anything was better than such another fright as he had had, "so here goes," he thought, "if i keep off all the poachers in berkshire;" and he accordingly lighted up, and, with the help of his pipe, once more debated with himself the question of beating a retreat. after a sharp inward struggle, he concluded to stay and see it out. he should despise himself, more than he cared to face, if he gave in now. if he left that spot before morning, the motive would be sheer cowardice. there might be fifty other good reasons for going; but, if he went, _his_ reason would be fear and nothing else. it might have been wrong and foolish to come out; it must be to go in now. "fear never made a man do a right action," he summed up to himself; "so here i stop, come what may of it. i think i've seen the worst of it now. i was in a real blue funk, and no mistake. let's see, wasn't i laughing this morning at the watcher who didn't like passing a night by the river? well, he has got the laugh on me now, if he only knew it. i've learnt one lesson to-night at any rate; i don't think i shall ever be very hard on cowards again." by the time he had finished his pipe, he was a man again, and, moreover, notwithstanding the damp, began to feel sleepy, now that his mind was thoroughly made up, and his nerves were quiet. so he made the best of his plaid, and picked a softish place, and went off into a sort of dog-sleep, which lasted at intervals through the short summer night. a poor thin sort of sleep it was, in which he never altogether lost his consciousness, and broken by short intervals of actual wakefulness, but a blessed release from the self-questionings and panics of the early night. he woke at last with a shiver. it was colder than he had yet felt it, and it seemed lighter. he stretched his half-torpid limbs, and sat up. yes, it was certainly getting light, for he could just make out the figures on the face of his watch which he pulled out. the dawn was almost upon him, and his night watch was over. nothing had come of it as yet, except his fright, at which he could now laugh comfortably enough; probably nothing more might come of it after all, but he had done the task he had set himself without flinching, and that was a satisfaction. he wound up his watch, which he had forgotten to do the night before, and then stood up, and threw his damp plaid aside, and swung his arm across his chest to restore circulation. the crescent moon was high up in the sky, faint and white, and he could scarcely now make out the stars which were fading out as the glow in the north-east got stronger and broader. forgetting for a moment the purpose of his vigil, he was thinking of a long morning's fishing, and had turned to pick up his plaid and go off to the house for his fishing-rod, when he thought he heard the sound of dry wood snapping. he listened intently; and the next moment it came again, some way off, but plainly to be heard in the intense stillness of the morning. some living thing was moving down the stream. another moment's listening and he was convinced that the sound came from a hedge some hundred yards below. he had noticed the hedge before; the keeper had stopped up a gap in it the day before, at the place where it came down to the water, with some old hurdles and dry thorns. he drew himself up behind his alder, looking out from behind it cautiously towards the point from which the sound came. he could just make out the hedge through the mist, but saw nothing. but now the crackling began again, and he was sure that a man was forcing his way over the keeper's barricade. a moment afterwards he saw a figure drop from the hedge into the slip in which he stood. he drew back his head hastily, and his heart beat like a hammer as he waited the approach of the stranger. in a few seconds the suspense was too much for him, for again there was perfect silence. he peered out a second time cautiously round the tree, and now he could make out the figure of a man stopping by the water-side just above the hedge, and drawing in a line. this was enough, and he drew back again, and made himself small behind the tree; now he was sure that the keeper's enemy, the man he had come out to take, was here! his next halt would be at the line which was set within a few yards of the place where he stood. so the struggle which he had courted was come! all his doubts of the night wrestled in his mind for a minute; but forcing them down, he strung himself up for the encounter, his whole frame trembling with excitement, and his blood tingling through his veins as though it would burst them. the next minute was as severe a trial of nerve as he had ever been put to, and the sound of a stealthy tread on the grass just below came to him as a relief. it stopped, and he heard the man stoop, then came a stir in the water, and the flapping as of a fish being landed. now was his time! he sprang from behind the tree, and, the next moment, was over the stooping figure of the poacher. before he could seize him the man sprung up, and grappled with him. they had come to a tight lock at once, for the poacher had risen so close under him that he could not catch his collar and hold him off. too close to strike, it was a desperate trial of strength and bottom. tom knew in a moment that he had his work cut out for him. he felt the nervous power of the frame he had got hold of as he drove his chin into the poacher's shoulder, and arched his back, and strained every muscle in his body to force him backwards, but in vain. it was all he could do to hold his own; but he felt that he might hold it yet, as they staggered on the brink of the back ditch, stamping the grass and marsh marigolds into the ground, and drawing deep breath through their set teeth. a slip, a false foot-hold, a failing muscle, and it would be over; down they must go-who would be uppermost? the poacher had trod on a soft place and tom felt it, and, throwing himself forward, was reckoning on victory, but reckoning without his host. for, recovering himself with a twist of the body which brought them still closer together, the poacher locked his leg behind tom's in a crook which brought the wrestlings of his boyhood into his head with a flash, as they tottered for another moment, and then losing balance, went headlong over with a heavy plunge and splash into the deep back ditch, locked in each other's arms. the cold water closed over them, and for a moment tom held as tight as ever. under or above the surface it was all the same, he couldn't give in first. but a gulp of water, and the singing in his ears, and a feeling of choking, brought him to his senses, helped too, by the thought of his mother and mary, and love of the pleasant world up above. the folly and uselessness of being drowned in a ditch on a point of honor stood out before him as clearly as if he had been thinking of nothing else all his life; and he let go his hold--much relieved to find that his companion of the bath seemed equally willing to be quit of him--and struggled to the surface, and seized the bank, gasping and exhausted. his first thought was to turn round and look for his adversary. the poacher was by the bank too, a few feet from him. his cap had fallen off in the struggle, and, all chance of concealment being over, he too had turned to face the matter out, and their eyes met. "good god! harry! is it you?" harry winburn answered nothing; and the two dragged their feet out of the muddy bottom, and scrambled on to the bank, and then with a sort of common instinct sat down, dripping and foolish, each on the place he had reached, and looked at one another. probably two more thoroughly bewildered lieges of her majesty were not at that moment facing one another in any corner of the united kingdom. chapter xxxviii--mary in mayfair on the night which our hero spent by the side of the river, with the results detailed in the last chapter, there was a great ball in brook-street, mayfair. it was the height of the season, and of course, balls, concerts, and parties of all kinds were going on in all parts of the great babylon, but the entertainment in question was _the_ event of that evening. persons behind the scenes would have told you at once, had you happened to meet them, and enquire on the subject during the previous ten days, that brook-street was the place in which everybody who went anywhere ought to spend some hours between eleven and three on this particular evening. if you did not happen to be going there, you had better stay quietly at your club, or your home, and not speak of your engagements for that night. a great awning had sprung up in the course of the day over the pavement in front of the door, and as the evening closed in, tired lawyers and merchants, on their return from the city, and the riders and drivers on their way home from the park, might have seen holland's men laying red drugget over the pavement, and gunter's carts coming and going, and the police "moving on" the street boys and servant maids, and other curious members of the masses, who paused to stare at the preparations. then came the lighting up of the rooms, and the blaze of pure white light from the uncurtained ballroom windows spread into the street, and the musicians passed in with their instruments. then, after a short pause, the carriages of a few intimate friends, who came early at the hostess's express desire, began to drive up, and the hansom cabs of the contemporaries of the eldest son, from which issued guardsmen and foreign-office men, and other dancing-youth of the most approved description. then the crowd collected again round the door--a sadder crowd now to the eye of anyone who has time to look at it; with sallow, haggard looking men here and there on the skirts of it, and tawdry women joking and pushing to the front, through the powdered footmen, and linkmen in red waistcoats, already clamorous and redolent of gin and beer, and scarcely kept back by the half-dozen constables of the a division, told off for the special duty of attending and keeping order on so important an occasion. then comes a rush of carriages, and by eleven o'clock the line stretches away half round grosvenor square, and moves at a foot's-pace towards the lights, and the music, and the shouting street. in the middle of the line is the comfortable chariot of our friend mr. porter--the corners occupied by himself and his wife, while miss mary sits well forward between them, her white muslin dress looped up with sprigs of heather spread delicately on either side over their knees, and herself in a pleasant tremor of impatience and excitement. "how very slow robert is to-day, mamma! we shall never get to the house." "he can not get on faster, my dear. the carriage in front of us must set down you know." "but i wish they would be quicker. i wonder whether we shall know many people? do you think i shall get partners?" not waiting for her mother's reply, she went on to name some of her acquaintance who she knew would be there, and bewailing the hard fate which was keeping her out of the first dances. mary's excitement and impatience were natural enough. the ball was not like most balls. it was a great battle in the midst of the skirmishes of the season, and she felt the greatness of the occasion. mr. and mrs. porter had for years past dropped into a quiet sort of dinner-giving life, in which they saw few but their own friends and contemporaries. they generally left london before the season was at its height, and had altogether fallen out of the ball-giving and party going world. mary's coming out had changed their way of life. for her sake they had spent the winter at rome, and, now that they were at home again, they were picking up the threads of old acquaintance, and encountering the disagreeables of a return into habits long disused and almost forgotten. the giver of the ball was a stirring man in political life, rich, clever, well-connected, and much sought after. he was an old school-fellow of mr. porter's, and their intimacy had never been wholly laid aside, notwithstanding the severance of their paths in life. now that mary must be taken out, the brook-street house was one of the first to which the porters turned, and the invitation to this ball was one of the first consequences. if the truth must be told, neither her father nor mother were in sympathy with mary as they gradually neared the place of setting down, and would far rather have been going to a much less imposing place, where they could have driven up at once to the door, and would not have been made uncomfortable by the shoutings of their names from servant to servant. however, after the first plunge, when they had made their bows to their kind and smiling hostess, and had passed on into the already well filled rooms, their shyness began to wear off, and they could in some sort enjoy the beauty of the sight from a quiet corner. they were not long troubled with miss mary. she had not been in the ball-room two minutes before the eldest son of the house had found her out and engaged her for the next waltz. they had met several times already, and were on the best terms; and the freshness and brightness of her look and manner, and the evident enjoyment of her partner, as they laughed and talked together in the intervals of the dance, soon attracted the attention of the young men, who began to ask one another, "who is norman dancing with?" and to ejaculate with various strength, according to their several temperaments, as to her face, and figure, and dress. as they were returning towards mrs. porter, norman was pulled by the sleeve more than once, and begged to be allowed to introduce first one and then another of his friends. mary gave herself up to the fascination of the scene. she had never been in rooms so perfectly lighted, with such a floor, such exquisite music, and so many pretty and well-bred looking people, and she gave herself up to enjoy it with all her heart and soul, and danced and laughed and talked herself into the good graces of partner after partner, till she began to attract the notice of some of the ill-natured people who are to be found in every room, and who cannot pardon the pure, and buoyant, and unsuspecting mirth which carries away all but themselves in its bright stream. so mary passed on from one partner to another, with whom we have no concern, until at last a young lieutenant in the guards who had just finished his second dance with her, led up a friend whom he begged to introduce. "miss porter--mr. st. cloud;" and then after the usual preliminaries, mary left her mother's side again and stood up by the side of her new partner. "it is your first season i believe, miss porter?" "yes, my first in london." "i thought so; and you have only just come to town?" "we came back from rome six weeks ago, and have been in town ever since." "but i am sure i have not seen you anywhere this season until to-night. you have not been out much yet?" "yes, indeed. papa and mamma are very good-natured, and go whenever we are asked to a ball, as i am fond of dancing." "how very odd! and yet i am quite sure i should have remembered it if we had met before in town this year." "is it so very odd?" asked mary, laughing; "london is a very large place; it seems very natural that two people should be able to live in it for a long time without meeting." "indeed, you are quite mistaken. you will find out very soon how small london is--at least how small society is, and you will get to know every face quite well--i mean the face of everyone in society." "you must have a wonderful memory!" "yes, i have a good memory for faces, and, by the way, i am sure i have seen you before; but not in town, and i cannot remember where. but it is not at all necessary to have a memory to know everybody in society by sight; you meet every night almost; and altogether there are only two or three hundred faces to remember. and then there is something in the look of people, and the way they come into a room or stand about, which tells you at once whether they are amongst those whom you need trouble yourself about." "well, i cannot understand it. i seem to be in a whirl of faces, and can hardly ever remember any of them." "you will soon get used to it. by the end of the season you will see that i am right. and you ought to make a study of it, or you will never feel at home in london." "i must make good use of my time then. i suppose i ought to know everybody here, for instance?" "almost everybody." "and i really do not know the names of a dozen people." "will you let me give you a lesson?" "oh, yes; i shall be much obliged." "then let us stand here, and we will take them as they pass to the supper-room." so they stood near the door-way of the ball-room, and he ran on, exchanging constant nods and remarks with the passers by, as the stream flowed to and from the ices and cup, and then rattling on to his partner with the names and short sketches of the characters and peculiarities of his large acquaintance. mary was very much amused, and had no time to notice the ill-nature of most of his remarks, and he had the wit to keep within what he considered the most innocent bounds. "there, you know him of course," he said, as an elderly, soldier-like looking man with a star passed them. "yes; at least, i mean i know him by sight. i saw him at the commemoration at oxford last year. they gave him an honorary degree on his return from india." "at oxford! were you present at the grand commemoration, then?" "yes. the commemoration ball was the first public ball i was ever at." "ah! that explains it all. i must have seen you there. i told you we had met before. i was perfectly sure of it." "what! were you there, then?" "yes. i had the honor of being present at your first ball, you see." "but how curious that you should remember me!" "do you really think so? surely there are some faces which, once seen, one can never forget." "i am so glad that you know dear oxford." "i know it too well, perhaps, to share your enthusiasm." "how do you mean?" "i spent nearly three years there." "what, were you at oxford last year?" "yes. i left before commemoration; but i went up for the gaieties, and i am glad of it, as i shall have one pleasant memory of the place now." "oh, i wonder you don't love it! but what college were you of?" "why, you talk like a graduate. i was of st. ambrose." "st. ambrose! that is my college!" "indeed! i wish we had been in residence at the same time." "i mean that we almost lived there at the commemoration." "have you any relation there, then?" "no, not a relation, only a distant connexion." "may i ask his name?" "brown. did you know him?" "yes. we were not in the same set. he was a boating man, i think?" she felt that he was watching her narrowly now, and had great difficulty in keeping herself reasonably composed. as it was she could not help showing a little that she felt embarrassed, and looked down; and changed colour slightly, busying herself with her bouquet. she longed to continue the conversation, but somehow the manner of her partner kept her from doing so. she resolved to recur to the subject carelessly, if they met again, when she knew him better. the fact of his having been at st. ambrose made her wish to know him better, and gave him a good start in her favor. but for the moment she felt that she must change the subject; so, looking up, she fixed on the first people who happened to be passing, and asked who they were. "oh, nobody, constituents probably, or something of that sort." "i don't understand." "why, you see, we are in a political house to-night. so you may set down the people whom nobody knows, as troublesome ten-pounders, or that kind of thing, who would he disagreeable at the next election, if they were not asked." "then you do not include them in society?" "by no manner of means." "and i need not take the trouble to remember their faces?" "of course not. there is a sediment of rubbish at almost every house. at the parties here it is political rubbish. to-morrow night, at lady aubrey's--you will be there, i hope?" "no, we do not know her." "i am sorry for that. well, there we shall have the scientific rubbish; and at other houses you see queer artists, and writing people. in fact, it is the rarest thing in the world to get a party where there is nothing of the kind, and, after all, it is rather amusing to watch the habits of the different species." "well, to me the rubbish, as you call it, seems much like the rest. i am sure these people were ladies and gentlemen." "very likely," he said, lifting his eyebrows; "but you may see at a glance that they have not the air of society. here again, look yourself. you can see that these are constituents." to the horror of st. cloud, the advancing constituents made straight for his partner. "mary, my dear!" exclaimed the lady, "where have you been? we have lost you ever since the last dance." "i have been standing here, mamma," she said; and then, slipping from her late partner's arm, she made a demure little bow, and passed into the ball-room with her father and mother. st. cloud bit his lip, and swore at himself under his breath as he looked after them. "what an infernal idiot i must have been not to know that her people would be sure to turn out something of that sort!" thought he. "by jove, i'll go after them, and set myself right before the little minx has time to think it over!" he took a step or two towards the ball-room, but then thought better of it, or his courage failed him. at any rate, he turned round again, and sought the refreshment-room, where he joined a knot of young gentlemen indulging in delicate little raised pies and salads, and liberal potations at iced claret or champagne cup. amongst them was the guardsman who had introduced him to mary, and who received him, as he came up, with-- "well, st. cloud, i hope you are alive to your obligations to me." "for shunting your late partner on to me? yes, quite." "you be hanged!" replied the guardsman; "you may pretend what you please now, but you wouldn't let me alone till i had introduced you." "are you talking about the girl in white muslin with fern leaves in her hair?" asked another. "yes what do you think of her?" "devilish taking, i think. i say, can't you introduce me? they say she has tin." "i can't say i think much of her looks," said st. cloud, acting up to his principle of telling a lie sooner than let his real thoughts be seen. "don't you?" said the guardsman. "well, i like her form better than anything out this year. such a clean stepper! you should just dance with her." and so they went on criticizing mary and others of their partners, exactly as they would have talked of a stud of racers, till they found themselves sufficiently refreshed to encounter new labors, and broke up returning in twos and threes towards the ball-room. st. cloud attached himself to the guardsman, and returned to the charge. "you seem hit by that girl," he began; "have you known her long?" "about a week--i met her once before to-night." "do you know her people? who is her father?" "a plain-headed old party--you wouldn't think it to look at her--but i hear he is very solvent." "any sons?" "don't know. i like your talking of my being hit, st. cloud. there she is; i shall go and try for another waltz." the guardsman was successful, and carried off mary from her father and mother, who were standing together watching the dancing. st. cloud, after looking them well over, sought out the hostess, and begged to be introduced to mr. and mrs. porter, gleaning, at the same time, some particulars of who they were. the introduction was effected in a minute, the lady of the house being glad to get anyone to talk to the porters, who were almost strangers amongst her other guests. she managed, before leaving them, to whisper to mrs. porter that he was a young man of excellent connexions. st. cloud made the most of his time. he exerted himself to the utmost to please, and, being fluent of speech and thoroughly satisfied with himself, had no shyness or awkwardness to get over, and jumped at once into the good graces of mary's parents. when she returned after the waltz, she found him, to her no small astonishment, deep in conversation with her mother, who was listening with a pleased expression to his small talk. he pretended not to see her at first, and then begged mrs. porter to introduce him formally to her daughter, though he had already had the honour of dancing with her. mary put on her shortest and coldest manner, and thought she had never heard of such impertinence. that he should be there talking so familiarly to her mother after the slip he had made to her was almost too much even for her temper. but she went off for another dance, and again returned and found him still there; this time entertaining mr. porter with political gossip. the unfavourable impression began to wear off, and she soon resolved not to make up her mind about him without some further knowledge. in due course he asked her to dance again, and they stood in a quadrille. she stood by him looking straight before her, and perfectly silent, wondering how he would open the conversation. he did not leave her long in suspense. "what charming people your father and mother are, miss porter!" he said; "i am so glad to have been introduced to them." "indeed! you are very kind. we ought to be flattered by your study of us, and i am sure i hope you will find it amusing." st. cloud was a little embarrassed by the rejoinder, and was not sorry at the moment to find himself called upon to perform the second figure. by the time he was at her side again he had recovered himself. "you can't understand what a pleasure it is to meet some one with a little freshness"--he paused to think how he should end his sentence. "who has not the air of society," she suggested. "yes, i quite understand." "indeed you quite mistake me. surely you have not taken seriously the nonsense i was talking just now?" "i am a constituent, you know--i don't understand how to take the talk of society." "oh, i see, then, that you are angry at my joke, and will not believe that i knew your father perfectly by sight. you really cannot seriously fancy that i was alluding to anyone connected with you;" and then he proceeded to retail the particulars he had picked up from the lady of the house, as if they had been familiar to him for years, and to launch out again into praises of her father and mother. mary looked straight up in his face, and, though he did not meet her eye, his manner was so composed, that she began to doubt her own senses, and then he suddenly changed the subject to oxford and the commemoration, and by the end of the set could flatter himself that he had quite dispelled the cloud which had looked so threatening. mary had a great success that evening. she took part in every dance, and might have had two or three partners at once, if they would have been of any use to her. when, at last, mr. porter insisted that he would keep his horses no longer, st. cloud and the guardsman accompanied her to the door, and were assiduous in the cloak room. young men are pretty much like a drove of sheep; anyone who takes a decided line in certain matters, is sure to lead all the rest. the guardsman left the ball in the firm belief, as he himself expressed it, that mary "had done his business for life;" and, being quite above concealment, persisted in singing her praises over his cigar at the club, to which many of the dancers adjourned; and from that night she became the fashion with the set in which st. cloud lived. the more enterprising of them, he amongst the foremost, were soon intimate in mr. porter's house, and spoke well of his dinners. mr. porter changed his hour of riding in the park at their suggestion, and now he and his daughter were always sure of companions. invitations multiplied, for mary's success was so decided, that she floated her astonished parents into a whirl of balls and breakfasts. mr. porter and his wife were flattered themselves, and pleased to see their daughter admired and enjoying herself; and in the next six weeks mary had the opportunity of getting all the good and the bad which a girl of eighteen can extract from a london season. the test was a severe one. two months of constant excitement, of pleasure-seeking pure and simple, will not leave people just as they found them; and mary's habits, and thoughts, and ways of looking at and judging of people and things, were much changed by the time that the gay world melted away from mayfair and belgravia, and it was time for all respectable people to pull down the blinds and shut the shutters of their town houses. chapter xxxix--what came of the night watch the last knot of the dancers came out of the club, and were strolling up st. james's street, and stopping to chaff the itinerant coffee vendor, who was preparing his stand at the corner of piccadilly for his early customers, just about the time that tom was beginning to rouse himself under the alder-tree, and stretch his stiffened limbs, and sniff the morning air. by the time the guardsman had let himself into his lodgings in mount street, our hero had undergone his unlooked for bath, and was sitting in a state of utter bewilderment as to what was next to be said or done, dripping and disconcerted, opposite to the equally dripping and, to all appearance, equally disconcerted, poacher. at first he did not look higher than his antagonist's boots and gaiters, and spent a few seconds by the way in considering whether the arrangement of nails on the bottom of harry's boots was better than his own. he settled that it must be better for wading on slippery stones, and that he would adopt it, and then passed on to wonder whether harry's boots were as full of water as his own, and whether corduroys, wet through, must not be very uncomfortable so early in the morning, and congratulated himself on being in flannels. and so he hung back for second after second, playing with an absurd little thought that would come into his head and give him ever so brief a respite from the effort of facing the situation, and hoping that harry might do or say something to open the ball. this did not happen. he felt that the longer he waited the harder it would be. he must begin himself. so he raised his head gently, and took a sidelong look at harry's face, to see whether he could not get some hint for starting, from it. but scarcely had he brought his eyes to bear, when they met harry's, peering dolefully up from under his eyebrows, on which the water was standing unwiped, while a piece of green weed, which he did not seem to have presence of mind enough to remove, trailed over his dripping locks. there was something in the sight which tickled tom's sense of humor. he had been prepared for sullen black looks and fierce words, instead of which he was irresistibly reminded of schoolboys caught by their master using a crib, or in other like flagrant delict. harry lowered his eyes at once, but lifted them the next moment with a look of surprise, as he heard tom burst into a hearty fit of laughter. after a short struggle to keep serious, he joined in it himself. "by jove, though, harry, it's no laughing matter," tom said at last, getting on to his legs, and giving himself a shake. harry only replied by looking most doleful again, and picking the weed out of his hair, as he too got up. "what in the world's to be done?" "i'm sure i don't know, master tom." "i'm very much surprised to find you at this work, harry." "i'm sure, so be i, to find you, master tom." tom was not prepared for this line of rejoinder. it seemed to be made with perfect innocence, and yet it put him in a corner at once. he did not care to inquire into the reason of harry's surprise, or to what work he alluded; so he went off on another tack. "let us walk up and down a bit to dry ourselves. now, harry, you'll speak to me openly, man to man, as an old friend should--won't you?" "ay, master tom, and glad to do it." "how long have you taken to poaching?" "since last michaelmas, when they turned me out o' our cottage, and tuk away my bit o' land, and did all as they could to break me down." "who do you mean?" "why, squire wurley as was then--not this one, but the last--and his lawyer, and farmer tester." "then it was through spite to them that you took to it?" "nay, 'twarn't altogether spite, tho' i won't say but what i might ha' thought o' bein' upsides wi them." "what was it then besides spite?" "want o' work. i havn't had no more'n a matter o' six weeks' reg'lar work ever since last fall." "how's that? have you tried for it?" "well, master tom, i won't tell a lie about it. i don't see as i wur bound to go round wi my cap in my hand a beggin' for a day's work to the likes o' them. they knowed well enough as i wur there, ready and willing to work, and they knowed as i wur able to do as good a day's work as e'er man in the parish; and ther's been plenty o' work goin'. but they thought as i should starve, and have to come and beg for't from one or to'ther on 'em. they would ha' liked to ha' seen me clean broke down, that's wut they would, and in the house," and he paused as if his thoughts were getting a little unmanageable. "but you might have gone to look for work elsewhere." "i can't see as i had any call to leave the place where i wur bred up, master tom. that wur just wut they wanted. why should i let 'em drive m'out?" "well, harry, i'm not going to blame you. i only want to know more about what has been happening to you, that i may be able to advise and help you. did you ever try for work, or go and tell your story, at the rectory?" "try for work there! no, i never went arter work there." tom went on without noticing the change in harry's tone and manner-- "then i think you ought to have gone. i know my cousin, miss winter, is so anxious to help any man out of work, and particularly you; for--" the whole story of patty flashed into his mind, and made him stop short and stammer, and look anywhere except at harry. how he could have forgotten it for a moment in that company was a wonder. all his questioning and patronizing powers went out of him and he felt that their positions were changed, and that he was the culprit. it was clear that harry knew nothing yet of his own relations with patty. did he even suspect them? it must all come out now at any rate, for both their sakes, however it might end. so he turned again, and met harry's eye, which was now cold and keen, and suspicious. "you knows all about it, then?" "yes; i know that you have been attached to simon's daughter for a long time, and that he is against it; i wish i could help you, with all my heart. in fact, i did feel my way towards speaking to him about it last year, when i was in hopes of getting you the gardener's place. but i could see that i should do no good." "i've heard say as you was acquainted with her, when she was away?" "yes, i was, when she was with her aunt in oxford. what then?" "'twas there as she larnt her bad ways." "bad ways! what do you mean?" "i means as she larnt to dress fine, and to gee herself airs to them as she'd known from a child, and as'd ha' gone through fire to please her." "i never saw anything of the kind in her. she was a pleasant, lively girl, and dressed neatly, but never above her station. and i'm sure she has too good a heart to hurt an old friend." "wut made her keep shut up in the house when she cum back? ah, for days and weeks;--and arter that, wut made her so flighty and fickle? carryin' herself as proud as a lady a mincin' and a trapesin' along, wi' all the young farmer's a follerin' her, like a fine gentleman's miss." "come, harry, i won't listen to that. you don't believe what you're saying, you know her better." "you knows her well enough by all seeming." "i know her too well to believe any harm of her." "what call have you and the likes o' you wi' her? 'tis no good comes o' such company keepin'." "i tell you again, no harm has come of it to her." "whose hair does she carry about then in that gold thing as she hangs around her neck?" tom blushed scarlet, and lowered his eyes without answering. "dost know? 'tis thine, by--." the words came hissing out between his set teeth. tom put his hands behind him, expecting to be struck as he lifted his eyes, and said,-- "yes, it is mine; and, i tell you again, no harm has come of it." "'tis a lie. i knowed how 'twas, and 'tis thou hast done it." [illustration: ] "tom's blood tingled in his veins, and wild words rushed to his tongue, as he stood opposite the man who had just given him the lie, and who waited his reply with clinched hands, and laboring breast, and fierce eye. but the discipline of the last year stood him in good stead. he stood for a moment or two, crushing his hands together behind his back, drew a long breath, and answered,-- "will you believe my oath, then? i stood by your side at your mother's grave. a man who did that won't lie to you, harry. i swear to you there's no wrong between me and her. there never was fault on her side. i sought her. she never cared for me, she doesn't care for me. as for that locket, i forced it on her. i own i have wronged her, and wronged you. i have repented it bitterly. i ask your forgiveness, harry; for the sake of old times, for the sake of your mother!" he spoke from the heart, and saw that his words went home. "come, harry" he went on, "you won t turn from an old playfellow, who owns the wrong he has done, and will do all he can to make up for it. you'll shake hands, and say you forgive me." tom paused, and held out his hand. the poacher's face worked violently for a moment or two, and he seemed to struggle once or twice to get his hand out in vain. at last he struck it suddenly into tom's, turning his head away at the same time. "'tis what mother would ha' done," he said, "thou cassn't say more. there tis then, though i never thought to do't." this curious and unexpected explanation, brought thus to a happy issue, put tom into high spirits, and at once roused the castle-building power within him, which was always ready enough to wake up. his first care was to persuade harry that he had better give up poaching, and in this he had much less difficulty than he expected. harry owned himself sick of the life he was leading already. he admitted that some of the men with whom he had been associating more or less for the last year were the greatest blackguards in the neighborhood. he asked nothing better than to get out of it. but how? this was all tom wanted. he would see to that; nothing could be easier. "i shall go with you back to englebourn this morning. i'll just leave a note for wurley to say that i'll be back some time in the day to explain matters to him, and then we will be off at once. we shall be at the rectory by breakfast time. ah, i forgot;--well, you can stop at david's while i go and speak to my uncle and to miss winter." harry didn't seem to see what would be the good of this; and david, he said, was not so friendly to him as he had been. "then you must wait at the red lion. don't see the good of it! why, of course, the good of it is that you must be set right with the englebourn people--that's the first thing to do. i shall explain how the case stands to my uncle, and i know that i can get him to let you have your land again if you stay in the parish, even if he can't give you work himself. but what he must do is, to take you up, to show people that he is your friend, harry. well then, if you can get good work--mind it must be real, good, regular work--at farmer grove's, or one of the best farmers, stop here by all means, and i will myself take the first cottage which falls vacant and let you have it, and meantime you must lodge with old david. oh, i'll go and talk him round, never fear. but if you can't get regular work here, why you go off with flying colors; no sneaking off under a cloud and leaving no address. you'll go off with me, as my servant, if you like. but just as you please about that. at any rate, you'll go with me, and i'll take care that it shall be known that i consider you as an old friend. my father has always got plenty of work and will take you on. and then, harry, after a bit you may be sure all will go right, and i shall be your best man, and dance at your wedding before a year's out." there is something in this kind of thing which is contagious and irresistible. tom thoroughly believed all that he was saying; and faith, even of such a poor kind as believing in one's own castles, has its reward. common sense in vain suggested to harry that all the clouds which had been gathering round him for a year were not likely to melt away in a morning. prudence suggested that the sooner he got away the better; which suggestion, indeed, he handed on for what it was worth. but tom treated prudence with sublime contempt. they would go together, he said, as soon as any one was up at the house, just to let him in to change his things and write a note. harry needn't fear any unpleasant consequences. wurley wasn't an ill-natured fellow at bottom, and wouldn't mind a few fish. talking of fish, where was the one he heard kicking just now as harry hauled in the line. they went to the place, and, looking in the long grass, soon found the dead trout, still on the night-line, of which the other end remained in the water. tom seized hold of it, and pulling it carefully in, landed landed another fine trout, while harry stood by, looking rather sheepish. tom inspected the method of the lines, which was simple but awfully destructive. the line was long enough to reach across the stream. at one end was a heavy stone, at the other a short stake cut sharp, and driven into the bank well under the water. at intervals of four feet along the line short pieces of fine gimp were fastened, ending in hooks baited alternately with lob-worms and gudgeon. tom complimented his companion on the killing nature of his cross-line. "where are your other lines, harry?" he asked; "we may as well go and take them up." "a bit higher up stream, master tom;" and so they walked up stream and took up the other lines. "they'll have the finest dish of fish they've seen this long time at the house to-day," said tom, as each line came out with two or three fine thick-shouldered fish on it. "i'll you what, harry, they're deuced well set, these lines of yours, and do you credit. they do; i'm not complimenting you." "i should rather like to be off, master tom, if you don't object. the mornin's gettin' on, and the men will be about. 'twould be unked for i to be caught." "well, harry, if you are so set on it off with you, but"-- "'tis too late now; here's keeper." tom turned sharp round, and, sure enough, there was the keeper coming down the bank towards them, and not a couple of hundred yards off. "so it is," said tom; "well, only hold your tongue, and do just what i tell you." the keeper came up quickly, and touching his hat to tom, looked inquiringly at him, and then at harry. tom nodded to him, as if everything were just as it should be. he was taking a two-pound fish off the last line; having finished which feat he threw it on the ground by the rest. "there keeper," he said, "there's a fine dish of fish. now, pick 'em up and come along." never was keeper more puzzled. he looked from one to the other, lifting the little short hat from the back of his head, and scratching that somewhat thick skull of his, as his habit was when engaged in what he called thinking, conscious that somebody ought to be tackled, and that he, the keeper, was being mystified, but quite at sea as to how he was to set himself straight. "wet, bain't 'ee, sir?" he said at last, nodding at tom's clothes. "dampish, keeper," answered tom; "i may as well go and change, the servants will be up at the house by this time. pick up the fish and come along. you do up the lines, harry." the keeper and harry performed their tasks, looking at one another out of the corners of their eyes like the terriers of rival butchers when the carts happen to stop suddenly in the street close to one another. tom watched them, mischievously delighted with the fun, and then led the way up to the house. when they came to the stable-yard he turned to harry, and said, "stop here, i shan't be ten minutes;" adding, in an undertone, "hold your tongue now;" he then vanished through the dark door, and, hurrying up to his room, changed as quickly as he could. he was within the ten minutes, but, as he descended the back stairs in his dry things, became aware that his stay had been too long. noise and laughter came up from the stable-yard, and shouts of, "go it keeper," "keeper's down," "no he bain't," greeted his astonished ears. he sprang down the last steps and rushed into the stable-yard, where he found harry at his second wrestling match for the day, while two or three stablemen, and a footman, and the gardener, looked on and cheered the combatants with the remarks he had heard on his way down. tom made straight to them, and tapping harry on the shoulder, said-- "now then, come along, i'm ready." whereupon the keeper and harry disengaged, and the latter picked up his cap. "you bain't goin', sir!" said the keeper. "yes, keeper." "not along wi' he?" "yes, keeper." "what, bain't i to take un?" "take him! no, what for?" "for night poachin', look at all them fish," said the keeper indignantly, pointing to the shining heap. "no, no, keeper, you've nothing to do with it. you may give him the lines though, harry. i've left a note for your master on my dressing table," tom said, turning to the footman, "let him have it at breakfast. i'm responsible for him," nodding at harry, "i shall be back in a few hours, and now come along." and, to the keeper's astonishment, tom left the stable-yard, accompanied by harry. they were scarcely out of hearing before the stable-yard broke out into uproarious laughter at the keeper's expense and much rude banter was inflicted on him for letting the poacher go. but the keeper's mind for the moment was full of other things. disregarding their remarks he went on scratching his head, and burst out at last with-- "dang un! i knows i should ha' drowed un." "drow your grandmother," politely remarked one of the stablemen, an acquaintance of harry winburn, who knew his repute as a wrestler. "i should, i tell 'ee," said the keeper as he stooped to gather up the fish, "and to think as he should ha' gone off. master 'll be like any wild beast when he hears on't. how s'mever, 'tis mr. brown's doin's. 'tis a queer start for a gen'l'man like he to be goin' off wi' a poacher chap and callin' of un harry. 'tis past me altogether. but i s'pose he bain't right in's 'ead;" and, so soliloquizing, he carried off the fish to the kitchen. meantime, on their walk to englebourn, harry, in answer to tom's inquiries, explained that in his absence the stable-man, his acquaintance, had come up and begun to talk. the keeper had joined in and accused him point-blank of being the man who had thrown him into the furze bush. the story of the keeper's discomfiture on that occasion being well known, a laugh had been raised in which harry had joined. this brought on a challenge to try a fall then and there, which harry had accepted, notwithstanding his long morning's work and the ducking he had had. they laughed over the story, though harry could not help expressing his fears as to how it might all end. they reached englebourn in time for breakfast. tom appeared at the rectory, and soon he and katie were on their old terms. she was delighted to find that he had had an explanation with harry winburn; and that there was some chance of bringing that sturdy offender once more back into decent ways;--more delighted perhaps to hear the way in which he spoke of patty, to whom after breakfast she paid a visit, and returned in due time with the unfortunate locket. tom felt as if another coil of the chain he had tied about himself had fallen off. he went out into the village, consulted again with harry, and returned again to the rectory, to consider what steps were to be taken to get him work. katie entered into the matter heartily, though forseeing the difficulties in the case. at luncheon the rector was to be sounded on the subject of the allotments. but in the middle of their plans, they were startled by the news that a magistrate's warrant had arrived in the village for the arrest of harry as a night poacher. tom returned to the grange furious, and before night had had a worse quarrel with young wurley than with his uncle before him. had duelling been in fashion still in england, they would probably have fought in a quiet corner of the park before night. as it was they only said bitter things, and parted, agreeing not to know one another in the future. three days afterwards, at petty sessions, where tom brought upon himself the severe censure of the bench for his conduct on the trial, harry winburn was committed to reading gaol for three months. readers who will take the trouble to remember the picture of our hero's mental growth during the past year, attempted to be given in a late chapter, and the state of restless dissatisfaction into which his experiences and thoughts and readings had thrown him by the time long vacation had come around again, will perhaps be prepared for the catastrophe which ensued on the conviction and sentence of harry winburn at petty sessions. hitherto, notwithstanding the strength of the new and revolutionary forces which were mustering round it, there had always been a citadel holding out in his mind, garrisoned by all that was best in the toryism in which he had been brought up--by loyalty, reverence for established order and established institutions; by family traditions, and the pride of an inherited good name. but now the walls of that citadel went down with a crash, the garrison being put to the sword, or making away, to hide in an out of the way corner, and wait for a reaction. it was much easier for a youngster, whose attention was once turned to such subjects as had been occupying tom, to get hold of wild and violent beliefs and notions in those days than now. the state of europe generally was far more dead and hopeless. there were no wars, certainly, and no expectations of wars. but there was a dull, beaten-down, pent-up feeling abroad, as if the lid were screwed down on the nations, and the thing which had been, however cruel and heavy and mean, was that which was to remain to the end. england was better off than her neighbours, but yet in bad case. in the south and west particularly, several causes had combined, to spread a very bitter feeling abroad amongst the agricultural poor. first among these stood the new poor law, the provisions of which were vigorously carried out in most districts. the poor had as yet felt the harshness only of the new system. then the land was in many places in the hands of men on their last legs, the old sporting farmers, who had begun business as young men while the great war was going on, had made their money hand over hand for a few years out of the war prices, and had tried to go on living with greyhounds and yeomanry uniforms--"horse to ride and weapon to wear"--through the hard years which had followed. these were bad masters every way, unthrifty, profligate, needy, and narrow-minded. the younger men who were supplanting them were introducing machinery, threshing machines and winnowing machines, to take the little bread which a poor man was still able to earn out of the mouths of his wife and children--so at least the poor thought and muttered to one another; and the mutterings broke out every now and then in the long nights of the winter months in blazing ricks and broken machines. game preserving was on the increase. australia and america had not yet become familiar words in every english village, and the labour market was everywhere overstocked; and, last but not least, the corn laws were still in force, and the bitter and exasperating strife in which they went out was at its height. and while swing and his myrmidons were abroad in the counties, and could scarcely be kept down by yeomanry and poor law guardians, the great towns were in almost worse case. here too emigration had not set in to thin the labour market; wages were falling, and prices rising; the corn law struggle was better understood and far keener than in the country; and chartism was gaining force every day, and rising into a huge threatening giant, waiting to put forth his strength, and eager for the occasion which seemed at hand. you generation of young englishmen, who were too young then to be troubled with such matters, and have grown into manhood since, you little know--may you never know!--what it is to be living the citizens of a divided and distracted nation. for the time that danger is past. in a happy home and so far as man can judge, in time, and only just in time, came the repeal of the corn laws, and the great cause of strife and the sense of injustice passed away out of men's minds. the nation was roused by the irish famine, and the fearful distress in other parts of the country, to begin looking steadily and seriously at some of the sores which were festering in its body, and undermining health and life. and so the tide had turned, and england had already passed the critical point; when came upon christendom, and the whole of europe leapt up into a wild blaze of revolution. is anyone still inclined to make light of the danger that threatened england in that year, to sneer at the th of april, and the monster petition, and the monster meetings on kennington and other commons? well, if there be such persons among my readers, i can only say that they can have known nothing of what was going on around them and below them, at that time, and i earnestly hope that their vision has become clearer since then, and that they are not looking with the same eyes that see nothing, at the signs of today. for that there are questions still to be solved by us in england, in this current half-century, quite as likely to tear the nation to pieces as the corn laws, no man with half an eye in his head can doubt. they may seem little clouds like a man's hand on the horizon just now, but they will darken the whole heaven before long, unless we can find wisdom enough amongst us to take the little clouds in hand in time, and make them descend in soft rain. but such matters need not be spoken of here. all i want to do is to put my young readers in a position to understand how it was that our hero fell away into beliefs and notions, at which mrs. grundy and all decent people could only lift up eyes and hands in pious and respectable horror, and became, soon after the incarceration of his friend for night poaching, little better than a physical force chartist at the age of twenty-one. chapter xl hue and cry at the end of a gusty wild october afternoon, a man, leading two horses, was marching up and down the little plot of short turf at the top of the hawk's lynch. every now and then he would stop on the brow of the hill to look over the village, and seemed to be waiting for somebody from that quarter. after being well blown, he would turn to his promenade again, or go in under the clump of firs, through which the rising south-west wind, rushing up from the vale below, was beginning to make a moan; and, hitching the horses to some stump or bush, and patting and coaxing them to induce them, if so might be, to stand quiet for a while, would try to settle himself to leeward of one of the larger trees. but the fates were against all attempts at repose. he had scarcely time to produce a cheroot from his case and light it under many difficulties, when the horses would begin fidgeting, and pulling at their bridles, and shifting round to get their tails to the wind. they clearly did not understand the necessity of the position, and were inclined to be moving stable-wards. so he had to get up again, sling the bridles over his arm, and take to his march up and down the plot of turf; now stopping for a moment or two to try to get his cheroot to burn straight, and pishing and pshawing over its perverseness; now going again and again to the brow, and looking along the road which led to the village, holding his hat on tight with one hand,--for by this time it was blowing half a gale of wind. though it was not yet quite the hour for his setting, the sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of wicked slate-coloured cloud, which looked as though it were rising straight up into the western heavens, while the wind whirled along and twisted into quaint shapes a ragged rift of white vapor, which went hurrying by, almost touching the tops of the moaning firs,--altogether an uncanny evening to be keeping tryst at the top of a wild knoll; and so thought our friend with the horses, and showed it, too, clearly enough, had anyone been there to put a construction on his impatient movements. there was no one nearer than the village, of which the nearest house was half a mile and more away; so, by way of passing the time, we must exercise our privilege of putting into words what he is half thinking, half muttering to himself:-- "a pleasant night i call this, to be out on a wild goose chase. if ever i saw a screaming storm brewing, there it comes. i'll be hanged if i stop up here to be caught in it for all the crack-brained friends i ever had in the world; and i seem to have a faculty for picking up none but crack-brained ones. i wonder what the plague can keep him so long; he must have been gone an hour. there, steady, steady, old horse. confound this weed! what rascals these tobacconists are! you never can get a cheroot now worth smoking. every one of them goes sputtering up the side, or charring up the middle, and tasting like tow soaked in saltpetre and tobacco juice. well, i suppose i shall get the real thing in india." "india! in a month from to-day we shall be off. to hear our senior major talk, one might as well be going to the bottomless pit at once. well, he'll sell out--that's a comfort. gives us a step, and gets rid of an old ruffian. i don't seem to care much what the place is like if we only get some work; and there will be some work there before long, by all accounts. no more garrison-town life, at any rate. and if i have any luck--a man may get a chance there." "what the deuce can he be about? this all comes of sentiment, now. why couldn't i go quietly off to india without bothering up to oxford to see him? not but what it's a pleasant place enough. i've enjoyed my three days there uncommonly. food and drink all that can be wished, and plenty of good fellows and fun. the look of the place, too, makes one feel respectable. but, by george, if their divinity is at all like their politics, they must turn out a queer set of parsons--at least if brown picked up his precious notions at oxford. he always was a headstrong beggar. what was it he was holding forth about last night? let's see. 'the sacred right of insurrection.' yes, that was it, and he talked as if he believed it all too; and if there should be a row, which don't seem unlikely, by jove, i think he'd act on it, in the sort of temper he's in. how about the sacred right of getting hung or transported? i shouldn't wonder to hear of that some day. gad! suppose he should be in for an installment of his sacred right to-night. he's capable of it, and of lugging me in with him. what did he say we were come here for? to get some fellow out of a scrape, he said--some sort of poaching radical foster-brother of his, who had been in gaol, and deserved it too, i'll be bound. and he couldn't go down quietly into the village and put up at the public, where i might have set in the tap, and not run the chance of having my skin blown over my ears, and my teeth down my throat, on this cursed look-out place, because he's _too well known_ there. what does that mean? upon my soul, it looks bad. they may be lynching a j. p. down there, or making a spread eagle of the parish constable at this minute, for anything i know, and as sure as fate, if they are, i shall get my foot in it." "it will read sweetly in the naval and military intelligence--'a court-martial was held this day at chatham, president, colonel smith, of her majesty's st regiment, to try henry east, a lieutenant in the same distinguished corps, who has been under arrest since the th ult., for aiding and abetting the escape of a convict, and taking part in a riot in the village of englebourn, in the county of berks. the defense of the accused was that he had a sentimental friendship for a certain thomas brown, an undergraduate of st. ambrose college, oxford, &c. &c.; and the sentence of the court--' "hang it! it's no laughing matter. many a fellow has been broken for not making half such a fool of himself as i have done, coming out here on this errand. i'll tell t. b. a bit of my mind as sure as-- "hullo! didn't i hear a shout? only the wind, i believe. how it does blow! one of these firs will be down, i expect, just now. the storm will burst in a quarter of an hour. here goes! i shall ride down into the village, let what will come of it. steady now--steady. stand still you old fool; can't you?" "there, now i'm all right. solomon said something about a beggar on horseback. was is solomon, though? never mind. he couldn't ride. never had a horse till he was grown up. but he said some uncommon wise things about having to do with such friends as t. b. so, harry east, if you please, no more tomfoolery after to-day. you've got a whole skin, and a lieutenant's commission to make your way in the world with, and are troubled with no particular crotchets yourself that need ever get you into trouble. so just you keep clear of other people's. and if your friends must be mending the world, and poor men's plastering, and running their heads against stone walls, why, just you let go of their coat tails." so muttering and meditating, harry east paused a moment after mounting, to turn up the collar of the rough shooting-coat which he was wearing, and button it up to the chin, before riding down the hill, when, in the hurly-burly of the wind, a shout came spinning past his ears, plain enough this time; he heard the gate at the end of englebourn lane down below him shut with a clang, and saw two men running at full speed towards him, straight up the hill. "oh! here you are at last," he said, as he watched them. "well, you don't lose your time now. somebody must be after them. what's he shouting and waving his hand for? oh, i'm to bring the cavalry supports down the slope, i suppose. well, here goes; he has brought off his pal the convict i see-- says he, you've 'scaped from transportation all upon the briny main; so never give way to no temptation, and don't get drunk nor prig again! there goes the gate again. by jove, what's that? dragoons, as i'm a sinner! there's going to be the d-----st bear-fight." saying which, harry east dug his heels into his horse's sides, holding him up sharply with the curb at the same time, and in another moment, was at the bottom of the solitary mound on which he had been perched for the last hour, and on the brow of the line of hill out of which it rose so abruptly, just at the point for which the two runners were making. he had only time to glance at the pursuers, and saw that one or two rode straight on the track of the fugitives, while the rest skirted away along a parish road which led up the hill side by an easier ascent, when tom and his companion were by his side. tom seized the bridle of the led horse, and was in the saddle with one spring. "jump up behind," he shouted; "now, then, come along." "who are they?" roared east,--in that wind nothing but a shout could be heard,--pointing over his shoulder with his thumb as they turned to the heath. "yeomanry." "after you?" tom nodded, as they broke into a gallop, making straight across the heath towards the oxford road. they were some quarter of a mile in advance before any of their pursuers showed over the brow of the hill behind them. it was already getting dusk, and the great bank of cloud was by this time all but upon them, making the atmosphere denser and darker every second. then, first one of the men appeared who had ridden straight up the hill under the hawk's lynch, and, pulling up for a moment, caught sight of them and gave chase. half a minute later, and several of those who had kept to the road were also in sight, some distance away on the left, but still near enough to be unpleasant; and they too after a moment's pause, were in full pursuit. at first the fugitives held their own, and the distance between them and their pursuers was not lessened; but it was clear that this could not last. anything that horse-flesh is capable of, a real good oxford hack, such as they rode, will do; but to carry two full-grown men at the end of a pretty long day, away from fresh horses and moderate weights, is too much to expect even of oxford horse-flesh; and the gallant beast which tom rode was beginning to show signs of distress when they struck into the road. there was a slight dip in the ground a this place, and a little further on the heath rose suddenly again, and the road ran between high banks for a short distance. as they reached this point they disappeared for the moment from the yeomanry, and the force of the wind was broken by the banks, so that they could breathe more easily, and hear one another's voices. tom looked anxiously round at the lieutenant, who shrugged his shoulders in answer to the look, as he bent forward to ease his own horse, and said-- "can't last another mile." "what's to be done?" east again shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. "i know, master tom," said harry winburn. "what?" "pull up a bit, sir." tom pulled up, and his horse fell into a walk willingly enough, while east passed on a few strides ahead. harry winburn sprang off. "you ride on now, master tom," he said, "i knows the heath well; you let me bide." "no, no, harry, not i. i won't leave you now, so let them come, and be hanged." east had pulled up, and listened to their talk. "look here, now," he said to harry; "put your arm over the hind part of his saddle, and run by the side; you'll find you can go as fast as the horse. now, you two push on, and strike across the heath. i'll keep the road, and take off this joker behind, who is the only dangerous customer." "that's like you, old boy," said tom, "then we'll meet at the first public beyond the heath." they passed ahead in their turn, and turned on to the heath, harry running by the side, as the lieutenant had advised. east looked after them, and then put his horse into a steady trot, muttering, "like me! yes, devilish like me; i know that well enough. didn't i always play cat's-paw to his monkey at school? but that convict don't seem such a bad lot after all." meantime, tom and harry struck away over the heath, as the darkness closed in, and the storm drove down. they stumbled on over the charred furze roots, and splashed through the sloppy peat cuttings, casting anxious, hasty looks over their shoulders as they fled, straining every nerve to get on, and longing for night and the storm. "hark! wasn't that a pistol-shot?" said tom, as they floundered on. the sound came from the road they had left. "look, here's some on 'em, then," said harry; and tom was aware of two horsemen coming over the brow of the hill on their left, some three hundred yards to the rear. at the same instant his horse stumbled, and came down on his nose and knees. tom went off over his shoulder, tumbling against harry, and sending him headlong to the ground, but keeping hold of the bridle. they were up again in a moment. "are you hurt?" "no." "come along, then," and tom was in the saddle again, when the pursuers raised a shout. they had caught sight of them now, and spurred down the slope towards them. tom was turning his horse's head straight away, but harry shouted,-- "keep to the left, master tom,--to the left, right on." it seemed like running into the lion's jaws, but he yielded, and they pushed on down the slope on which they were. another shout of triumph rose on the howling wind; tom's heart sank within him. the enemy was closing on them at every stride; another hundred yards, and they must meet at the bottom of the slope. what could harry be dreaming of? the thought had scarcely time to cross his brain, when down went the two yeomen, horse and man, floundering in a bog above their horses' girths. at the same moment the storm burst on them, the driving mist and pelting rain. the chase was over. they could not have seen a regiment of men at fifty yards' distance. "you let me lead the horse, master tom," shouted harry winburn; "i knowed where they was going; 'twill take they the best part o' the night to get out o' that, i knows." "all right, let's get back to the road, then, as soon as we can," said tom, surrendering his horse's head to harry, and turning up his collar, to meet the pitiless deluge which was driving on their flanks. they were drenched to the skin in two minutes; tom jumped off, and plodded along on the opposite side of his horse to harry. they did not speak; there was very little to be said under the circumstances, and a great deal to be thought about. harry winburn probably knew the heath as well as any man living, but even he had much difficulty in finding his way back to the road through that storm. however, after some half-hour, spent in beating about, they reached it, and turned their faces northwards towards oxford. by this time night had come on; but the fury of the storm had passed over them, and the moon began to show every now and then through the driving clouds. at last tom roused himself out of the brown study in which he had been hitherto plodding along, and turned down his coat collar, and shook himself, and looked up at the sky, and across at his companion, who was still leading the horse along mechanically. it was too dark to see his face, but his walk and general look were listless and dogged; at last tom broke silence. "you promised not to do anything, after you came out, without speaking to me." harry made no reply; so presently he went on:-- "i didn't think you'd have gone in for such a business as that to-night. i shouldn't have minded so much if it had only been machine-breaking; but robbing the cellar and staving in the ale casks and maiming cattle--" "i'd no hand in that," interrupted harry. "i'm glad to hear it. you were certainly leaning against the gate when i came up, and taking no part in it; but you were one of the leaders of the riot." "he brought it on hisself," said harry, doggedly. "tester is a bad man, i know that; and the people have much to complain of: but nothing can justify what was done to-night." harry made no answer. "you're known, and they'll be after you the first thing in the morning. i don't know what's to be done." "'tis very little odds what happens to me." "you've no right to say that, harry. your friends--" "i ain't got no friends." "well, harry, i don't think you ought to say that after what has happened to-night. i don't mean to say that my friendship has done you much good yet; but i've done what i could, and--" "so you hev', master tom, so you hev'." "and i'll stick by you through thick and thin, harry. but you must take heart and stick by yourself, or we shall never pull you through." harry groaned, and then, turning at once to what was always uppermost in his mind, said,-- "'tis no good, now i've been in gaol. her father wur allus agin me. and now, how be i ever to hold up my head at whoam? i seen her once arter i came out." "well, and what happened?" said tom, after waiting a moment or two. "she just turned red and pale, and was all flustered like, and made as though she'd have held out her hand; and then tuk and hurried off like a frightened hare, as though she heerd somebody comin'. ah! 'tis no good! 'tis no good!" "i don't see anything very hopeless in that," said tom. "i've knowed her since she wur that high," went on harry, holding out his hand about as high as the bottom of his waistcoat, without noticing the interruption, "when her and i went gleanin' together. 'tis what i've thought on, and lived for. 'tis four year and better since she and i broke a sixpence auver't. and at times it sim'd as tho' 'twould all cum right, when my poor mother wur livin', tho' her never tuk to it kindly, mother didn't. but 'tis all gone now! and i be that mad wi' myself, and mammered, and down, i be ready to hang myself, master tom; and if they just teks and transports me--" "oh, nonsense, harry! you must keep out of that. we shall think of some way to get you out of that before morning. and you must get clear away, and go to work on the railways or somewhere. there's nothing to be downhearted about as far as patty is concerned." "ah! 'tis they as wears it as knows where the shoe pinches. you'd say different if 'twas you, master tom." "should i?" said tom; and, after pausing a moment or two, he went on. "what i'm going to say is in confidence. i've never told it to any man yet, and only one has found it out. now, harry, i'm much worse off than you are at this minute. don't i know where the shoe pinches! why i haven't seen--i've scarcely heard of--of--well, of my sweetheart--there, you'll understand that--for this year and more. i don't know when i may see her again. i don't know that she hasn't clean forgotten me. i don't know that she ever cared a straw for me. now you know quite well that you are better off than that." "i bean't so sure o' that, master tom. but i be terrible vexed to hear about you." "never mind about me. you say you're not sure, harry. come, now, you said, not two minutes ago, that you two had broken a sixpence over it. what does that mean, now?" "ah! but 'tis four years gone. her's been a leadin' o' me up and down, and a dancin' o' me round and round purty nigh ever since, let alone the time as she wur at oxford, when--" "well, we won't talk of that, harry. come, will yesterday do for you? if you thought she was all right yesterday, would that satisfy you?" "ees; and summat to spare." "you don't believe it, i see. well, why do you think i came after you to-night? how did i know what was going on?" "that's just what i've been a-axin' o' myself as we cum along." "well, then, i'll tell you. i came because i got a note from her yesterday at oxford." tom paused, for he heard a muttered growl from the other side of the horse's head, and could see, even in the fitful moonlight, the angry toss of the head with which his news was received, "i didn't expect this, harry," he went on presently, "after what i told you just now about myself, it was a hard matter to tell it at all; but, after telling you, i didn't think you'd suspect me any more. however, perhaps i've deserved it. so, to go on with what i was saying, two years ago, when i came to my senses about her, and before i cared for anyone else, i told her to write if ever i could do her a service. anything that a man could do for his sister i was bound to do for her, and i told her so. she never answered till yesterday, when i got this note," and he dived into the inner breast pocket of his shooting. coat. "if it isn't soaked to pulp, it's in my pocket now. yes, here it is," and he produced a dirty piece of paper, and handed it across to his companion. "when there's light enough to read it, you'll see plain enough what she means, though your name is not mentioned." having finished his statement, tom retired into himself, and walked along watching the hurrying clouds. after they had gone some hundred yards, harry cleared his throat once or twice, and at last broke out,-- "master tom." "well." "you bean't offended wi' me, sir, i hopes?" "no, why should i be offended?" "'cause i knows i be so all-fired jealous, i can't a'bear to hear o' her talkin', let alone writin' to--" "out with it. to me, you were going to say." "nay, 'tis mwore nor that." "all right, harry, if you only lump me with the rest of mankind, i don't care. but you needn't be jealous of me, and you mustn't be jealous of me, or i sha'n't be able to help you as i want to do. i'll give you my hand and word on it as man to man, there's no thought in my heart towards her that you mightn't see this minute. do you believe me?" "ees; and you'll forgive--" "there's nothing to forgive, harry. but now you'll allow your case isn't such a bad one. she must keep a good lookout after you to know what you were likely to be about to-day. and if she didn't care for you, she wouldn't have written to me. that's good sense, i think." harry assented, and then tom went into a consideration of what was to be done, and, as usual, fair castles began to rise in the air. harry was to start down the line at once, and take work on the railway. in a few weeks he would be captain of a gang, and then what was to hinder his becoming a contractor, and making his fortune, and buying a farm of his own at englebourn? to all which harry listened with open ears till they got off the heath, and came upon a small hamlet of some half-dozen cottages scattered along the road. "there's a public here, i suppose," said tom, returning to the damp realities of life. harry indicated the humble place of entertainment for man and horse. "that's all right. i hope we shall find my friend here;" and they went towards the light which was shining temptingly through the latticed window of the road-side inn. chapter xli--the lieutenant's sentiments and problems "stop! it looks so bright that there must be something going on. surely the yeomanry can never have come on here already?" tom laid his hand on the bridle, and they halted on the road opposite the public-house, which lay a little back, with an open space of ground before it. the sign-post, and a long water-trough for the horses of guests to drink at, were pushed forward to the side of road to intimate the whereabouts of the house, and the hack which harry led was already drinking eagerly. "stay here for a minute, and i'll go to the window, and see what's up inside. it's very unlucky, but it will never do for us to go in if there are any people there." tom stole softly up to the window out of which the light came. a little scrap of a curtain was drawn across a portion of it, but he could see easily into the room on either side of the curtain. the first glance comforted him, for he saw at once that there was only one person in the kitchen; but who and what he might be was a puzzle. the only thing which was clear at a first glance was, that he was making himself at home. the room was a moderate-sized kitchen, with a sanded floor, and a large fire-place; a high wooden screen, with a narrow seat in front of it, ran along the side on which the door from the entrance-passage opened. in the middle there was a long rough walnut table, on which stood a large loaf, some cold bacon and cheese, and a yellow jug; a few heavy rush-bottomed chairs and a settle composed the rest of the furniture. on the wall were a few samplers, a warming pan, and shelves with some common delf plates, and cups and saucers. but though the furniture was meagre enough, the kitchen had a look of wondrous comfort for a drenched mortal outside. tom felt this keenly, and, after a glance round, fixed his attention on the happy occupant, with the view of ascertaining whether he would be a safe person to intrude on under the circumstances. he was seated on a low, three-cornered oak seat, with his back to the window, steadying a furze fagot on the fire with the poker. the fagot blazed and crackled, and roared up the chimney, sending out the bright flickering light which had attracted them, and forming a glorious top to the glowing clear fire of wood embers beneath, into which was inserted a long, funnel-shaped tin, out of which the figure helped himself to some warm compound, when he had settled the fagot to his satisfaction. he was enveloped as to his shoulders in a heavy, dirty-white coat, with huge cape and high collar, which hid the back of his head, such as was then in use by country carriers; but the garment was much too short for him, and his bare arms came out a foot beyond the end of the sleeves. the rest of his costume was even more eccentric, being nothing more or less than a coarse flannel petticoat, and his bare feet rested on the mat in front of the fire. tom felt a sudden doubt as to his sanity, which doubt was apparently shared by the widow woman, who kept the house, and her maid-of-all-work, one or other of whom might be seen constantly keeping an eye on their guest from behind the end of the wooden screen. however, it was no time to be over particular; they must rest before going further, and, after all, it was only one man. so tom thought, and was just on the point of calling harry to come on, when the figure turned round towards the window, and the face of the lieutenant disclosed itself between the high-peaked gills of the carrier's coat. tom burst out into a loud laugh, and called out,-- "it's all right, come along." "i'll just look to the hosses, master tom." "very well, and then come into the kitchen;" saying which, he hurried into the house, and after tumbling against the maid-of-all-work in the passage, emerged from behind the screen. "well, here we are at last, old fellow," he said, slapping east on the shoulder. "oh, it's you, is it? i thought you were in the lock-up by this time." east's costume, as he sat looking up, with a hand on each knee, was even more ridiculous on a close inspection, and tom roared with laughter again. "i don't see the joke," said east without moving a muscle. "you would, though, if you could see yourself. you wonderful old guy, where did you pick up that toggery?" "the late lamented husband of the widow higgs, our landlady, was the owner of the coat. he also bequeathed to her several pairs of breeches, which i have vainly endeavored to get into. the late lamented higgs was an abominably small man. he must have been very much her worse half. so, in default of other clothing, the widow has kindly obliged me by the loan of one of her own garments." "where are your own clothes?" "there," said east, pointing to a clothes' horse, which tom had not hitherto remarked, which stood well into the chimney corner; "and they are dry, too," he went on, feeling them; "at least the flannel shirt and trousers are, so i'll get into them again." "i say, ma'am," he called out, addressing the screen, "i'm going to change my things. so you had better not look in just now. in fact, we can call now, if we want anything." at this strong hint the widow higgs was heard bustling away behind the screen, and after her departure east got into some of his own clothes again, offering the cast-off garments of the higgs family to tom, who, however, declined, contenting himself with taking off his coat and waistcoat, and hanging them upon the horse. he had been blown comparatively dry in the last half-hour of his walk. while east was making his toilet, tom turned to the table, and made an assault on the bread and bacon, and then poured himself out a glass of beer and began to drink it, but was pulled up half way, and put it down with a face all drawn up into puckers by its sharpness. "i thought you wouldn't appreciate the widow's tap," said east, watching him with a grin. "regular whistle-belly vengeance, and no mistake! here, i don't mind giving you some of my compound, though you don't deserve it." so tom drew his chair to the fire, and smacked his lips over the long-necked glass, which east handed to him. "ah! that's not bad tipple after such a ducking as we've had. dog's-nose, isn't it?" east nodded. "well, old fellow, i will say you are the best hand i know at making the most of your opportunities. i don't know of anyone else who could have made such a good brew out of that stuff and a drop of gin." east was not to be mollified by any such compliment. "have you got many more such jobs as to-day's on hand? i should think they must interfere with reading." "no. but i call to-day's a real good job." "do you? i don't agree. of course it's a matter of taste. i have the honor of holding her majesty's commission; so i may be prejudiced, perhaps." "what difference does it make whose commission you hold? you wouldn't hold any commission, i know, which would bind you to be a tyrant and oppress the weak and the poor." "humbug about your oppressing! who is the tyrant, i should like to know, the farmer, or the mob that destroys his property? i don't call swing's mob the weak and the poor." "that's all very well; but i should like to know how you'd feel if you had no work and a starving family. you don't know what people have to suffer. the only wonder is that all the country isn't in a blaze; and it will be if things last as they are much longer. it must be a bad time which makes such men as harry winburn into rioters." "i don't know anything about harry winburn. but i know there's a good deal to be said on the yeomanry side of the question." "well, now, east, just consider this-" "no, i'm not in the humour for considering. i don't want to argue with you." "yes, that's always the way. you won't hear what a fellow's got to say, and then set him down for a mischievous fool, because he won't give up beliefs founded on the evidence of his own eyes, and ears, and reason." "i don't quarrel with any of your beliefs. you've got 'em--i haven't--that's just the difference between us. you've got some sort of faith to fall back upon, in equality, and brotherhood, and a lot of cursed nonsense of that kind. so, i daresay, you could drop down into a navigator, or a shoeblack, or something in that way, to-morrow, and think it pleasant. you might rather enjoy a trip across the water at the expense of your country, like your friend the convict here." "don't talk such rot, man. in the first place, he isn't a convict; you know that well enough." "he is just out of prison, at any rate. however, this sort of thing isn't my line of country at all. so the next time you want to do a bit of gaol delivery on your own hook, don't ask me to help you." "well, if i had known all that was going to happen, i wouldn't have asked you to come, old fellow. come, give us another glass of your dog's-nose, and no more of your sermon, which isn't edifying." the lieutenant filled the long-necked glass which tom held out, with the creaming mixture, which he was nursing in the funnel-shaped tin. but he was not prepared to waive his right to lecture, and so continued, while tom sipped his liquor with much relish, and looked comically across at his old schoolfellow. "some fellows have a call to set the world right--i haven't. my gracious sovereign pays me seven and sixpence a day; for which sum i undertake to be shot at on certain occasions and by proper persons, and i hope when the time comes i shall take it as well as another. but that doesn't include turning out to be potted at like a woodcock on your confounded berkshire wilds by a turnip-headed yeoman. it isn't to be done at the figure." "what in the world do you mean?" "i mean just what i say." "that one of those unspeakable yeomanry has been shooting at you?" "just so." "no, you don't really mean it? wh-e-e-w! then that shot we heard was fired at you. 'pon my honor, i'm very sorry." "much good your sorrow would have done me if your precious countryman had held straight." "well, what can i say more, east? if there's anything i can do to show you that i really am very sorry and ashamed at having brought you into such a scrape, only tell me what it is." "i don't suppose your word would go for much at the horse guards, or i'd ask you to give me a character for coolness under fire." "come, i see you're joking now, old fellow. do tell us how it happened." "well, when you turned off across the common, i pulled up for half a minute, and then held on at a steady slow trot. if i had pushed on ahead, my friend behind would have been just as likely to turn after you as after me. presently i heard number one coming tearing along behind; and as soon as he got from between the banks, he saw me and came straight after me down the road. you were well away to the left, so now i just clapped on a bit, to lead him further away from the right scent, and on he came, whooping and hallooing to me to pull up. i didn't see why i hadn't just as good a right to ride along the road at my own pace as he; so the more he shouted, the more i didn't stop. but the beggar had the legs of me. he was mounted on something deuced like a thoroughbred, and gained on me hand over hand. at last when i judged he must be about twenty yards behind, i thought i might as well have a look at him, so i just turned for a moment, when, by jove, there was my lord, lugging a pistol out of his right holster. he shouted again to me to stop. i turned, ducked my head, and the next moment he pulled trigger, and missed me." "and what happened then," said tom, eagerly drawing a long breath. "why, i flatter myself i showed considerable generalship. if i had given him time to get at his other pistol, or his toasting fork, it was all up. i dived into my pocket, where by good luck there was some loose powder, and copper caps, and a snuff-box; upset the snuff, grabbed a handful of the mixture, and pulled hard at my horse. next moment he was by my side, lifting his pistol to knock me over. so i gave him the mixture right in the face, and let him go by. up went both his hands, and away went he and his horse, somewhere over the common out of sight. i just turned round, and walked quietly back. i didn't see the fun of accepting any more attacks in the rear. then up rides number two, a broad-faced young farmer on a big gray horse, blowing like a grampus. he pulled up short when we met, and stared, and i walked past him. you never saw a fellow look more puzzled. i had regularly stale-mated him. however, he took heart, and shouted, 'had i met the captain?' i said, 'a gentleman had ridden by on a bright bay.' 'that was he; which way had he gone?' so i pointed generally over the common, and number two departed; and then down came the storm, and i turned again, and came on here." "the captain! it must have been wurley, then, who fired at you." "i don't know who it was. i only hope he won't be blinded." "it's a strange business altogether," said tom, looking into the fire; "i scarcely know what to think of it. we should never have pulled through but for you, that's certain." "i know what to think of it well enough," said east. "but now let's hear what happened to you. they didn't catch you, of course?" "no, but it was touch and go. i thought it was all up at one time, for harry would turn right across their line. but he knew what he was about; there was a bog between us, and they came on right into it, and we left them floundering." "the convict seems to have his head about him, then. where is he, by the way? i'm curious to have a look at him." "looking after the horses. i'll call him in. he ought have something to drink." tom went to the door and called harry, who came out from the rough shed which served as a stable, in his shirt, with a wisp of hay in his hand. he had stripped off coat, and waistcoat, and braces, and had been warming himself by giving the horses a good dressing. "why, harry, you haven't had anything," said tom; "come across and have a glass of something hot." harry followed into the kitchen, and stood by the end of the screen, looking rather uncomfortable, while tom poured him out a glass of the hot mixture, and the lieutenant looked him over with keen eyes. "there, take that off. how are the horses?" "pretty fresh, master tom; but they'd be the better of a bran mash, or somethin' cumfable. i've spoke to the missus about it, and 'tis ready to put on the fire." "that's right then. let them have it as quick as you can." "then i med fetch it and warm it up here, sir?" said harry. "to be sure; the sooner the better." harry took off his glass, making a shy sort of duck with his head, accompanied by "your health, sir," to each of his entertainers, and then disappeared into the back kitchen, returned with the mash, which he put on the fire, and went off to the stable again. "what do you think of him?" said tom. "i like to see a fellow let his braces down when he goes to work," said east. "it's not every fellow who would be strapping away at those horses, instead of making himself at home in the back kitchen." "no, it isn't," said east. "don't you like his looks now?" "he's not a bad sort, your convict." "i say, i wish you wouldn't call him names." "very good; your unfortunate friend, then. what are you going to do with him?" "that's just what i've been puzzling about all the way here. what do you think?" and then they drew to the fire again, and began to talk over harry's prospects. in some ten minutes he returned to the kitchen for the mash, and this time drew a complimentary remark from the lieutenant. harry was passionately fond of animals, and especially of horses, and they found it out quickly enough as they always do. the two hacks were by this time almost fresh again, with dry coats, and feet well washed and cleansed; and while working at them, harry had been thinking over all he had heard that evening, and what with the work and what with his thoughts, found himself getting more hopeful every minute. no one who had seen his face an hour before on the heath would have believed it was the same man who was now patting and fondling the two hacks as they disposed of the mash he had prepared for them. he leant back against the manger, rubbing the ears of tom's hack--the one which had carried double so well in their first flight--gently with his two hands, while the delighted beast bent down its head, and pressed it against him, and stretched its neck, expressing in all manner of silent ways its equine astonishment and satisfaction. by the light of the single dip, harry's face grew shorter and shorter, until at last, a quiet humorous look began to creep back into it. as we have already taken the liberty of putting the thoughts of his betters into words, we must now do so for him; and, if he had expressed his thoughts in his own vernacular as he rubbed the hack's ears in the stable, his speech would have been much as follows:-- "how cums it as i be all changed like, as tho' sum un had tuk and rubbed all the downheartedness out o' me? here i be, two days out o' gaol, wi' nothin' in the world but the things i stands in,--for in course i med just give up the bits o' things as is left at daddy collins's--and they all draggled wi' the wet--and i med be tuk in the mornin' and sent across the water; and yet i feels sum how as peert as a yukkel. so fur as i can see, 'tis jest nothin' but talkin' wi' our master tom. what a fine thing 'tis to be a schollard. and yet seemin'ly 'tis nothin' but talk arter all's said and done. but 'tis allus the same; whenever i gets talkin' wi' he, it all cums out as smooth as crame. fust time as ever i seen him since we wur bwys he talked just as a do now; and then my poor mother died. then he come in arter the funeral, and talked me up agen, till i thought as i wur to hev our cottage and all the land as i could do good by. but our cottage wur tuk away, and my 'lotment besides. then cum last summer, and 'twur just the same agen arter his talk, but i got dree months auver that job. and now 'ere i be wi un agen, a-runnin' from the constable; and like to be tuk up and transpworted, and 'tis just the same; and i s'pose 'twill be just the same if ever i gets back, and sees un, and talks wi' un, if i be gwine to be hung. 'tis a wunnerful thing to be a schollard, to be able to make things look all straight when they be ever so akkerd and unked." and then harry left off rubbing the horse's ears; and, pulling the damp piece of paper, which tom had given him, out of his breeches' pocket, proceeded to flatten it out tenderly on the palm of his hand, and read it by the light of the dip, when the landlady came to inform him that the gentlefolk wanted him in the kitchen. so he folded his treasure up again, and went off to the kitchen. he found tom standing with his back to the fire, while the lieutenant was sitting at the table, writing on a scrap of paper, which the landlady had produced after much hunting over of drawers. tom began, with some little hesitation:-- "oh, harry, i've been talking matters over with my friend here, and i've changed my mind. it won't do after all for you to stay about at railway work, or anything of that sort. you see you wouldn't be safe. they'd be sure to trace you, and you'd get into trouble about this day's work. and then, after all, it's a very poor opening for a young fellow like you. now, why shouldn't you enlist into mr. east's regiment? you'll be in his company, and it's a splendid profession. what do you say now?" east looked up at poor harry, who was quite taken aback at this change in his prospects, and could only mutter, that he had never turned his mind to "sodgerin." "it's just the thing for you," tom went on. "you can write and keep accounts, and you'll get on famously. ask mr. east if you won't. and don't you fear about matters at home. you'll see that'll all come right. i'll pledge you my word it will, and i'll take care that you shall hear everything that goes on there; and, depend upon it, it's your best chance. you'll be back at englebourn as a sergeant in no time, and be able to snap your fingers at them all. you'll come with us to steventon station, and take the night train to london, and then in the morning go to whitehall, and find mr. east's sergeant. he'll give you a note to him, and they'll send you on to chatham, where the regiment is. you think it's the best thing for him, don't you?" said tom, turning to east. "yes; i think you'll do very well if you only keep steady. here's a note to the sergeant, and i shall be back at chatham in a day or two myself." harry took the note mechanically; he was quite unable yet to make any resistance. "and now get something to eat as quick as you can, for we ought to be off. the horses are all right, i suppose?" "yes, master tom," said harry, with an appealing look. "where are your coat and waistcoat, harry?" "they be in the stable, sir." "in the stable! why, they're all wet, then, still?" "oh, 'tis no odds about that, master tom." "no odds! get them in directly, and put them to dry here." so harry winburn went off to the stable to fetch his clothes. "he's a fine fellow," said east, getting up and coming to the fire; "i've taken quite a fancy to him, but he doesn't fancy enlisting." "poor fellow! he has to leave his sweetheart. it's a sad business, but it's the best thing for him, and you'll see he'll go." tom was right. poor harry came in and dried his clothes, and got his supper; and while he was eating it, and all along the road afterwards, till they reached the station at about eleven o'clock, pleaded in his plain way with tom against leaving his own country side. and east listened silently, and liked him better and better. tom argued with him gently, and turned the matter round on all sides, putting the most hopeful face upon it; and, in the end, talked first himself and then harry into the belief that it was the best thing that could have happened to him, and more likely than any other course of action to bring everything right between him and all the folk at englebourn. so they got into the train at steventon in pretty good heart, with his fare paid, and half-a-sovereign in his pocket, more and more impressed in his mind with what a wonderful thing it was to be "a schollard." the two friends rode back to oxford at a good pace. they had both of them quite enough to think about, and were not in the humour for talk, had place and time served, so that scarce a word passed between them till they had left their horses at the livery stables, and were walking through the silent streets, a few minutes before midnight. then east broke silence. "i can't make out how you do it. i'd give half-a-year's pay to get the way of it." "the way of what? what an you talking about?" "why, your way of shutting your eyes, and going in blind." "well, that's a queer wish for a fighting man," said tom, laughing. "we always thought a rusher no good at school, and that the thing to learn was, to go in with your own eyes open, and shut up other people's." "ah but we hadn't cut our eye-teeth then. i look at these things from a professional point of view. my business is to get fellows to shut their eyes tight, and i begin to think you can't do it as it should be done, without shutting your own first." "i don't take." "why, look at the way you talked your convict--i beg your pardon--your unfortunate friend--into enlisting tonight. you talked as if you believed every word you were saying to him." "so i did." "well, i should like to have you for a recruiting sergeant, if you could only drop that radical bosh. if i had had to do it, instead of enlisting, he would have gone straight off and hung himself in the stable." "i'm glad you didn't try your hand at it then." "look again at me. do you think anyone but such a--well i don't want to say anything uncivil--a headlong dog like you could have got me into such a business as to-day's? now i want to be able to get other fellows to make just such fools of themselves as i've made of myself to-day. how do you do it?" "i don't know, unless it is that i can't help always looking at the best side of things myself, and so--" "most things haven't got a best side." "well, at the pretty good side, then." "nor a pretty good one." "if they haven't got a pretty good one, it don't matter how you look at them, i should think." "no, i don't believe it does--much. still, i should like to be able to make a fool of myself, too, when i want, with the view of getting others to do ditto, of course." "i wish i could help you, old fellow; but i don't see my way to it." "i shall talk to our regimental doctor about it, and get put through a course of fool's-diet before we start for india." "flap-doodle, they call it, what fools are fed on. but it's odd that you should have broken out in this place, when all the way home i've been doing nothing but envying you your special talent." "what's that?" "just the opposite one--the art of falling on your feet. i should like to exchange with you." "you'd make a precious bad bargain of it, then." "there's twelve striking. i must knock in. good night. you'll be round to breakfast at nine." "all right. i believe in your breakfasts, rather," said east, as they shook hands at the gate of st. ambrose, into which tom disappeared, while the lieutenant strolled back to the "mitre." chapter xlii--third year east returned to his regiment in a few days, and at the end of the month the gallant st embarked for india. tom wrote several letters to the lieutenant, inclosing notes to harry, with gleanings of news from englebourn, where his escape on the night of the riot had been a nine-days' wonder; and, now that he was fairly "'listed," and out of the way, public opinion was beginning to turn in his favor. in due course a letter arrived from the lieutenant, dated cape town, giving a prosperous account of the voyage so far. east did not say much about "your convict," as he still insisted on calling harry; but the little he did say was very satisfactory, and tom sent off this part of the letter to katie, to whom he had confided the whole story, entreating her to make the best use of it in the interest of the young soldier. and, after this out-of-the-way beginning, he settled down into the usual routine of his oxford life. this change in his opinions and objects of interest brought him now into more intimate relations with a set of whom he had, as yet, seen little. for want of a better name, we may call them "the party of progress." at their parties, instead of practical jokes, and boisterous mirth, and talk of boats, and bats, and guns, and horses, the highest and deepest questions of morals, and politics, and metaphysics, were discussed, and discussed with a. freshness and enthusiasm which is apt to wear off when doing has to take the place of talking, but has a strange charm of its own while it lasts, and is looked back to with loving regret by those for whom it is no longer a possibility. with this set tom soon fraternized, and drank in many new ideas, and took to himself also many new crotchets besides those with which he was already weighted. almost all his new acquaintances were liberal in politics, but a few only were ready to go all lengths with him. they were all union men, and tom, of course, followed the fashion, and soon propounded theories in that institution which gained him the name of chartist brown. there was a strong mixture of self-conceit in it all. he had a kind of idea that he had discovered something which it was creditable to have discovered, and that it was a very fine thing to have all these feelings for, and sympathies with, "the masses", and to believe in democracy, and "glorious humanity," and "a good time coming," and i know not what other big matters. and, although it startled and pained him at first to hear himself called ugly names, which he had hated and despised from his youth up, and to know that many of his old acquaintances looked upon him, not simply as a madman, but as a madman with snobbish proclivities; yet, when the first plunge was over, there was a good deal on the other hand which tickled his vanity, and was far from being unpleasant. to do him justice, however, the disagreeables were such that, had there not been some genuine belief at the bottom, he would certainly have been headed back very speedily into the fold of political and social orthodoxy. as it was, amidst the cloud of sophisms, and platitudes, and big, one-sided ideas half-mastered, which filled his thoughts and overflowed in his talk, there was growing in him, and taking firmer hold on him daily, a true and broad sympathy for men as men, and especially for poor men as poor men, and a righteous and burning hatred against all laws, customs, or notions, which, according to his light, either were or seemed to be setting aside, or putting anything else in the place of, or above, the man. it was with him the natural outgrowth of the child's and boy's training (though his father would have been much astonished to be told so), and the instincts of those early days were now getting rapidly set into habits and faiths, and becoming a part of himself. in this stage of his life, as in so many former ones, tom got great help from his intercourse with hardy, now the rising tutor of the college. hardy was travelling much the same road himself as our hero, but was somewhat further on, and had come into it from a different country, and though quite other obstacles. their early lives had been very different; and, both by nature and from long and severe self-restraint and discipline, hardy was much the less impetuous and demonstrative of the two. he did not rush out, therefore (as tom was too much inclined to do), the moment he had seized hold of the end of a new idea which he felt to be good for _him_ and what _he_ wanted, and brandish it in the face of all comers, and think himself a traitor to the truth if he wasn't trying to make everybody he met with eat it. hardy, on the contrary, would test his new idea, and turn it over, and prove it as far as he could, and try to get hold of the whole of it, and ruthlessly strip off any tinsel or rose-pink sentiment with which it might happen to be mixed up. often and often did tom suffer under this severe method, and rebel against it, and accuse his friend, both to his face and in his own secret thoughts, of coldness, and want of faith, and all manner of other sins of omission and commission. in the end, however, he generally came round, with more or less of rebellion, according to the severity of the treatment, and acknowledge that, when hardy brought him down from riding the high horse, it was not without good reason, and that the dust in which he was rolled was always most wholesome dust. for instance, there was no phrase more frequently in the mouths of the party of progress than "the good cause." it was a fine big-sounding phrase, which could be used with great effect in perorations of speeches at the union, and was sufficiently indefinite to be easily defended from ordinary attacks, while it saved him who used it the trouble of ascertaining accurately for himself, or settling for his hearers, what it really did mean. but, however satisfactory it might be before promiscuous audiences, and so long as vehement assertion or declaration was all that was required to uphold it, this same "good cause" was liable to come to much grief when it had to get itself defined. hardy was particularly given to persecution on this subject, when he could get tom, and, perhaps, one or two others, in a quiet room by themselves. while professing the utmost sympathy for "the good cause," and a hope as strong as theirs that all its enemies might find themselves suspended to lamp-posts as soon as possible, he would pursue it into corners from which escape was most difficult, asking it and its supporters what it exactly was, and driving them from one cloud-land to another, and from "the good cause" to the "people's cause," the "cause of labor," and other like troublesome definitions, until the great idea seemed to have no shape or existence any longer even in their own brains. but hardy's persecution, provoking as it was for the time, never went to the undermining of any real conviction in the minds of his juniors, or the shaking of anything which did not need shaking, but only helped them to clear their ideas and brains as to what they were talking and thinking about, and gave them glimpses--soon clouded over again, but most useful, nevertheless--of the truth; that there were a good many knotty questions to be solved before a man could be quite sure that he had found out the way to set the world thoroughly to rights, and heal all the ills that flesh is heir to. hardy treated another of his friend's most favorite notions even with less respect than this one of "the good cause." democracy, that "universal democracy," which their favourite author had recently declared to be "an inevitable fact of the days in which we live", was, perhaps, on the whole, the pet idea of the small section of liberal young oxford, with whom tom was now hand and glove. they lost no opportunity of worshipping it, and doing battle for it; and, indeed, most of them did very truly believe that that state of the world which this universal democracy was to bring about, and which was coming no man could say how soon, was to be in fact that age of peace and good-will which men had dreamt of in all times, when the lion should lie down with the kid, and nation should not vex nation any more. after hearing something to this effect from tom on several occasions, hardy cunningly lured him to his rooms on the pretence of talking over the prospects of the boat club, and then, having seated him by the fire, which he himself proceeded to assault gently with the poker, propounded suddenly to him the question, "brown, i should like to know what you mean by 'democracy'?" tom at once saw the trap into which he had fallen, and made several efforts to break away, but unsuccessfully; and, being seated to a cup of tea, and allowed to smoke, was then and there grievously oppressed, and mangled, and sat upon, by his oldest and best friend. he took his ground carefully, and propounded only what he felt sure that hardy himself would at once accept--what no man of any worth could possibly take exception to. "he meant much more," he said, "than this; but for the present purpose it would be enough for him to say that, whatever else it might mean, democracy in his mouth always meant that every man should have a share in the government of his country." hardy, seeming to acquiesce, and making a sudden change in the subject of their talk, decoyed his innocent guest away from the thought of democracy for a few minutes, by holding up to him the flag of hero-worship, in which worship tom was, of course, a sedulous believer. then, having involved him in most difficult country, his persecutor opened fire upon him from masked batteries of the most deadly kind, the guns being all from the armory of his own prophets. "you long for the rule of the ablest man, everywhere, at all times? to find your ablest man, and then give him power, and obey him--that you hold to be about the highest act of wisdom which a nation can be capable of?" "yes; and you know you believe that to, hardy, just as firmly as i do." "i hope so. but then, how about our universal democracy, and every man having a share in the government of his country?" tom felt that his flank was turned; in fact, the contrast of his two beliefs had never struck him vividly before, and he was consequently much confused. but hardy went on tapping a big coal gently with the poker, and gave him time to recover himself and collect his thoughts. "i don't mean, of course, that every man is to have an actual share in the government," he said at last. "but every man is somehow to have a share; and, if not an actual one, i can't see what the proposition comes to." "i call it having a share in the government when a man has share in saying who shall govern him." "well, you'll own that's a very different thing. but let's see; will that find our wisest governor for us--letting all the most foolish men in the nation have a say as to who he is to be?" "come now, hardy, i've heard you say that you are for manhood suffrage." "that's another question; you let in another idea there. at present we are considering whether the _vox populi_ is the best test for finding your best man. i'm afraid all history is against you." "that's a good joke. now, there i defy you, hardy." "begin at the beginning, then, and let us see." "i suppose you'll say, then, that the egyptian and babylonian empires were better than the little jewish republic." "republic! well, let that pass. but i never heard that the jews elected moses, or any of the judges." "well, never mind the jews; they're an exceptional case; you can't argue from them." "i don't admit that. i believe just the contrary. but go on." "well, then, what do you say to the glorious greek republics, with athens at the head of them?" "i say that no nation ever treated their best men so badly. i see i must put on a lecture in aristophanes for your special benefit. vain, irritable, shallow, suspicious old demus, with his two oboli in his cheek, and doubting only between cleon and the sausage-seller, which he shall choose for his wisest man--not to govern, but to serve his whims and caprices. you must call another witness, i think." "but that's a caricature." "take the picture, then, out of thucydides, plato, xenophon, how you will--you won't mend the matter much. you shouldn't go so fast, brown; you won't mind my saying so, i know. you don't get clear in your own mind before you pitch into everyone who comes across you, and so do your own side (which i admit is mostly the right one) more harm than good." tom couldn't stand being put down so summarily, and fought over the ground from one country to another, from rome to the united states, with all the arguments he could muster, but with little success. that unfortunate first admission of his, he felt it throughout, like a millstone round his neck, and could not help admitting to himself, when he left, that there was a good deal in hardy's concluding remark,--"you'll find it rather a tough business to get your 'universal democracy' and 'government by the wisest' to pull together in one coach." notwithstanding all such occasional reverses and cold baths, however, tom went on strengthening himself in his new opinions, and maintaining them with all the zeal of a convert. the shelves of his bookcase, and the walls of his room, soon began to show signs of the change which was taking place in his ways of looking at men and things. hitherto a framed engraving of george iii had hung over his mantle-piece; but early in this, his third year, the frame had disappeared for a few days, and when it reappeared, the solemn face of john milton looked out from it, while the honest monarch had retired into a portfolio. a facsimile of magna charta soon displaced a large colored print of "a day with the pycheley", and soon afterwards the death warrant of charles i. with its grim and resolute rows of signatures and seals, appeared on the wall in a place of honour, in the neighbourhood of milton. squire brown was passing through oxford, and paid his son a visit soon after this last arrangement had been completed. he dined in hall, at the high table, being still a member of the college, and afterwards came with hardy to tom's rooms to have a quiet glass of wine, and spend the evening with his son and a few of his friends, who had been asked to meet "the governor." tom had a struggle with himself whether he should not remove the death-warrant into his bedroom for the evening, and had actually taken if down with this view; but in the end he could not stomach such a backsliding, and so restored it to its place. "i have never concealed my opinions from my father," he thought, "though i don't think he quite knows what they are. but if he doesn't, he ought, and the sooner the better. i should be a sneak to try to hide them. i know he won't like it, but he is always just and fair, and will make allowances. at any rate, up it goes again." and so he re-hung the death-warrant, but with the devout secret hope that his father might not see it. the wine-party went off admirably. the men were nice, gentlemanly, intelligent fellows; and the squire, who had been carefully planted by tom with his back to the death-warrant, enjoyed himself very much. at last they all went, except hardy; and now the nervous time approached. for a short time longer the three sat at the wine-table while the squire enlarged upon the great improvement in young men, and the habits of the university, especially in the matter of drinking. tom had only opened three bottles of port. in his time the men would have drunk certainly not less than a bottle a man; and other like remarks he made, as he sipped his coffee, and then, pushing back his chair, said, "well, tom, hadn't your servant better clear away, and then we can draw round the fire, and have a talk." "wouldn't you like to take a turn while he is clearing? there's the martyr's memorial you haven't seen." "no, thank you. i know the place well enough. i don't come to walk about in the dark. we sha'n't be in your man's way." and so tom's scout came in to clear away, took out the extra leaves of the table, put on the cloth, and laid tea. during these operations mr. brown was standing with his back to the fire, looking about him as he talked. when there was more space to move in, he began to walk up and down, and very soon took to remarking the furniture and arrangements of the room. one after the other the pictures came under his notice. most of them escaped without comment, the squire simply pausing a moment, and then taking up his walk again. magna charta drew forth his hearty approval. it was a capital notion to hang such things on his walls, instead of bad prints of steeple-chases, or trash of that sort. "ah, here's something else of the same kind. why, tom, what's this?" said the squire, as he paused before the death-warrant. there was a moment or two of dead silence, while the squire's eyes ran down the names, from jo. bradshaw to miles corbet; and then he turned, and came and sat down opposite to his son. tom expected his father to be vexed, but was not the least prepared for the tone of pain, and sorrow, and anger, in which he first inquired, and then remonstrated. for some time past the squire and his son had not felt so comfortable together as of old. mr. brown had been annoyed by much that tom had done in the case of harry winburn, though he did not know all. there had sprung up a barrier somehow or other between them, neither of them knew how. they had often felt embarrassed at being left alone together during the past year, and found that there were certain topics which they could not talk upon, which they avoided by mutual consent. every now and then the constraint and embarrassment fell off for a short time, for at bottom they loved and appreciated one another heartily; but the divergences in their thoughts and habits had become very serious, and seemed likely to increase rather than not. they felt keenly the chasm between the two generations. as they looked at one another from opposite banks, each in his secret heart blamed the other in great measure for that which was the fault of neither. mixed with the longings which each felt for a better understanding was enough of reserve and indignation to prevent them from coming to it. the discovery of their differences was too recent, and they were too much alike in character and temper, for either to make large enough allowance for, or to be really tolerant of, the other. this was the first occasion on which they had come to outspoken and serious difference; and though the collision had been exceedingly painful to both, yet when they parted for the night, it was with a feeling of relief that the ice had been thoroughly broken. before his father left the room, tom had torn the facsimile of the death-warrant out of its frame, and put it in the fire, protesting, however, at the same time, that, though "he did thist out of deference to his father, and was deeply grieved at having given him pain, he could not and would not give up his convictions, or pretend that they were changed, or even shaken." the squire walked back to his hotel deeply moved. who can wonder? he was a man full of living and vehement convictions. one of his early recollections had been the arrival in england of the news of the beheading of louis xvi, and the doings of the reign of terror. he had been bred in the times when it was held impossible for a gentleman or a christian to hold such views as his son had been maintaining, and, like many of the noblest englishmen of his time, had gone with and accepted the creed of the day. tom remained behind, dejected and melancholy; now accusing his father of injustice and bigotry, now longing to go after him, and give up everything. what were all his opinions and convictions compared with his father's confidence and love? at breakfast the next morning, however, after each of them had had time for thinking over what had passed, they met with a cordiality which was as pleasant to each as it was unlooked for; and from this visit of his father to him at oxford, tom dated a new and more satisfactory epoch in their intercourse. the fact had begun to dawn on the squire that the world had changed a good deal since his time. he saw that young men were much improved in some ways, and acknowledged the fact heartily; on the other hand, they had taken up with a lot of new notions which he could not understand, and thought mischievous and bad. perhaps tom might get over them as he got to be older and wiser, and in the meantime he must take the evil with the good. at any rate he was too fair a man to try to dragoon his son out of anything which he really believed. tom on his part gratefully accepted the change in his father's manner, and took all means of showing his gratitude by consulting and talking freely to him on such subjects as they could agree upon, which were numerous, keeping in the back-ground the questions which had provoked painful discussions between them. by degrees these even could be tenderly approached; and, now that they were approached in a different spirit, the honest beliefs of the father and son no longer looked so monstrous to one another, the hard and sharp outlines began to wear off, and the views of each of them to be modified. thus, bit by bit, by a slow but sure process, a better understanding than ever was re-established between them. this beginning of a better state of things in his relations with his father consoled tom for many other matters that seemed to go wrong with him, and was a constant bit of bright sky to turn to when the rest of his horizon looked dark and dreary, as it did often enough. for it proved a very trying year to him, this his third and last year at the university; a year full of large dreams and small performances, of unfulfilled hopes and struggles to set himself right, ending ever more surely in failure and disappointment. the common pursuits of the place had lost their freshness, and with it much of their charm. he was beginning to feel himself in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it. often, in spite of all his natural hopefulness, his heart seemed to sicken and turn cold, without any apparent reason; his old pursuits palled on him, and he scarcely cared to turn to new ones. what was it that made life so blank to him at these times? how was it that he could not keep the spirit within him alive and warm? it was easier to ask such questions than to get an answer. was it not this place he was living in and the ways of it? no, for the place and its ways were the same as ever, and his own way of life in it better than ever before. was it the want of sight or tidings of mary? sometimes he thought so, and then cast the thought away as treason. his love for her was ever sinking deeper into him, and raising and purifying him. light and strength and life came from that source; craven weariness and coldness of heart, come from whence they might, were not from that quarter. but precious as his love was to him, and deeply as it affected his whole life, he felt that there must be something beyond it--that its full satisfaction would not be enough for him. the bed was too narrow for a man to stretch himself on. what he was in search of must underlie and embrace his human love, and support it. beyond and above all private and personal desires and hopes and longings, he was conscious of a restless craving and feeling about after something, which he could not grasp, and yet which was not avoiding him, which seemed to be mysteriously laying hold of him and surrounding him. the routine of chapels, and lectures, and reading for degree, boating, cricketing, union-debating,--all well enough in their way--left this vacuum unfilled. there was a great outer visible world, the problems and puzzles of which were rising before him and haunting him more and more; and a great inner and invisible world opening round him in awful depth. he seemed to be standing on the brink of each--now shivering and helpless, feeling like an atom about to be whirled into the great flood and carried he knew not where--now ready to plunge in and take his part, full of hope and belief that he was meant to buffet in the strength of a man with the seen and the unseen, and to be subdued by neither. in such a year as this, a bit of steady, bright blue sky was a boon beyond all price, and so he felt it to be. and it was not only with his father that tom regained lost ground in this year. he was in a state of mind in which he could not bear to neglect or lose any particle of human sympathy, and so he turned to old friendships, and revived the correspondence with several of his old school-fellows, and particularly with arthur, to the great delight of the latter, who had mourned bitterly over the few half-yearly lines, all he had got from tom of late, in answer to his own letters, which had themselves, under the weight of neglect, gradually dwindled down to mere formal matters. a specimen of the later correspondence may fitly close the chapter:-- st. ambrose "dear geordie--i can hardly pardon you for having gone to cambridge, though you have got a trinity scholarship--which i suppose is, on the whole, quite as good a thing as anything of the sort you could have got up here. i had so looked forward to having you here though, and now i feel that we shall probably scarcely ever meet. you will go your way and i mine; and one alters so quickly, and gets into such strange new grooves, that unless one sees a man about once a week at least, you may be just like strangers when you are thrown together again. if you had come up here it would have been all right, and we should have gone all through life as we were when i left school, and as i know we should be again in no time if you had come here. but now, who can tell? "what makes me think so much of this is a visit of a few days that east paid me just before his regiment went to india. i feel that if he hadn't done it, and we had not met till he came back--years hence perhaps--we should never have been to one another what we shall be now. the break would have been too great. now it's all right. you would have liked to see the old fellow grown into a man, but not a bit altered--just the quiet, old way, pooh-poohing you, and pretending to care for nothing, but ready to cut the nose off his face, or go through fire and water for you at a pinch, if you'll only let him go his own way about it, and have his grumble, and say that he does it all from the worst possible motives. "but we must try not to lose hold of one another, geordie. it would be a bitter day to me if i thought anything of the kind could ever happen again. we must write more to one another. i've been awfully lazy, i know, about it for this last year and more; but then i always thought you would be coming up here, and so that it didn't matter much. but now i will turn over a new leaf, and write to you about my secret thoughts, my works and ways; and you must do it too. if we can only tide over the next year or two we shall get into plain sailing, and i suppose it will all right then. at least, i can't believe that one is likely to have many such up-and-down years in one's life as the last two. if one is, goodness knows where i shall end. you know the outline of what has happened to me from my letters, and the talks we have had in my flying visits to the old school, but you haven't a notion of the troubles of mind i've been in, and the changes i've gone through. i can hardly believe it myself when i look back. however i'm quite sure i have _got on_; that's my great comfort. it is a strange blind sort of world, that's a fact, with lots of blind alleys, down which you go blundering in the fog after some seedy gaslight, which you take for the sun till you run against the wall at the end, and find out that the light is a gaslight, and that there's no thoroughfare. but for all that one does get on. you get to know the sun's light better and better, and to keep out of the blind alleys; and i am surer and surer every day, that there's always sunlight enough for every honest fellow--though i didn't think so a few months back--and a good sound road under his feet, if he will only step out on it. "talking of blind alleys puts me in mind of your last. aren't you going down a blind alley, or something worse? there's no wall to bring you up, that i can see down the turn you've taken; and then, what's the practical use of it all? what good would you do to yourself, or anyone else, if you could get to the end of it? i can't for the life of me fancy, i confess, what you think will come of speculating about necessity and free will. i only know that i can hold out my hand before me, and can move it to the right or left, despite of all the powers in heaven or earth. as i sit here writing to you, i can let into my heart, and give the reins to, all sorts of devil's passions, or to the spirit of god. well, that's enough for me. i _know_ it of myself, and i believe you know it of yourself, and everybody knows it of themselves or himself; and why you can't be satisfied with that, passes my comprehension. as if one hasn't got puzzles enough, and bothers enough, under one's nose, without going a-field after a lot of metaphysical quibbles. no, i'm wrong,--not going a-field,--anything one has to go a-field for is all right. what a fellow meets outside himself he isn't responsible for, and must do the best he can with. but to go on for ever looking inside of one's self, and groping about amongst one's own sensations, and ideas, and whimsies of one kind and another, i can't conceive a poorer line of business than that. don't you get into it now, that's a dear boy. "very likely you'll tell me you can't help it; that every one has his own difficulties, and must fight them out, and that mine are one sort, and yours another. well, perhaps you may be right. i hope i'm getting to know that my plummet isn't to measure all the world. but it does seem a pity that men shouldn't be thinking about how to cure some of the wrongs which poor dear old england is pretty near dying of, instead of taking the edge off their brains, and spending all their steam in speculating about all kinds of things, which wouldn't make any poor man in the world--or rich one either, for that matter--a bit better off, if they were all found out, and settled to-morrow. but here i am at the end of my paper. don't be angry at my jobation; but write me a long answer of your own free will, and believe me ever affectionately yours, "t. b." chapter xliii--afternoon visitors miss mary porter was sitting alone in the front drawing-room of her father's house, in belgravia, on the afternoon of a summer's day in this same year. two years and more have passed over her head since we first met her, and she may be a thought more sedate and better dressed, but there is no other change to be noticed in her. the room was for the most part much like other rooms in that quarter of the world. there were few luxuries in the way of furniture which fallen man can desire which were not to be found there, but over and above this, there was an elegance in the arrangement of all the nick-nacks and ornaments, and an appropriateness and good taste in the placing of every piece of furniture and vase of flowers, which showed that a higher order of mind than the upholsterer's or housemaid's was constantly overlooking and working there. everything seemed to be in its exact place, in the best place which could have been thought of for it, and to be the best thing which could have been thought of for the place. and yet this perfection did not strike you particularly at first, or surprise you in any way, but sank into you gradually, so that, until you forced yourself to consider the matter, you could not in the least say why the room had such a very pleasant effect on you. the young lady to whom this charm was chiefly owing was sitting by a buhl work-table, on which lay her embroidery and a book. she was reading a letter, which seemed deeply to interest her; for she did not hear the voice of the butler, who had just opened the door and disturbed her solitude, until he had repeated for the second time, "mr. smith." then mary jumped up, and, hastily folding her letter, put it into her pocket. she was rather provoked at having allowed herself to be caught there alone by afternoon visitors, and with the servants for having let anyone in; nevertheless, she welcomed mr. smith with a cordiality of manner which perhaps rather more than represented her real feelings, and, with a "let mamma know," to the butler, set to work to entertain her visitor. she would have had no difficulty in doing this under ordinary circumstances, as all that mr. smith wanted was a good listener. he was a somewhat heavy and garrulous old gentleman, with many imaginary, and a few real troubles, the constant contemplation of which served to occupy the whole of his own time, and as much of his friends' as he could get them to give him. but scarcely had he settled himself comfortably in an easy chair opposite to his victim, when the butler entered again, and announced, "mr. st. cloud." mary was now no longer at her ease. her manner of receiving her new visitor was constrained; and yet it was clear that he was on easy terms in the house. she asked the butler where his mistress was, and heard with vexation that she had gone out, but was expected home almost immediately. charging him to let her mother know the moment she returned, mary turned to her unwelcome task, and sat herself down again with such resignation as she was capable of at the moment. the conduct of her visitors was by no means calculated to restore her composure, or make her comfortable between them. she was sure that they knew one another; but neither of then would speak to the other. there the two sat on, each resolutely bent on tiring the other out; the elder crooning on to her in an undertone, and ignoring the younger, who in his turn put on an air of serene unconsciousness of the presence of his senior, and gazed about the room, and watched mary, making occasional remarks to her as if no one else were present. on and on they sat, her only comfort being the hope that neither of them would have the conscience to stay on after the departure of the other. between them mary was driven to her wits' end, and looked for her mother or for some new visitor to come to her help, as wellington looked for the prussians on the afternoon of june th. at length youth and insolence prevailed, and mr. smith rose to go. mary got up too, and after his departure remained standing, in hopes that her other visitor would take the hint and follow the good example. but st. cloud had not the least intention of moving. "really, your good-nature is quite astonishing, miss porter," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and following the pattern of one of the flowers on the carpet with his cane, which gave him the opportunity of showing his delicately gloved hand to advantage. "indeed, why do you think so?" she asked, taking up her embroidery and pretending to begin working. "have i not good reason, after sitting this half-hour and seeing you enduring old smith--the greatest bore in london? i don't believe there are three houses where the servants dare let him in. it would be as much as their places are worth. no porter could hope for a character who let him in twice in the season." "poor mr. smith," said mary, smiling. "but you know we have no porter, and," she suddenly checked herself, and added gravely, "he is an old friend, and papa and mamma like him." "but the wearisomeness of his grievances! those three sons in the plungers, and their eternal scrapes! how you could manage to keep a civil face! it was a masterpiece of polite patience." "indeed, i am very sorry for his troubles. i wonder where mamma can be? we are going to drive. shall you be in the park? i think it must be time for me to dress." "i hope not. it is so seldom that i see you except in crowded rooms. can you wonder that i should value such a chance as this?" "were you at the new opera last night?" asked mary, carefully avoiding his eye, and sticking to her work, but scarcely able to conceal her nervousness and discomfort. "yes, i was there; but--" "oh, do tell me about it, then; i hear it was a great success." "another time. we can talk of the opera anywhere. let me speak now of something else. you must have seen, miss porter,--" "how can you think i will talk of anything till you have told me about the opera?" interrupted mary rapidly and nervously. "was grisi very fine? the chief part was composed for her, was it not? and dear old lablache--" "i will tell you all about it presently, if you will let me, in five minutes' time--i only ask for five minutes--" "five minutes! oh, no, not five seconds. i must hear about the new opera before i will listen to a word of anything else." "indeed, miss porter, you must pardon me for disobeying. but i may not have such a chance as this again for months." with which prelude he drew his chair towards hers and mary was just trying to make up her mind to jump up and run right out of the room, when the door opened, and the butler walked in with a card on a waiter. mary had never felt so relieved in her life, and could have hugged the solemn old domestic when he said, presenting the card to her, "the gentleman asked if mrs. or you were in, miss, and told me to bring it up, and find whether you would see him on particular business. he's waiting in the hall." "oh, yes, i know. of course. yes, say i will see him directly. i mean, ask him to come up now." "shall i show him into the library, miss?" "no, no; in here; do you understand?" "yes, miss," replied the butter, with a deprecatory look at st. cloud, as much as to say, "you see, i can't help it," in answer to his impatient telegraphic signals. st. cloud had been very liberal to the porters' servants. mary's confidence had all come back. relief was at hand. she could trust herself to hold st. cloud at bay now, as it could not be for more than a few minutes. when she turned to him the nervousness had quite gone out of her manner, and she spoke in her old tone again, as she laid her embroidery aside. "how lucky that you should be here! look; i think you must be acquainted," she said, holding out the card which the butler had given her to st. cloud. he took it mechanically, and looked at it, and then crushed it in his hand, and was going to speak. she prevented him. "i was right, i'm sure. you do know him?" "i didn't see the name," he said almost fiercely. "the name on the card which i gave you just now?--mr. grey. he is curate in one of the poor westminster districts. you must remember him, for he was of your college. he was at oxford with you. i made his acquaintance at the commemoration. he will be so glad to meet an old friend." st. cloud was too much provoked to answer; and the next moment the door opened, and the butler announced mr. grey. grey came into the room timidly, carrying his head a little down as usual, and glancing uncomfortably about in a manner which used to make drysdale say that he always looked as though he had just been robbing a hen-roost. mary went forward to meet him, holding out her hand cordially. "i am so glad to see you," she said. "how kind of you to call when you are so busy! mamma will be here directly. i think you must remember mr. st. cloud--mr. grey." st. cloud's patience was now quite gone. he drew himself up, making the slightest possible inclination towards grey, and then, without taking any further notice of him, turned to mary with a look which he meant to be full of pitying admiration for her, and contempt of her visitor; but, as she would not look at him, it was thrown away. so he made his bow and stalked out of the room, angrily debating with himself, as he went down the stairs, whether she could have understood him. he was so fully convinced of the sacrifice which a man in his position was making in paying serious attention to a girl with little fortune and no connexion, that he soon consoled himself in the belief that her embarrassment only arose from shyness, and that the moment he could explain himself she would be his obedient and grateful servant. meantime mary sat down opposite to the curate, and listened to him as he unfolded his errand awkwardly enough. an execution was threatened in the house of a poor struggling widow, whom mrs. porter had employed to do needlework occasionally, and who was behind with her rent through sickness. he was afraid that her things would be taken and sold in the morning, unless she could borrow two sovereigns. he had so many claims on him, that he could not lend her the money himself, and so had come out to see what he could do amongst those who knew her. by the time grey had arrived at the end of his story, mary had made up her mind--not without a little struggle--to sacrifice the greater part of what was left of her quarter's allowance. after all, it would only be wearing cleaned gloves instead of new ones, and giving up her new riding-hat till next quarter. so she jumped up, and said gaily, "is that all, mr. grey? i have the money, and i will lend it her with pleasure. i will fetch it directly." she tripped off to her room, and soon came back with the money; and just then the butler came in with tea, and mary asked mr. grey to take some. he looked tired, she said, and if he would wait a little time, he would see her mother, who would be sure to do something more for the poor woman. grey had risen to leave, and was standing, hat in hand, ready to go. he was in the habit of reckoning with himself strictly for every minute of his day, and was never quite satisfied with himself unless he was doing the most disagreeable thing which circumstances for the time being allowed him to do. but greater and stronger men than grey, from adam downwards, have yielded to the temptation before which he now succumbed. he looked out of the corners of his eyes; and there was something so fresh and bright in the picture of the dainty little tea-service and the young lady behind it, the tea which she was beginning to pour out smelt so refreshing, and her hand and figure looked so pretty in the operation, that, with a sigh of departing resolution, he gave in, put his hat on the floor, and sat down opposite to the tempter. grey took a cup of tea, and then another. he thought he had never tasted anything so good. the delicious rich cream, and the tempting plate of bread and butter were too much for him. he fairly gave way, and resigned himself to physical enjoyment, and sipped his tea, and looked over his cup at mary, sitting there bright and kind and ready to go on pouring out for him to any extent. it seemed to him as if an atmosphere of light and joy surrounded her, within the circle of which he was sitting and absorbing. tea was the only stimulant that grey ever took, and he had more need of it than usual, for he had given away the chop, which was his ordinary dinner, to a starving woman. he was faint with fasting and the bad air of the hovels in which he had been spending his morning. the elegance of the room, the smell of the flowers, the charm of companionship with a young woman of his own rank, and the contrast of the whole to his common way of life, carried him away, and hopes and thoughts began to creep into his head to which he had long been a stranger. mary did her very best to make his visit pleasant to him. she had a great respect for the self-denying life which she knew he was leading; and the nervousness and shyness of his manners were of a kind, which, instead of infecting her, gave her confidence, and made her feel quite at her ease with him. she was so grateful to him for having delivered her out of her recent embarrassment, that she was more than usually kind in her manner. she saw how he was enjoying himself; and thought what good it must do him to forget his usual occupations for a short time. so she talked positive gossip to him, risked his opinion on riding habits, and very soon was telling him the plot of a new novel which she had just been reading, with an animation and playfulness which would have warmed the heart of an anchorite. for a short quarter of an hour grey resigned himself; but at the end of that time he became suddenly and painfully conscious of what he was doing, and stopped himself short in the middle of an altogether worldly compliment, which he detected himself in the act of paying to his too fascinating young hostess. he felt that retreat was his only chance, and so grasped his hat again, and rose with a deep sigh, and a sudden change of manner which alarmed mary. "i hope you are not ill, mr. grey?" she said, anxiously. "no, not the least, thank you. but--but--in short, i must go to my work. i ought to apologize, indeed, for having stayed so long." "oh, you have not been here more than twenty minutes. pray stay, and see mamma; she must be in directly." "thank you; you are very kind. i should like it very much, but indeed i cannot." mary felt that it would be no kindness to press it further, and so rose herself, and held out her hand. grey took it, and it is not quite certain to this day whether he did not press it in that farewell shake more than was absolutely necessary. if he did, we may be quite sure that he administered exemplary punishment to himself afterwards for so doing. he would gladly have left now, but his over-sensitive conscience forbade it. he had forgotten his office, he thought, hitherto, but there was time yet not to be altogether false to it. so he looked grave and shy again, and said, "you will not be offended with me, miss porter, if i speak to you as a clergyman?" mary was a little disconcerted, but answered almost immediately,-- "oh, no. pray say anything which you think you ought to say." "i am afraid there must be a great temptation in living always in beautiful rooms like this, with no one but prosperous people. do you not think so?" "but one cannot help it. surely, mr. grey, you do not think it can be wrong?" "no, not wrong. but it must be very trying. it must be very necessary to do something to lessen the temptation of such a life." "i do not understand you. what could one do?" "might you not take up some work which would not be pleasant, such as visiting the poor?" "i should be very glad; but we do not know any poor people in london." "there are very miserable districts near here." "yes, and papa and mamma are very kind, i know, in helping whenever they can hear of a proper case. but it is so different from the country. there it is so easy and pleasant to go into the cottages where everyone knows you, and most of the people work for papa, and one is sure of being welcomed, and that nobody will be rude. but here i should be afraid. it would seem so impertinent to go to people's houses of whom one knows nothing. i should never know what to say." "it is not easy or pleasant duty which is the best for us. great cities could never be evangelized, miss porter, if all ladies thought as you do." "i think, mr. grey," said mary, rather nettled, "that everyone has not the gift of lecturing the poor, and setting them right; and, if they have not, they had better not try to do it. and as for the rest, there is plenty of the same kind of work to be done, i believe, amongst the people of one's own class." "you are joking, miss porter." "no, i am not joking at all. i believe that rich people are quite as unhappy as poor. their troubles are not the same, of course, and are generally of their own making. but troubles of the mind are worse, surely, than troubles of the body?" "certainly; and it is the highest work of the ministry to deal with spiritual trials. but you will pardon me for saying that i cannot think this is the proper work for--for--" "for me, you would say. we must be speaking of quite different things, i am sure. i only mean that i can listen to the troubles and grievances of anyone who likes to talk of them to me, and try to comfort them a little, and to make things look brighter, and to keep cheerful. it is not easy always even to do this." "it is not, indeed. but would it not be easier if you could do as i suggest? going out of one's own class, and trying to care for and help the poor, braces the mind more than anything else." "you ought to know my cousin katie," said mary, glad to make a diversion; "that is just what she would say. indeed, i think you must have seen her at oxford; did you not?" "i believe i had the honor of meeting her at the rooms of a friend. i think he said she was also a cousin of his." "mr. brown, you mean? yes; did you know him?" "oh, yes. you will think it strange, as we are so very unlike; but i knew him better than i knew almost any one." "poor katie is very anxious about him. i hope you thought well of him. you do not think he is likely to go very wrong?" "no, indeed. i could wish he were sounder on church questions, but that may come. do you know that he is in london?" "i had heard so." "he has been several times to my schools. he used to help me at oxford, and has a capital way with the boys." at this moment the clock on the mantel-piece struck a quarter. the sound touched some chord in grey which made him grasp his hat again, and prepare for another attempt to get away. "i hope you will pardon--" he pulled himself up short, in the fear lest he were going again to be false (as he deemed it) to his calling, and stood the picture of nervous discomfort. mary came to his relief. "i am sorry you must go, mr. grey," she said; "i should have so liked to have talked to you more about oxford. you will call again soon, i hope?" at which last speech grey, casting an imploring glance at her, muttered something which she could not catch, and fled from the room. mary stood looking dreamily out of the window for a few minutes, till the entrance of her mother roused her, and she turned to pour out a cup of tea for her. "it is cold, mamma dear; do let me make some fresh." "no, thank you, dear; this will do very well," said mrs. porter; and she took off her bonnet and sipped the cold tea. mary watched her silently for a minute, and then, taking the letter she had been reading out of her pocket, said, "i have a letter from katie, mamma." mrs. porter took the letter and read it; and, as mary still watched, she saw a puzzled look coming over her mother's face. mrs. porter finished the letter, and then looked stealthily at mary, who on her side was now busily engaged in putting up the tea-things. "it is very embarrassing," said mrs. porter. "what, mamma?" "oh, of course, my dear, i mean katie's telling us of her cousin's being in london, and sending us his address--" and then she paused. "why, mamma?" "your papa will have to make up his mind whether he will ask him to the house. katie would surely never have told him that she has written." "mr. and mrs. brown were so very kind. it would seem so strange, so ungrateful, not to ask him." "i am afraid he is not the sort of young man--in short, i must speak to your papa." mrs. porter looked hard at her daughter, who was still busied with the tea-things. she had risen, bonnet in hand, to leave the room; but now changed her mind, and, crossing to her daughter, put her arm round her neck. mary looked up steadily into her eyes, then blushed slightly, and said quietly, "no, mamma; indeed, it is not as you think." her mother stooped and kissed her, and left the room, telling her to get dressed, as the carriage would be round in a few minutes. her trials for the day were not over. she could see by their manner at dinner that her father and mother had been talking about her. her father took her to a ball in the evening, where they met st. cloud, who fastened himself to them. she was dancing a quadrille, and her father stood near her, talking confidentially to st. cloud. in the intervals of the dance, scraps of their conversation reached her. "you knew him, then, at oxford?" "yes, very slightly." "i should like to ask you now, as a friend--" here mary's partner reminded her that she ought to be dancing. when she had returned to her place again she heard-- "you think, then, that it was a bad business?" "it was notorious in the college. we never had any doubt on the subject." "my niece has told mrs. porter that there really was nothing wrong in it." "indeed? i am happy to hear it." "i should like to think well of him, as he is a connexion of my wife. in other respects now--" here again she was carried away by the dance. when she returned, she caught the end of a sentence of st. cloud's, "you will consider what i have said in confidence?" "certainly," answered mr. porter; "and i am exceedingly obliged to you." and then the dance was over, and mary returned to her father's side. she had never enjoyed a ball less than this, and persuaded her father to leave early, which he was delighted to do. when she reached her own room, mary took off her wreath and ornaments, and then sat down and fell into a brown study, which lasted for some time. at last she roused herself with a sigh, and thought she had never had so tiring a day, though she could hardly tell why, and felt half inclined to have a good cry, if she could only have made up her mind what about. however, being a sensible young woman, she resisted the temptation, and hardly taking the trouble to roll up her hair, went to bed and slept soundly. mr. porter found his wife sitting up for him; they were evidently both full of the same subject. "well, dear?" she said, as he entered the room. mr. porter put down his candle, and shook his head. "you don't think katie can be right then? she must have capital opportunities of judging, you know, dear." "but she is no judge. what can a girl like katie know about such things?" "well, dear, do you know i really cannot think there was anything very wrong, though i did think so at first, i own." "but i find that his character was bad--decidedly bad--always. young st. cloud didn't like to say much to me, which was natural, of course. young men never like to betray one another; but i could see what he thought. he is a right-minded young man and very agreeable." "i do not take to him very much." "his connexions and prospects, too, are capital. i sometimes think he has a fancy for mary. haven't you remarked it?" "yes, dear. but as to the other matter? shall you ask him here?" "well, dear, i do not think there is any need. he is only in town, i suppose, for a short time, and it is not at all likely that we should know where he is, you see." "but if he should call?" "of course then we must be civil. we can consider then what is to be done." chapter xliv--the intercepted letter-bag "dear katie;--at home, you see, without having answered your last kind letter of counsel and sympathy. but i couldn't write in town, i was in such a queer state all the time. i enjoyed nothing, not even the match at lord's, or the race; only walking at night in the square, and watching her window, and seeing her at a distance in rotten row." "i followed your advice at last, though it went against the grain uncommonly. it did seem so unlike what i had a right to expect from them--after all the kindness my father and mother had shown them when they came into our neighborhood, and after i had been so intimate there, running in and out just like a son of their own--that they shouldn't take the slightest notice of me all the time i was in london. i shouldn't have wondered if you hadn't explained; but after that, and after you had told them my direction, and when they knew that i was within five minutes' walk of their house constantly (for they knew all about grey's schools, and that i was there three or four times a week), i do think it was too bad. however, as i was going to tell you, i went at last, for i couldn't leave town without trying to see her; and i believe i have finished it all off. i don't know. i'm very low about it, at any rate, and want to tell you all that passed, and to hear what you think. i have no one to consult but you, katie. what should i do without you? but you were born to help and comfort all the world. i shan't rest till i know what you think about this last crisis in my history." "i put off going till my last day in town, and then called twice. the first time, 'not at home.' but i was determined now to see somebody and make out something; so i left my card, and a message that, as i was leaving town next day, i would call again. when i called again at o'clock, i was shown into the library, and presently your uncle came in. i felt very uncomfortable, and i think he did too; but he shook hands cordially enough, asked why i had not called before, and said he was sorry to hear i was going out of town so soon. do you believe he meant it? i didn't. but it put me out, because it made it look as if it had been my fault that i hadn't been there before. i said i didn't know that he would have liked me to call, but i felt that he had got the best of the start." "then he asked after all at home, and talked of his boys, and how they were getting on at school. by this time i had got my head again; so i went back to my calling, and said that i had felt that i could never come to their house as a common acquaintance, and, as i did not know whether they would ever let me come in any other capacity, i had kept away till now." "your uncle didn't like it, i know; for he got up and walked about, and then said he didn't understand me. well, i was quite reckless by this time. it was my last chance, i felt; so i looked hard into my hat, and said that i had been over head and ears in love with mary for two years. of course there was no getting out of the business after that. i kept on staring into my hat; so i don't know how he took it; but the first thing he said was that he had had some suspicions of this, and now my confession gave him a right to ask me several questions. in the first place, had i ever spoken to her? no; never directly. what did i mean by directly? i meant that i had never either spoken or written to her on the subject--in fact, i hadn't seen her except at a distance for the last two years--but i could not say that she might not have found it out from my manner. had i ever told anyone else? no. and this was quite true, katie, for both you and hardy found it out." "he took a good many turns before speaking again. then he said i had acted as a gentleman hitherto and he should be very plain with me. of course i must see that, looking at my prospects and his daughter's, it could not be an engagement which he could look on with much favor from a worldly point of view. nevertheless, he had the highest respect and regard for my family, so that, if in some years' time i was in a position to marry, he should not object on this score; but there were other matters which were in his eyes of more importance. he had heard (who could have told him?) that i had taken up very violent opinions--opinions which, to say nothing more of them, would very much damage my prospects of success in life; and that i was in the habit of associating with the advocates of such opinions--persons who, he must say, were not fit companions for a gentleman--and of writing violent articles in low revolutionary newspapers, such as the _wessex freeman_. yes, i confessed i had written. would i give up these things? i had a great mind to say flat, no, and i believe i ought to have; but as his tone was kind, i couldn't help trying to meet him. so i said i would give up writing or speaking publicly about such matters, but i couldn't pretend not to believe what i did believe. perhaps, as my opinions had altered so much already, very likely they might again." "he seemed to be rather amused at that, and said he sincerely hoped they might. but now came the most serious point; he had heard very bad stories of me at oxford, but he would not press me with them. there were too few young men whose lives would bear looking into for him to insist much on such matters, and he was ready to let bygones be bygones. but i must remember that he had himself seen me in one very awkward position. i broke in, and said i had hoped that had been explained to him. i could not defend my oxford life; or could not defend myself as to this particular case at one time; but there had been nothing in it that i was ashamed of since before the time i knew his daughter." "on my honour, had i absolutely and entirely broken off all relations with her? he had been told that i still kept up a correspondence with her." "yes, i still wrote to her, and saw her occasionally; but it was only to give her news of a young man from her village, who was now serving in india. he had no other way of communicating with her." "it was a most curious arrangement; did i mean that this young man was going to be married to her?" "i hoped so." "why should he not write to her at once, if they were engaged to be married?" "they were not exactly engaged; it was rather hard to explain. here your uncle seemed to lose patience, for he interrupted me and said, 'really, it must be clear to me, as a reasonable man, that, if this connexion were not absolutely broken off, there must be an end of everything, so far as his daughter was concerned. would i give my word of honor to break it off at once, and completely?' i tried to explain again; but he would have nothing but 'yes' or 'no.' dear katie, what could i do? i have written to patty that, till i die, she may always reckon on me as on a brother; and i promised harry never to lose sight of her, and to let her know everything that happens to him. your uncle would not hear me; so i said, "no." and he said, 'then our interview had better end,' and rang the bell. somebody, i'm sure, has been slandering me to him; who can it be?" "i didn't say another word, or offer to shake hands, but got up and walked out of the room, as it was no good waiting for the servant to come. when i got into the hall the front door was open, and i heard her voice. i stopped dead short. she was saying something to some people who had been out riding with her. the next moment the door shut, and she tripped in in her riding-habit, and grey gloves, and hat, with the dearest little grey plume in it. she went humming along, and up six or eight steps, without seeing me. then i moved a step, and she stopped and looked and gave a start. i don't know whether my face was awfully miserable, but, when our eyes met, her's seemed to fill with pity and uneasiness, and inquiry, and the bright look to melt away altogether; and then she blushed and ran down stairs again, and held out her hand, saying, 'i am so glad to see you, after all this long time.' i pressed it, but i don't think i said anything. i forget; the butler came into the hall, and stood by the door. she paused another moment, looked confused, and then, as the library door opened, went away up stairs, with a kind 'good-bye.' she dropped a little bunch of violets, which she had worn in the breast of her habit, as she went away. i went and picked them up, although your uncle had now come out of the library, and then made the best of my way into the street." "there, katie, i have told you everything, exactly as it happened. do write to me, dear, and tell me, now, what you think. is it all over? what can i do? can you do anything for me? i feel it is better in one respect. her father can never say now that i didn't tell him all about it. but what is to happen? i am so restless. i can settle to nothing, and do nothing, but fish. i moon away all my time by the water-side, dreaming. but i don't mean to let it beat me much longer. here's the fourth day since i saw her. i came away the next morning. i shall give myself a week; and, dear, do write me a long letter at once, and interpret it all to me. a woman knows so wonderfully what things mean. but don't make it out better than you really think. nobody can stop my going on loving her, that's a comfort; and while i can do that, and don't know she loves anybody else, i ought to be happier than any other man in the world. yes, i ought to be, but i ain't. i will be, though; see if i won't. heigho! do write directly, my dear counsellor, to your affectionate cousin. t.b. "p. s.--i had almost forgotten my usual budget. i enclose my last from india. you will see by it that harry is getting on famously. i am more glad than i can tell you that my friend east has taken him as his servant. he couldn't be under a better master. poor harry! i sometimes think his case is more hopeless than my own. how is it to come right? or mine?" englebourn "dear cousin,--you will believe how i devoured your letter; though, when i had read the first few lines and saw what was coming, it made me stop and tremble. at first i could have cried over it for vexation; but, now i have thought about it a little, i really do not see any reason to be discouraged. at any rate, uncle robert now knows all about it, and will get used to the idea, and mary seems to have received you just as you ought to have wished that she should. i am thankful that you have left off pressing me to write to her about you, for i am sure that would not be honorable; and, to reward you, i enclose a letter of hers, which came yesterday. you will see that she speaks with such pleasure of having just caught a glimpse of you that you need not regret the shortness of the interview. you could not expect her to say more, because, after all, she can only guess; and i cannot do more than answer as if i were quite innocent too. i am sure you will be very thankful to me some day for not having been your mouthpiece, as i was so very near being. you need not return the letter. i suppose i am getting more hopeful as i grow older--indeed, i am sure i am; for three or four years ago i should have been in despair about you, and now i am nearly sure that all will come right." "but, indeed, cousin tom, you cannot, or ought not to wonder at uncle robert's objecting to your opinions. and then i am so surprised to find you saying that you think you may very likely change them. because, if that is the case, it would be so much better if you would not write and talk about them. unless you are quite convinced of such things as you write in that dreadful paper, you really ought not to go on writing them so very much as if you believed them." "and now i am speaking to you about this, which i have often had on my mind to speak to you about, i must ask you not to send me that _wessex freeman_ any more. i am always delighted to hear what you think; and there is a great deal in the articles you mark for me which seems very fine; and i dare say you quite believe it all when you write it. only i am afraid lest papa or anyone of the servants should open the papers, or get hold of them after i have opened them; for i am sure there are a great many wicked things in the other parts of the paper. so, please do not send it to me, but write and tell me yourself anything that you wish me to know of what you are thinking about and doing. as i did not like to burn the papers, and was afraid to keep them here, i have generally sent them on to your friend mr. hardy. he does not know who sends them; and now you might send them yourself straight to him, as i do not know his address in the country. as you are going up again to keep a term, i wish you would talk them over with him, and see what he thinks about them. you will think this very odd of me, but you know you have always said how much you rely on his judgment, and that you have learnt so much from him. so i am sure you would wish to consult him; and, if he thinks that you ought to go on writing, it will be a great help to you to know it." "i am so very glad to be able to tell you how well martha is getting on. i have always read to her the extracts from the letters from india which you have sent me, and she is very much obliged to you for sending them. i think there is no doubt that she is, and always has been, attached to poor widow winburn's son, and, now that he is behaving so well, i can see that it gives her great pleasure to hear about him. only, i hope he will be able to come back before very long, because she is very much admired, and is likely to have so many chances of settling in life, that it is a great chance whether attachment to him will be strong enough to keep her single if he should be absent for many years." "do you know i have a sort of superstition, that your fate hangs upon theirs in some curious manner--the two stories have been so interwoven--and that they will both be settled happily much sooner than we dare to hope even just now." "don't think, my dear cousin, that this letter is cold, or that i do not take the very deepest interest in all that concerns you. you and mary are always in my thoughts, and there is nothing in the world i would not do for you both which i thought would help you. i am sure it would do you harm if i were only a go-between. papa is much as usual. he gets out a good deal in his chair in the sun this fine weather. he desires me to say how glad he should be if you will come over soon and pay us a visit. i hope you will come very soon." "ever believe me, dear tom, "your affectionate cousin, "katie." "november. "dear tom,--i hear that what you in england call a mail is to leave camp this evening; so, that you may have no excuse for not writing to me constantly, i am sitting down to spin you such a yarn as i can under the disadvantages circumstances in which this will leave me. "this time last year, or somewhere thereabouts, i was enjoying academic life with you at oxford; and now here i am, encamped at some unpronounceable place beyond umbala. you won't be much the wiser for that. what do you know about umbala? i didn't myself know that there was such a place till a month ago, when we were ordered to march up here. but one lives and learns. marching over india has its disagreeables, of which dysentery and dust are about the worst. a lot of our fellows are down with the former; amongst others my captain; so i am in command of the company. if it were not for the glorious privilege of grumbling, i think that we should all own that we liked the life. moving about, though one does get frozen and broiled regularly once in twenty-four hours, suits me; besides, they talk of matters coming to a crisis, and no end of fighting to be done directly. you'll know more about what's going on from the papers than we do, but here they say the ball may begin any day; so we are making forced marches to be up in time. i wonder how i shall like it. perhaps, in my next, i may tell you how a bullet sounds when it comes at you. if there is any fighting, i expect our regiment will make their mark. we are in tip-top order; the colonel is a grand fellow, and the regiment feels his hand down to the youngest drummer boy. what a deal of good i will do when i'm a colonel! "i duly delivered the enclosure in your last to your convict, who is rapidly ascending the ladder of promotion. i am disgusted at this myself, for i have had to give him up, and there never was such a jewel of a servant; but, of course, it's a great thing for him. he is covering sergeant of my company, and the smartest coverer we have, too. i have got a regular broth of a boy, an irishman, in his place, who leads me a dog of a life. i took him chiefly because he very nearly beat me in a foot-race. our senior major is a pat himself, and, it seems, knew something of larry's powers. so, one day at mess, he offered to back him against anyone in the regiment for yards. my captain took him up and named me, and the race came off next day; and a precious narrow thing it was, but i managed to win by a neck for the honor of the old school. he is a lazy scatter-brained creature, utterly indifferent to fact, and i am obliged to keep the brandy flask under lock and key; but the humour and absolute good-temper of the animal impose upon me, and i really think he is attached to me. so i keep him on, grumbling horribly at the change from that orderly, punctual, clean, accurate convict. depend upon it, that fellow will do. he makes his way everywhere, with officers and men. he is a gentleman at heart, and, by the way, you would be surprised at the improvement in his manners and speech. there is hardly a taste of berkshire left in his _deealect_. he has read all the books i could lend him or borrow for him and is fast picking up hindustanee. so you see, after all, i am come round to your opinion that we did a good afternoon's work on that precious stormy common when we carried off the convict from the authorities of his native land, and was first under fire. as you are a performer in that line, couldn't you carry off his sweetheart and send her out here? after the sea voyage there isn't much above , miles to come by dauk; and tell her, with my compliments, he is well worth coming twice the distance for. poor fellow! it is a bad lookout for him, i'm afraid, as he may not get home this ten years; and, though he isn't a kind to be easily lolled, there are serious odds against him, even if he keeps all right. i almost wish you had never told me his story. "we are going into cantonments as soon as this expedition is over, in a splendid pig district, and i look forward to some real sport. all the men who have had any tell me it beats the best fox hunt all to fits for excitement. i have got my eye on a famous native horse, who is to be had cheap. the brute is in the habit of kneeling on his masters, and tearing them with his teeth when he gets them off, but nothing can touch him while you keep on his back. 'howsumdever,' as your countrymen say, i shall have a shy at him, if i can get him at my price. "i've nothing more to say. there's nobody you knew here, except the convict sergeant, and it is awfully hard to fill a letter home unless you have somebody to talk about. yes, by the way, there is one little fellow, an ensign, just joined, who says he remembers us at school. he can't be more than eighteen or nineteen, and was an urchin in the lower school, i suppose, when we were leaving. i don't remember his face, but it's a very good one, and he is a bright gentlemanly youngster as you would wish to see. his name is jones. do you remember him? he will be a godsend to me. i have him to chum with me on this march. "keep up your letters as you love me. you at home little know what it is to enjoy a letter. never mind what you put in it; anything will do from home, and i've nobody much else to write to me. "there goes the 'assembly.' why, i can't think, seeing that we have done our day's march. however, i must turn out and see what's up." * * * * * * * * * * "december. "i have just fallen on this letter, which i had quite forgotten, or, rather, had fancied i had sent off to you three weeks and more ago. my baggage has just come to hand, and the scrawl turned up in my paper cases. well, i have plenty to tell you now, at any rate, if i have time to tell it. that 'assembly' which stopped me short sounded in consequence of the arrival of one of the commander-in-chief's aides in our camp with the news that the enemy was over the sutlej. we were to march at once, with two six-pounders and a squadron of cavalry, on a fort occupied by an outlying lot of them which commanded a ford, and was to be taken and destroyed, and the rascals who held it dispersed; after which we were to join the main army. our colonel had the command, so we were on the route within an hour, leaving a company and the baggage to follow as it could; and from that time to this, forced marching and hard fighting have been the order of the day. "we drew first blood next morning. the enemy were in some force outside the fort, and showed fight in very rough ground covered with bushes, out of which we had to drive them, which we did after a sharp struggle, and the main body drew off altogether. then the fort had to be taken. our two guns worked away at it till dark. in the night two of the gunners, who volunteered for the service, crept close up to the place, and reported that there was nothing to hinder our running right into it. accordingly the colonel resolved to rush it at daybreak, and my company was told off to lead. the captain being absent, i had to command. i was with the dear old chief the last thing at night, getting his instructions; ten minutes with him before going into action would make a hare fight. "there was cover to within one hundred and fifty yards of the place; and there i, and poor little jones; and the men, spent the night in a dry ditch. an hour before daybreak we were on the alert, and served out rations, and then they began playing tricks on one another as if we were out for a junketing. i sat with my watch in my hand, feeling queer, and wondering whether i was a greater coward than the rest. then came a streak of light. i put up my watch, formed the men; up went a rocket, my signal, and out into the open we went at the double. we hadn't got over a third of the ground when bang went the fort guns, and the grape-shot were whistling about our ears; so i shouted 'forward!' and away we went as hard as we could go. i was obliged to go ahead, you see, because every man of them knew i had beaten larry, their best runner, when he had no gun to carry; but i didn't half like it, and should have blessed any hole or bramble which would have sent me over and given them time to catch me. but the ground was provokingly level; and so i was at the first mound and over it several lengths in front of the men, and among a lot of black fellows serving the guns. they came at me like wild cats, and how i got off is a mystery. i parried a cut from one fellow, and dodged a second; a third rushed at my left side. i just caught the flash of his tulwar, and thought it was all up, when he jumped into the air, shot through the heart by sergeant winburn; and the next moment master larry rushed by me and plunged his bayonet into my friend in front. it turned me as sick as a dog. i can't fancy anything more disagreeable than seeing the operation for the first time, except being struck oneself. the supporting companies were in in another minute, with the dear old chief himself, who came up and shook hands with me, and said i had done credit to the regiment. then i began to look about, and missed poor little jones. we found him about twenty yards from the place with two grape-shot through him, stone dead, and smiling like a child asleep. we buried him in the fort. i cut off some of his hair, and sent it home to his mother. her last letter was in his breast pocket, and a lock of bright brown hair of some one's. i sent them back, too, and his sword. "since then we have been with the army, and had three or four general actions; about which i can tell you nothing, except that we have lost about the third of the regiment, and have always been told we have won. steps go fast enough; my captain died of wounds and dysentery a week ago; so i have the company in earnest. how long i shall hold it, is another question; for, though there's a slack, we haven't done with sharp work yet, i can see. "how often we've talked, years ago, of what it must feel like going into battle! well, the chief thing i felt when the grape came down pretty thick for the first time, as we were advancing, was a sort of gripes in the stomach which made me want to go forward stooping. but i didn't give in to it; the chief was riding close behind us, joking the youngsters who were ducking their heads, and so cheery and cool, that he made old soldiers of us at once. what with smoke, and dust, and excitement, you know scarcely anything of what is going on. the finest sight i have seen is the artillery going into action. nothing stops those fellows. places you would crane at out hunting they go right over, guns, carriages, men, and all, leaving any cavalry we've got out here well behind. do you know what a nullah is? well, it's a great gap, like a huge dry canal, fifteen or twenty feet deep. we were halted behind one in the last great fight, awaiting the order to advance, when a battery came up at full gallop. we all made sure they must be pulled up the nullah. they never pulled bridle. 'leading gun, right turn!' sang out the subaltern; and down they went sideways into the nullah. then, 'left turn;' up the other bank, one gun after another, the horses scrambling like cats up and down places that my men had to use their hands to scramble up, and away on the other side to within yards of the enemy; and then, round like lightning, and look out in front. "altogether, it's sickening work, though there's a grand sort of feeling of carrying your life in your hand. they say the sepoy regiments have behaved shamefully. there is no sign of anything like funk among our fellows that i have seen. sergeant winburn has distinguished himself everywhere. he is like my shadow, and i can see he tries to watch over my precious carcase, and get between me and danger. he would be a deal more missed in the world than i. except you, old friend, i don't know who would care much if i were knocked over to-morrow. aunts and cousins are my nearest relations. you know i never was a snuffler; but this sort of life makes one serious, if one has any reverence at all in one. you'll be glad to have this line, if you don't hear from me again. i've often thought in the last month that we shall never see one another again in this world. but, whether in this world or any other, you know i am and always shall be, "your affectionate friend, "h. east." camp of the sutlej, january. "dear master tom;--the captain's last words was, if anything happened i was to be sure to write and tell you. and so i take up my pen, though you will know as i am not used to writing, to tell you the misfortune as has happened to our regiment. because, if you was to ask any man in our regiment, let it be who it would, he would say as the captain was the best officer as ever led men. not but what there's a many of them as will go to the front as brave as lions, and don't value shot no more than if it was rotten apples; and men as is men will go after such. but 'tis the captain's manners and ways, with a kind word for any poor fellow as is hurt, or sick and tired, and making no account of hisself, and, as you may say, no bounce with him; that's what makes the difference. "as it might be last saturday, we came upon the enemy where he was posted very strong, with guns all along his front, and served till we got right up to them, the runners being cut down and bayoneted when we got right up amongst them, and no quarter given; and there was great banks of earth, too, to clamber over, and more guns behind; so, with the marching up in front and losing so many officers and men, our regiment was that wild when we got amongst them, that 'twas awful to see, and, if there was any prisoners taken, it was more by mistake than not. "me and three or four more settled, when the word came to prepare for action, to keep with the captain, because 'twas known to everyone as no odds would stop him, and he would never mind hisself. the dust and smoke and noise was that thick you couldn't see nor hear anything after our regiment was in action; but, so far as i seen, when we was wheeled into line and got the word to advance, there was as it might be as far as from our old cottage to the hawk's lynch to go over before we got to the guns which was playing into us all the way. our line went up very steady, only where men was knocked down; and, when we came to within a matter of sixty yards, the officers jumped out and waved their swords, for 'twas no use to give words, and the ranks was broken by reason of the running up to take the guns from the enemy. me and the rest went after the captain; but he, being so light of foot, was first by maybe ten yards or so, at the mound, and so up before we was by him. but, though they was all round him like bees when we got to him, 'twas not then as he was hit. there was more guns further on, and we and they drove on all together; and, though they was beaten, being fine tall men and desperate, there was many of them fighting hard, and, as you might say, a man scarcely knowed how he got hit. i kept to the captain as close as ever i could, but there was times when i had to mind myself. just as we came to the last gun's, larry, that's the captain's servant, was trying by hisself to turn one of them round, so as to fire on the enemy as they took the river to the back of their lines all in a huddle. so i turned to lend him a hand; and, when i looked round next moment, there was the captain a-staggering like a drunken man, and he so strong and lissom up to then, and never had a scratch since the war begun, and this the last minute of it pretty nigh, for the enemy was all cut to pieces and drowned that day. i got to him before he fell, and we laid him down gently, and did the best we could for him. but he was bleeding dreadful with a great gash in his side, and his arm broke, and two gunshot wounds. our surgeon was killed, and 'twas hours before his wounds was dressed, and 'twill be god's mercy if ever he gets round; though they do say if the fever and dysentery keeps off, and he can get out of this country and home, there's no knowing but that he may get the better of it all, but not to serve with the regiment again for years to come. "i hope, master tom, as i've told you all the captain would like as you should know; only, being not much used to writing, i hope you will excuse mistakes. and, if so be that it won't be too much troubling of you, and the captain should go home, and you could write to say as things was going on at home as before, which the captain always gave to me to read when the mail come in, it would be a great help towards keeping up a good heart and in a foreign land, which is hard at times to do. there is some things which i make bold to send by a comrade going home sick. i don't know as they will seem much, but i hope as you will accept of the sword, which belonged to one of her officers, and the rest to her. also, on account of what was in the last piece as you forwarded, i send a letter to go along with the things, if miss winter, who have been so kind, or you would deliver the same. to whom i make bold to send my respects as well as to yourself, and hoping this will find you well and all friends. "from your respectful, "henry winburn, "colour-sergeant. st regiment." "march. "my dear tom;--i begin to think i may see you again yet, but it has been a near shave. i hope sergeant winburn's letter, and the returns, in which i see i was put down "dangerously wounded," will not have frightened you very much. the war is over; and, if i live to get down to calcutta you will see me in the summer, please god. the end was like the beginning--going right up to the guns. our regiment is frightfully cut up; there are only men left under arms--the rest dead or in hospital. i am sick at heart at it, and weak in body, and can only write a few lines at a time, but will get on with this as i can, in time for next mail. * * * * * "since beginning this letter i have had another relapse. so, in case i should never finish it, i will say at once what i most want to say. winburn has saved my life more than once, and is besides one of the noblest and bravest fellows in the world; so i mean to provide for him in case anything should happen to me. i have made a will, and appointed you my executor, and left him a legacy. you must buy his discharge, and get him home and married to the englebourn beauty as soon as possible. but what i want you to understand is, that if the legacy isn't enough to do this, and make all straight with her old curmudgeon of a father, it is my first wish that whatever will do it should be made up to him. he has been in hospital with a bad flesh wound, and has let out to me the whole of his story, of which you had only given me the heads. if that young women does not wait for him, and book him, i shall give up all faith in petticoats. now that's done i feel more at ease. "let me see. i haven't written for six weeks and more, just before our last great fight. you'll know all about it from the papers long before you get this--a bloody business; i am loath to think of it. i was knocked over in the last of their entrenchments, and should then and there have bled to death had it not been for winburn. he never left me, though the killing, and plundering, and roystering afterwards was going on all around, and strong temptation to a fellow when his blood is up, and he sees his comrades at it, after such work as we have had. what's more he caught my irish fellow and made him stay by me too, and between them they managed to prop me up and stop the bleeding, though it was touch and go. i never thought they would manage it. you can't think what a curious feeling it is, the life going out of you. i was perfectly conscious, and knew all they were doing and saying, and thought quite clearly, though in a sort of dreamy way, about you, and a whole jumble of people and things at home. it was the most curious painless mixture of dream and life, getting more dreamy every minute. i don't suppose i could have opened my eyes or spoken; at any rate i had no wish to do so, and didn't try. several times the thought of death came close to me; and, whether it was the odd state i was in, or what else i don't know, but the only feeling i had, was one of intense curiosity. i should think i must have lain there, with winburn supporting my head, and moistening my lips with rum-and-water, for four or five hours, before a doctor could be got. he had managed to drive larry about till he had found, or borrowed, or stolen the drink, and then kept him making short cruises in search of help in the shape of hospital-staff, ambulances, or doctors, from which master larry always came back without the slightest success. my belief is, he employed those precious minutes, when he was from under his sergeant's eye, in looting. at last, winburn got impatient, and i heard him telling larry what he was to do while he was gone himself to find a doctor; and then i was moved as gently as if i had been a sick girl. i heard him go off with a limp, but did not know till long after of his wound. "larry had made such a wailing and to-do when they first found me, that a natural reaction now set in, and he began gently and tenderly to run over in his mind what could be made out of 'the captin,' and what would become of his things. i found out this, partly through his habit of talking to himself, and partly from the precaution which he took of ascertaining where my watch and purse were, and what else i had upon me. it tickled me immensely to hear him. presently i found he was examining my boots, which he pronounced 'iligant entirely,' and wondered whether he could get them on. the 'serjint' would never want them. and he then proceeded to assert, while _he_ actually began unlacing them, that the 'captin' would never have '_bet him_' but for the boots which 'was worth ten feet in a furlong to any man.' 'shure, 'tis too late now; but wouldn't i like to run him agin with bare feet?' i couldn't stand that, and just opened my eyes a little, and moved my hand, and said, 'done.' i wanted to add, 'you rascal,' but that was too much for me. larry's face of horror, which i just caught through my half-opened eyes, would have made me roar, if i had had strength for it. i believe the resolution i made that he should never go about in my boots helped to pull me through; but, as soon as winburn came back with the doctor, master larry departed, and i much doubt whether i shall ever set eyes on him again in the flesh. not if he can help it, certainly. the regiment, what's left of it, is away in the punjaub, and he with it. winburn, as i told you, is hard hit, but no danger. i have great hopes that he will be invalided. you may depend upon it he will escort me home, if any interest of mine can manage it; and the dear old chief is so kind to me that i think he will arrange it somehow. "i must be wonderfully better to have spun such a yarn. writing those first ten lines nearly finished me, a week ago, and now i am scarcely tired after all this scrawl. if that rascal, larry, escapes hanging another year, and comes back home, i will run him _yet_, and thrash his head off. "there is something marvelously life-giving in the idea of sailing for old england again; and i mean to make a strong fight for seeing you again, old boy. god bless you. write again for the chance, directing to my agents at calcutta as before. "ever your half-alive, but whole-hearted and affectionate friend, "h. east" chapter xlv--master's term one more look into the old college where we have spent so much time already, not, i hope, altogether unpleasantly. our hero is up in the summer term, keeping his three weeks' residence, the necessary preliminary to an m. a. degree. we find him sitting in hardy's rooms; tea is over, scouts out of college, candles lighted, and silence reigning, except when distant sounds of mirth come from some undergraduates' rooms on the opposite side of quad, through the open windows. hardy is deep in the budget of indian letters, some of which we have read in the last chapter; and tom reads them over again as his friend finishes them, and then carefully folds them up and puts them back in their places in a large pocket-case. except for an occasional explanatory remark, or exclamation of interest, no word passes until hardy finishes the last letter. then he breaks out into praises of the two harrys, which gladdens tom's heart as he fastens the case, and puts it back in his pocket, saying, "yes, you won't find two finer fellows in a long summer's day; no, nor in twenty." "and you expect them home, then, in a week or two?" "yes, i think so. just about the time i shall be going down." "don't talk about going down. you haven't been here a week." "just a week. one out of three. three weeks wasted in keeping one's master's term! why can't you give a fellow his degree quietly, without making him come and kick his heels here for three weeks?" "you ungrateful dog! do you mean to say you haven't enjoyed coming back, and sitting in dignity in the bachelors' seats in chapel, and at the bachelors' table in hall, and thinking how much wiser you are than the undergraduates? besides, your old friends want to see you, and you ought to want to see them." "well, i am very glad to see something of you again, old fellow. i don't find that a year's absence has made any change in you. but who else is there that i care to see? my old friends are gone, and the year has made a great gap between me and the youngsters. they look on me as a sort of don." "of course they do. why, you are a sort of don. you will be an m. a. in a fortnight, and a member of convocation." "very likely; but i don't appreciate the dignity. i can tell you being up here now is anything but enjoyable. you have never broken with the place. and then, you always did your duty, and have done the college credit. you can't enter into the feelings of a fellow whose connexion with oxford has been quite broken off, and who wasted three parts of his time here, when he comes back to keep his master's." "come, come, tom. you might have read more certainly, with benefit to yourself and college, and taken a higher degree. but, after all, didn't the place do you a great deal of good? and you didn't do it much harm. i don't like to see you in this sort of gloomy state; it isn't natural to you." "it is becoming natural. you haven't seen much of me during the last year, or you would have remarked it. and then, as i tell you, oxford, when one has nothing to do in it but to moon about, thinking over one's past follies and sins, isn't cheerful. it never was a very cheerful place to me at the best of times." "not even at pulling times?" "well, the river is the part i like best to think of. but even the river makes me rather melancholy now. one feels one has done with it." "why, tom, i believe your melancholy comes from their not having asked you to pull in the boat." "perhaps it does. don't you call it degrading to be pulling in the torpid in one's old age?" "mortified vanity, man! they have a capital boat. i wonder how we should have liked to have been turned out for some bachelor just because he had pulled a good oar in his day?" "not at all. i don't blame the young ones, and i hope to do my duty in the torpid. by the way, they are an uncommonly nice set of youngsters. much better behaved in every way than we were, unless it is that they put on their best manners before me." "no, i don't think they do. the fact is they are really fine young fellows." "so i think. and i'll tell you what, jack; since we are sitting and talking our minds to one another at last, like old times, somebody has made the most wonderful change in this college. i rather think it is seeing what st. ambrose's is now, and thinking what it was in my time, and what an uncommon member of society i should have turned out if i had had the luck to have been here now instead of then, that makes me down in the mouth--more even than having to pull in the torpid instead of the racing boat." "you do think it is improved, then?" "think! why it is a different place altogether; and, as you are the only new tutor, it must have been your doing. now i want to know your secret." "i've no secret, except taking a real interest in all that the men do, and living with them as much as i can. you may fancy it isn't much of a trial to me to steer the boat down or run on the bank and coach the crew." "ah! i remember you were beginning that before i left, in your first year. i knew that would answer." "yes. the fact is, i find that just what i like best is the very best thing for the men. with very few exceptions they are all glad to be stirred up, and meet me nearly halfway in reading, and three-quarters in everything else. i believe they would make me captain to-morrow." "and why don't you let them?" "no; there's a time for everything. i go in in the scratch fours for the pewters, and--more by token--my crew won them two years running. look at my trophies," and he pointed to two pewter pots, engraved with the college arms, which stood on his side-board. "well, i dare say you're right. but what does the president say?" "oh, he is a convert. didn't you see him on the bank when you torpids made your bump the other night?" "no, you don't mean it? well, do you know, a sort of vision of black tights, and a broad-brimmed hat, crossed me, but i never gave it a second thought. and so the president comes out to see the st. ambrose boat row?" "seldom misses two nights running." "then, 'carry me out, and bury me decently'. have you seen old tom walking around peckwater lately on his clapper, smoking a cigar with the dean of christ church? don't be afraid. i am ready for anything you like to tell me. draw any amount you like on my faith; i shall honor the draft after that." "the president isn't a bad judge of an oar, when he sets his mind to it." "isn't he? but, i say, jack--no sell--how in the world did it happen?" "i believe it happened chiefly through his talks with me. when i was first made tutor he sent for me and told me he had heard i encouraged the young men in boating, and he must positively forbid it. i didn't care much about staying up; so i was pretty plain with him, and said, 'if i was not allowed to take the line i thought best in such matters, i must resign at the end of the term.' he assented, but afterwards thought better of it, and sent for me again, and we had several encounters. i took my ground very civilly but firmly, and he had to give up one objection after another. i think the turning point was when he quoted st. paul on me, and said i was teaching boys to worship physical strength, instead of teaching them to keep under their bodies and bring them into subjection. of course i countered him there with tremendous effect. the old boy took it very well, only saying he feared it was no use to argue further--in this matter of boat-racing he had come to a conclusion, not without serious thought, many years before. however, he came round quietly. and so he has on other points. in fact, he is a wonderfully open-minded man for his age, if you only put things to him the right way." "has he come round about gentlemen-commoners? i see you have only two or three up." "yes. we haven't given up taking them altogether. i hope that may come soon. but i and another tutor took to plucking them ruthlessly at matriculation, unless they were quite up to the commoner standard. the consequence was, a row in common room. we stood out, and won. luckily, as you know, it has always been given out here that all under-graduates, gentlemen-commoners and commoners, have to pass the same college examinations, and to attend the same course of lectures. you know also what a mere sham and pretence the rule had become. well, we simply made a reality of it, and in answer to all objectors said, 'is it our rule or not? if it is, we are bound to act on it. if you want to alter it, there are the regular ways of doing so.' after a little grumbling they let us have our way, and the consequence is, that velvet is getting scarce at st. ambrose." "what a blessing! what other miracles have you been performing?" "the best reform we have carried is throwing the kitchen and cellar open to the undergraduates." "w-h-e-w! that's just the sort of reform we should have appreciated. fancy drysdale's lot with the key of the college cellars, at about ten o'clock on a shiny night." "you don't quite understand the reform. you remember, when you were an undergraduate you couldn't give a dinner in college, and you had to buy your wine anywhere?" "yes. and awful firewater we used to get. the governor supplied me, like a wise man." "well, we have placed the college in the relation of benevolent father. every undergraduate now can give two dinners a term in his own rooms, from the kitchen; or more, if he comes and asks, and has any reason to give. we take care that they have a good dinner at a reasonable rate, and the men are delighted with the arrangement. i don't believe there are three men in the college now who have hotel bills. and we let them have all their wine out of the college cellars." "that's what i call good common sense. of course it must answer in every way. and you find they all come to you?" "almost all. they can't get anything like the wine we give them at the price, and they know it." "do you make them pay ready money?" "the dinners and wine are charged in their battel bills; so they have to pay once a term, just as they do for their orders at commons." "it must swell their battel bills awfully." "yes, but battel bills always come in at the beginning of term when they are flush of money. besides, they all know that battel bills must be paid. in a small way it is the best thing that ever was done for st. ambrose's. you see it cuts so many ways. keeps men in the college, knocks off the most objectionable bills at inns and pastry-cooks', keeps them from being poisoned, makes them pay their bills regularly, shows them that we like them to be able to live like gentlemen--" "and lets you dons know what they are all about, and how much they spend in the way of entertaining." "yes; and a very good thing for them too. they know that we shall not interfere while they behave like gentlemen." "oh, i'm not objecting. and was this your doing, too?" "no, a joint business. we hatched it in the common room, and then the bursar spoke to the president, who was furious, and said we were giving the sanction of the college to disgraceful luxury and extravagance. luckily he had not the power of stopping us, and now is convinced." "the goddess of common sense seems to have alighted again in the quad of st. ambrose. you'll never leave the place, jack, now you're beginning to get everything your own way." "on the contrary, i don't mean to stop up more than another year at the outside. i have been tutor nearly three years now; that's about long enough." "do you think you're right? you seem to have hit on your line in life wonderfully. you like the work and the work likes you. you are doing a heap of good up here. you'll be president in a year or two, depend on it. i should say you had better stick to oxford." "no. i should be of no use in a year or two. we want a constant current of fresh blood here." "in a general way. but you don't get a man every day who can throw himself into the men's pursuits, and can get hold of them in the right way. and then, after all, when a fellow has got such work cut out for him as you have, oxford must be an uncommonly pleasant place to live in." "pleasant enough in many ways. but you seem to have forgotten how you used to rail against it." "yes. because i never hit off the right ways of the place. but if i had taken a first and got a fellowship, i should like it well enough i dare say." "being a fellow, on the contrary, makes it worse. while one was an undergraduate, one could feel virtuous and indignant at the vices of oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money-worship which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. but when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. they become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart." "why, jack, we're changing characters to-night. fancy your coming out in the abusive line! why i never said harder things of alma mater myself. however, there's plenty of flunkeyism and money-worship everywhere else." "yes, but it is not so heart-breaking in other places. when one thinks what a great centre of learning and faith oxford ought to be like--that its highest educational work should just be the deliverance of us all from flunkeyism and money-worship--and then looks at matters here without rose-colored spectacles, it gives one sometimes a sort of chilly leaden despondency, which is very hard to struggle against." "i am sorry to hear you talk like that, jack, for one can't help loving the place after all." "so i do, god knows. if i didn't i shouldn't care for its shortcomings." "well, the flunkeyism and money-worship were bad enough, but i don't think they were the worst things--at least not in my day. our neglects were almost worse than our worships." "you mean the want of all reverence for parents? well, perhaps that lies at the root of the false worships. they spring up on the vacant soil." "and the want of reverence for women, jack. the worst of all, to my mind!" "perhaps you are right. but we are not at the bottom yet." "how do you mean?" "i mean that we must worship god before we can reverence parents or women, or root out flunkeyism and money-worship." "yes. but, after all, can we fairly lay that sin on oxford? surely, whatever may be growing up side by side with it, there's more christianity here than almost anywhere else." "plenty of common-room christianity--belief in a dead god. there, i have never said it to anyone but you, but that is the slough we have to get out of. don't think that i despair for us. we shall do it yet; but it will be sore work, stripping off the comfortable wine-party religion in which we are wrapped up--work for our strongest and our wisest." "and yet you think of leaving?" "there are other reasons. i will tell you some day. but now, to turn to other matters, how have you been getting on this last year? you write so seldom that i am all behind-hand." "oh, much the same as usual." "then you are still like one of those who went out to david?" "no, i'm not in debt." "but discontented?" "pretty much like you there, jack. however, content is no virtue, that i can see, while there's anything to mend. who is going to be contented with game-preserving, and corn-laws, and grinding the faces of the poor? david's camp was a better place than saul's, any day." hardy got up, opened a drawer, and took out a bundle of papers, which tom recognized as the _wessex freeman_. he felt rather uncomfortable, as his friend seated himself again, and began looking them over. "you see what i have here," he said. tom nodded. "well, there are some of the articles i should like to ask you about, if you don't object." "no; go on." "here is one, then, to begin with. i won't read it all. let me see; here is what i was looking for," and he began reading; "one would think, to hear these landlords, our rulers, talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep woods the everlasting hills, and the rivers that run among them, were made for the sole purpose of ministering to their greedy lusts and mean ambitions; that they may roll out amongst unrealities their pitiful mock lives, from their silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins, studded with silver knobs, and lying coats of arms, reaping where they have not sown, and gathering where they have not strewed, making the omer small and the ephah great, that they may sell the refuse of the wheat--" "that'll do, jack; but what's the date of that paper?" "july last. is it yours, then?" "yes. and i allow it's too strong and one-sided. i have given up writing altogether; will that satisfy you? i don't see my own way clear enough yet. but, for all that, i'm not ashamed of what i wrote in that paper." "i have nothing more to say after that, except that i'm heartily glad you have given up writing for the present." "but i say, old fellow, how did you get these papers, and know about my articles?" "they were sent me. shall i burn them now or would you like to have them? we needn't say anything more about them." "burn them by all means. i suppose a friend sent them to you?" "i suppose so." hardy went on burning the papers in silence; and as tom watched him, a sudden light seemed to break upon him. "i say, jack," he said presently, "a little bird has been whispering something to me about that friend." hardy winched a little, and redoubled his diligence in burning the papers. tom looked on smiling, and thinking how to go on, now that he had so unexpectedly turned the tables on his monitor, when the clock struck twelve. "hullo!" he said, getting up; "time for me to knock out, or old copas will be in bed. to go back to where we started from to-night--as soon as east and harry winburn get back we shall have some jolly doings at englebourn. there'll be a wedding, i hope, and you'll come over and do parson for us, won't you?" "you mean for patty? of course i will." "the little bird whispered to me that you wouldn't dislike visiting that part of the old county. good night, jack. i wish you success, old fellow, with all my heart, and i hope after all that you may leave st. ambrose's within the year." chapter xlvi--from india to englebourn if a knowledge of contemporary history must be reckoned as an important element in the civilization of any people, then i am afraid that the good folk of englebourn must have been content, in the days of our story, with a very low place on the ladder. how, indeed, was knowledge to percolate, so as to reach down to the foundations of englebournian society--the stratum on which all others rest--the common agricultural labourer, producer of corn and other grain, the careful and stolid nurse and guardian of youthful oxen, sheep and pigs, many of them far better fed and housed than his own children? all-penetrating as she is, one cannot help wondering that she did not give up englebourn altogether as a hopeless job. so far as written periodical instruction is concerned (with the exception of the _quarterly_, which dr. winter had taken in from its commencement, but rarely opened), the supply was limited to at most half a dozen weekly papers. a london journal, sound in church and state principles, most respectable but not otherwise than heavy, came every saturday to the rectory. the conservative county paper was taken in at the red lion; and david the constable, and the blacksmith, clubbed together to purchase the liberal paper, by help of which they managed to wage unequal war with the knot of village quidnuncs, who assembled almost nightly at the bar of the tory beast above referred to--that king of beasts, red indeed in colour but of the truest blue in political principle. besides these, perhaps three or four more papers were taken by the farmers. but, scanty as the food was, it was quite enough for the mouths; indeed, when the papers once passed out of the parlours, they had for the most part performed their mission. few of the farm-servants, male or female, had curiosity or scholarship enough to spell through the dreary columns. and oral teaching was not much more plentiful, as how was it likely to be? englebourn was situated on no trunk road, and the amount of intercourse between it and the rest of the world was of the most limited kind. the rector never left home; the curate at rare intervals. most of the farmers went to market once a week and dined at their ordinary, discussing county politics according to their manner, but bringing home little, except as much food and drink as they could cleverly carry. the carrier went to and from newbury once a week; but he was a silent man, chiefly bent on collecting and selling butter. the postman, who was deaf, only went as far as the next village. the waggoners drove their masters' produce to market from time to time, and boozed away an hour or two in the kitchen, or tap, or skittle-alley, of some small public-house in the nearest town, while their horses rested. with the above exceptions, probably not one of the villagers strayed ten miles from home, from year's end to year's end. as to visitors, an occasional peddler or small commercial traveller turned up about once a quarter. a few boys and girls, more enterprising than their fellows, went out altogether into the world, of their own accord, in the course of the year; and an occasional burly ploughboy, or carter's boy, was entrapped into taking the queen's shilling by some subtle recruiting sergeant. but few of these were seen again, except at long intervals. the yearly village feasts, harvest homes, or a meet of the hounds on englebourn common, were the most exciting events which in an ordinary way stirred the surface of englebourn life; only faintest and most distant murmurs of the din and strife of the great outer world, of wars, and rumors of wars, the fall of governments, and the throes of nations, reached that primitive, out-of-the-way little village. a change was already showing itself since miss winter had been old enough to look after the schools. the waters were beginning to stir; and by this time, no doubt, the parish boasts a regular book-hawker and reading-room; but at that day englebourn was like one of those small ponds you may find in some nook of a hill-side, the banks grown over with underwood, to which neither man nor beast, scarcely the winds of heaven, have any access. when you have found such a pond, you may create a great excitement amongst the easy-going newts and frogs who inhabit it, by throwing in a pebble. the splash in itself is a small splash enough, and the waves which circle away from it are very tiny waves, but they move over the whole face of the pond, and are of more interest to the frogs than a nor'-wester in the atlantic. so the approaching return of harry winburn, and the story of his doings at the wars, and of the wonderful things he had sent home, stirred englebourn to its depth. in that small corner of the earth, the sergeant was of far more importance than governor-general and commander-in-chief. in fact, it was probably the common belief that he was somehow the head of the whole business; and india, the war, and all that hung thereon, were looked at and cared for only as they had served to bring him out. so careless were the good folk about everything in the matter except their own hero, and so wonderful were the romances which soon got abroad about him, that miss winter, tired of explaining again and again to the old women without the slightest effect on the parochial faith, bethought her of having a lecture on the subject of india and the war in the parish schoolroom. full of this idea, she wrote off to tom, who was the medium of communication on indian matters, and propounded it to him. the difficulty was, that mr. walker, the curate, the only person competent to give it, was going away directly for a three weeks' holiday, having arranged with two neighbouring curates to take his sunday duty for him. what was to be done? harry might be back any day, it seemed; so there was no time to be lost. could tom come himself, and help her? tom could not, but he wrote back to say that his friend hardy was just getting away from oxford for the long vacation, and would gladly take mr. walker's duty for the three weeks, if dr. winter approved, on his way home; by which englebourn would not be without an efficient parson on week-days, and she would have the man of all others to help her in utilizing the sergeant's history for the instruction of the bucolic mind. the arrangement, moreover, would be particularly happy, because hardy had already promised to perform the marriage ceremony, which tom and she had settled would take place at the earliest possible moment after the return of the indian heroes. dr. winter was very glad to accept the offer; and so, when they parted at oxford, hardy went to englebourn, where we must leave him for the present. tom went home--whence, in a few days, he had to hurry down to southampton to meet the two harrys. he was much shocked at first to see the state of his old school-fellow. east looked haggard and pale in the face, notwithstanding the sea voyage. his clothes hung on him as if they had been made for a man of twice his size, and he walked with difficulty by the help of a large stick. but he had lost none of his indomitableness, laughed at tom's long face, and declared that he felt himself getting better and stronger every day. "if you had only seen me at calcutta," he said, "you would sing a different song. eh, winburn?" harry winburn was much changed, and had acquired all the composed and self-reliant look which is so remarkable in a good non-commissioned officer. readiness to obey and command was stamped on every line of his face; but it required all his powers of self-restraint to keep within bounds his delight at getting home again. his wound was quite healed, and his health re-established by the voyage; and, when tom saw how wonderfully his manners and carriage were improved, and how easily his uniform sat on him, he felt quite sure that all would soon be right at englebourn, and that katie and he would be justified in their prophecies and preparations. the invalids had to report themselves in london, and thither the three proceeded together. when this was done, harry winburn was sent off at once. he resisted at first, and begged to be allowed to stay with his captain until the captain could go to berkshire himself. but he was by this time too much accustomed to discipline not to obey a positive order, and was comforted by tom's assurance that he would not leave east, and would do everything for him which the sergeant had been accustomed to do. three days later, as east and tom were sitting at breakfast, a short note came from miss winter, telling of harry's arrival--how the bells were set ringing to welcome him; how mr. hardy had preached the most wonderful sermon on his story the next day; above all, how patty had surrendered at discretion, and the banns had been called for the first time. so the sooner they would come down the better--as it was very important that no time should be lost, lest some of the old jealousies and quarrels should break out again. upon reading and considering which letter, east resolved to start for englebourn at once, and tom to accompany him. there was one person to whom harry's return and approaching wedding was a subject of unmixed joy and triumph, and that was david the constable. he had always been a sincere friend to harry, and had stood up for him when all the parish respectabilities had turned against him, and had prophesied that he would live to be a credit to the place. so now david felt himself an inch higher as he saw harry walking about in his uniform with his sweetheart, the admiration of all englebourn. but, besides all the unselfish pleasure which david enjoyed on his young friend's account, a little piece of private and personal gratification came to him on his own. ever since harry's courtship had begun, david had felt himself in a false position towards, and had suffered under, old simon, the rector's gardener. the necessity for keeping the old man in good humor for harry's sake had always been present to the constable's mind; and for the privilege of putting in a good word for his favorite now and then, he had allowed old simon to assume an air of superiority over him, and to trample upon him and dogmatize to him, even in the matters of flowers and bees. this had been the more galling to david on account of old simon's intolerant toryism, which the constable's soul rebelled against, except in the matter of church music. on this point they agreed, but even here simon managed to be unpleasant. he would lay the whole blame of the changes which had been effected upon david, accusing him of having given in where there was no need. as there was nothing but a wall between the rectory garden and david's little strip of ground, in which he spent all his leisure time until the shades of evening summoned him to the bar of the red lion for his daily pint and pipe, the two were constantly within hearing of one another, and simon, in times past, had seldom neglected an opportunity of making himself disagreeable to his long-suffering neighbour. but now david was a free man again; and he took the earliest occasion of making the change in his manner apparent to simon, and of getting, as he called it, "upsides" with him. one would have thought, to look at him, that the old gardener was as pachydermatous as a rhinoceros; but somehow he seemed to feel that things had changed between them, and did not appreciate an interview with david now nearly so much as of old. so he found very little to do in that part of the garden which abutted on the constable's premises. when he could not help working there, he chose the times at which david was most likely to be engaged, or even took the trouble to ascertain that he was not at home. early on midsummer day, old simon reared his ladder against the boundary wall, with a view of "doctorin'" some of the fruit trees, relying on a parish meeting, at which the constable's presence was required. but he had not more than half finished his operations before david had returned from vestry, and, catching sight of the top of the ladder and simon's head above the wall, laid aside all other business, and descended into the garden. simon kept on at his work, only replying by a jerk of the head and one of his grunts to his neighbour's salutation. david took his coat off, and his pruning knife out, and, establishing himself within easy shot of his old oppressor, opened fire at once-- "thou'st gi'en thy consent, then?" "'tis no odds, consent or none--her's old enough to hev her own waay." "but thou'st gi'en thy consent?" "ees, then, if thou wilt hev't," said simon, somewhat surlily; "wut then?" "so i heerd," said david, indulging in an audible chuckle. "what bist a laughin' at?" "i be laughin' to think how folks changes. do'st mind the hard things as thou hast judged and said o' harry? not as ever i known thy judgment to be o' much account, 'cept about roots. but thou saidst, times and times, as a would come to the gallows." "so a med yet--so a med yet," answered simon. "not but wut i wishes well to un, and bears no grudges; but others as hev got the law ov un medn't." "'tis he as hev got grudges to bear. he don't need none o' thy forgiveness." "pr'aps a medn't. but hev 'em got the law ov un, or hevn't em?" "wut do'st mean--got the law ov un?" "thaay warrants as wur out agen un, along wi' the rest as was transpworted auver farmer tester's job." "oh, he've got no call to be afeard o' thaay now. thou know'st i hears how 'tis laid down in sessions and 'sizes, wher' i've a been this twenty year." "like enuff. only, wut's to hinder thaay tryin' ov un, if thaay be a minded to 't? that's what i wants to know." "'tis wut the counsellors calls the statut o' lamentations," said the constable, proudly. "wutever's lamentations got to do wi't?" "a gurt deal, i tell 'ee. what do'st thou know o' lamentations?" "lamentations cums afore ezekiel in the bible." "that ain't no kin to the statut o' lamentations. but ther's summut like to't in the bible," said the constable, stopping his work to consider a moment. "do'st mind the year when the land wur all to be guv back to thaay as owned it fust, and debts wur to be wiped out?" "ees, i minds summut o' that." "well, this here statut says, if so be as a man hev bin to the wars, and sarved his country like; as nothin' shan't be reckoned agen he, let alone murder. nothin' can't do away wi' murder." "no, nor oughtn't. hows'mdever, you seems clear about the law on't. there's miss a callin'." and old simon's head disappeared as he descended the ladder to answer the summons of his young mistress, not displeased at having his fears as to the safety of his future son-in-law set at rest by so eminent a legal authority as the constable. fortunately for harry, the constable's law was not destined to be tried. young wurley was away in london. old tester was bedridden with an accumulation of diseases brought on by his bad life. his illness made him more violent and tyrannical than ever; but he could do little harm out of his own room, for no one ever went to see him, and the wretched farm-servant who attended him was much too frightened to tell him anything of what was going on in the parish. there was no one else to revive proceedings against harry. david pottered on at his bees and his flowers till old simon returned, and ascended his ladder again. "you be ther' still, be 'ee?" he said, as soon as he saw david. "ees. any news?" "ah, news enuff. he as wur harry's captain and young mr. brown be comin' down to-morrow, and hev tuk all the red lion to theirselves. and thaay beant content to wait for banns--not thaay--and so ther's to be a license got for saturday. 'taint scarce decent, that 'taint." "'tis best to get drough wi't," said the constable. "then nothin'll sarve 'em but the church must be hung wi' flowers, and wher' be thaay to cum from without strippin' and starvin' ov my beds? 'tis shameful to see how folks acts wi' flowers now-a-days, a cuttin' on 'em and puttin' on 'em about, as prodigal at though thaay growed o' theirselves." "so 'tis shameful," said david, whose sympathies for flowers were all with simon. "i heers tell as young squire wurley hevs 'em on table at dinner-time instead o' the wittels." "do'ee though! i calls it reg'lar papistry, and so i tells miss; but her only laughs." the constable shook his head solemnly as he replied "her've been led away wi' such doin's ever sence mr. walker cum, and took to organ-playin' and chantin'." "and he ain't no such gurt things in the pulpit, neether, ain't mr. walker," chimed in simon, (the two had not been so in harmony for years). "i reckon as he ain't nothin' to speak ov alongside o' this here new un as hev tuk his place. he've a got a good deal o' move in un' he hev." "ah, so a hev. a wunnerful sight o' things a telled us t'other night, about the indians and the wars." "ah! talking cums as nat'ral to he as buttermilk to a litterin' sow." "thou should'st a heerd un, though, about the battles. i can't mind the neames on 'em--let me see--" "i dwun't valley the neames," interrupted simon. "thaay makes a deal o' fuss auvert 'taal, but i dwun't tek no account on't. tain't like the owld wars and fightin' o' the french, this here fightin' wi' blackamoors, let 'em talk as thaay wool." "no more 'tain't. but 'twur a 'mazin' fine talk as he gi'n us. hev 'ee seed ought 'twixt he and young missus?" "nothin' out o' th' common. i got plenty to do without lookin' arter the women, and 'tain't no bisness o' mine, nor o' thine neether." david was preparing a stout rejoinder to this rebuke of the old retainer of the winter family on his curiosity, but was summoned by his wife to the house to attend a customer; and by the time he could get out again, simon had disappeared. the next day east and tom arrived, and took possession of the red lion; and englebourn was soon in a ferment of preparation for the wedding. east was not the man to do things by halves; and, seconded as he was by miss winter, and hardy, and tom, had soon made arrangements for all sorts of merrymaking. the school-children were to have a whole holiday, and, after scattering flowers at church and marching in the bridal procession, were to be entertained in a tent pitched in the home paddock of the rectory, and to have an afternoon of games and prizes, and cake and tea. the bell-ringers, harry's old comrades, were to have five shillings apiece, and a cricket match, and a dinner afterwards at the second public house, to which any other of his old friends whom harry chose to ask, were to be also invited. the old men and women were to be fed in the village school-room; and east and tom were to entertain a select party of the farmers and tradesmen, at the red lion; the tap of which hostelry was to be thrown open to all comers at the captain's expense. it was not without considerable demur on the part of miss winter, that some of these indiscriminate festivities were allowed to pass. but after consulting with hardy, she relented, on condition that the issue of beer at the two public-houses should be put under the control of david, the constable, who, on his part, promised that law and order should be well represented and maintained on the occasion. "arter all, miss, you sees, 'tis only for once in a waay," he said; "and 'twill make 'em remember aal as hev bin said to 'em about the indians, and the rest on't." so the captain and his abettors, having gained the constable as an ally, prevailed; and englebourn, much wondering at itself, made ready for a general holiday. chapter xlvii--the wedding-day one-more-poor-man-un-done one-more-poor-man-un-done the belfry tower rocked and reeled, as that peal rang out, now merry, now scornful, now plaintive, from whose narrow belfry windows, into the bosom of the soft south-west wind, which was playing round the old grey tower of englebourn church. and the wind caught the peal and played with it, and bore it away over rectory and village street, and many a homestead, and gently waving field of ripening corn, and rich pasture and water-meadow, and tall whispering woods of the grange, and rolled it against the hill-side, and up the slope past the clump of firs on the hawk's lynch, till it died away on the wild stretches of common beyond. the ringers bent lustily to their work. there had been no such ringing in englebourn since the end of the great war. not content with the usual peal out of church, they came back again and again in the afternoon, full of the good cheer which had been provided for them; and again and again the wedding peal rang out from the belfry in honour of their old comrade-- one-more-poor-man-un-done one-more-poor-man-un-done such was the ungallant speech which for many generations had been attributed to the englebourn wedding-bells; when you had once caught the words--as you would be sure to do from some wide-mouthed grinning boy, lounging over the churchyard rails to see the wedding pass--it would be impossible to persuade yourself that they did, in fact, say anything else. somehow, harry winburn bore his undoing in the most heroic manner, and did his duty throughout the trying day as a non-commissioned groom should. the only part of the performance arranged by his captain which he fairly resisted, was the proposed departure of himself and patty to the solitary post-chaise of englebourn--a real old yellow--with a pair of horses. east, after hearing the sergeant's pleading on the subject of vehicles, at last allowed them to drive off in a tax-cart, taking a small boy with them behind, to bring it back. as for the festivities, they went off without hitch, as such affairs will, where the leaders of the revels have their hearts in them. the children had all played, and romped, and eaten and drunk themselves into a state of torpor by an early hour of the evening. the farmers' dinner was a decided success. east proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom, and was followed by farmer grove and the constable. david turned out in a new blue swallow-tailed coat, with metal buttons, of his own fabulous cut, in honor of the occasion. he and the farmer spoke like the leader of the government and the opposition in the house of commons on an address to the crown. there was not a pin to choose between their speeches, and a stranger hearing them would naturally have concluded that harry had never been anything but the model boy and young man of the parish. fortunately, the oratorical powers of englebourn ended here; and east, and the majority of his guests, adjourned to the green, where the cricket was in progress. each game lasted a very short time only, as the youth of englebourn were not experts in the noble science, and lost their wickets one after another so fast, that tom and hardy had time to play out two matches with them, and then to retire on their laurels, while the afternoon was yet young. the old folks in the village school-room enjoyed their beef and pudding, under the special superintendence of miss winter, and then toddled to their homes, and sat about in the warmest nooks they could find, mumbling of old times, and the doings at dr. winter's wedding. david devoted himself to superintending the issue of beer, swelling with importance, but so full of the milk of human kindness from the great event of the day, that nobody minded his little airs. he did his duty so satisfactorily that, with the exception of one or two regular confirmed soakers, who stuck steadily to the tap of the red lion, and there managed successfully to fuddle themselves, there was nothing like drunkenness. in short, it was one of those rare days when everything goes right, and everybody seems to be inclined to give and take, and to make allowances for their neighbours. by degrees the cricket flagged, and most of the men went off to sit over their pipes, and finish the evening in their own way. the boys and girls took to playing at "kissing in the ring;" and the children who had not already gone home sat in groups watching them. miss winter had already disappeared, and tom, hardy and the captain began to feel that they might consider their part finished. they strolled together off the green towards hardy's lodgings, the "red lion" being still in possession of east's guests. "well, how do you think it all went off?" asked he. "nothing could have been better," said hardy; "and they all seem so inclined to be reasonable that i don't think we shall even have a roaring song along the street to-night when the "red lion" shuts up." "and you are satisfied, tom?" "i should think so. i have been hoping for this day any time this four years, and now it has come, and gone off well, too, thanks to you, harry." "thanks to me? very good; i am open to any amount of gratitude." "i think you have every reason to be satisfied with your second day's work at englebourn, at any rate." "so i am. i only hope it may turn out as well as the first." "oh, there's no doubt about that." "i don't know. i rather believe in the rule of contraries." "how do you mean?" "why, when you inveigled me over from oxford, and we carried off the sergeant from the authorities, and defeated the yeomanry in that tremendous thunder-storm, i thought we were a couple of idiots, and deserved a week each in the lockup for our pains. that business turned out well. this time we have started with flying colours and bells ringing, and so--" "this business will turn out better. why not?" "then let us manage a third day's work in these parts as soon as possible. i should like to get to the third degree of comparison, and perhaps the superlative will turn up trumps for me somehow. are there many more young women in the place as pretty as mrs. winburn? this marrying complaint is very catching, i find." "there's my cousin katie," said tom, looking stealthily at hardy; "i won't allow that there's any face in the country-side to match hers. what do you say, jack?" hardy was confused by this sudden appeal. "i haven't been long enough here to judge," he said. "i have always considered miss winter very beautiful. i see it is nearly seven o'clock, and i have a call or two to make in the village. i should think you ought to get some rest after this tiring day, captain east?" "what are you going to do, tom?" "well, i was thinking of just throwing a fly over the mill tail. there's such a fine head of water on." "isn't it too bright?" "well, perhaps it is a little; marrying weather and fishing weather don't agree. only what else is there to do? but if you are tired," he added, looking at east, "i don't care a straw about it. i shall stay with you." "not a bit of it. i shall hobble down with you, and lie on the bank and smoke a cheroot." "no, you shan't walk, at any rate. i can borrow the constable's pony, old nibble, the quietest beast in the world. he'll stand for a week if we like, while i fish and you lie and look on. i'll be off and bring him around in two minutes." "then we shall meet for a clumsy tea at nine at my lodgings," said hardy, as he went off to his pastoral duties. tom and east, in due time, found themselves by the side of the stream. there was only a small piece of fishable water in englebourn. the fine stream, which, a mile or so below, in the grange grounds, might be called a river, came into respectable existence only about two hundred yards above englebourn mill. here two little chalk brooks met, and former millers had judiciously deepened the channel, and dammed the united waters back so as to get a respectable reservoir. above the junction the little weedy, bright, creeping brooks afforded good sport for small truants groppling about with their hands, or bobbing with lob worms under the hollow banks, but were not available for the scientific angler. the parish ended at the fence next below the mill garden, on the other side of which the land was part of the grange estate. so there was just the piece of still water above the mill, and the one field below it, over which tom had leave. on ordinary occasions this would have been enough, with careful fishing, to last him till dark; but his nerves were probably somewhat excited by the events of the day, and east sat near and kept talking; so he got over his water faster than usual. at any rate, he had arrived for the second time at the envious fence before the sun was down. the fish were wondrous wary in the miller's bit of water--as might be expected, for they led a dog of a life there, between the miller and his men and their nets, and baits of all kinds always set. so tom thought himself lucky to get a couple of decent fish, the only ones that were moving within his liberty; but he could not help looking with covetous eyes on the fine stretch of water below, all dimpling with rises. "why don't you get over and fish below?" said east, from his seat on the bank; "don't mind me. i can watch you; besides, lying on the turf on such an evening is luxury enough by itself." "i can't go. both sides below belong to that fellow wurley." "the sergeant's amiable landlord and prosecutor?" "yes; and the yeoman with whom you exchanged shots on the common." "hang it, tom, just jump over and catch a brace of his trout. look how they are rising." "no, i don't know. i never was very particular about poaching, but somehow i shouldn't like to do it on his land. i don't like him well enough." "you're right, i believe. but just look there. there's a whopper rising not more than ten yards below the rail. you might reach him, i think, without trespassing, from where you stand." "shall i have a shy at him?" "yes; it can't be poaching if you don't go on his grounds." tom could not resist the temptation, and threw over the rails, which crossed the stream from hedge to hedge to mark the boundaries of the parish, until he got well over the place where the fish was rising. "there, that was at your fly," said east, hobbling up in great excitement. "all right, i shall have him directly. there he is. hullo! harry, i say! splash with your stick. drive the brute back. bad luck to him. look at that!" the fish, when hooked, had come straight up stream towards his captor, and notwithstanding east's attempts to frighten him back, he rushed in under the before-mentioned walls, which were adorned with jagged nails, to make crossing on them unpleasant for the englebourn boys. against one of these tom's line severed, and the waters closed over two beauteous flies, and some six feet of lovely taper gut. east laughed loud and merrily; and tom, crestfallen as he was, was delighted to hear the old ring coming back into his friend's voice. "harry, old fellow, you're picking up already in this glorious air." "of course i am. two or three more weddings and fishings will set me up altogether. how could you be so green as to throw over those rails? it's a proper lesson to you, tom, for poaching." "well, that's cool. didn't i throw down stream to please you?" "you ought to have resisted temptation. but, i say, what are you at?" "putting on another cast, of course." "why, you're not going on to wurley's land?" "no; i suppose not. i must try the mill tail again." "it's no good. you've tried it over twice, and i'm getting bored." "well, what shall we do then?" "i've a mind to get up to the hill there to see the sun set--what's its name?--where i waited with the cavalry that night, you know." "oh! the hawk's lynch. come along, then; i'm your man." so tom put up his rod, and caught the old pony, and the two friends were soon on their way towards the common, through lanes at the back of the village. the wind had sunk to sleep as the shadows lengthened. there was no sound abroad except that of nibble's hoofs on the turf,--not even the hum of insects; for the few persevering gnats, who were still dancing about in the slanting glints of sunshine that struck here and there across the lanes, had left off humming. nothing living met them except an occasional stag-beetle, steering clumsily down the lane, and seeming like a heavy coaster, to have as much to do as he could fairly manage in keeping clear of them. they walked on in silence for some time, which was broken at last by east. "i haven't had time to tell you about my future prospects." "how do you mean? has anything happened?" "yes. i got a letter two days ago from new zealand, where i find i am a considerable landowner. a cousin of mine has died out there and has left me his property." "w ell, you're not going to leave england, surely?" "yes, i am. the doctors say the voyage will do me good, and the climate is just the one to suit me. what's the good of my staying here? i shan't be fit for service again for years. i shall go on half-pay, and become an enterprising agriculturist at the antipodes. i have spoken to the sergeant, and arranged that he and his wife shall go with me; so, as soon as i can get his discharge, and he has done honeymooning, we shall start. i wish you would come with us." tom could scarcely believe his ears; but soon found that east was in earnest, and had an answer to all his remonstrances. indeed, he had very little to say against the plan, for it jumped with his own humour; and he could not help admitting that, under the circumstances, it was a wise one, and that, with harry winburn for his head man, east couldn't do better than carry it out. "i knew you would soon come around to it," said the captain; "what could i do dawdling about at home, with just enough money to keep me and get me into mischief? there i shall have a position and an object; and one may be of some use, and make one's mark in a new country. and we'll get a snug berth ready for you by the time you're starved out of the old country. england isn't the place for poor men with any go in them." "i believe you're right, harry," said tom, mournfully. "i know i am. and in a few years, when we've made our fortunes, we'll come back and have a look at the old country, and perhaps buy up half englebourn and lay our bones in the old church yard." "and if we don't make our fortunes?" "then we'll stay out there." "well, if i were my own master i think i should make one with you. but i could never leave my father and mother, or--or--" "oh, i understand. of course, if matters go all right in that quarter, i have nothing more to say. but, from what you have told me, i thought you might be glad of a regular break in your life, a new start in a new world." "very likely i may. i should have said so myself this morning. but somehow i feel to-night more hopeful than i have for years." "those wedding chimes are running in your head." "yes; and they have lifted a load off my heart too. four years ago i was very near doing the greatest wrong a man can do to that girl who was married to-day, and to that fine fellow her husband, who was the first friend i ever had. ever since then i have been doing my best to set matters straight, and have often made them crookeder. but to-day they are all straight, thank god, and i feel as if a chain were broken from off my neck. all has come right for them, and perhaps my own time will come before long." "to be sure it will. i must be introduced to a certain young lady before we start. i shall tell her that i don't mean to give up hopes of seeing her on the other side of the world." "well, here we are on the common. what a glorious sunset! come, stir up, nibble. we shall be on the lynch just in time to see him dip if we push on." nibble, the ancient pony, finding that there was no help for it, scrambled up the greater part of the ascent successfully. but his wheezings and roarings during the operation excited east's pity; so he dismounted when they came to the foot of the hawk's lynch, and, tying nibble's bridle to a furze-bush--a most unnecessary precaution--set to work to scale the last and deepest bit of the ascent with the help of his stick--and tom's strong-arm. they paused every ten paces or so to rest and look at the sunset. the broad vale below lay in purple shadow; the soft flocks of little clouds high up over their heads, and stretching away to the eastern horizon, floated in a sea of rosy light; and the stems of the scotch firs stood out like columns of ruddy flame. "why, this beats india," said east, putting up his hand to shade his eyes, which were fairly dazzled by the blaze. "what a contrast to the last time i was up here! do you remember that awful black-blue sky?" "don't i? like a night-mare. hullo! who's here?" "why, if it isn't the parson and miss winter," said east, smiling. true enough, there they were, standing together on the very verge of the mound, beyond the firs, some ten yards in front of the last comers, looking out into the sunset. "i say, tom, another good omen," whispered east; "hadn't we better beat a retreat?" before tom could answer, or make up his mind what to do, hardy turned his head and caught sight of them, and then katie turned too, blushing like the little clouds overhead. it was an embarrassing moment. tom stammered out that they had come up quite by chance, and then set to work, well seconded by east, to look desperately unconscious, and to expatiate on the beauties of the view. the light began to fade, and the little clouds to change again from soft pink to grey, and the evening star shone out clear as they turned to descend the hill, when the englebourn clock chimed nine. katie attached herself to tom, while hardy helped the captain down the steep pitch, and on to the back of nibble. they went a little ahead. tom was longing to speak to his cousin, but could not tell how to begin. at last katie broke the silence; "i am so vexed that this should have happened!" "are you, dear? so am not i," he said, pressing her arm to his side. "but i mean, it seems so forward--as if i had met mr. hardy here on purpose. what will your friend think of me?" "he will think no evil." "but indeed, tom, do tell him, pray. it was quite an accident. you know how i and mary used to go up the hawk's lynch whenever we could, on fine evenings." "yes, dear, i know it well." "and i thought of you both so much to-day, that i couldn't help coming up here." "and you found hardy? i don't wonder. i should come up to see the sun set every night, if i lived at englebourn." "no. he came up sometime after me. straight up the hill. i did not see him till he was quite close. i could not run away then. indeed, it was not five minutes before you came." "five minutes are as good as a year sometimes." "and you will tell your friend, tom, how it happened?" "indeed i will, katie. may i not tell him something more?" he looked round for an answer, and there was just light enough to read it in her eye. "my debt is deepening to the hawk's lynch," he said, as they walked on through the twilight. "blessed five minutes! whatever else they may take with them, they will carry my thanks for ever. look how clear and steady the light of that star is, just over the church tower. i wonder whether mary is at a great hot dinner. shall you write to her soon?" "oh, yes. to-night." "you may tell her that there is no better englishman walking the earth than my friend, john hardy. here we are at his lodgings. east and i are going to tea with him. wish them good night, and i will see you home." chapter xlviii--the beginning of the end from the englebourn festivities, tom and east returned to london. the captain was bent on starting for his possessions in the south pacific; and, as he regained strength, energized over all his preparations, and went about in cabs purchasing agricultural implements, sometimes by the light of nature, and sometimes under the guidance of harry winburn. he invested also in something of a library, and in large quantities of saddlery. in short, packages of all kinds began to increase and multiply upon him. then there was the selecting of a vessel, and all the negotiations with the ship's captain as to terms, and the business of getting introduced to, and conferring with, people from the colony, or who were supposed to know something about it. altogether, east had plenty of work on his hands; and the more he had to do, the better and more cheery he became. tom, on the contrary, was rather lower than usual. his half-formed hopes that some good luck was going to happen to him after patty's marriage, were beginning to grow faint, and the contrast of his friend's definite present purpose in life, with his own uncertainty, made him more or less melancholy in spite of all his efforts. his father had offered him a tour abroad, now that he had finished with oxford, urging that he seemed to want a change to freshen him up before buckling to a profession, and that he would never, in all likelihood, have such another chance. but he could not make up his mind to accept the offer. the attraction to london was too strong for him; and, though he saw little hope of anything happening to improve his prospects, he could not keep away from it. he spent most of his time, when not with east, in haunting the neighborhood of mr. porter's house in belgravia, and the places where he was likely to catch distant glimpses of mary, avoiding all chance of actual meeting or recognition, from which he shrank in his present frame of mind. the nearest approach to the flame which he allowed himself was a renewal of his old friendship with grey, who was still working on in his westminister rookery. he had become a great favorite with mrs. porter, who was always trying to get him to her house to feed him properly, and was much astonished, and sometimes almost provoked, at the small success of her hospitable endeavors. grey was so taken up with his own pursuits that it did not occur to him to be surprised that he never met tom at the house of his relations. he was innocent of all knowledge or suspicion of the real state of things, so that tom could talk to him with perfect freedom about his uncle's household, picking up all such scraps of information as grey possessed without compromising himself or feeling shy. thus the two old schoolfellows lived on together after their return from englebourn, in a set of chambers in the temple, which one of tom's college friends (who had been beguiled from the perusal of stephen's commentaries and aspirations after the woolsack, by the offer of a place on board a yacht and a cruise to norway) had fortunately lent him. we join company with our hero again on a fine july morning. readers will begin to think that, at any rate, he is always blessed with fine weather, whatever troubles he may have to endure; but, if we are not to have fine weather in novels, when and where are we to have it? it was a fine july morning, then, and the streets were already beginning to feel sultry as he worked his way westward. grey, who had never given up hopes of bringing tom round to his own views, had not neglected the opportunities which this residence in town offered, and had enlisted tom's services on more than one occasion. he had found him specially useful in instructing the big boys, whom he was trying to bring together and civilize in a "young men's club," in the rudiments of cricket on saturday evenings. but on the morning in question, an altogether different work was on hand. a lady living some eight or nine miles to the north-west of london, who took great interest in grey's doings, had asked him to bring the children of his night-school down to spend a day in her grounds, and this was the happy occasion. it was before the days of cheap excursions by rail, so that vans had to be found for the party; and grey had discovered a benevolent remover of furniture in paddington, who was ready to take them at a reasonable figure. the two vans, with awnings and curtains in the height of fashion, and horses with tasselled ear-caps, and everything handsome about them, were already drawn up in the midst of a group of excited children, and scarcely less excited mothers, when tom arrived. grey was arranging his forces, and labouring to reduce the irish children, who formed almost half his ragged little flock, into something like order, before starting. by degrees this was managed, and tom was placed in command of the rear van, while grey reserved the leading one to himself. the children were divided and warned not to lean over the sides and fall out--a somewhat superfluous caution--as most of them, though unused to riding in any legitimate manner, were pretty well used to balancing themselves behind any vehicle which offered as much as a spike to sit on, out of sight of the driver. then came the rush into the vans. grey and tom took up their places next the doors as conductors, and the procession lumbered off with great success, and much shouting from treble voices. tom soon found that he had plenty of work on his hands to keep the peace among his flock. the irish element was in a state of wild effervescence, and he had to draft them down to his own end, leaving the foremost cart of the van to the soberer english children. he was much struck by the contrast of the whole set to the englebourn school children, whom he had lately seen under somewhat similar circumstances. the difficulty with them had been to draw them out, and put anything like life into them; here, all he had to do was to suppress the superabundant life. however, the vans held on their way, and got safely into the suburbs, and so at last to an occasional hedge, and a suspicion of trees, and green fields beyond. it became more and more difficult now to keep the boys in; and when they came to a hill, where the horses had to walk, he yielded to their entreaties, and, opening the door, let them out, insisting only that the girls should remain seated. they scattered over the sides of the roads, and up the banks; now chasing pigs and fowls up to the very doors of their owners; now gathering the commonest roadside weeds, and running up to show them to him, and ask their names, as if they were rare treasures. the ignorance of most of the children as to the commonest country matters astonished him. one small boy particularly came back time after time to ask him, with solemn face "please, sir, is this the country?" and when at last he allowed that it was, rejoined, "then, please, where are the nuts?" the clothing of most of the irish boys began to tumble to pieces in an alarming manner. grey had insisted on their being made tidy for the occasion, but the tidiness was of a superficial kind. the hasty stitching soon began to give way, and they were rushing about with wild locks; the strips of what once might have been nether garments hanging about their legs; their feet and heads bare, the shoes which their mothers had borrowed for the state occasion having been deposited under the seat of the van. so, when the procession arrived at the trim lodge-gates of their hostess, and his charge descended and fell in on the beautifully clipped turf at the side of the drive, tom felt some of the sensations of falstaff when he had to lead his ragged regiment through coventry streets. he was soon at his ease again, and enjoyed the day thoroughly, and the drive home; but, as they drew near town again, a sense of discomfort and shyness came over him, and he wished the journey to westminster well over, and hoped that the carman would have the sense to go through the quiet parts of the town. he was much disconcerted consequently, when the vans came to a sudden stop opposite one of the park entrances, in the bayswater road. "what in the world is grey about?" he thought, as he saw him get out, and all the children after him. so he got out himself, and went forward to get an explanation. "oh i have told the man that he need not drive us round to westminster. he is close at home here, and his horses have had a hard day; so we can just get out and walk home." "what, across the park?" asked tom. "yes, it will amuse the children, you know." "but they're tired," persisted tom; "come now, it's all nonsense letting the fellow off; he's bound to take us back." "i'm afraid i have promised him," said grey; "besides, the children all think it a treat. don't you all want to walk across the park?" he went on turning to them, and a general affirmative chorus was the answer. so tom had nothing for it but to shrug his shoulders, empty his own van, and follow into the park with his convoy, not in the best humor with grey for having arranged this ending to their excursion. they might have got over a third of the distance between the bayswater road and the serpentine, when he was aware of a small, thin voice addressing him. "oh, please won't you carry me a bit? i'm so tired," said the voice. he turned in some trepidation to look for the speaker, and found her to be a sickly, undergrown little girl of ten or thereabouts, with large, pleading, grey eyes, very shabbily dressed, and a little lame. he had remarked her several times in the course of the day, not for any beauty or grace about her, for the poor child had none, but for her transparent confidence and trustfulness. after dinner, as they had been all sitting on the grass under the shade of a great elm to hear grey read a story, and tom had been sitting a little apart from the rest with his back against the trunk, she had come up and sat quietly down by him, leaning on his knee. then he had seen her go up and take the hand of the lady who had entertained them, and walk along by her, talking without the least shyness. soon afterwards she had squeezed into the swing by the side of the beautifully-dressed little daughter of the same lady, who, after looking for a minute at her shabby little sister with large round eyes, had jumped out and run off to her mother, evidently in a state of childish bewilderment as to whether it was not wicked for a child to wear such dirty old clothes. tom had chuckled to himself as he saw cinderella settling herself comfortably in the swing in the place of the ousted princess, and had taken a fancy to the child, speculating to himself as to how she could have been brought up, to be so utterly unconscious of differences of rank and dress. "she seems really to treat her fellow-creatures as if she had been studying the _sartor resartus_," he thought. "she was cut down through all clothes-philosophy without knowing it. i wonder, if she had a chance, whether she would go and sit down in the queen's lap?" he did not at the time anticipate that she would put his own clothes-philosophy to so severe a test before the day was over. the child had been as merry and active as any of the rest during the earlier part of the day; but now, as he looked down in answer to her reiterated plea, "won't you carry me a bit? i'm so tired!", he saw that she could scarcely drag one foot after another. what was to be done? he was already keenly alive to the discomfort of walking across hyde park in a procession of ragged children, with such a figure of fun as grey at their head, looking, in his long, rusty, straight-cut black coat, as if he had come fresh out of noah's ark. he didn't care about it so much while they were on the turf in the out-of-the-way parts, and would meet nobody but guards, and nurse-maids, and trades-people, and mechanics out for an evening's stroll. but the drive and rotten row lay before them, and must be crossed. it was just the most crowded time of the day. he had almost made up his mind once or twice to stop grey and the procession, and propose to sit down for half-an-hour or so and let the children play, by which time the world would be going home to dinner. but there was no play left in the children; and he had resisted the temptation, meaning, when they came to the most crowded part, to look unconscious, as if it were by chance that he had got into such company, and had in fact nothing to do with them. but now, if he listened to the child's plea, and carried her, all hope of concealment was over. if he did not, he felt that there would be no greater flunkey in the park that evening than thomas brown, the enlightened radical and philosopher, amongst the young gentlemen riders in rotten row, or the powdered footmen lounging behind the great blaring carriages in the drive. so he looked down at the child once or twice in a state of puzzle. a third time she looked up with her great eyes, and said, "oh, please carry me a bit!" and her piteous, tired face turned the scale. "if she were lady mary or lady blanche," thought he, "i should pick her up at once, and be proud of the burden. here goes!" and he took her up in his arms, and walked on, desperate and reckless. notwithstanding all his philosophy, he felt his ears tingling and his face getting red, as they approached the drive. it was crowded. they were kept standing a minute or two at the crossing. he made a desperate effort to abstract himself wholly from the visible world, and retire in a state of serene contemplation. but it would not do; and he was painfully conscious of the stare of lack-lustre eyes of well dressed men leaning over the rails, and the amused look of delicate ladies, lounging in open carriages, and surveying him and grey and their ragged rout through glasses. at last they scrambled across, and he breathed freely for a minute, as they struggled along the comparatively quiet path leading to albert gate, and stopped to drink at the fountain. then came rotten row, and another pause amongst the loungers, and a plunge into the ride, where he was nearly run down by two men whom he had known at oxford. they shouted to him to get out of the way; and he felt the hot defiant blood rushing through his veins, as he strode across without heeding. they passed on, one of them having to pull his horse out of his stride to avoid him. did they recognize him? he felt a strange mixture of utter indifference, and longing to strangle them. the worst was now over; besides, he was getting used to the situation, and his good sense was beginning to rally. so he marched through albert gate, carrying his ragged little charge, who prattled away to him without a pause, and surrounded by the rest of the children, scarcely caring who might see him. they won safely through the omnibuses and carriages on the kensington road, and so into belgravia. at last he was quite at his ease again, and began listening to what the child was saying to him, and was strolling carelessly along, when once more at one of the crossings, he was startled by a shout from some riders. there was straw laid down in the street, so that he had not heard them as they cantered round the corner, hurrying home to dress for dinner; and they were all but upon him, and had to rein up their horses sharply. the party consisted of a lady and two gentlemen, one old, the other young--the latter dressed in the height of fashion, and with the supercilious air which tom hated from his soul. the shout came from the young man, and drew tom's attention to him first. all the devil rushed up as he recognized st. cloud. the lady's horse swerved against his, and began to rear. he put his hand on its bridle, as if he had a right to protect her. another glance told tom that the lady was mary, and the old gentleman, fussing up on his stout cob on the other side of her, mr. porter. they all knew him in another moment. he stared from one to the other, was conscious that she turned her horse's head sharply, so as to disengage the bridle from st. cloud's hand, and of his insolent stare, and of the embarrassment of mr. porter, and then, setting his face straight before him, he passed on in a bewildered dream, never looking back till they were out of sight. the dream gave way to bitter and wild thoughts, upon which it will do none of us any good to dwell. he put down the little girl outside the schools, turning abruptly from the mother, a poor widow in scant, well-preserved black clothes who was waiting for the child, and began thanking him for his care of her; refused grey's pressing invitation to tea, and set his face eastward. bitterer and more wild and more scornful grew his thoughts as he strode along past the abbey, and up whitehall, and away down the strand, holding on over the crossings without paying the slightest heed to vehicle, or horse, or man. incensed coachmen had to pull up with a jerk to avoid running over him, and more than one sturdy walker turned round in indignation at a collision which they felt had been intended, or at least which there had been no effort to avoid. as he passed under the window of the banqueting hall, and by the place in charing cross where the pillory used to stand, he growled to himself what a pity it was that the times for cutting off heads and cropping ears had gone by. the whole of the dense population from either side of the strand seemed to have crowded out into that thoroughfare to impede his march and aggravate him. the further eastward he got, the thicker got the crowd, and the vans, the omnibuses, the cabs, seemed to multiply and get noisier. not an altogether pleasant sight to a man in the most christian frame of mind is the crowd that a fine summer evening fetches out into the roaring strand, as the sun fetches out flies on the window of a village grocery. to him just then it was at once depressing and provoking, and he went shouldering his way towards temple bar as thoroughly out of tune as he had been for many a long day. as he passed from the narrowest part of the strand into the space round st. clement danes' church, he was startled, in a momentary lull of the uproar, by the sound of chiming bells. he slackened his pace to listen; but a huge van lumbered by, shaking the houses on both sides, and drowning all sounds but its own rattle; and then he found himself suddenly immersed in a crowd, vociferating and gesticulating round a policeman, who was conveying a woman towards the station-house. he shouldered through it--another lull came, and with it the same slow, gentle, calm cadence of chiming bells. again and again he caught it as he passed on to temple bar; whenever the roar subsided, the notes of the old hymn tune came dropping down on him like balm from the air. if the ancient benefactor who caused the bells of st. clement danes' church to be arranged to play that chime so many times a day is allowed to hover round the steeple at such times, to watch the effect of his benefaction on posterity, he must have been well satisfied on that evening. tom passed under the bar, and turned into the temple another man, softened again, and in his right mind. "there's always a voice saying the right thing to you somewhere, if you'll only listen for it," he thought. he took a few turns in the court to clear his head, and then found harry east reclining on a sofa, in full view of the gardens and river, solacing himself with his accustomed cheroot. "oh, here you are," he said, making room on the sofa; "how did it go off?" "well enough. where have you been?" "in the city and at the docks. i've been all over our vessel. she's a real clipper." "when do you sail?" "not quite certain. i should say in a fortnight, though." east puffed away for a minute, and then, as tom said nothing, went on. "i'm not so sweet on it as the time draws near. there are more of my chums turning up every day from india at the rag. and this is uncommonly pleasant, too, living with you here in the chambers. you may probably think it odd, but i don't half like getting rid of you." "thanks; but i don't think you will get rid of me." "how do you mean?" "i mean that i shall go with you, if my people will let me, and you will take me." "w-h-e-w! anything happened?" "yes." "you've seen her?" "yes." "well, go on. don't keep a fellow in suspense. i shall be introduced, and eat one of the old boy's good dinners, after all, before i sail." tom looked out of window, and found some difficulty in getting out the words, "no, it's all up." "you don't mean it?" said east, coming to a sitting position by tom's side. "but how do you know? are you sure? what did she say?" "nothing. i haven't spoken to her; but it's all up. she was riding with her father and the fellow to whom she's engaged. i have heard it a dozen times, but never would believe it." "but, is that all? riding with her father and another man! why, there's nothing in that." "yes, but there is though. you should have seen his look. and they all knew me well enough, but not one of them nodded even." "well, there's not much in that after all. it may have been chance, or you may have fancied it." "no, one isn't quite such a fool. however, i have no right to complain, and i won't. i could bear it all well enough if he were not such a cold-hearted blackguard." "what, this fellow she was riding with?" "yes. he hasn't a heart the size of a pin's head. he'll break hers. he's a mean brute, too. she can't know him, though he has been after her this year and more. they must have forced her into it. ah! it's a bitter business," and he put his head between his hands, and east heard the deep catches of his laboring breath, as he sat by him, feeling deeply for him, but puzzled what to say. "she can't be worth so much after all, tom," he said at last, "if she would have such a fellow as that. depend upon it, she's not what you thought her." tom made no answer; so the captain went on presently, thinking he had hit the right note. "cheer up, old boy. there's as good fish in the sea yet as ever came out of it. don't you remember the song--whose is it? lovelace's:-- "'if she be not fair for me, what care i for whom she be?'" tom started up almost fiercely, but recovered himself in a moment, and then leant his head down again. "don't talk about her, harry; you don't know her," he said. "and don't want to know her, tom, if she is going to throw you over. well, i shall leave you for an hour or so. come up to me presently at the rag, when you feel better." east started for his club, debating within himself what he could do for his friend--whether calling out the party mightn't do good. tom, left to himself, broke down at first sadly; but, as the evening wore on he began to rally, and sat down and wrote a long letter to his father, making a clean breast, and asking his permission to go with east. chapter xlix--the end my dear katie;--i know you will be very much pained when you read this letter. you two have been my only confidantes, and you have always kept me up, and encouraged me to hope that all would come right. and after all that happened last week, patty's marriage, and your engagement,--the two things upon earth, with one exception, that i most wished for,--i quite felt that my own turn was coming. i can't tell why i had such a strong feeling about it, but somehow all the most important changes in my life for the last four years have been so interwoven with patty and harry winburn's history, that, now they were married, i was sure something would happen to me as soon as i came to london. and i was not wrong. dear katie, i can hardly bring myself to write it. it is all over. i met her in the street to-day; she was riding with her father and the man i told you about. they had to pull up not to ride over me; so i had a good look at her, and there can be no mistake about it. i have often tried to reason myself into the belief that the evil day must come sooner or later, and to prepare myself for it; but i might have spared myself, for it could not have been worse than it is if i had never anticipated it. my future is all a blank now. i can't stay in england; so i have written home to ask them to let me go to new zealand with east, and i am sure they will consent, when they know all. "i shall wait in town till i get the answer. perhaps i may be able to get off with east in a few weeks. the sooner the better; but, of course, i shall not go without seeing you and dear old jack. you mustn't mind me calling him jack. the only thing that it gives me any pleasure to think about is your engagement. it is so right; and one wants to see something going right, some one getting their due, to keep alive one's belief in justice being done somehow or another in the world. and i do see it, and acknowledge it, when i think over his history and mine since we first met. we have both got our due; and you have got yours, katie, for you have got the best fellow in england. "ah! if i only could think that she has got hers! if i could only believe that the man she has chosen is worthy of her! i will try hard to think better of him. there must be more good in him that i have ever seen, or she would never have engaged herself to him. but i can't bear to stop here, and see it all going on. the sooner i am out of england the better. i send you a parcel with this; it contains her notes, and some old flowers and other matters which i haven't the heart to burn. you will be the best judge what should be done with them. if you see your way to managing it, i should like her to know that i had sent them all to you, and that, whatever may happen to me hereafter, my love for her has been the mainstay and the guiding-star of my life ever since that happy time when you all came to stay with us in my first long vacation. it found me eaten up with selfishness and conceit, the puppet of my own lusts and vanities, and has left me--well never mind what it has left me. at any rate, if i have not gone from worse to worse, it is all owing to her; and she ought to know it. it cannot be wrong to let her know what good she has scattered unknowingly about her path. may god bless and reward her for it, and you, too, dear cousin, for all your long love and kindness to one who is very unworthy of, but very thankful for them. "ever yours, affectionately, "t. b." the above letter, and that to his father, asking for leave to emigrate, having been written and sent off, tom was left, on the afternoon of the day following his upset, making manful, if not very successful, efforts to shake off the load of depression which weighed on him, and to turn his thoughts resolutely forward to a new life in a new country. east was away at the docks. there was no one moving in the temple. the men who had business were all at westminster, or out of sight and hearing in the recesses of their chambers. those who had none were for the most part away enjoying themselves, in one way or another amongst the mighty whirl of the mighty human sea of london. there was nothing left for him to do; he had written the only two letters he had to write, and had only to sit still and wait for the answers, killing the meantime as well as he could. reading came hard to him, but it was the best thing to do, perhaps; at any rate he was trying it on, though his studies were constantly interrupted by long fits of absence of mind, during which, though his body remained in the temple, he was again in the well-kept garden of barton, or in the hazel wood under the lee of the berkshire hills. he was roused out of one of these reveries, and brought back to external life and fig-tree court, by a single knock at the outer door, and a shout of the newsman's boy for the paper. so he got up, found the paper, which he had forgotten to read, and, as he went to the door, cast his eye on it, and saw that a great match was going on at lord's. this gave a new turn to his thoughts. he stood looking down stairs after the boy, considering whether he should not start at once for the match. he would be sure to see a lot of acquaintances there at any rate. but the idea of seeing and having to talk to mere acquaintances was more distasteful than his present solitude. he was turning to bury himself again in his hole, when he saw a white dog walk quietly up seven or eight stairs at the bottom of the flight, and then turn round, and look for some one to follow. "how odd!" thought tom, as he watched him; "as like as two peas. it can't be. no. why, yes it is." and then he whistled, and called "jack," and the dog looked up, and wagged his tail, as much as to say, "all right, i'm coming directly; but i must wait for my master." the next moment drysdale appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and looking up, said-- "oh! that's you, is it? i'm all right then. so you knew the old dog?" "i should rather think so," said tom. "i hope i never forget a dog or horse i have once known." in the short minute which drysdale and jack took to arrive at his landing, tom had time for a rush of old college memories, in which the grave and gay, pleasant and bitter, were strangely mingled. the light when he had been first brought to his senses about patty came up very vividly before him, and the commemoration days, when he had last seen drysdale. "how strange!" he thought, "is my old life coming back again just now? here, on the very day after it is all over, comes back the man with whom i was so intimate up to the day it began, and have never seen since. what does it mean?" there was a little touch of embarrassment in the manner of both of them as they shook hands at the top of the stairs, and turned into the chambers. tom motioned to jack to take his old place at one end of the sofa, and began caressing him there, the dog showing unmistakably, by gesture and whine, that delight at renewing an old friendship for which his race are so nobly distinguished. drysdale threw himself down in an arm-chair and watched them. "so you knew the old dog, brown?" he repeated. "knew him?--of course i did. dear old jack! how well he wears; he is scarcely altered at all." "very little; only steadier. more than i can say for his master. i'm very glad you knew jack." "come, drysdale; take the other end of the sofa or it won't look like old times. there, now i can fancy myself back at st. ambrose's." "by jove, brown, you're a real good fellow; i always said so, even after that last letter. you pitched it rather strong in that though. i was very near coming back from norway to quarrel with you." "well, i was very angry at being left in the lurch by you and blake." "you got the coin all right, i suppose? you never acknowledged it." "didn't i? then i ought to have. yes, i got it all right about six months afterwards. i ought to have acknowledged it, and i thought i had. i'm sorry i didn't. now we're all quits, and won't talk any more about that rascally bill." "i suppose i may light up," said drysdale, dropping into his old lounging attitude on the sofa, and pulling out his cigar-case. "yes, of course. will you have anything?" "a cool drink wouldn't be amiss." "they make a nice tankard with cider and a lump of ice at the 'rainbow'. what do you say to that?" "it sounds touching," said drysdale. so tom posted off to fleet street to order the liquor, and came back followed by a waiter with the tankard. drysdale took a long pull and smacked his lips. "that's a wrinkle," he said, handing the tankard to tom. "i suppose the lawyers teach all the publicans about here a trick or two. why, one can fancy one's self back in the old quad, looking out on this court. if it weren't such an outlandish out-of-the-way place, i think i should take some chambers here myself. how did you get here?" "oh, they belong to a friend of mine who is away. but how did _you_ get here?" "why, along the strand, in a hansom." "i mean, how did you know i was here?" "grey told me." "what! grey, who was at st. ambrose's with us?" "yes. you look puzzled." "i didn't think you knew grey." "no more i do. but a stout old party i met last night--your godfather, i should think he is--told me where he was, and said i should get your address from him. so i looked him up this morning, in that dog-hole in westminster where he lives. he didn't know jack from adam." "but what in the world do you mean by my godfather?" "i had better tell my story from the beginning, i see. last night i did what i don't often do, went out to a great drum. there was an awful crush, of course, and you may guess what the heat was in these dog-days, with gas-lights and wax-lights going, and a jam of people in every corner. i was fool enough to get into the rooms, so that my retreat was cut off; and i had to work right through, and got at last into a back room, which was not so full. the window was in a recess, and there was a balcony outside, looking over a little bit of garden. i got into the balcony, talking with a girl who was sensible enough to like the cool. presently i heard a voice i thought i knew inside. then i heard st. ambrose, and then your name. of course i listened; i couldn't help myself. they were just inside the window, in the recess, not five feet from us; so i heard pretty nearly ever word. give us the tankard; i'm as dry as an ash-heap with talking." tom, scarcely able to control his impatience, handed the tankard. "but who was it?--you haven't told me," he said, as drysdale put it down at last empty. "why, that d--d st. cloud. he was giving you a nice character, in a sort of sneaking deprecatory way, as if he was sorry for it. amongst other little tales, he said you used to borrow money from jews--he knew it for a certainty because he had been asked himself to join you and another man--meaning me, of course--in such a transaction. you remember how he wouldn't acknowledge the money i lent him at play, and the note he wrote me which upset blake so. i had never forgotten it. i knew i should get my chance some day, and here it was. i don't know what the girl thought of me, or how she got out of the balcony, but i stepped into the recess just as he had finished his precious story, and landed between him and a comfortable old boy, who was looking shocked. he _must_ be your godfather, or something of the kind. i'll bet you a pony you are down for something handsome in his will." "what was his name? did you find out?" "yes; potter, or porter, or something like it. i've got his card somewhere. i just stared st. cloud in the face, and you may depend upon it he winched. then i told the old boy that i had heard their talk, and, as i was at st. ambrose with you, i should like to have five minutes with him when st. cloud had done. he seemed rather in a corner between us. however, i kept in sight till st. cloud was obliged to draw off; and, to cut my story short, as the tankard is empty, i think i put you pretty straight there. you said we were quits just now; after last night, perhaps we are, for i told him the truth of the benjamin story, and i think he is squared. he seems a good sort of old boy. he's a relation of yours, eh?" "only a distant connexion. did anything more happen?" "yes; i saw that he was flurried and didn't know quite what to think; so i asked him to let me call, and i would bring him some one else to speak to your character. he gave me his card, and i'm going to take blake there today. then i asked him where you were, and he didn't know, but said he thought grey could tell me." "it is very kind of you, drysdale to take so much trouble." "trouble! i'd go from here to jericho to be even with our fine friend. i never forget a bad turn. i met him afterwards in the cloak-room, and went out of the door close after him, to give him a chance if he wants to say anything. i only wish he would. but why do you suppose he is lying about you?" "i can't tell. i've never spoken to him since he left oxford. never saw him till yesterday, riding with mr. porter. i suppose that reminded them of me." "well, st. cloud is bent on getting round him for some reason or another, you may take your oath of that. now my time's up; i shall go and pick up blake. i should think i had better not take jack to call in eaton square, though he'd give you a good character if he could speak; wouldn't you jack?" jack wagged his tail, and descended from the sofa. "does blake live up here? what is he doing?" "burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle, as usual. yes, he's living near his club. he writes political articles, devilish well i hear, too, and is reading for the bar; beside which he is getting into society, and going out whenever he can, and fretting his soul out that he isn't prime minister, or something of the kind. he won't last long at the pace he's going." "i'm very sorry to hear it. but you'll come here again, drysdale; or let me come and see you? i shall be very anxious to hear what has happened." "here's my pasteboard; i shall be in town for another fortnight. drop in when you like." and so drysdale and jack went off, leaving tom in a chaotic state of mind. all his old hopes were roused again as he thought over drysdale's narrative. he could no longer sit still; so he rushed out, and walked up and down the river-side walk, in the temple gardens, where a fine breeze blowing, at a pace which astonished the gate-keepers and the nursery-maids and children, who were taking the air in that favorite spot. once or twice he returned to chambers, and at last found east reposing after his excursion to the docks. east's quick eye saw at once that something had happened; and he had very soon heard the whole story; upon which he deliberated for some minutes, and rejoiced tom's heart by saying: "ah! all up with new zealand, i see. i shall be introduced after all before we start. come along; i must stand you a dinner on the strength of the good news, and we'll drink her health." tom called twice that evening at drysdale's lodgings, but he was out. the next morning he called again. drysdale had gone to hampton court races, and had left no message. he left a note for him, but got no answer. it was trying work. another day passed without any word from drysdale, who seemed never to be at home; and no answer to either of his letters. on the third morning he heard from his father. it was just the answer which he had expected--as kind a letter as could be written. mr. brown had suspected how matters stood at one time, but had given up the idea in consequence of tom's silence; which he regretted, as possibly things might have happened otherwise, had he known the state of the case. it was too late now, however; and the less said the better about what might have been. as to new zealand, he should not oppose tom's going, if, after some time, he continued in his present mind. it was very natural for him just now to wish to go. they would talk it over as soon as tom came home, which mr. brown begged him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as he had seen his friend off. home was the best place for him. tom sighed as he folded it up; the hopes of the last three days seemed to be fading away again. he spent another restless day; and by night had persuaded himself that drysdale's mission had been a complete failure, and that he did not write and kept out of the way out of kindness for him. "why, tom, old fellow, you look as down in the mouth as ever to-night," east said, when tom opened the door for him about midnight, on his return from his club; "cheer up; you may depend it's all to go right." "but i haven't seen drysdale again, and he hasn't written to me." "there's nothing in that. he was glad enough to do you a good turn, i dare say, when it came in his way, but that sort of fellow never can keep anything up. he has been too much used to having his own way, and following his own fancies. don't you lose heart because he won't put himself out for you." "well, harry, you are the best fellow, in the world. you would put a backbone into anyone." "now, we'll just have a quiet cheroot, and then turn in; and see if you don't have good news to-morrow. how hot it is! the strand to-night is as hot as the punjaub, and the reek of it--phah! my throat is full of it still." east took off his coat, and was just throwing it on a chair, when he stopped, and, feeling in his pocket, said-- "let's see, here's a note for you. the porter gave it to me as i knocked in." tom took it carelessly, but the next moment was tearing it open with trembling fingers. "from my cousin," he said. east watched him read, and saw the blood rush to his face, and the light come into his eyes. "good news, tom, i see. bravo, old boy. you've had a long fight for it, and deserve to win." tom got up, tossed the note across the table, and began walking up and down the room; his heart was too full for speech. "may i read?" said east, looking up. tom nodded, and he read-- "dear tom,--i am coming to town to spend a week with them in eaton square. call on me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are engaged then, between three and five. i have no time to add more now, but long to see you. your loving cousin, katie "p.s.--i will give you your parcel back to-morrow, and then you can _burn_ the contents yourself, or do what you like with them. uncle bids me say he shall be glad if you will come and dine to-morrow, and any other day you can spare while i am here." when he had read the note, east got up and shook hands heartily with tom, and then sat down again quietly to finish his cheroot, watching with a humorous look his friend's march. "and you think it is really all right now?" tom asked, in one form or another, after every few turns; and east replied in various forms of chaffing assurance that there could not be much further question on the point. at last, when he had finished his cheroot, he got up, and, taking his candle, said, "good night, tom; when that revolution comes, which you're always predicting, remember, if you're not shot or hung, you'll always find a roost for you and your wife in new zealand." "i don't feel so sure about the revolution now, harry." "of course you don't. mind, i bargain for the dinner in eaton square. i always told you i should dine there before i started." the next day tom found that he was not engaged at twelve o'clock, and was able to appear in eaton square. he was shown up into the drawing-room, and found katie alone there. the quiet and coolness of the darkened room was most grateful to him after the glare of the streets, as he sat down by her side. "but katie," he said, as soon as the first salutations and congratulations had passed, "how did it all happen? i can't believe my senses yet. i am afraid i may wake up any minute." "well, it was chiefly owing to two lucky coincidences; though no doubt it would have all come right in time without them." "our meeting the other day in the street, i suppose, was one of them?" "yes. coming across you so suddenly, carrying the little girl, reminded mary of the day when she sprained her ankle, and you carried her through hazel copse. ah, you never told me _all_ of that adventure, either of you." "all that was necessary, katie." "oh! i have pardoned you. uncle saw then that she was very much moved at something, and guessed well enough what it was. he is so very kind, and so fond of mary, he would do anything in the world that she wished. she was quite unwell that evening; so he and aunt had to go out alone; and they met mr. st. cloud at a party, who was said to be engaged to her." "it wasn't true, then?" "no, never. he is a very designing man, though i believe he was really in love with poor mary. at any rate he has persecuted her for more than a year. and, it is very wicked, but i am afraid he spread all those reports himself." "of their engagement? just like him!" "uncle is so good-natured, you know; and he took advantage of it, and was always coming here, and riding with them. and he made uncle believe dreadful stories about you, which made him seem so unkind. he was quite afraid to have you at the house." "yes, i saw that last year; and the second coincidence?" "it happened that very night. poor uncle was very much troubled what to do; so, when he met mr. st. cloud, as i told you, he took him aside to ask him again about you. somehow, a gentleman who was a friend of yours at oxford overheard what was said, and came forward and explained everything." "yes, he came and told me." "then you know more than i about it." "and you think mr. porter is convinced that i am not quite such a scamp after all?" "yes, indeed; and the boys are so delighted that they will see you again. they are at home for the holidays, and so grown." "and mary?" "she is very well. you will see her before long, i dare say." "is she at home?" "she is out riding with uncle. now i will go up and get your parcel, which i had opened at home before i got aunt's note asking me here. no wonder we could never find her boot." katie disappeared and at the same time tom thought he heard the sound of horses' feet. yes, and they had stopped, too. it must be mary and her father. he could not see because of the blinds and other devices for keeping the room cool. but the next moment there were voices in the hall below, and then a light step on the carpeted stair, which no ear but his could have heard. his heart beat with heavy painful pulsations, and his head swam as the door opened, and mary in her riding-habit stood in the room. chapter l the postscript our curtain must rise once again, and it shall be on a familiar spot. once more we must place ourselves on the hawk's lynch, and look out over the well-known view, and the happy autumn fields, ripe with the golden harvest. two people are approaching on horseback from the barton side, who have been made one since we left them at the fall of the curtain in the last chapter. they ride lovingly together, close to one another, and forgetful of the whole world, as they should do, for they have scarcely come to the end of their honeymoon. they are in country costume--she in a light habit, but well cut, and sitting on her as well as she sits on her dainty grey; he in shooting-coat and wide-awake, with his fishing basket slung over his shoulder. they come steadily up the hillside, rousing a yellow-hammer here and there from the furze-bushes, and only draw bit when they have reached the very top of the knoll. then they dismount, and tom produces two halters from his fishing basket, and taking off the bridles, fastens the horses up in the shade of the fir-trees, and loosens their girths, while mary, after searching in the basket, pulls out a bag, and pours out a prodigal feed of corn before each of them, on the short grass. "what are you doing, you wasteful little woman? you should have put the bag underneath. they won't be able to pick up half the corn." "never mind, dear; then the birds will get it." "and you have given them enough for three feeds." "why did you put so much in the bag? besides you know it is the last feed i shall give her. poor dear little gypsy," she added, patting the neck of her dapple grey; "you have found a kind mistress for her, dear, haven't you?" "yes; i know she will be lightly worked and well cared for," he said shortly, turning away, and busying himself with the basket again. "but no one will ever love you, gipsy, like your old mistress. now give me a kiss, and you shall have your treat," and she pulled a piece of sugar out of the pocket of her riding habit; at the sight of which the grey held out her beautiful nose to be fondled, and then lapped up the sugar with eager lips from mary's hand, and turned to her corn. the young wife tripped across, and sat down near her husband, who was laying out their luncheon on the turf. "it was very kind of you think of coming here for our last ride," she said. "i remember how charmed i was with the place the first sunday i ever spent at englebourn, when katie brought me up here directly after breakfast, before we went to the school. such a time ago it seems--before i ever saw you. and i have never been here since. but i love it most for your sake, dear. now, tell me again all the times you have been here." tom proceeded to recount some of his visits to the hawk's lynch, in which we have accompanied him. then they talked on about katie, and east, and the englebourn people, past and present, old betty, and harry and his wife in new zealand, and david patching coats and tending bees, and executing the queen's justice to the best of his ability in the village at their feet. "poor david, i must get over somehow to see him before we leave home. he feels your uncle's death, and the other changes in the parish, more than anyone." "i am so sorry the living was sold," said mary; "katie and her husband would have made englebourn into a little paradise." "it could not be helped, dear. i can't say i'm sorry. there would not have been work enough for him. he is better where he is, in a great town-parish." "but katie did love the place so, and was so used to it; she had become quite a little queen there before her marriage. see what we women have to give up for you," she said, playfully, turning to him. but a shadow passed over his face, and he looked away without answering. "what makes you so sorrowful, dear? what are you thinking of?" "oh, nothing." "that isn't true. now, tell me what it is. you have no right, you know, to keep anything from me." "i can't bear to think that you have had to sell gipsy. you have never been without a riding horse till now. you will miss your riding dreadfully, i am sure, dear." "i shall do very well without riding. i am so proud of learning my lesson from you. you will see what a poor man's wife i shall make. i have been getting mamma to let me do the house-keeping, and know how a joint should look, and all sorts of useful things. and i have made my own house-linen. i shall soon get to hate all luxuries as much as you do." "now, mary, you mustn't run into extremes. i never said you ought to hate all luxuries, but that almost everybody one knows is a slave to them." "well, and i hate anything that wants to make a slave of me." "you are a dear little free woman. but now we are on this subject again, mary, i really want to speak to you about keeping a lady's maid. we can quite afford it, and you ought to have one." "i shall do nothing of the sort." "not to oblige me, mary?" "no, not even to oblige you. there is something to be said for dear gypsy. but, take a maid again! to do nothing but torment me, and pretend to take care of my clothes, and my hair! i never knew what freedom was till i got rid of poor, foolish, grumbling higgins." "but you may get a nice girl who will be a comfort to you." "no, i never will have a woman again to do nothing but look after me. it isn't fair to them. besides, dear, you can't say that i don't look better since i have done my own hair. did you ever see it look brighter than it does now?" "never; and now here is luncheon all ready." so they sat down on the verge of the slope, and ate their cold chicken and tongue, with the relish imparted by youth, a long ride, and the bracing air. mary was merrier and brighter than ever, but it was an effort with him to respond; and soon she began to notice this, and then there was a pause, which she broke at last with something of an effort. "there is that look again. what makes you look so serious, now? i must know." "was i looking serious? i beg your pardon, dearest; and i won't do so again any more;" and he smiled as he answered, but the smile faded away before her steady, loving gaze, and he turned slightly from her, and looked out over the vale below. she watched him for a short time in silence, her own fair young face changing like a summer sea as the light clouds pass over it. presently she seemed to have come to some decision; for, taking off her riding hat, she threw it, and her whip and gauntlets, on the turf beside her, and drawing nearer to his side, laid her hand on his. he looked at her fondly, and, stroking her hair, said-- "take care of your complexion, mary." "oh, it will take care of itself in this air, dear. besides, you are between me and the sun; and now you _must_ tell me why you look so serious. it is not the first time i have noticed that look. i am your wife, you know, and i have a right to know your thoughts, and share all your joy, and all your sorrow. i do not mean to give up any of my rights which i got by marrying you." "your rights, dearest! your poor little rights, which you have gained by changing name, and plighting troth. it is thinking of that--thinking of what you have bought, and the price you have paid for it, which makes me sad at times, even when you are sitting by me, and laying your hand on my hand, and the sweet burden of your pure life and being on my soiled and baffled manhood." "but it was my own bargain, you know, dear, and i am satisfied with my purchase. i paid the price with my eyes open." "ah, if i only could feel that!" "but you know that it is true." "no, dearest, that is the pinch. i do not know that it is true. i often feel that it is just a bit not true. it was a one-sided bargain, in which one of the parties had eyes open and got all the advantage; and that party was i." "i will not have you so conceited," she said, patting his hand once or twice, and looking more bravely than ever up into his eyes. "why should you think you were so much the cleverer of the two as to get all the good out of our bargain? i am not going to allow that you were so much the more quick-witted and clear-sighted. women are said to be as quick-witted as men. perhaps it is not i who have been outwitted after all." "look at the cost, mary. think of what you will have to give up. you cannot reckon it up yet." "what! are you going back to the riding-horses and lady's maid again? i thought i had convinced you on those points." "they are only a very small part of the price. you have left a home where everybody loved you. you knew it; you were sure of it. you had felt their love ever since you could remember anything." "yes, dear, and i feel it still. they will be all just as fond of me at home, though i am your wife." "at home! it is no longer your home." "no, i have a home of my own now. a new home, with new love there to live on; and an old home, with the old love to think of." "a new home instead of an old one, a poor home instead of a rich one--a home where the cry of the sorrow and suffering of the world will reach you, for one in which you had--" "in which i had not you, dear. there now, that was my purchase. i set my mind on having you--buying you, as that is your word. i have paid my price, and got my bargain, and--you know, i was always an oddity, and rather willful, am content with it." "yes, mary, you have bought me, and you little know, dearest, what you have bought. i can scarcely bear my own selfishness at times when i think of what your life might have been had i left you alone, and what it must be with me." "and what might it have been, dear?" "why, you might have married some man with plenty of money, who could have given you everything to which you have been used." "i shall begin to think that you believe in luxuries, after all, if you go on making so much of them. you must not go on preaching one thing and practicing another. i am a convert to your preaching, and believe in the misery of multiplying artificial wants. your wife must have none." "yes, but wealth and position are not to be despised. i feel that, now that it is all done past recall, and i have to think of you. but the loss of them is a mere nothing to what you will have to go through." "what do you mean dear? of course we must expect some troubles, like other people." "why, i mean, mary that you might, at least, have married a contented man, some one who found the world a very good world, and was satisfied with things as they are, and had light enough to steer himself by; and not a fellow like me, full of all manner of doubts and perplexities, who sees little but wrong in the world about him, and more in himself." "you think i should have been more comfortable?" "yes, more comfortable and happier. what right had i to bring my worries on you? for i know you can't live with me, dearest, and not be bothered and annoyed when i am anxious and dissatisfied." "but what if i did not marry you to be comfortable?" "my darling, you never thought about it, and i was too selfish to think for you." "there now, you see, it's just as i said." "how do you mean?" "i mean that you are quite wrong in thinking that i have been deceived. i did not marry you, dear, to be comfortable, and i did think it all over; ay, over and over again. so you are not to run away with the belief that you have taken me in." "i shall be glad enough to give it up, dearest, if you can convince me." "then you will listen while i explain?" "yes, with all my ears and all my heart." "you remember the year we met, when we danced and went nutting together, a thoughtless boy and girl--" "remember it! have i ever--" "you are not to interrupt. of course you remember it all, and are ready to tell me that you loved me the first moment that you saw me at the window in high street. well, perhaps i shall not object to being told it at a proper time, but now i am making my confessions. i liked you then, because you were katie's cousin, and almost my first partner, and were never tired of dancing, and were generally merry and pleasant, though you sometimes took to lecturing, even in those days." "but, mary--" "you are to be silent now and listen. i liked you then. but you are not to look conceited and flatter yourself. it was only a girl's fancy. i couldn't have married you then--given myself up to you. no, i don't think i could, even on the night when fished for me out of the window with the heather and heliotrope, though i kept them and have them still. and then came that scene down below, at old simon's cottage, and i thought i should never wish to see you again. and then i came out in london, and went abroad. i scarcely heard of you again for a year, for katie hardly ever mentioned you in her letters, and though i sometimes wished that she would, and thought i should just like to know what you were doing, i was too proud to ask. meantime i went out and enjoyed myself, and had a great many pretty things said to me--much prettier things than you ever said--and made the acquaintance of pleasant young men, friends of papa and mamma; many of them with good establishments, too. but i shall not tell you anything more about them, or you will be going off about the luxuries i have been used to. then i began to hear of you again. katie came to stay with us, and i met some of your oxford friends. poor dear katie! she was full of you and your wild sayings and doings, half-frightened and half-pleased, but all the time the best and truest friend you ever had. some of the rest were not friends at all; and i have heard many a sneer and unkind word, and stories of your monstrous speeches and habits. some said you were mad; others that you liked to be eccentric; that you couldn't bear to live with your equals; that you sought the society of your inferiors to be flattered. i listened, and thought it all over, and, being willful and eccentric myself, you know, liked more and more to hear about you, and hoped i should see you again some day. i was curious to judge for myself whether you were much changed for the better or the worse. "and at last came the day when i saw you again, carrying the poor lame child; and, after that, you know what happened. so here we are, dear, and you are my husband. and you will please never to look serious again, from any foolish thought that i have been taken in; that i did not know what i was about when i took you, 'for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.' now, what have you to say for yourself?" "nothing, but a great deal for you. i see more and more, my darling, what a brave, generous, pitying angel i have tied to myself. but seeing that makes me despise myself more." "what! you are going to dare to disobey me already?" "i can't help it dearest. all you say shows me more and more that you have made all the sacrifice, and i am to get all the benefit. a man like me has no right to bring such a woman as you under his burden." "but you couldn't help yourself. it was because you were out of sorts with the world, smarting with the wrongs you saw on every side, struggling after something better and higher, and siding and sympathizing with the poor and weak, that i loved you. we should never have been here, dear, if you had been a young gentleman satisfied with himself and the world, and likely to get on well in society." "ah, mary, it is all very well for a man. it is a man's business. but why is a woman's life to be made wretched? why should you be dragged into all my perplexities, and doubts, and dreams, and struggles?" "and why should i not?" "life should be all bright and beautiful to a woman. it is every man's duty to shield her from all that can vex, or pain, or soil." "but have women different souls from men?" "god forbid!" "then are we not fit to share your highest hopes?" "to share our highest hopes! yes, when we have any. but the mire and clay where one sticks fast over and over again, with no high hopes or high anything else in sight--a man must be a selfish brute to bring any one he pretends to love into all that." "now, tom," she said almost solemnly, "you are not true to yourself. would you part with your own deepest convictions? would you, if you could, go back to the time when you cared for and thought about none of these things?" he thought a minute, and then, pressing her hand, said-- "no, dearest, i would not. the consciousness of the darkness in one and around one brings the longing for light. and then the light dawns, through mist and fog, perhaps, but enough to pick ones way by." he stopped a moment, and then added, "and shines ever brighter unto the perfect day. yes, i begin to know it." "then, why not put me on your own level? why not let me pick my way by your side? cannot a woman feel the wrongs that are going on in the world? cannot she long to see them set right, and pray that they may be set right? we are not meant to sit in fine silks and look pretty, and spend money, any more than you are meant to make it, and cry peace where there is no peace. if a woman cannot do much herself, she can honor and love a man who can." he turned to her, and bent over her, and kissed her forehead, and kissed her lips. she looked up with sparkling eyes and said-- "am i not right, dear?" "yes, you are right, and i have been false to my creed. you have taken a load off my heart, dearest. henceforth there shall be but one mind and one soul between us. you have made me feel what it is that a man wants, what is the help that is mete for him." he looked into her eyes and kissed her again; and then rose up, for there was something within him like a moving of new life, which lifted him, and set him on his feet. and he stood with kindling brow, gazing into the autumn air, as his heart went sorrowing, but hopefully "sorrowing, back through all the faultful past." and she sat on at first, and watched his face, and neither spoke nor moved for some minutes. then she rose, too, and stood by his side:-- and on her lover's arm she leant, and round her waist she felt it fold, and so across the hills they went, in that new world which is the old. yes, that new world, through the golden gates of which they had passed together, which is the old, old world, after all, and nothing else. the same old and new world it was to our fathers and mothers as it is to us, and shall be to our children--a world clear and bright, and ever becoming clearer and brighter to the humble, and true, and pure of heart--to every man and woman who will live in it as the children of the maker and lord of it, their father. to them, and to them alone, is that world, old and new, given, and all that is in it, fully and freely to enjoy. all others but these are occupying where they have no title, "they are sowing much, but bringing in little; they eat, but have not enough; they drink, but are not filled with drink; they clothe themselves, but there is none warm; and he of them who earneth wages, earneth wages to put them into a bag with holes." but these have the world and all things for a rightful and rich inheritance; for they hold them as dear children of him in whose hand it and they are lying, and no power in earth or hell shall pluck them out of their father's hand. finis the adventures of mr. verdant green by cuthbert bede scanned and proofed by r.w. jones <rwj@freeshell.org>. note: with the use of a text-to-speech player and the hard copies of the original editions themselves, this revised electronic edition has been specifically conformed as regards spelling, punctuation and content to the , and first editions (save frontispiece and the c edition introductory remarks and page headings, which have been retained here. the first editions' frontispiece have the quotation: ' "a college joke to cure the dumps" -swift.'). the first editions differ in minor respects not only from the popular c herbert jenkins edition from which version . was prepared but also as between themselves; e.g. "number" in the second sentence of part i., chapter one of the first edition becomes "name" in the corresponding part of the third edition; minor inconsistencies in spelling occur (e.g. "shew" in part i is spelt "show" later in the work; "gig-lamps" in part i becomes "giglamps" in parts ii and iii; etc). where the first editions contain clear typographical errors which have been corrected in the herbert jenkins or other editions, these corrections (very few in number) are indicated in the narrative below by brackets. project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see etext /verda h.zip: http://www.gutenberg.net/etext /verda h.zip [nb this e-text contains corrections to the herbert jenkins edition made by reference to the consolidated version held by the british library which combines the first editions of each of the three parts originally published - . greek letters in the original are rendered in roman script and designated: "{ }". italics are indicated: "~". the illustrations are designated "<vg **.jpg>". the introductory remarks below appear only in the herbert jenkins edition, not in the several originals.] [ ] the adventures of mr. verdant green [ ] what this book is about "let the poker be heated" were the fearful words which greeted mr. verdant green on his initiation into a spoof lodge of freemasonry at oxford. this was one of the many "rags" of which he was the butt during his days at the university. in this humorous classic there is told the story of a very raw youth's introduction to university life, of fights between "town and gown," escapes from proctors, wiles of bed-makers, days on the river, or on and off horseback, and nights when "he kept his spirits up by pouring spirits down." these amusing experiences and diverting mishaps of an oxford freshman need no introduction to a public that has already read and laughed over them many times before. the great feature of the volume is that it contains the whole illustrations originally contributed by the author. [ ] the adventures of mr. verdant green by cuthbert bede with illustrations by the author <vg .jpg> herbert jenkins limited york street london s.w. [ ] a herbert jenkins' book ~printed in great britain by~ garden city press, letchworth. [ ] contents part i chap. page i mr. verdant green's relatives and antecedents ........ ii mr. verdant green is to be an oxford freshman ........ iii mr. verdant green leaves the home of his ancestors ... iv mr. verdant green becomes an oxford undergraduate .... v mr. verdant green matriculates, and makes a sensation ........................................... vi mr. verdant green dines, breakfasts, and goes to chapel ............................................... vii mr. verdant green calls on a gentleman who "is licensed to sell" ................................... l viii mr. verdant green's morning reflections are not so pleasant as his evening diversions ............... ix mr. verdant green attends lectures, and, in despite of sermons, has dealings with filthy lucre .......... x mr. verdant green reforms his tailor's bills and runs up others. he also appears in a rapid act of horsemanship, and finds isis cool in summer ...... xi mr. verdant green's sports and pastimes ............. xii mr. verdant green terminates his existence as an oxford freshman ..................................... part ii i mr. verdant green recommences his existence as an oxford undergraduate ............................. ii mr. verdant green does as he has been done by ....... iii mr. verdant green endeavours to keep his spirits up by pouring spirits down .......................... iv mr. verdant green discovers the difference between town and gown ........................................ [ contents] chap. page v mr. verdant green is favoured with mr bouncer's opinions regarding an under-graduate's epistolary communications to his maternal relative .. vi mr. verdant green feathers his oars with skill and dexterity ....................................... vii mr. verdant green partakes of a dove-tart and a spread-eagle ....................................... viii mr. verdant green spends a merry christmas and a happy new year .................................... ix mr. verdant green makes his first appearance on any boards ........................................... x mr. verdant green enjoys a real cigar ............... xi mr. verdant green gets through his smalls ........... xii mr. verdant green and his friends enjoy the commemoration ....................................... l part iii i mr. verdant green travels north ..................... ii mr. verdant green delivers miss patty honeywood from the horns of a dilemma ......................... iii mr. verdant green studies ye manners and customs of ye natyves ....................................... iv mr. verdant green endeavours to say snip to some one's snap ....................................... v mr. verdant green meets with the green-eyed monster ............................................. vi mr. verdant green joins a northumberland pic-nic ............................................. vii mr. verdant green has an inkling of the future ...... viii mr. verdant green crosses the rubicon ............... ix mr. verdant green asks papa ......................... x mr. verdant green is made a mason ................... xi mr. verdant green breakfasts with mr. bouncer, and enters for a grind ............................. xii mr. verdant green takes his degree .................. xiii mr. verdant green is married and done for ........... [ ] the adventures of mr. verdant green. chapter i. mr. verdant green's relatives and antecedents. if you will refer to the unpublished volume of "burke's landed gentry", and turn to letter g, article "green," you will see that the verdant greens are a family of some respectability and of considerable antiquity. we meet with them as early as , flocking to the crusades among the followers of peter the hermit, when one of their number, greene surnamed the witless, mortgaged his lands in order to supply his poorer companions with the sinews of war. the family estate, however, appears to have been redeemed and greatly increased by his great-grandson, hugo de greene, but was again jeoparded in the year , when basil greene, being commissioned by henry the sixth to enrich his sovereign by discovering the philosopher's stone, squandered the greater part of his fortune in unavailing experiments; while his son, who was also infected with the spirit of the age, was blown up in his laboratory when just on the point of discovering the elixir of life. it seems to have been about this time that the greenes became connected by marriage with the equally old family of the verdants; and, in the year , we find a verdant greene as justice of the peace for the county of warwick, presiding at the trial of three decrepid old women, who, being found guilty of transforming themselves into cats, and in that shape attending the nightly assemblies of evil spirits, were very properly pronounced by him to be witches, and were burnt with all due solemnity. in tracing the records of the family, we do not find that any of its members attained to great eminence in the state, either in the counsels of the senate or the active services of the field; or that they amassed any unusual amount of wealth or landed property. but we may perhaps ascribe these circumstances to the fact of finding the greens, generation after generation, made the dupes of more astute minds, and when the hour of [ adventures of mr. verdant green] danger came, left to manage their own affairs in the best way they could, - a way that commonly ended in their mismanagement and total confusion. indeed, the idiosyncrasy of the family appears to have been so well known, that we continually meet with them performing the character of catspaw to some monkey who had seen and understood much more of the world than they had, - putting their hands to the fire, and only finding out their mistake when they had burned their fingers. in this way the family of the verdant greens never got beyond a certain point either in wealth or station, but were always the same unsuspicious, credulous, respectable, easy-going people in one century as another, with the same boundless confidence in their fellow-creatures, and the same readiness to oblige society by putting their names to little bills, merely for form's and friendship's sake. the vavasour verdant green, with the slashed velvet doublet and point-lace fall, who (having a well-stocked purse) was among the favoured courtiers of the merry monarch, and who allowed that monarch in his merriness to borrow his purse, with the simple i.o.u. of "odd's fish! you shall take mine to-morrow!" and who never (of course) saw the sun rise on the day of repayment, was but the prototype of the verdant greens in the full-bottomed wigs, and buckles and shorts of george i.'s day, who were nearly beggared by the bursting of the mississippi scheme and south-sea bubble; and these, in their turn, were duly represented by their successors. and thus the family character was handed down with the family nose, until they both re-appeared (according to the veracious chronicle of burke, to which we have referred) in "verdant green, of the manor green, co. warwick, gent., who married mary, only surviving child of samuel sappey, esq., of sapcot hall, co. salop; by whom he has issue, one son, and three daughters: mary,-verdant,-helen,-fanny." mr. burke is unfeeling enough to give the dates when this bunch of greens first made their appearance in the world; but these dates we withhold, from a delicate regard to personal feelings, which will be duly appreciated by those who have felt the sacredness of their domestic hearth to be tampered with by the obtrusive impertinences of a census-paper. it is sufficient for our purpose to say, that our hero, mr. verdant green, junior, was born much in the same way as other folk. and although pronounced by mrs. toosypegs his nurse, when yet in the first crimson blush of his existence, to be "a perfect progidy, mum, which i ought to be able to pronounce, 'avin nuss'd a many parties through their trouble, and being aweer of what is doo to a hinfant," - yet we are not aware that his ~debut~ on the stage of life, although thus applauded [an oxford freshman ] by such a ~clacqueur~ as the indiscriminating toosypegs, was announced to the world at large by any other means than the notices in the county papers, and the six-shilling advertisement in the ~times~. "progidy" though he was, even as a baby, yet mr. verdant green's nativity seems to have been chronicled merely in this everyday manner, and does not appear to have been accompanied by any of those more monstrous phenomena, which in earlier ages attended the production of a ~genuine~ prodigy. we are not aware that mrs. green's favourite alderney spoke on that occasion, or conducted itself otherwise than as unaccustomed to public speaking as usual. neither can we verify the assertion of the intelligent mr. mole the gardener, that the plaster apollo in the long walk was observed to be bathed in a profuse perspiration, either from its feeling compelled to keep up the good old classical custom, or because the weather was damp. neither are we bold enough to entertain an opinion that the chickens in the poultry-yard refused their customary food; or that the horses in the stable shook with trembling fear; or that any thing, or any body, saving and excepting mrs. toosypegs, betrayed any consciousness that a real and genuine prodigy had been given to the world. however, during the first two years of his life, which were passed chiefly in drinking, crying, and sleeping, mr. verdant green met with as much attention, and received as fair a share of approbation, as usually falls to the lot of the most favoured of infants. then mrs. toosypegs again took up her position in the house, and his reign was over. faithful to her mission, she pronounced the new baby to be ~the~ "progidy," and she was believed. but thus it is all through life; the new baby displaces the old; the second love supplants the first; we find fresh friends to shut out the memories of former ones; and in nearly everything we discover that there is a number which can put out of joint the nose of number . once more the shadow of mrs. toosypegs fell upon the walls of manor green; and then, her mission being accomplished, she passed away for ever; and our hero was left to be the sole son and heir, and the prop and pride of the house of green. and if it be true that the external forms of nature exert a hidden but powerful sway over the dawning perceptions of the mind, and shape its thoughts to harmony with the things around, then most certainly ought mr. verdant green to have been born a poet; for he grew up amid those scenes whose immortality is, that they inspired the soul of shakespeare with his deathless fancies! the manor green was situated in one of the loveliest spots in all warwickshire; a county so rich in all that constitutes the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] picturesqueness of a true english landscape. looking from the drawing-room windows of the house, you saw in the near foreground the pretty french garden, with its fantastic parti-coloured beds, and its broad gravelled walks and terrace; proudly promenading which, or perched on the stone balustrade might be seen perchance a peacock flaunting his beauties in the sun. then came the carefully kept gardens, bounded on the one side by the long walk and a grove of shrubs and oaks; and on the other side by a double avenue of stately elms, that led, through velvet turf of brightest green, down past a little rustic lodge, to a gently sloping valley, where were white walls and rose-clustered gables of cottages peeping out from the embosoming trees, that betrayed the village beauties they seemed loth to hide. then came the grey church-tower, dark with shrouding ivy; then another clump of stately elms, tenanted by cawing rooks; then a yellow stretch of bright meadow-land, dappled over with browsing kine knee-deep in grass and flowers; then a deep pool that mirrored all, and shone like silver; then more trees with floating shade, and homesteads rich in wheat-stacks; then a willowy brook that sparkled on merrily to an old mill-wheel, whose slippery stairs it lazily got down, and sank to quiet rest in the stream below; then came, crowding in rich profusion, wide-spreading woods and antlered oaks; and golden gorse and purple heather; and sunny orchards, with their dark-green waves that in spring foamed white with blossoms; and then gently swelling hills that rose to close the scene and frame the picture. such was the view from the manor green. and full of inspiration as such a scene was, yet mr. verdant green never accomplished (as far as poetical inspiration was concerned) more than an "address to the moon," which he could just as well have written in any other part of the country, and which, commencing with the noble aspiration, "o moon, that shinest in the heaven so blue, i only wish that i could shine like you!" and terminating with one of those fine touches of nature which rise superior to the trammels of ordinary versification, "but i to bed must be going soon, so i will not address thee more, o moon!" will no doubt go down to posterity in the album of his sister mary. for the first fourteen years of his life, the education of mr. verdant green was conducted wholly under the shadow of his paternal roof, upon principles fondly imagined to be the soundest and purest for the formation of his character. mrs. green, who was as good and motherly a soul as ever lived, [an oxford freshman ] was yet (as we have shown) one of the sappeys of sapcot, a family that were not renowned either for common sense or worldly wisdom, and her notions of a boy's education were of that kind laid down by her favourite poet, cowper, in his "tirocinium" that we are "well-tutor'd ~only~ while we share a mother's lectures and a nurse's care;" and in her horror of all other kind of instruction (not that she admitted mrs. toosypegs to her counsels), she fondly kept master verdant at her own apron-strings. the task of teaching his young idea how to shoot was committed chiefly to his sisters' governess, and he regularly took his place with them in the school-room. these daily exercises and mental drillings were subject to the inspection of their maiden-aunt, miss virginia verdant, a first cousin of mr. green's, who had come to visit at the manor during master verdant's infancy, and had remained there ever since; and this generalship was crowned with such success, that her nephew grew up the girlish companion of his sisters, with no knowledge of boyish sports, and no desire for them. the motherly and spinsterial views regarding his education were favoured by the fact that he had no playmates of his own sex and age; and since his father was an only child, and his mother's brothers had died in their infancy, there were no cousins to initiate him into the mysteries of boyish games and feelings. mr. green was a man who only cared to live a quiet, easy-going life, and would have troubled himself but little about his neighbours, if he had had any; but the manor green lay in an agricultural district, and, saving the rectory, there was no other large house for miles around. the rector's wife, mrs. larkyns, had died shortly after the birth of her first child, a son, who was being educated at a public school; and this was enough, in mrs. green's eyes, to make a too intimate acquaintance between her boy and master larkyns a thing by no means to be desired. with her favourite poet she would say, "for public schools, 'tis public folly feeds;" and, regarding them as the very hotbeds of all that is wrong, she would turn a deaf, though polite, ear to the rector whenever he said, "why don't you let your verdant go with my charley? charley is three years older than verdant, and would take him under his wing." mrs. green would as soon think of putting one of her chickens under the wing of a hawk, as intrusting the innocent verdant to the care of the scape-grace charley; so she still persisted in her own system of education, despite all that the rector could advise to the contrary. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] as for master verdant, he was only too glad at his mother's decision, for he partook of all her alarm about public schools, though from a different cause. it was not very often that he visited at the rectory during master charley's holidays; but when he did, that young gentleman favoured him with such accounts of the peculiar knack the second master possessed of finding out all your tenderest places when he "licked a feller" for a false quantity, "that, by jove! you couldn't sit down for a fortnight without squeaking;" and of the jolly mills they used to have with the town cads, who would lie in wait for you, and half kill you if they caught you alone; and of the fun it was to make a junior form fag for you, and do all your dirty work; - that master verdant's hair would almost stand on end at such horrors, and he would gasp for very dread lest such should ever be ~his~ dreadful doom. and then master charley would take a malicious pleasure in consoling him, by saying, "of course, you know, you'll only have to fag for the first two or three years; then - if you get into the fourth form - you'll be able to have a fag for yourself. and it's awful fun, i can tell you, to see the way some of the fags get riled at cricket! you get a feller to give you a few balls, just for practice, and you hit the ball into another feller's ground; and then you tell your fag to go and pick it up. so he goes to do it, when the other feller sings out, 'don't touch that ball, or i'll lick you!' so you tell the fag to come to you, and you say, 'why don't you do as i tell you?' and he says, 'please, sir!' and then the little beggar blubbers. so you say to him, 'none of that, sir! touch your toes!' we always make 'em wear straps on purpose. and then his trousers go tight and beautiful, and you take out your strap and warm him! and then he goes to get the ball, and the other feller sings out, 'i told you to let that ball alone! come here, sir! touch your toes!' so he warms him too; and then we go on all jolly. it's awful fun, i can tell you!" master verdant would think it awful indeed; and, by his own fireside, would recount the deeds of horror to his trembling mother and sisters, whose imagination shuddered at the scenes from which they hoped their darling would be preserved. perhaps master charley had his own reasons for making matters worse than they really were; but, as long as the information he derived concerning public schools was of this description, so long did master verdant green feel thankful at being kept away from them. he had a secret dread, too, of his friend's superior age and knowledge; and in his presence felt a bashful awe that made him glad to get back from the rectory to his own sisters; while master charley, on the other hand, entertained a lad's contempt for one that could not fire [an oxford freshman ] off a gun, or drive a cricket-ball, or jump a ditch without falling into it. so the rectory and the manor green lads saw but very little of each other; and, while the one went through his public-school course, the other was brought up at the women's apron-string. but though thus put under petticoat government, mr. verdant green was not altogether freed from those tyrants of youth, - the dead languages. his aunt virginia was as learned a blue as her esteemed ancestress in the court of elizabeth, the very virgin queen of blues; and under her guidance master verdant was dragged with painful diligence through the first steps of the road that was to take him to parnassus. it was a great sight to see her sitting stiff and straight, - with her wonderfully undeceptive "false front" of (somebody else's) black hair, graced on either side by four sausage-looking curls, - as, with spectacles on nose and dictionary in hand, she instructed her nephew in those ingenuous arts which should soften his manners, and not permit him to be brutal. and, when they together entered upon the romantic page of virgil (which was the extent of her classical reading), nothing would delight her more than to declaim their sonorous arma-virumque-cano lines, where the intrinsic qualities of the verse surpassed the quantities that she gave to them. fain would miss virginia have made virgil the end and aim of an educational existence, and so have kept her pupil entirely under her own care; but, alas! she knew nothing further; she had no acquaintance with greek, and she had never flirted with euclid; and the rector persuaded mr. green that these were indispensable to a boy's education. so, when mr. verdant green was (in stable language) "rising" sixteen, he went thrice a week to the rectory, where mr. larkyns bestowed upon him a couple of hours, and taught him to conjugate {tupto}, and get over the ~pons asinorum~. mr. larkyns found his pupil not a particularly brilliant scholar, but he was a plodding one; and though he learned slowly, yet the little he did learn was learned well. thus the rectory and the home studies went hand and hand, and continued so, with but little interruption, for more than two years; and mr. verdant green had for some time assumed the ~toga virilis~ of stick-up collars and swallow-tail coats, that so effectually cut us off from the age of innocence; and the small family festival that annually celebrated his birthday had just been held for the eighteenth time, when "a change came o'er the spirit of ~his~ dream." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] chapter ii mr. verdant green is to be an oxford-man. one day when the family at the manor green had assembled for luncheon, the rector was announced. he came in and joined them, saying,with his usual friendly ~bonhomie~, "a very well-timed visit, i think! your bell rang out its summons as i came up the avenue. mrs. green, i've gone through the formality of looking over the accounts of your clothing-club, and, as usual, i find them correctness itself; and here is my subscription for the next year. miss green, i hope that you have not forgotten the lesson in logic that tommy jones gave you yesterday afternoon?" "oh, what was that?" cried her two sisters; who took it in turns with her to go for a short time in every day to the village-school which their father and the rector had established: "pray tell us, mr. larkyns! mary has said nothing about it." "then," replied the rector, "i am tongue-tied, until i have my fair friend's permission to reveal how the teacher was taught." mary shook her sunny ringlets, and laughingly gave him the required permission. "you must know, then," said mr. larkyns, "that miss mary was giving one of those delightful object-lessons, wherein she blends so much instructive-" "i'll trouble you for the butter, mr. larkyns," interrupted mary, rather maliciously. the rector was grey-headed, and a privileged friend. "my dear," he said, "i was just giving it you. however, the object-lesson was going on; the subject being ~quadrupeds~, which miss mary very properly explained to be 'things with four legs.' presently, she said to her class, 'tell me the names of some quadrupeds?' when tommy jones, thrusting out his hand with the full conviction that he was making an important suggestion, exclaimed, 'chairs and tables!' that was turning the tables upon miss mary with a vengeance!" during luncheon the conversation glided into a favourite theme with mrs. green and miss virginia, - verdant's studies: when mr. larkyns, after some good-natured praise of his diligence, said, "by the way, green, he's now quite old enough, and prepared enough for matriculation: and i suppose you are thinking of it." mr. green was thinking of no such thing. he had never been at college himself, and had never heard of his father having been there; and having the old-fashioned, what-was-good-enough-for-my-father-is-good-enough-for-me sort of feel- [an oxford freshman ] ing, it had never occurred to him that his son should be brought up otherwise than he himself had been. the setting-out of charles larkyns for college, two years before, had suggested no other thought to mr. green's mind, than that a university was the natural sequence of a public school; and since verdant had not been through the career of the one, he deemed him to be exempt from the other. the motherly ears of mrs. green had been caught by the word "matriculation," a phrase quite unknown to her; and she said, "if it's vaccination that you mean, mr. larkyns, my dear verdant was done only last year, when we thought the small-pox was about; so i think he's quite safe." mr. larkyns' politeness was sorely tried to restrain himself from giving vent to his feelings in a loud burst of laughter; but mary gallantly came to his relief by saying, "matriculation means, being entered at a university. don't you remember, dearest mamma, when mr. charles larkyns went up to oxford to be matriculated last january two years?" "ah, yes! i do now. but i wish i had your memory, my dear." and mary blushed, and flattered herself that she succeeded in looking as though mr. charles larkyns and his movements were objects of perfect indifference to her. so, after luncheon, mr. green and the rector paced up and down the long-walk, and talked the matter over. the burden of mr. green's discourse was this: "you see, sir, i don't intend my boy to go into the church, like yours; but, when anything happens to me, he'll come into the estate, and have to settle down as the squire of the parish. so i don't exactly see what would be the use of sending him to a university, where, i dare say, he'd spend a good deal of money, - not that i should grudge that, though; - and perhaps not be quite such a good lad as he's always been to me, sir. and, by george! (i beg your pardon,) i think his mother would break her heart to lose him; and i don't know what we should do without him, as he's never been away from us a day, and his sisters would miss him. and he's not a lad, like your charley, that could fight his way in the world, and i don't think he'd be altogether happy. and as he's not got to depend upon his talents for his bread and cheese, the knowledge he's got at home, and from you, sir, seems to me quite enough to carry him through life. so, altogether, i think verdant will do very well as he is, and perhaps we'd better say no more about the matriculation." but the rector ~would~ say more; and he expressed his mind thus: "it is not so much from what verdant would learn in latin and greek, and such things as make up a part of the education, that i advise your sending him to a university; [ adventures of mr. verdant green] but more from what he would gain by mixing with a large body of young men of his own age, who represent the best classes of a mixed society, and who may justly be taken as fair samples of its feelings and talents. it is formation of character that i regard as one of the greatest of the many great ends of a university system; and if for this reason alone, i should advise you to send your future country squire to college. where else will he be able to meet with so great a number of those of his own class, with whom he will have to mix in the after changes of life, and for whose feelings and tone a college-course will give him the proper key-note? where else can he learn so quickly in three years, what other men will perhaps be striving for through life, without attaining, - that self-reliance which will enable him to mix at ease in any society, and to feel the equal of its members? and, besides all this, - and each of these points in the education of a young man is, to my mind, a strong one, - where else could he be more completely 'under tutors and governors,' and more thoroughly under ~surveillance~, than in a place where college-laws are no respecters of persons, and seek to keep the wild blood of youth within its due bounds? there is something in the very atmosphere of a university that seems to engender refined thoughts and noble feelings; and lamentable indeed must be the state of any young man who can pass through the three years of his college residence, and bring away no higher aims, no worthier purposes, no better thoughts, from all the holy associations which have been crowded around him. such advantages as these are not to be regarded with indifference; and though they come in secondary ways, and possess the mind almost imperceptibly, yet they are of primary importance in the formation of character, and may mould it into the more perfect man. and as long as i had the power, i would no more think of depriving a child of mine of such good means towards a good end, than i would of keeping him from any thing else that was likely to improve his mind or affect his heart." mr. larkyns put matters in a new light; and mr. green began to think that a university career might be looked at from more than one point of view. but as old prejudices are not so easily overthrown as the lath-and-plaster erections of mere newly-formed opinion, mr. green was not yet won over by mr. larkyns' arguments. "there was my father," he said, "who was one of the worthiest and kindest men living; and i believe he never went to college, nor did he think it necessary that i should go; and i trust i'm no worse a man than my father." "ah! green," replied the rector; "the old argument! but you must not judge the present age by the past; nor measure out to ~your~ son the same degree of education that [an oxford freshman ] your father might think sufficient for ~you~. when you and i were boys, green, these things were thought of very differently to what they are in the present day; and when your father gave you a respectable education at a classical school, he did all that he thought was requisite to form you into a country gentleman, and fit you for that station in life you were destined to fill. but consider what a progressive age it is that we live in; and you will see that the standard of education has been considerably raised since the days when you and i did the 'propria quae maribus' together; and that when he comes to mix in society, more will be demanded of the son than was expected from the father. and besides this, think in how many ways it will benefit verdant to send him to college. by mixing more in the world, and being called upon to act and think for himself, he will gradually gain that experience, without which a man cannot arm himself to meet the difficulties that beset all of us, more or less, in the battle of life. he is just of an age, when some change from the narrowed circle of home is necessary. god forbid that i should ever speak in any but the highest terms of the moral good it must do every young man to live under his mother's watchful eye, and be ever in the company of pure-minded sisters. indeed i feel this more perhaps than many other parents would, because my lad, from his earliest years, has been deprived of such tender training, and cut off from such sweet society. but yet, with all this high regard for such home influences, i put it to you, if there will not grow up in the boy's mind, when he begins to draw near to man's estate, a very weariness of all this, from its very sameness; a surfeiting, as it were, of all these delicacies, and a longing for something to break the monotony of what will gradually become to him a humdrum horse-in-the-mill kind of country life? and it is just at this critical time that college life steps in to his aid. with his new life a new light bursts upon his mind; he finds that he is not the little household-god he had fancied himself to be; his word is no longer the law of the medes and persians, as it was at home; he meets with none of those little flatteries from partial relatives, or fawning servants, that were growing into a part of his existence; but he has to bear contradiction and reproof, to find himself only an equal with others, when he can gain that equality by his own deserts; and, in short, he daily progresses in that knowledge of himself, which, from the ~gnothiseauton~ days down to our own, has been found to be about the most useful of all knowledge; for it gives a man stability of character, and braces up his mental energies to a healthy enjoyment of the business of life. and so, green, i would advise you, above all things, to let verdant go to college." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] much more did the rector say, not only on this occasion, but on others; and the more frequently he returned to the charge, the less resistance were his arguments met with; and the result was, that mr. green was fully persuaded that a university was the proper sphere for his son to move in. but it was not without many a pang and much secret misgiving that mrs. green would consent to suffer her beloved verdant to run the risk of those dreadful contaminations which she imagined would inevitably accompany every college career. indeed, she thought it an act of the greatest heroism (or, if you object to the word, heroineism) to be won over to say "yes" to the proposal; and it was not until miss virginia had recited to her the deeds of all the mothers of greece and rome who had suffered for their children's sake, that mrs. green would consent to sacrifice her maternal feelings at the sacred altar of duty. when the point had been duly settled, that mr. verdant green was to receive a university education, the next question to be decided was, to which of the three universities should he go? to oxford, cambridge, or durham? but this was a matter which was soon determined upon. mr. green at once put durham aside, on account of its infancy, and its wanting the ~prestige~ that attaches to the names of the two great universities. cambridge was treated quite as summarily, because mr. green had conceived the notion that nothing but mathematics were ever thought or talked of there; and as he himself had always had an abhorrence of them from his youth up, when he was hebdomadally flogged for not getting-up his weekly propositions, he thought that his son should be spared some of the personal disagreeables that he himself had encountered; for mr. green remembered to have heard that the great newton was horsed during the time that he was a cambridge undergraduate, and he had a hazy idea that the same indignities were still practised there. but the circumstance that chiefly decided mr. green to choose oxford as the arena for verdant's performances was, that he would have a companion, and, as he hoped, a mentor, in the rector's son, mr. charles larkyns, who would not only be able to cheer him on his first entrance, but also would introduce him to select and quiet friends, put him in the way of lectures, and initiate him into all the mysteries of the place; all which the rector professed his son would be glad to do, and would be delighted to see his old friend and playfellow within the classic walls of alma mater. oxford having been selected for the university, the next point to be decided was the college. "you cannot," said the rector, "find a much better college [an oxford freshman ] than brazenface, where my lad is. it always stands well in the class-list, and keeps a good name with its tutors. there are a nice gentlemanly set of men there; and i am proud to say, that my lad would be able to introduce verdant to some of the best. this will of course be much to his advantage. and besides this, i am on very intimate terms with dr. portman, the master of the college; and, if they should not happen to be very full, no doubt i could get verdant admitted at once. this too will be of advantage to him; for i can tell you that there are secrets in all these matters, and that at many colleges that i could name, unless you knew the principal, or had some introduction or other potent spell to work with, your son's name would have to remain on the books two or three years before he could be entered; and this, at verdant's age, would be a serious objection. at one or two of the colleges indeed this is almost necessary, under any circumstances, on account of the great number of applicants; but at brazenface there is not this over-crowding; and i have no doubt, if i write to dr. portman, but what i can get rooms for verdant without much loss of time." "brazenface be it then!" said mr. green, "and i am sure that verdant will enter there with very many advantages; and the sooner the better, so that he may be the longer with mr. charles. but when must his - his what-d'ye-call-it, come off?" "his matriculation?" replied the rector; "why although it is not usual for men to commence residence at the time of their matriculation, still it is sometimes done. and as my lad will, if all goes on well, be leaving oxford next year, perhaps it would be better, on that account, that verdant should enter upon his residence as soon as he has matriculated." mr. green thought so too; and verdant, upon being appealed to, had no objection to this course, or, indeed, to any other that was decided to be necessary for him; though it must be confessed, that he secretly shared somewhat of his mother's feelings as he looked forward into the blank and uncertain prospect of his college life. like a good and dutiful son, however, his father's wishes were law; and he no more thought of opposing them, than he did of discovering the north pole, or paying off the national debt. so all this being duly settled, and mrs. green being entirely won over to the proceeding, the rector at once wrote to dr. portman, and in due time received a reply to the effect, that they were very full at brazenface, but that luckily there was one set of rooms which would be vacant at the commencement of the easter term; at which time he should be very glad to see the gentleman his friend spoke of. [ ] portraits of mr. verdant green and his family. <vg .jpg> . mr. green, senior. . miss virginia verdant. . mrs. green. . mr. verdant green. . miss helen green. . miss fanny green. . miss mary green. [an oxford freshman ] chapter iii. mr. verdant green leaves the home of his ancestors. the time till easter passed very quickly, for much had to be done in it. verdant read up most desperately for his matriculation, associating that initiatory examination with the most dismal visions of plucking, and other college tortures. his mother was laying in for him a new stock of linen, sufficient in quantity to provide him for years of emigration; while his father was busying himself about the plate that it was requisite to take, buying it bran-new, and of the most solid silver, and having it splendidly engraved with the family crest, and the motto "semper virens." infatuated mr. green! if you could have foreseen that those spoons and forks would have soon passed, - by a mysterious system of loss which undergraduate powers can never fathom, - into the property of mr. robert filcher, the excellent, though occasionally erratic, scout of your beloved son, and from thence have melted, not "into thin air," but into a residuum whose mass might be expressed by the equivalent of coins of a thin and golden description, - if you could but have foreseen this, then, infatuated but affectionate parent, you would have been content to have let your son and heir represent the ancestral wealth by mere electro-plate, albata, or any sham that would equally well have served his purpose! as for miss virginia verdant, and the other woman portion of the green community, they fully occupied their time until the day of separation came, by elaborating articles of feminine workmanship, as ~souvenirs~, by which dear verdant might, in the land of the strangers, recall visions of home. these were presented to him with all due state on the morning of the day previous to that on which he was to leave the home of his ancestors. all the articles were useful as well as ornamental. there was a purse from helen, which, besides being a triumph of art in the way of bead decoration, was also, it must be allowed, a very useful present, unless one happened to carry one's riches in a ~porte-monnaie~. there was a pair of braces from mary, worked with an ecclesiastical pattern of a severe character - very appropriate for academical wear, and extremely effective for all occasions when the coat had to be taken off in public. and there was a watch-pocket from fanny, to hang over verdant's night-capped head, and serve as a depository for the golden mechanical turnip that had been handed down in the family, as a watch, for the last three generations. and [ adventures of mr. verdant green] there was a pair of woollen comforters knit by miss virginia's own fair hands; and there were other woollen articles of domestic use, which were contributed by mrs. green for her son's personal comfort. to these, miss virginia thoughtfully added an infallible recipe for the toothache, - an infliction to which she was a martyr, and for the general relief of which in others, she constituted herself a species of toothache missionary; for, as she said, "you might, my dear verdant, be seized with that painful disease, and not have me by your side to cure <vg .jpg> it": which it was very probable he would not, if college rules were strictly carried out at brazenface. all these articles were presented to mr. verdant green with many speeches and great ceremony; while mr. green stood by, and smiled benignantly upon the scene, and his son beamed through his glasses (which his defective sight obliged him constantly to wear) with the most serene aspect. it was altogether a great day of preparation, and one which it was well for the constitution of the household did not happen very often; for the house was reduced to that summerset condition usually known in domestic parlance as "upside down." mr. verdant green personally superintended the packing of his goods; a performance which was only effected by the united strength of the establishment. butler, footman, coachman, lady's-maid, housemaid, and buttons were all pressed into the service; and the coachman, being a man of [an oxford freshman ] some weight, was found to be of great use in effecting a junction of the locks and hasps of over-filled book-boxes. it was astonishing to see all the amount of literature that mr. verdant green was about to convey to the seat of learning: there was enough to stock a small bodleian. as the owner stood, with his hands behind him, placidly surveying the scene of preparation, a meditative spectator might have possibly compared him to the hero of the engraving "moses going to the fair," that was then hanging just over his head; for no one could have set out for the great oxford booth of this vanity fair with more simplicity and trusting confidence than mr. verdant green. when the trunks had at last been packed, they were then, by the thoughtful suggestion of miss virginia, provided each with a canvas covering, after the manner of the luggage of <vg .jpg> females, and labelled with large direction-cards filled with the most ample particulars concerning their owner and his destination. it had been decided that mr. verdant green, instead of reaching oxford by rail, should make his ~entree~ behind the four horses that drew the birmingham and oxford coach; - one of the few four-horse coaches that still ran for any distance*; and which, as the more pleasant means of conveyance, was generally patronized by mr. charles larkyns in preference to the rail; for the coach passed within three miles of the manor green, whereas the nearest railway was at a much greater distance, and could not be so conveniently reached. mr. green had determined upon accompanying verdant to oxford, that he might have the satisfaction of seeing him safely landed there, and might also himself form an acquaintance with a city of which he had heard so much, and which would be doubly interesting to him now that his son was enrolled a member of its university. their seats had been secured a fortnight previous; for the rector had told mr. green that so many men went up by the coach, that unless he made an early application, --- * this well-known coach ceased to run between birmingham and oxford in the last week of august , on the opening of the birmingham and oxford railway. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] he would altogether fail in obtaining places; so a letter had been dispatched to "the swan" coach-office at birmingham, from which place the coach started, and two outside seats had been put at mr. green's disposal. the day at length arrived, when mr. verdant green for the first time in his life (on any important occasion) was to leave the paternal roof; and it must be confessed that it was a proceeding which caused him some anxiety, and that he was not <vg .jpg> sorry when the carriage was at the door to bear him away, before (shall it be confessed?) his tears had got the mastery over him. as it was, by the judicious help of his sisters, he passed the rubicon in courageous style, and went through the form of breakfast with the greatest hilarity, although with several narrow escapes of suffocation from choking. the thought that he was going to be an oxford man fortunately assisted him in the preservation of that tranquil dignity and careless ease which he considered to be the necessary adjuncts of the manly character, more especially as developed in that peculiar biped he was about to be transformed into; and mr. verdant green was enabled to say "good-by" with a firm voice and undimmed spectacles. all crowded to the door to have a last shake of the hand; [an oxford freshman ] the maid-servants peeped from the upper windows; and miss virginia sobbed out a blessing, which was rendered of a striking and original character by being mixed up with instructions never to forget what she had taught him in his latin grammar, and always to be careful to guard against the toothache. and amid the good-byes and write-oftens that usually accompany a departure, the carriage rolled down the avenue to the lodge, where was mr. mole the gardener, and also mrs. mole, and, moreover, the mole olive-branches, all gathered at the open gate to say farewell to the young master. and just as they were about to mount the hill leading out of the village, who should be there but the rector lying in wait for them and ready to walk up the hill by their side, and say a few kindly words at parting. well might mr. verdant green begin to regard himself as the topic of the village, and think that going to oxford was really an affair of some importance. they were in good time for the coach; and the ringing notes of the guard's bugle made them aware of its approach some time before they saw it rattling merrily along in its cloud of dust. what a sight it was when it did come near! the cloud that had enveloped it was discovered to be not dust only, but smoke from the cigars, meerschaums, and short clay pipes of a full complement of gentlemen passengers, scarcely one of whom seemed to have passed his twentieth year. no bonnet betokening a female traveller could be seen either inside or out; and that lady was indeed lucky who escaped being an inside passenger on the following day. nothing but a lapse of time, or the complete re-lining of the coach, could purify it from the attacks of the four gentlemen who were now doing their best to convert it into a divan; and the consumption of tobacco on that day between birmingham and oxford must have materially benefited the revenue. the passengers were not limited to the two-legged ones, there were four-footed ones also. sporting dogs, fancy dogs, ugly dogs, rat-killing dogs, short-haired dogs, long-haired dogs, dogs like muffs, dogs like mops, dogs of all colours and of all breeds and sizes, appeared thrusting out their black noses from all parts of the coach. portmanteaus were piled upon the roof; gun-boxes peeped out suspiciously here and there; bundles of sticks, canes, foils, fishing-rods, and whips, appeared strapped together in every direction; while all round about the coach, "like a swarth indian with his belt of beads," hat-boxes dangled in leathery profusion. the oxford coach on an occasion like this was a sight to be remembered. a "wo-ho-ho, my beauties!" brought the smoking wheelers upon their haunches; and jehu, saluting with his elbow and [ adventures of mr. verdant green] whip finger, called out in the husky voice peculiar to a dram-drinker, "are you the two houtside gents for hoxfut?" to which mr. green replied in the affirmative; and while the luggage (the canvas-covered, ladylike look of which was such a contrast to that of the other passengers) was being quickly transferred to the coach-top, he and verdant ascended to the places reserved for them behind the coachman. mr. green saw at a glance that all the passengers were oxford men, dressed in every variety of oxford fashion, and exhibiting a pleasing diversity of oxford manners. their private remarks on the two new-comers were, like stage "asides," perfectly audible. "decided case of governor!" said one. "undoubted ditto of freshman!" observed another. "looks ferociously mild in his gig-lamps!" remarked a third, alluding to mr. verdant green's spectacles. "and jolly green all over!" wound up a fourth. mr. green, hearing his name (as he thought) mentioned, turned to the small young gentleman who had spoken, and politely said, "yes, my name is green; but you have the advantage of me, sir." "oh! have i?" replied the young gentleman in the most affable manner, and not in the least disconcerted; "my name's bouncer: i remember seeing you when i was a babby. how's the old woman?" and without waiting to hear mr. green loftily reply, "mrs. green - my wife, sir - is quite well - and i do not remember to have seen you, or ever heard your name, sir!" - little mr. bouncer made some most unearthly noises on a post-horn as tall as himself, which he had brought for the delectation of himself and his friends, and the alarm of every village they passed through. "never mind the dog, sir," said the gentleman who sat between mr. bouncer and mr. green; "he won't hurt you. it's only his play; he always takes notice of strangers." "but he is tearing my trousers," expostulated mr. green, who was by no means partial to the "play" of a thoroughbred terrier. "ah! he's an uncommon sensible dog," observed his master; "he's always on the look-out for rats everywhere. it's the wellington boots that does it; he's accustomed to have a rat put into a boot, and he worries it out how he can. i daresay he thinks you've got one in yours." "but i've got nothing of the sort, sir; i must request you to keep your dog--" a violent fit of coughing, caused by a well-directed volley of smoke from his neighbour's lips, put a stop to mr. green's expostulations. "i hope my weed is no annoyance?" said the gentleman; "if it is, i will throw it away." [an oxford freshman ] to which piece of politeness mr. green could, of course, only reply, between fits of coughing, "not in the least i - assure you, - i am very fond - of tobacco - in the open air." "then i daresay you'll do as we are doing, and smoke a weed yourself," said the gentleman, as he offered mr. green a plethoric cigar-case. but mr. green's expression of approbation regarding tobacco was simply theoretical; so he treated his neighbour's offer as magazine editors do the mss. of unknown contributors - it was "declined with thanks." mr. verdant green had already had to make a similar reply to a like proposal on the part of his left-hand neighbour, who was now expressing violent admiration for our hero's top-coat. "ain't that a good style of coat, charley?" he observed to his neighbour. "i wish i'd seen it before i got this over-coat! there's something sensible about a real, unadulterated top-coat; and there's a style in the way in which they've let down the skirts, and put on the velvet collar and cuffs regardless of expense, that really quite goes to one's heart. now i daresay the man that built that," he said, more particularly addressing the owner of the coat, "condescends to live in a village, and waste his sweetness on the desert air, while a noble field might be found for his talent in a university town. that coat will make quite a sensation in oxford. won't it, charley?" and when charley, quoting a popular actor (totally unknown to our hero), said, "i believe you, my bo-oy!" mr. verdant green began to feel quite proud of the abilities of their village tailor, and thought what two delightful companions he had met with. the rest of the journey further cemented (as he thought) their friendship; so that he was fairly astonished, when on meeting them the next day they stared him full in the face, and passed on without taking any more notice of him. but freshmen cannot learn the mysteries of college etiquette in a day. however, we are anticipating. they had not yet got to oxford, though, from the pace at which they were going, it appeared as if they would soon reach there; for the coachman had given up his seat and the reins to the box-passenger, who appeared to be as used to the business as the coachman himself; and he was now driving them, not only in a most scientific manner, but also at a great pace. mr. green was not particularly pleased with the change in the four-wheeled government; but when they went down a hill at a quick trot, the heavy luggage making the coach rock to and fro with the speed, his fears increased painfully. they culminated, as the trot increased into a canter, and then broke into a gallop as they swept along the level road at the bottom of the hill, and rattled up the rise of another. as the horses walked over the brow [ adventures of mr. verdant green] of the hill, with smoking flanks and jingling harness, mr. green recovered sufficient breath to expostulate with the coachman for suffering - "a mere lad," he was about to say <vg .jpg> but fortunately checked himself in time, - for suffering any one else than the regular driver to have the charge of the coach. "you never fret yourself about that, sir," replied the man; "i knows my bis'ness, as well as my dooties to self and purprietors, and i'd never go for to give up the ribbins to any party but wot had showed hisself fitted to 'andle 'em. and i think i may say this for the genelman as has got 'em now, that [an oxford freshman ] he's fit to be fust vip to the queen herself; and i'm proud to call him my poople. why, sir, - if his honour here will pardon me for makin' so free, - this 'ere gent is four-in-hand fosbrooke, of which you ~must~ have heerd on." mr. green replied that he had not had that pleasure. "ah! a pleasure you ~may~ call it, sir, with parfect truth," replied the coachman; "but, lor bless me, sir, weer ~can~ you have lived?" the "poople" who had listened to this, highly amused, slightly turned his head, and said to mr. green, "pray don't feel any alarm, sir; i believe you are quite safe under my guidance. this is not the first time by many that i have driven this coach, - not to mention others; and you may conclude that i should not have gained the ~sobriquet~ to which my worthy friend has alluded without having ~some~ pretensions to a knowledge of the art of driving." mr. green murmured his apologies for his mistrust, - expressed perfect faith in mr. fosbrooke's skill - and then lapsed into silent meditation on the various arts and sciences in which the gentlemen of the university of oxford seemed to be most proficient, and pictured to himself what would be his feelings if he ever came to see verdant driving a coach! there certainly did not appear to be much probability of such an event; but can any ~pater familias~ say what even the most carefully brought up young hopeful will do when he has arrived at years of indiscretion? altogether, mr. green did not particularly enjoy the journey. besides the dogs and cigars, which to him were equal nuisances, little mr. bouncer was perpetually producing unpleasant post-horn effects, - which he called "sounding his octaves," - and destroying the effect of the airs on the guard's key-bugle, by joining in them at improper times and with discordant measures. mr. green, too, could not but perceive that the majority of the conversation that was addressed to himself and his son (though more particularly to the latter), although couched in politest form, was yet of a tendency calculated to "draw them out" for the amusement of their fellow-passengers. he also observed that the young gentlemen severally exhibited great capacity for the beer of bass and the porter of guinness, and were not averse even to liquids of a more spirituous description. moreover, mr. green remarked that the ministering hebes were invariably addressed by their christian names, and were familiarly conversed with as old acquaintances; most of them receiving direct offers of marriage or the option of putting up the banns on any sunday in the middle of the week; while the inquiries after their grandmothers and the various members of their family circles were both numerous and gratifying. in [ adventures of mr. verdant green] all these verbal encounters little mr. bouncer particularly distinguished himself. woodstock was reached: "four-in-hand fosbrooke" gave up the reins to the professional jehu; and at last the towers, spires, and domes of oxford appeared in sight. the first view of the city of colleges is always one that will be long remembered. even the railway traveller, who enters by the least imposing approach, and can scarcely see that he is in oxford before he has reached folly bridge, must yet regard the city with mingled feelings of delight and surprise as he looks across the christ church meadows and rolls past the tom tower. but he who approaches oxford from the henley road, and looks upon that unsurpassed prospect from magdalen bridge, - or he who enters the city, as mr. green did, from the woodstock road, and rolls down the shady avenue of st. giles', between st. john's college and the taylor buildings, and past the graceful martyrs' memorial, will receive impressions such as probably no other city in the world could convey. as the coach clattered down the corn-market, and turned the corner by carfax into high street, mr. bouncer, having been compelled in deference to university scruples to lay aside his post-horn, was consoling himself by chanting the following words, selected probably in compliment to mr. verdant green. "to oxford, a freshman so modest, i enter'd one morning in march; and the figure i cut was the oddest, all spectacles, choker, and starch. whack fol lol, lol iddity, &c. from the top of 'the royal defiance,' jack adams, who coaches so well, set me down in these regions of science, in front of the mitre hotel. whack fol lol, lol iddity, &c. 'sure never man's prospects were brighter,' i said, as i jumped from my perch; 'so quickly arrived at the mitre, oh, i'm sure, to get on in the church!' whack fol lol, lol iddity, &c." by the time mr. bouncer finished these words, the coach appropriately drew up at the "mitre," and the passengers tumbled off amid a knot of gownsmen collected on the pavement to receive them. but no sooner were mr. green and our hero set down, than they were attacked by a horde of the aborigines of oxford, who, knowing by vulture-like sagacity the aspect of a freshman and his governor, swooped down upon them in the guise of impromptu porters, and made an indiscriminate attack upon the luggage. it was only by the display of the greatest presence of mind that mr. verdant green recovered his effects, and prevented his canvas-covered boxes from being [an oxford freshman ] <vg - .jpg> carried off in the wheel-barrows that were trundling off in all directions to the various colleges. <vg - .jpg> [ adventures of mr. verdant green] but at last all were safely secured. and soon, when a snug dinner had been discussed in a quiet room, and a bottle of the famous (though i have heard some call it "in-famous") oxford port had been produced, mr. green, under its kindly influence, opened his heart to his son, and gave him much advice as to his forthcoming university career; being, of course, well calculated to do this from his intimate acquaintance with the subject. whether it was the extra glass of port, or whether it was the <vg .jpg> nature of his father's discourse, or whether it was the novelty of his situation, or whether it was all these circumstances combined, yet certain it was that mr. verdant green's first night in oxford was distinguished by a series, or rather confusion, of most remarkable dreams, in which bishops, archbishops, and hobgoblins elbowed one another for precedence; a beneficent female crowned him with laurel, while fame lustily proclaimed the honours he had received, and unrolled the class-list in which his name had first rank. sweet land of visions, that will with such ease confer even a ~treble~ first upon the weary sleeper, why must he awake from thy gentle thraldom, to find the class-list a stern reality, and graduateship too often but an empty dream! [an oxford freshman ] chapter iv. mr. verdant green becomes an oxford undergraduate. mr. verdant green arose in the morning more or less refreshed; and after breakfast proceeded with his father to brazenface college to call upon the master; the porter directed them where to go, and they sent up their cards. dr. portman was at home, and they were soon introduced to his presence. instead of the stern, imposing-looking personage that mr. verdant green had expected to see in the ruler among dons, and the terror of offending undergraduates, the master of brazenface was a mild-looking old gentleman, with an inoffensive amiability of expression and a shy, retiring manner that seemed to intimate that he was more alarmed at the strangers than they had need to be at him. dr. portman seemed to be quite a part of his college, for he had passed the greatest portion of his life there. he had graduated there, he had taken scholarships there, he had even gained a prize-poem there; he had been elected a fellow there, he had become a tutor there, he had been proctor and college dean there; there, during the long vacation, he had written his celebrated "disquisition on the greek particles," afterwards published in eight octavo volumes; and finally, there he had been elected master of his college, in which office, honoured and respected, he appeared likely to end his days. he was unmarried; perhaps he had never found time to think of a wife; perhaps he had never had the courage to propose for one; perhaps he had met with early crosses and disappointments, and had shrined in his heart a fair image that should never be displaced. who knows? for dons are mortals, and have been undergraduates once. the little hair he had was of a silvery white, although his eye-brows retained their black hue; and to judge from the fine fresh-coloured features and the dark eyes that were now nervously twinkling upon mr. green, dr. portman must, in his more youthful days, have had an ample share of good looks. he was dressed in an old-fashioned reverend suit of black, with knee-breeches and gaiters, and a massive watch-seal dangling from under his waistcoat, and was deep in the study of his favourite particles. he received our hero and his father both nervously and graciously, and bade them be seated. "i shall al-ways," he said, in monosyllabic tones, as though he were reading out of a child's primer, - "i shall al-ways be glad to see any of the young friends of my old col-lege friend lar-kyns; and i do re-joice to be a-ble to serve you, mis-ter green; and i hope your son, mis-ter, mis-ter vir---vir-gin-ius,--" [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "verdant, dr. portman," interrupted mr. green, suggestively, "verdant." "oh! true, true, true! and i do hope that he will be a ve-ry good young man, and try to do hon-our to his col-lege." "i trust he will, indeed, sir," replied mr. green; "it is the great wish of my heart. and i am sure that you will find my son both quiet and orderly in his conduct, regular in his duties, and always in bed by ten o'clock." "well, i hope so too, mis-ter green," said dr. portman, monosyllabically; "but all the young gen-tle-men do pro-mise to be regu-lar and or-der-ly when they first come up, but a <vg .jpg> term makes a great dif-fer-ence. but i dare say my young friend mis-ter vir-gin-ius,---" "verdant," smilingly suggested mr. green. "i beg your par-don," apologized dr. portman; "but i dare say that he will do as you say, for in-deed, my friend lar-kyns speaks well of him." "i am delighted - proud!" murmured mr. green, while verdant felt himself blushing up to his spectacles. "we are ve-ry full," dr. portman went on to say, "but as i do ex-pect great things from mis-ter vir-gin --- verdant, verdant, i have put some rooms at his ser-vice; and if you would like to see them, my ser-vant shall shew you the way." the servant was accordingly summoned, and received orders to that effect; while the master told verdant that he must, [an oxford freshman ] at two o'clock, present himself to mr. slowcoach, his tutor, who would examine him for his matriculation. "i am sor-ry, mis-ter green," said dr. portman, "that my en-gage-ments will pre-vent me from ask-ing you and mis-ter virg-- ver-dant, to dine with me to-day; but i do hope that the next time you come to ox-ford i shall be more for-tu-nate." old john, the common-room man, who had heard this speech made to hundreds of "governors" through many generations of freshmen, could not repress a few pantomimic asides, that <vg .jpg> were suggestive of anything but full credence in his master's words. but mr. green was delighted with dr. portman's affability, and perceiving that the interview was at an end, made his ~conge~, and left the master of brazenface to his greek particles. they had just got outside, when the servant said, "oh, there is the scout! ~your~ scout, sir!" at which our hero blushed from the consciousness of his new dignity; and, by way of appearing at his ease, inquired the scout's name. "robert filcher, sir," replied the servant; "but the gentlemen always call 'em by their christian names." and beckoning the scout to him, he bade him shew the gentlemen [ adventures of mr. verdant green] to the rooms kept for mr. verdant green; and then took himself back to the master. mr. robert filcher might perhaps have been forty years of age, perhaps fifty; there was cunning enough in his face to fill even a century of wily years; and there was a depth of expression in his look, as he asked our hero if ~he~ was mr. verdant green, that proclaimed his custom of reading a freshman at a glance. mr. filcher was laden with coats and boots that had just been brushed and blacked for their respective masters; and he was bearing a jug of buttery ale (they are renowned for their ale at brazenface) to the gentleman who owned the pair of "tops" that were now flashing in the sun as they dangled from the scout's hand. "please to follow me, gentlemen," he said; "it's only just across the quad. third floor, no. staircase, fust quad; that's about the mark, ~i~ think, sir." mr. verdant green glanced curiously round the quadrangle, with its picturesque irregularity of outline, its towers and turrets and battlements, its grey time-eaten walls, its rows of mullioned heavy-headed windows, and the quiet cloistered air that spoke of study and reflection; and perceiving on one side a row of large windows, with great buttresses between, and a species of steeple on the high-pitched roof, he made bold (just to try the effect) to address mr. filcher by the name assigned to him at an early period of his life by his godfathers and godmothers, and inquired if that building was the chapel. "no, sir," replied robert, "that there's the 'all, sir, ~that~ is, - where you dines, sir, leastways when you ain't 'aeger,' or elseweer. that at the top is the lantern, sir, ~that~ is; called so because it never has no candle in it. the chapel's the hopposite side, sir. -please not to walk on the grass, sir; there's a fine agen it, unless you're a master. this way if ~you~ please, gentlemen!" thus the scout beguiled them, as he led them to an open doorway with a large painted over it; inside was a door on either hand, while a coal-bin displayed its black face from under a staircase that rose immediately before them. up this they went, following the scout (who had vanished for a moment with the boots and beer), and when they had passed the first floor they found the ascent by no means easy to the body, or pleasant to the sight. the once white-washed walls were coated with the uncleansed dust of the three past terms; and where the plaster had not been chipped off by flying porter-bottles, or the heels of wellington boots, its surface had afforded an irresistible temptation to those imaginative undergraduates who displayed their artistic genius in candle-smoke cartoons of the heads of the university, and other popular and unpopular characters. all mr. green's caution, as he crept up the [an oxford freshman ] dark, twisting staircase, could not prevent him from crushing his hat against the low, cobwebbed ceiling, and he gave vent to a very strong but quiet anathema, which glided quietly and audibly into the remark, "confounded awkward staircase, i think!" "just what mr. bouncer says," replied the scout, "although he don't reach so high as you, sir; but he ~do~ say, sir, when he, comes home pleasant at night from some wine-party, that it ~is~ the aukardest staircase as was ever put before a gentleman's <vg .jpg> legs. and he ~did~ go so far, sir, as to ask the master, if it wouldn't be better to have a staircase as would go up of hisself, and take the gentlemen up with it, like one as they has at some public show in london - the call-and-see-em, i think he said." "the colosseum, probably," suggested mr. green. "and what did dr. portman say to that, pray?" "why he said, sir, - leastways so mr. bouncer reported, - that it worn't by no means a bad idea, and that p'raps mr. bouncer'd find it done in six months' time, when he come back again from the country. for you see, sir, mr. bouncer had made hisself so pleasant, that he'd been and got the porter out o' bed, and corked his face dreadful; and then, sir, he'd been and got a hinn-board from somewhere out of the town, and hung it on the master's private door; so that when they went to early chapel in the morning, they read as how the master was 'licensed to sell beer by retail,' and 'to be drunk [ adventures of mr. verdant green] on the premises'. so when the master came to know who it was as did it, which in course the porter told him, he said as how mr. bouncer had better go down into the country for a year, for change of hair, and to visit his friends." "very kind, indeed, of dr. portman," said our hero, who missed the moral of the story, and took the rustication for a kind forgiveness of injuries. "just what mr. bouncer said, sir," replied the scout, "he said it ~were~ pertickler kind and thoughtful. this is his room, sir, he come up on'y yesterday." and he pointed to a door, above which was painted in white letters on a black ground, "bouncer." "why," said mr. green to his son, "now i think of it, bouncer was the name of that short young gentleman who came with us on the coach yesterday, and made himself so - so unpleasant with a tin horn." "that's the gent, sir," observed the scout; "that's mr. bouncer, agoing the complete unicorn, as he calls it. i dare say you'll find him a pleasant neighbour, sir. your rooms is next to his." with some doubts of these prospective pleasures, the mr. greens, ~pere et fils~, entered through a double door painted over the outside, with the name of "smalls"; to which mr. filcher directed our hero's attention by saying, "you can have that name took out, sir, and your own name painted in. mr. smalls has just moved hisself to the other quad, and that's why the rooms is vacant, sir." mr. filcher then went on to point out the properties and capabilities of the rooms, and also their mechanical contrivances. "this is the hoak, this 'ere outer door is, sir, which the gentlemen sports, that is to say, shuts, sir, when they're a readin'. not as mr. smalls ever hinterfered with his constitootion by too much 'ard study, sir; he only sported his hoak when people used to get troublesome about their little bills. here's a place for coals, sir, though mr. smalls, he kept his bull-terrier there, which was agin the regulations, as ~you~ know, sir." (verdant nodded his head, as though he were perfectly aware of the fact.) "this ere's your bed-room, sir. very small, did you say, sir? oh, no, sir; not by no means! ~we~ thinks that in college reether a biggish bed-room, sir. mr. smalls thought so, sir, and he's in his second year, ~he~ is." (mr. filcher thoroughly understood the science of "flooring" a freshman.) "this is ~my~ room, sir, this is, for keepin' your cups and saucers, and wine-glasses and tumblers, and them sort o' things, and washin' 'em up when you wants 'em. if you likes to keep [an oxford freshman ] your wine and sperrits here, sir - mr. smalls always did - you'll find it a nice cool place, sir: or else here's this 'ere winder-seat; you see, sir, it opens with a lid, 'andy for the purpose." "if you act upon that suggestion, verdant," remarked mr. green aside to his son, "i trust that a lock will be added." there was not a superfluity of furniture in the room; and mr. smalls having conveyed away the luxurious part of it, that which was left had more of the useful than the ornamental character; but as mr. verdant green was no sybarite, this <vg .jpg> point was but of little consequence. the window looked with a sunny aspect down upon the quad, and over the opposite buildings were seen the spires of churches, the dome of the radcliffe, and the gables, pinnacles, and turrets of other colleges. this was pleasant enough: pleasanter than the stale odours of the virginian weed that rose from the faded green window-curtains, and from the old kidderminster carpet that had been charred and burnt into holes with the fag-ends of cigars. "well, verdant," said mr. green, when they had completed their inspection, "the rooms are not so very bad, and i think you may be able to make yourself comfortable in them. but i wish they were not so high up. i don't see how you can escape if a fire was to break out, and i am afraid collegians must be very careless on these points. indeed, your mother made me promise that i would speak to dr. portman about it, and ask [ adventures of mr. verdant green] him to please to allow your tutor, or somebody, to see that your fire was safely raked out at night; and i had intended to have done so, but somehow it quite escaped me. how your mother and all at home would like to see you in your own college room!" and the thoughts of father and son flew back to the manor green and its occupants, who were doubtless at the same time thinking of them. mr. filcher then explained the system of thirds, by which the furniture of the room was to be paid for; and, having accompanied his future master and mr. green downstairs, <vg .jpg> the latter accomplishing the descent not without difficulty and contusions, and having pointed out the way to mr. slowcoach's rooms, mr. robert filcher relieved his feelings by indulging in a ballet of action, or ~pas d'extase~; in which poetry of motion he declared his joy at the last valuable addition to brazenface, and his own perquisites. mr. slowcoach was within, and would see mr. verdant green. so that young gentleman, trembling with agitation, and feeling as though he would have given pounds for the staircase to have been as high as that of babel, followed the servant upstairs, and left his father, in almost as great a state of nervousness, pacing the quad below. but it was not the formidable affair, nor was mr. slowcoach the formidable man, that mr. verdant green had anticipated; and by the time that he had turned a piece of ~spectator~ into latin, our hero had somewhat recovered his usual equanimity of mind and serenity of expression: and the construing of half a dozen lines of livy and homer, and the answering of a few questions, was a mere form; for mr. slowcoach's long practice enabled him to see in a very few minutes if the freshman before him (however nervous he might be) had the usual average of abilities, and was up to the business of lectures. so mr. verdant green was soon dismissed, and returned to his father radiant and happy. [an oxford freshman ] chapter v. mr. verdant green matriculates, and makes a sensation. as they went out at the gate, they inquired of the porter for mr. charles larkyns, but they found that he had not yet returned from the friend's house where he had been during the vacation; whereupon mr. green said that they <vg .jpg> would go and look at the oxford lions, so that he might be able to answer any of the questions that should be put to him on his return. they soon found a guide, one of those wonderful people to which show-places give birth, and of whom oxford can boast a very goodly average; and under this gentleman's guidance mr. verdant green made his first acquaintance with the fair outside of his alma mater. the short, thick stick of the guide served to direct attention to the various objects he enumerated in his rapid career: "this here's christ church college," he said, as he trotted them down st aldate's, "built by card'nal hoolsy four underd feet long and the famous tom tower as tolls wun underd and wun hevery night that being the number of stoodents on the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] foundation;" and thus the guide went on, perfectly independent of the artificial trammels of punctuation, and not particular whether his hearers understood him or not: that was not ~his~ business. and as it was that gentleman's boast that he "could do the alls, collidges, and principal hedifices in a nour and a naff," it could not be expected but that mr. green should take back to warwickshire otherwise than a slightly confused impression of oxford. when he unrolled that rich panorama before his "mind's eye," all its component parts were strangely out of place. the rich spire of st. mary's claimed acquaintance with her <vg .jpg> poorer sister at the cathedral. the cupola of the tom tower got into close quarters with the huge dome of the radcliffe, that shrugged up its great round shoulders at the intrusion of the cross-bred graeco-gothic tower of all saints. the theatre had walked up to st. giles's to see how the taylor buildings agreed with the university galleries; while the martyrs' memorial had stepped down to magdalen bridge, in time to see the college taking a walk in the botanic gardens. the schools and the bodleian had set their back against the stately portico of the clarendon press; while the antiquated ashmolean had given place to the more modern townhall. the time-honoured, black-looking front of university college had changed into the cold cleanliness of the "classic" ~facade~ of queen's. the two towers of all souls', - whose several stages seem to be pulled out of each other like the parts of a telescope, - had, somehow, removed themselves from the rest of the building, which had gone, nevertheless, on a tour to broad street; behind which, as every one knows, are the broad walk and the christ church meadows. merton chapel had got into ~new~ quarters; and wadham had gone to worcester for change of [an oxford freshman ] air. lincoln had migrated from near exeter to pembroke; and brasenose had its nose quite put out of joint by st. john's. in short, if the maps of oxford are to be trusted, there had been a general ~pousset~ movement among its public buildings. but if such a shrewd and practised observer as sir walter scott, after a week's hard and systematic sight-seeing, could only say of oxford, "the time has been much too short to convey to me separate and distinct ideas of all the variety of wonders that i saw: my memory only at present furnishes a grand but indistinct picture of towers, and chapels, and oriels, and vaulted halls, and libraries, and paintings;" - if sir walter scott could say this after a week's work, it is not to be wondered at that mr. green, after so brief and rapid a survey of the city at the heels of an unintelligent guide, should feel himself slightly confused when, on his return to the manor green, he attempted to give a slight description of the wonderful sights of oxford. there was ~one~ lion of oxford, however, whose individuality of expression was too striking either to be forgotten or confused with the many other lions around. although (as in byron's ~dream~) "a mass of many images crowded like waves upon" mr. green, yet clear and distinct through all there ran "the stream-like windings of that glorious street,"* to which one of the first critics of the age+ has given this high testimony of praise: "the high street of oxford has not its equal in the whole world." mr. green could not, of course, leave oxford until he had seen his beloved son in that elegant cap and preposterous gown which constitute the present academical dress of the oxford undergraduate; and to assume which, with a legal right to the same, matriculation is first necessary. as that amusing and instructive book, the university statutes, says in its own delightful and unrivalled canine latin, "~statutum est, quod nemo pro studente, seu scholari, habeatur, nec ullis universitatis privilegiis, aut beneficiis~" (the cap and gown, of course, being among these), "~gaudeat, nisi qui in aliquod collegium vel aulam admissus fuerit, et intra quindenam post talem admissionem in matriculam universitatis fuerit relatus.~" so our hero put on the required white tie, and then went forth to complete his proper costume. there were so many persons purporting to be "academical robe-makers," that mr. green was some little time in deciding who should be the tradesman favoured with the order for --- * wordsworth, miscellaneous sonnets. + dr. waagen, art and artists in england. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] his son's adornment. at last he fixed upon a shop, the window of which contained a more imposing display than its neighbours of gowns, hoods, surplices, and robes of all shapes and colours, from the black velvet-sleeved proctor's to the blushing gorgeousness of the scarlet robe and crimson silk sleeves of the d.c.l. "i wish you," said mr. green, advancing towards a smirking individual, who was in his shirt-sleeves and slippers, but in all other respects was attired with great magnificence, - "i wish you to measure this gentleman for his academical robes, and also to allow him the use of some to be matriculated in." "certainly, sir," said the robe-maker, who stood bowing and smirking before them, - as hood expressively says, "washing his hands with invisible soap, in imperceptible water;"- "certainly, sir, if you wish it: but it will scarcely be necessary, sir; as our custom is so extensive, that we keep a large ready-made stock constantly on hand." "oh, that will do just as well," said mr. green; "better, indeed. let us see some." "what description of robe would be required?" said the smirking gentleman, again making use of the invisible soap; "a scholar's?" "a scholar's!" repeated mr. green, very much wondering at the question, and imagining that all students must of necessity be also scholars; "yes, a scholar's, of course." a scholar's gown was accordingly produced: and its deep, wide sleeves, and ample length and breadth, were soon displayed to some advantage on mr. verdant green's tall figure. reflected in a large mirror, its charms were seen in their full perfection; and when the delighted mr. green exclaimed, "why, verdant, i never saw you look so well as you do now!" our hero was inclined to think that his father's words were the words of truth, and that a scholar's gown was indeed becoming. the ~tout ensemble~ was complete when the cap had been added to the gown; more especially as verdant put it on in such a manner that the polite robe-maker was obliged to say, "the hother way, if you please, sir. immaterial perhaps, but generally preferred. in fact, the shallow part is ~always~ the forehead, - at least, in oxford, sir." while mr. green was paying for the cap and gown (n.b. the money of governors is never refused), the robe-maker smirked, and said, "hexcuse the question; but may i hask, sir, if this is the gentleman that has just gained the scotland scholarship?" "no," replied mr. green. "my son has just gained his matriculation, and, i believe, very creditably; but nothing more, as we only came here yesterday." [an oxford freshman ] "then i think, sir," said the robe-maker, with redoubled smirks, - "i think, sir, there is a leetle mistake here. the gentleman will be hinfringing the university statues, if he wears a scholar's gown and hasn't got a scholarship; and these robes'll be of no use to the gentleman, yet awhile at least. it <vg .jpg> will be an undergraduate's gown that he requires, sir." it was fortunate for our hero that the mistake was discovered so soon, and could be rectified without any of those unpleasant consequences of iconoclasm to which the robe-maker's infringement of the "statues" seemed to point; but as that gentleman put the scholar's gown on one side, and brought out a commoner's, he might have been heard to mutter, "i don't know which is the freshest, - the freshman or his guv'nor." when mr. verdant green once more looked in the glass, and saw hanging straight from his shoulders a yard of blueish-black stuff, garnished with a little lappet, and two streamers whose upper parts were gathered into double plaits, he regretted that he was not indeed a scholar, if it were only for the privilege of wearing so elegant a gown. however, his father smiled approvingly, the robe-maker smirked judiciously; so he came to the gratifying conclusion that the commoner's gown was by no means ugly, and would be thought a great deal of at the manor green when he took it home at the end of the term. leaving his hat with the robe-maker, who, with many more smirks and imaginary washings of the hands, hoped to be favoured with the gentleman's patronage on future occasions, and begged further to trouble him with a card of his establishment, - our hero proceeded with his father along the high street, and turned round by st. mary's, and so up cat street to the schools, where they made their way to the classic [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "pig-market,"* to await the arrival of the vice-chancellor. when he came, our freshman and two other white-tied fellow-freshmen were summoned to the great man's presence; and there, in the ante-chamber of the convocation house,+ the edifying and imposing spectacle of matriculation was enacted. in the first place, mr. verdant green took divers oaths, and sincerely promised and swore that he would be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria. he also professed (very much to his own astonishment) that he did "from his heart abhor, detest, and abjure, as impious and heretical, that damnable doctrine and position, that princes excommunicated or deprived by the pope, or any authority of the see of rome, may be deposed or murdered by their subjects, or any other whatsoever." and, having almost lost his breath at this novel "position," mr. verdant green could only gasp his declaration, "that no foreign prince, person, prelate, state, or potentate, hath, or ought to have, any jurisdiction, power, superiority, pre-eminence, or authority, ecclesiastical or spiritual, within this realm." when he had sufficiently recovered his presence of mind, mr. verdant green inserted his name in the university books as "generosi filius natu maximus"; and then signed his name to the thirty-nine articles, - though he did not endanger his matriculation, as theodore hook did, by professing his readiness to sign forty if they wished it! then the vice-chancellor concluded the performance by presenting to the three freshmen (in the most liberal manner) three brown-looking volumes, with these words: "scitote vos in matriculam universitatis hodie relatos esse, sub hac conditione, nempe ut omnia statuta hoc libro comprehensa pro virili observetis." and the ceremony was at an end, and mr. verdant green was a matriculated member of the university of oxford. he was far too nervous, - from the weakening effect of the popes, and the excommunicate princes, and their murderous subjects, - to be able to translate and understand what the vice-chancellor had said to him, but he --- * the reason why such a name has been given to the schools' quadrangle may be found in the following extract from ~ingram's memorials:~ "the schools built by abbot hokenorton being inadequate to the increasing wants of the university, they applied to the abbot of reading for stone to rebuild them; and in the year it appears that considerable sums of money were expended on them; but they went to decay in the latter part of the reign of henry viii, and during the whole reign of edward vi. the change of religion having occasioned a suspension of the usual exercises and scholastic acts in the university, in the year only two of these schools were used by determiners, and within two years after none at all. the whole area between these schools and the divinity school was subsequently converted into a garden and ~pig-market~; and the schools themselves, being completely abandoned by the masters and scholars, were used by glovers and laundresses." + "in apodyterio domui congregationis." -=- [an oxford freshman ] thought his present to be particularly kind; and he found it a copy of the university statutes, which he determined forthwith to read and obey. though if he had known that he had sworn to observe statutes which required him, among other things, to wear garments only of a black or "subfusk" hue; to abstain from that absurd and proud custom of walking in public ~in boots~, and the ridiculous one of wearing the hair long;* - statutes, moreover, which demanded of him to refrain from all taverns, wine-shops, and houses in which they sold wine or any other <vg .jpg> drink, and the herb called nicotiana or "tobacco"; not to hunt wild beasts with dogs or snares or nets; not to carry cross-bows or other "bombarding" weapons, or keep hawks for fowling; not to frequent theatres or the strifes of gladiators; and only to carry a bow and arrows for the sake of honest recreation;+ - if mr. verdant green had known that he had covenanted to do this, he would, perhaps, have felt some scruples in taking the oaths of matriculation. but this by the way. now that mr. green had seen all that he wished to see, nothing remained for him but to discharge his hotel bill. it was accordingly called for, and produced by the waiter, whose face - by a visitation of that complaint against which vaccination is usually considered a safeguard - had been reduced to a --- * see the oxford statutes, tit. xiv, "de vestitu et habitu scholastico." + ditto, tit. xv, "de moribus conformandis." -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] state resembling the interior half of a sliced muffin. to judge from the expression of mr. green's features as he regarded the document that had been put into his hand, it is probable that he had not been much accustomed to oxford hotels; for he ran over the several items of the bill with a look in which surprise contended with indignation for the mastery, while the muffin-faced waiter handled his plated salver, and looked fixedly at nothing. mr. green, however, refraining from observations, paid the bill; and, muffling himself in greatcoat and travelling-cap, he prepared himself to take a comfortable journey back to warwickshire, inside the birmingham and oxford coach. it was not loaded in the same way that it had been when he came up by it, and his fellow-passengers were of a very different description; and it must be confessed that, in the absence of mr. bouncer's tin horn, the attacks of intrusive terriers, and the involuntary fumigation of himself with tobacco (although its presence was still perceptible within the coach), mr. green found his journey ~from~ oxford much more agreeable than it had been ~to~ that place. he took an affectionate farewell of his son, somewhat after the manner of the "heavy fathers" of the stage; and then the coach bore him away from the last lingering look of our hero, who felt any thing but heroic <vg .jpg> at being left for the first time in his life to shift for himself. his luggage had been sent up to brazenface, so thither he turned his steps, and with some little difficulty found his room. mr. filcher had partly unpacked his master's things, and had left everything uncomfortable and in "the most admired disorder"; and mr. verdant green sat himself down upon the "practicable" window-seat, and resigned himself to his thoughts. if they had not already flown to the manor green, they would soon have been carried there; for a german band, just outside the college-gates, began to play "home, sweet home," with that truth and delicacy of expression which the wandering minstrels of germany seem to acquire intuitively. the sweet melancholy [an oxford freshman ] of the simple air, as it came subdued by distance into softer tones, would have powerfully affected most people who had just been torn from the bosom of their homes, to fight, all inexperienced, the battle of life; but it had such an effect on mr. verdant green, that - but it little matters saying ~what~ he did; many people will give way to feelings in private that they would stifle in company; and if mr. filcher on his return found his master wiping his spectacles, why that was only a simple proceeding which all glasses frequently require. to divert his thoughts, and to impress upon himself and others the fact that he was an oxford man, our freshman set out for a stroll; and as the unaccustomed feeling of the gown <vg .jpg> about his shoulders made him feel somewhat embarrassed as to the carriage of his arms, he stepped into a shop on the way and purchased a light cane, which he considered would greatly add to the effect of the cap and gown. armed with this weapon, he proceeded to disport himself in the christ church meadows, and promenaded up and down the broad walk. the beautiful meadows lay green and bright in the sun; the arching trees threw a softened light, and made a chequered pavement of the great broad walk; "witch-elms ~did~ counter-change the floor" of the gravel-walks that wound with the windings of the cherwell; the drooping willows were mirrored in its stream; through openings in the trees there were glimpses of grey, old college-buildings; then came the walk along the banks, the isis shining like molten silver, and fringed around with barges and boats; then another stretch of green meadows; then a cloud of steam from the railway-station; and a background of gently-rising hills. it was a cheerful scene, and the variety of figures gave life and animation to the whole. young ladies and unprotected females were found in abundance, dressed in all the engaging variety of light spring dresses; and, as may be supposed, our hero attracted a great deal of their attention, and afforded them no small amusement. but the unusual and terrific appearance of a spectacled [ adventures of mr. verdant green] <vg - .jpg> gownsman with a cane produced the greatest alarm among the juveniles, who imagined our freshman to be a new description <vg - .jpg> [an oxford freshman ] of beadle or bogy, summoned up by the exigencies of the times to preserve a rigorous discipline among the young people; and, regarding his cane as the symbol of his stern sway, they harassed their nursemaids by unceasingly charging at their petticoats for protection. altogether, mr. verdant green made quite a sensation. chapter vi. mr. verdant green dines, breakfasts, and goes to chapel. our hero dressed himself with great care, that he might make his first appearance in hall with proper ~eclat~ - and, having made his way towards the lantern-surmounted building, he walked up the steps and under the groined archway with a crowd of hungry undergraduates who were hurrying in to dinner. the clatter of plates would have alone been sufficient to guide his steps; and, passing through one of the doors in the elaborately carved screen that shut off the passage and the buttery, he found himself within the hall of brazenface. it was of noble size, lighted by lofty windows, and carried up to a great height by an open roof, dark (save where it opened to the lantern) with great oak beams, and rich with carved pendants and gilded bosses. the ample fire-places displayed the capaciousness of those collegiate mouths of "the wind-pipes of hospitality," and gave an idea of the dimensions of the kitchen ranges. in the centre of the hall was a huge plate-warmer, elaborately worked in brass with the college arms. founders and benefactors were seen, or suggested, on all sides; their arms gleamed from the windows in all the glories of stained glass; and their faces peered out from the massive gilt frames on the walls, as though their shadows loved to linger about the spot that had been benefited by their substance. at the further end of the hall a deep bay-window threw its painted light upon a dais, along which stretched the table for the dons; masters and bachelors occupied side-tables; and the other tables were filled up by the undergraduates; every one, from the don downwards, being in his gown. our hero was considerably impressed with the (to him) singular character of the scene; and from the "benedictus benedicat" grace-before-meat to the "benedicto benedicamur" after-meat, he gazed curiously around him in silent wonderment. so much indeed was he wrapped up in the novelty of the scene, that he ran a great risk of losing his dinner. the scouts fled about in all directions with plates, and glasses, and pewter dishes, and massive silver mugs that had gone round the tables [ adventures of mr. verdant green] for the last two centuries, and still no one waited upon mr. verdant green. he twice ventured to timidly say, "waiter!" but as no one answered to his call, and as he was too bashful and occupied with his own thoughts to make another attempt, it is probable that he would have risen from dinner as unsatisfied as when he sat down, had not his right-hand companion (having partly relieved his own wants) perceived his neighbour to be a freshman, and kindly said to him, "i think you'd better begin your dinner, because we don't stay here long. <vg .jpg> what is your scout's name?" and when he had been told it, he turned to mr. filcher and asked him, "what the doose he meant by not waiting on his master?" which, with the addition of a few gratuitous threats, had the effect of bringing that gentleman to his master's side, and reducing mr. verdant green to a state of mind in which gratitude to his companion and a desire to beg his scout's pardon were confusedly blended. not seeing any dishes upon the table to select from, he referred to the list, and fell back on the standard roast beef. "i am sure i am very much obliged to you," said verdant, turning to his friendly neighbour. "my rooms are next to yours, and i had the pleasure of being driven by you on the coach the other day." [an oxford freshman ] "oh!" said mr. fosbrooke, for it was he; "ah, i remember you now! i suppose the old bird was your governor. ~he~ seemed to think it any thing but a pleasure, being driven by four-in-hand fosbrooke." "why, pap - my father - is rather nervous on a coach," replied verdant: "he was bringing me to college for the first time." "then you are the man that has just come into smalls' old rooms? oh, i see. don't you ever drink with your dinner? if you don't holler for your rascal, he'll never half wait upon you. always bully them well at first, and then they learn manners." so, by way of commencing the bullying system without loss of time, our hero called out very fiercely "robert!" and then, as mr. filcher glided to his side, he timidly dropped his tone into a mild "glass of water, if you please, robert." he felt rather relieved when dinner was over, and retired at once to his own rooms; where, making a rather quiet and sudden entrance, he found them tenanted by an old woman, who wore a huge bonnet tilted on the top of her head, and was busily and dubiously engaged at one of his open boxes. "ahem!" he coughed, at which note of warning the old lady jumped round very quickly, and said, - dabbing curtseys where there were stops, like the beats of a conductor's ~baton~, - "law bless me, sir. it's beggin' your parding that i am. not seein' you a comin' in. bein' 'ard of hearin' from a hinfant. and havin' my back turned. i was just a puttin' your things to rights, sir. if you please, sir, i'm mrs. tester. your bed-maker, sir." "oh, thank you," said our freshman, with the shadow of a suspicion that mrs. tester was doing something more than merely "putting to rights" the pots of jam and marmalade, and the packages of tea and coffee, which his doting mother had thoughtfully placed in his box as a provision against immediate distress. "thank you." "i've done my rooms, sir," dabbed mrs. tester. "which if thought agreeable, i'd stay and put these things in their places. which it certainly is robert's place. but i never minds putting myself out. as i always perpetually am minded. so long as i can obleege the gentlemen." so, as our hero was of a yielding disposition, and could, under skilful hands, easily be moulded into any form, he allowed mrs. tester to remain, and conclude the unpacking and putting away of his goods, in which operations she displayed great generalship. "you've a deal of tea and coffee, sir," she said, keeping time by curtseys. "which it's a great blessin' to have a mother. and not to be left dissolute like some gentlemen. and tea [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and coffee is what i mostly lives on. and mortial dear it is to poor folks. and a package the likes of this, sir, were a blessin' i should never even dream on." "well, then," said verdant, in a most benevolent mood, "you can take one of the packages for your trouble." upon this, mrs. tester appeared to be greatly overcome. "which i once had a son myself," she said. "and as fine a young man as you are, sir. with a strawberry mark in the small of his back. and beautiful red whiskers, sir; with a tendency to drink. which it were his rewing, and took him to be enlisted for a sojer. when he went across the seas to the west injies. and was took with the yaller fever, and buried there. which the remembrance, sir, brings on my spazzums. to which i'm an hafflicted martyr, sir. and can only be heased with three spots of brandy on a lump of sugar. which your good mother, sir, has put a bottle of brandy. along with the jam and the clean linen, sir. as though a purpose for my complaint. ugh! oh!" and mrs. tester forthwith began pressing and thumping her sides in such a terrific manner, and appeared to be undergoing such internal agony, that mr. verdant green not only gave her brandy there and then, for her immediate relief - "which it heases the spazzums deerectly, bless you," observed mrs. tester, parenthetically; but also told her where she could find the bottle, in case she should again be attacked when in his rooms; attacks which, it is needless to say, were repeated at every subsequent visit. mrs. tester then finished putting away the tea and coffee, and entered into further particulars about her late son; though what connection there was between him and the packages of tea, our hero could not perceive. nevertheless he was much interested with her narrative, and thought mrs. tester a very affectionate, motherly sort of woman; more especially, when (robert having placed his tea-things on the table) she showed him how to make the tea; an apparently simple feat that the freshman found himself perfectly unable to accomplish. and then mrs. tester made a final dab, and her exit, and our hero sat over his tea as long as he could, because it gave an idea of cheerfulness; and then, after directing robert to be sure not to forget to call him in time for morning chapel, he retired to bed. the bed was very hard, and so small, that, had it not been for the wall, our hero's legs would have been visible (literally) at the foot; but despite these novelties, he sank into a sound rest, which at length passed into the following dream. he thought that he was back again at dinner at the manor green, but that the room was curiously like the hall of brazenface, and that mrs. tester and dr. portman were on either side of [an oxford freshman ] him, with mr. fosbrooke and robert talking to his sisters; and that he was reaching his hand to help mrs. tester to a packet of tea, which her son had sent them from the west indies, when he threw over a wax-light, and set every thing on fire; and that the parish engine came up; and that there was a great noise, and a loud hammering; and, "eh? yes! oh! the half-hour is it? oh, yes! thank you!" and mr. verdant green sprang out of bed much relieved in mind to find <vg .jpg> that the alarm of fire was nothing more than his scout knocking vigorously at his door, and that it was chapel-time. "want any warm water, sir?" asked mr. filcher, putting his head in at the door. "no, thank you," replied our hero; "i - i -" "shave with cold. ah! i see, sir. it's much 'ealthier, and makes the 'air grow. but any thing as you ~does~ want, sir, you've only to call." "if there is any thing that i want, robert," said verdant, "i will ring." "bless you, sir," observed mr. filcher, "there ain't no bells never in colleges! they'd be rung off their wires in no time. mr. bouncer, sir, he uses a trumpet like they does on board ship. by the same token, that's it, sir!" and mr. filcher vanished, just in time to prevent little mr. bouncer from finishing a furious solo, from an entirely new version of ~robert le diable~, which he was giving with novel effects through the medium of a speaking-trumpet. verdant found his bed-room inconveniently small; so [ adventures of mr. verdant green] contracted, indeed, in its dimensions, that his toilette was not completed without his elbows having first suffered severe abrasions. his mechanical turnip showed him that he had no time to lose, and the furious ringing of a bell, whose noise was echoed by the bells of other colleges, made him dress with a rapidity quite unusual, and hurry down stairs and across quad. to the chapel steps, up which a throng of students were hastening. nearly all betrayed symptoms of having been aroused from their sleep without having had any spare time <vg .jpg> for an elaborate toilette, and many, indeed, were completing it, by thrusting themselves into surplices and gowns as they hurried up the steps. mr. fosbrooke was one of these; and when he saw verdant close to him, he benevolently recognized him, and said, "let me put you up to a wrinkle. when they ring you up sharp for chapel, don't you lose any time about your absolutions, - washing, you know; but just jump into a pair of bags and wellingtons; clap a top-coat on you, and button it up to the chin, and there you are, ready dressed in the twinkling of a bed-post." before mr. verdant green could at all comprehend why a person should jump into two bags, instead of dressing himself in the normal manner, they went through the ante-chapel, or "court of the gentiles," as mr. fosbrooke termed it, and entered the choir of the chapel through a screen elaborately decorated in the jacobean style, with pillars and arches, and festoons of fruit and flowers, and bells and pomegranates. on either side of the door were two men, who quickly glanced [an oxford freshman ] at each one who passed, and as quickly pricked a mark against his name on the chapel lists. as the freshman went by, they made a careful study of his person, and took mental daguerreotypes of his features. seeing no beadle, or pew-opener (or, for the matter of that, any pews), or any one to direct him to a place, mr. verdant green quietly took a seat in the first place that he found empty, which happened to be the stall on the <vg .jpg> right hand of the door. unconscious of the trespass he was committing, he at once put his cap to his face and knelt down; but he had no sooner risen from his knees, than he found an imposing-looking don, as large as life and quite as natural, who was staring at him with the greatest astonishment, and motioning him to immediately "come out of that!" this our hero did with the greatest speed and confusion, and sank breathless on the end of the nearest bench; when, just as in his agitation, he had again said his prayer, the service fortunately commenced, and somewhat relieved him of his embarrassment. although he had the glories of magdalen, merton, and new [ adventures of mr. verdant green] college chapels fresh in his mind, yet verdant was considerably impressed with the solemn beauties of his own college chapel. he admired its harmonious proportions, and the elaborate carving of its decorated tracery. he noted every thing: the great eagle that seemed to be spreading its wings for an upward flight, - the pavement of black and white marble, - the dark canopied stalls, rich with the later work of grinling gibbons, - the elegant tracery of the windows; and he lost himself in <vg .jpg> a solemn reverie as he looked up at the saintly forms through which the rays of the morning sun streamed in rainbow tints. but the lesson had just begun; and the man on verdant's right appeared to be attentively following it. our freshman, however, could not help seeing the book, and, much to his astonishment, he found it to be a livy, out of which his neighbour was getting up his morning's lecture. he was still more astonished, when the lesson had come to an end, by being suddenly pulled back when he attempted to rise, and finding the streamers of his gown had been put to a use never intended for them, by being tied round the finial of the stall behind him, - the silly work of a boyish gentleman, who, in his desire to play off a practical joke on a freshman, forgot the sacredness of the place where college rules compelled him to shew himself on morning parade. [an oxford freshman ] chapel over, our hero hurried back to his rooms, and there, to his great joy, found a budget of letters from home; and surely the little items of intelligence that made up the news of the manor green had never seemed to possess such interest as now! the reading and re-reading of these occupied him during the whole of breakfast-time; and mr. filcher found him still engaged in perusing them when he came to clear away the things. then it was that verdant discovered the extended meaning that the word "perquisites" possesses in the eyes of <vg .jpg> a scout, for, to a remark that he had made, robert replied in a tone of surprise, "put away these bits o' things as is left, sir!" and then added, with an air of mild correction, "you see, sir, you's fresh to the place, and don't know that gentlemen never likes that sort o' thing done ~here~, sir; but you gets your commons, sir, fresh and fresh every morning and evening, which must be much more agreeable to the 'ealth than a heating of stale bread and such like. no, sir!" continued mr. filcher, with a manner that was truly parental, "no sir! you trust to me, sir, and i'll take care of your things, i will." and from the way that he carried off the eatables, it seemed probable that he would make good his words. but our freshman felt considerable awe of his scout, and murmuring broken accents, that sounded like "ignorance - customs - university," he [ adventures of mr. verdant green] endeavoured, by a liberal use of his pocket-handkerchief, to appear as if he were not blushing. as mr. slowcoach had told him that he would not have to begin lectures until the following day, and as the greek play fixed for the lecture was one with which he had been made well acquainted by mr. larkyns, verdant began to consider what he could do with himself, when the thought of mr. larkyns suggested the idea that his son charles had probably by this time returned to college. he determined therefore <vg .jpg> at once to go in search of him; and looking out a letter which the rector had commissioned him to deliver to his son, he inquired of robert, if he was aware whether mr. charles larkyns had come back from his holidays. "'ollidays, sir?," said mr. filcher. "oh! i see, sir! vacation, you mean, sir. young gentlemen as is ~men~, sir, likes to call their 'ollidays by a different name to boys', sir. yes, sir, mr. charles larkyns, he come up last arternoon, sir; but he and mr. smalls, the gent as he's been down with this vacation, the same as had these rooms, sir, they didn't come to 'all, sir, but went and had their dinners comfortable at the star, sir; and very pleasant they made theirselves; and thomas, their scout, sir, has had quite a horder for sober-water this morning, sir." [an oxford freshman ] with somewhat of a feeling of wonder how one scout contrived to know so much of the proceedings of gentlemen who were waited on by another scout, and wholly ignorant of his allusion to his fellow-servant's dealings in soda-water, mr. verdant green inquired where he could find mr. larkyns, and as the rooms were but just on the other side of the quad., he put on his hat, and made his way to them. the scout was just going into the room, so our hero gave a tap at the door and followed him. chapter vii. mr. verdant green calls on a gentleman who "is licensed to sell." mr. verdant green found himself in a room that had a pleasant look-out over the gardens of brazenface, from which a noble chestnut tree brought its pyramids of bloom close up to the very windows. the walls of the room were decorated with engravings in gilt frames, their variety of subject denoting the catholic taste of their proprietor. "the start for the derby," and other coloured hunting prints, shewed his taste for the field and horseflesh; landseer's "distinguished member of the humane society," "dignity and impudence," and others, displayed his fondness for dog-flesh; while byron beauties, "amy robsart," and some extremely ~au naturel~ pets of the ballet, proclaimed his passion for the fair sex in general. over the fire-place was a mirror (for mr. charles larkyns was not averse to the reflection of his good-looking features, and was rather glad than otherwise of "an excuse for the glass,") its frame stuck full of tradesmen's cards and (unpaid) bills, invites, "bits of pasteboard" pencilled with a mystic "wine," and other odds and ends: - no private letters though! mr. larkyns was too wary to leave his "family secrets" for the delectation of his scout. over the mirror was displayed a fox's mask, gazing vacantly from between two brushes; leaving the spectator to imagine that mr. charles larkyns was a second nimrod, and had in some way or other been intimately concerned in the capture of these trophies of the chase. this supposition of the imaginative spectator would be strengthened by the appearance of a list of hunting appointments (of the past season) pinned up over a list of lectures, and not quite in character with the tabular views of prophecies, kings of israel and judah, and the thirty-nine articles, which did duty elsewhere on the walls, where they were presumed to be studied in spare minutes - which were remarkably spare indeed. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] the sporting character of the proprietor of the rooms was further suggested by the huge pair of antlers over the door, bearing on their tines a collection of sticks, whips, and spurs; while, to prove that mr. larkyns was not wholly taken up by the charms of the chase, fishing-rods, tandem-whips, cricket-bats, and joe mantons, were piled up in odd corners; and single-sticks, boxing-gloves, and foils, gracefully arranged upon the walls, shewed that he occasionally devoted himself to athletic pursuits. an ingenious wire-rack for pipes and meerschaums, and the presence of one or two suspicious-looking boxes, labelled "collorados," "regalia," "lukotilla," and with other unknown words, seemed to intimate, that if mr. larkyns was no smoker himself, he at least kept a bountiful supply of "smoke" for his friends; but the perfumed cloud that was proceeding from his lips as verdant entered the room, dispelled all doubts on the subject. he was much changed in appearance during the somewhat long interval since verdant had last seen him, and his handsome features had assumed a more manly, though perhaps a more rakish look. he was lolling on a couch in the ~neglige~ attire of dressing-gown and slippers, with his pink striped shirt comfortably open at the neck. lounging in an easy chair opposite to him was a gentleman clad in tartan-plaid, whose face might only be partially discerned through the glass bottom of a pewter, out of which he was draining the last draught. between them was a table covered with the ordinary appointments for a breakfast, and the extra-ordinary ones of beer-cup and soda-water. two skye terriers, hearing a strange footstep, immediately barked out a challenge of "who goes there?" and made mr. larkyns aware that an intruder was at hand. slightly turning his head, he dimly saw through the smoke a spectacled figure taking off his hat, and holding out an envelope, and without looking further, he said, "it's no use coming here, young man, and stealing a march in this way! i don't owe ~you~ any thing; and if i did, it is not convenient to pay it. i told spavin not to send me any more of his confounded reminders; so go back and tell him that he'll find it all right in the long-run, and that i'm really going to read this term, and shall stump the examiners at last. and now, my friend, you'd better make yourself scarce and vanish! you know where the door lies!" our hero was so confounded at this unusual manner of receiving a friend, that he was some little time before he could gasp out, "why, charles larkyns - don't you remember me? verdant green!" mr. larkyns, astonished in his turn, jumped up directly, and came to him with outstretched hands. "'pon my word, [an oxford freshman ] old fellow," he said, "i really beg you ten thousand pardons for not recognizing you; but you are so altered - allow me to add, improved, - since i last saw you; you were not a bashaw of two tails, then, you know; and, really, wearing your beaver up, like hamlet's uncle, i altogether took you for a dun. for i am a victim of a very remarkable monomania. there are in this place wretched beings calling themselves tradesmen, who labour under the impression that i owe them what they facetiously term little bills; and though i have frequently assured <vg .jpg> their messengers, who are kind enough to come here to inquire for mr. larkyns, that that unfortunate gentleman has been obliged to hide himself from persecution in a convent abroad, yet the wretches still hammer at my oak, and disturb my peace of mind. but bring yourself to an anchor, old fellow! this man is smalls; a capital fellow, whose chief merit consists in his devotion to literature; indeed, he reads so hard that he is called a ~fast~ man. smalls! let me introduce my friend verdant green, a freshman, - ahem! - and the proprietor, i believe, of your old rooms." our hero made a profound bow to mr. smalls, who returned it with great gravity, and said he "had great pleasure in forming the acquaintance of a freshman like mr. verdant green;" which was doubtless quite true; and he then evinced his devotion to literature by continuing the perusal of one of those [ adventures of mr. verdant green] vivid and refined accounts of "a rattling set-to between nobby buffer and hammer sykes," for which ~tintinnabulum's life~ is so justly famous. "i heard from my governor," said mr. larkyns, "that you were coming up; and in the course of the morning i should have come and looked you up; but the - the fatigues of travelling yesterday," continued mr. larkyns, as a lively recollection of the preceding evening's symposium stole over his mind, "made me rather later than usual this morning. have you done any thing in this way?" verdant replied that he had breakfasted, although he had not done any thing in the way of cigars, because he never smoked. "never smoked! is it possible!" exclaimed mr. smalls, violently interrupting himself in the perusal of ~tintinnabulum's life~, while some private signals were rapidly telegraphed between him and mr. larkyns; "ah! you'll soon get the better of that weakness! now, as you're a freshman, you'll perhaps allow me to give you a little advice. the germans, you know, would never be the deep readers that they are, unless they smoked; and i should advise you to go to the vice-chancellor as soon as possible, and ask him for an order for some weeds. he'd be delighted to think you are beginning to set to work so soon!" to which our hero replied, that he was much obliged to mr. smalls for his kind advice, and if such were the customs of the place, he should do his best to fulfil them. "perhaps you'll be surprised at our simple repast, verdant," said mr. larkyns; "but it's our misfortune. it all comes of hard reading and late hours: the midnight oil, you know, must be supplied, and ~will~ be paid for; the nervous system gets strained to excess, and you have to call in the doctor. well, what does he do? why, he prescribes a regular course of tonics; and i flatter myself that i am a very docile patient, and take my bitter beer regularly, and without complaining." in proof of which mr. charles larkyns took a long pull at the pewter. "but you know, larkyns," observed mr. smalls, "that was nothing to my case, when i got laid up with elephantiasis on the biceps of the lungs, and had a fur coat in my stomach!" "dear me!" said verdant sympathizingly; "and was that also through too much study?" "why, of course!" replied mr. smalls; "it couldn't have been anything else - from the symptoms, you know! but then the sweets of learning surpass the bitters. talk of the pleasures of the dead languages, indeed! why, how many jolly nights have you and i, larkyns, passed 'down among the dead men!' " charles larkyns had just been looking over the letter which [an oxford freshman ] verdant had brought him, and said, "the governor writes that you'd like me to put you up to the ways of the place, because they are fresh to you, and you are fresh (ahem! very!) to them. now, i am going to wine with smalls to-night, to meet a few nice, quiet, hard-working men (eh, smalls?), and i daresay smalls will do the civil, and ask you also." "certainly!" said mr. smalls, who saw a prospect of amusement, "delighted, i assure you! i hope to see you - after <vg .jpg> hall, you know, - but i hope you don't object to a very quiet party?" "oh, dear no!" replied verdant; "i much prefer a quiet party; indeed, i have always been used to quiet parties; and i shall be very glad to come." "well, that's settled then," said charles larkyns; "and, in the mean time, verdant, let us take a prowl about the old place, and i'll put you up to a thing or two, and shew you some of the freshman's sights. but you must go and get your cap and gown, old fellow, and then by that time i'll be ready for you." whether there are really any sights in oxford that are more especially devoted, or adapted, to its freshmen, we will not [ adventures of mr. verdant green] undertake to affirm; but if there are, they could not have had a better expositor than mr. charles larkyns, or a more credible visitor than mr. verdant green. his credibility was rather strongly put to the test as they <vg - .jpg> turned into the high street, when his companion directed his attention to an individual on the opposite side of the street, with a voluminous gown, and enormous cocked hat profusely adorned with gold lace. "i suppose you know who that is, verdant? no! why, that's the bishop of oxford! ah, i see, he's a very different-looking man to what you had expected; but then these university robes so change the appearance. that is his official dress, as the visitor of the ashmolean!" mr. verdant green having "swallowed" this, his friend was thereby enabled, not only to use up old "sells," but also to draw largely on his invention for new ones. just then, there came along the street, walking in a sort of young procession, - the vice-chancellor, with his esquire and yeoman-bedels. the silver maces, carried by these latter gentlemen, made them by far the most showy part of the procession, and accordingly mr. larkyns seized the favourable opportunity to point out the foremost bedel, and say, "you see that man with the poker and loose cap? well, that's the vice-chancellor." <vg - .jpg> "but what does he walk in procession for?" inquired our freshman. "ah, poor man!" said mr. larkyns, "he's obliged to do it." 'uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,' you know; and he can never go anywhere, or do anything, without carrying that poker, and having the other minor pokers to follow him. they never leave him, not even at night. two of the pokers stand on each side his bed, and relieve each other every two hours. so, i need hardly say, that he is obliged to be a bachelor." "it must be a very wearisome office," remarked our freshman, who fully believed all that was told to him. "wearisome, indeed; and that's the reason why they are obliged to change the vice-chancellors so often. it would [an oxford freshman ] kill most people, only they are always selected for their strength, - and height," he added, as a brilliant idea just struck <vg - .jpg> him. they had turned down magpie lane, and so by oriel college, where one of the fire-plug notices had caught mr. larkyns' eye. "you see that," he said; "well, that's one of the plates they put up to record the vice's height. f.p. feet, you see: the initials of his name, - frederick plumptre!" "he scarcely seemed so tall as that," said our hero, "though certainly a tall man. but the gown makes a difference, i suppose." "his height was a very lucky thing for him, however," continued mr. larkyns; "i dare say when you have heard that it was only those who stood high in the university that were elected to rule it, you little thought of the true meaning of the term?" "i certainly never did," said the freshman, innocently; "but i knew that the customs of oxford must of course be very different from those of other places." "yes, you'll soon find that out," replied mr. larkyns, meaningly. "but here we are at merton, whose merton ale is as celebrated as burton ale. you see the man giving in the letters <vg - .jpg> to the porter? well, he's one of their principal men. each college does its own postal department; and at merton there are fourteen postmasters,* for they get no end of letters there." "oh, yes!" said our hero, "i remember mr. larkyns, - your father, the rector, i mean, - telling us that the son of one of his old friends had been a postmaster of merton; but i fancied that he had said it had something to do with a scholarship." --- * exhibitioners of merton college are called "postmasters." -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "ah, you see, it's a long while since the governor was here, and his memory fails him," remarked mr. charles larkyns, very unfilially. "let us turn down the merton fields, and round into st. aldate's. we may perhaps be in time to see the vice come down to christ church." "what does he go there for?" asked mr. verdant green. "to wind up the great clock, and put big tom in order. tom is the bell that you hear at nine each night; the vice has to see that he is in proper condition, and, as you have seen, goes out with his pokers for that purpose." on their way, charles larkyns pointed out, close to folly bridge, a house profusely decorated with figures and indescribable ornaments, which he informed our freshman was blackfriars' hall, where all the men who had been once plucked <vg .jpg> were obliged to migrate to; and that folly bridge received its name from its propinquity to the hall. they were too late to see the vice-chancellor wind up the clock of christ church; but as they passed by the college, they met two gownsmen who recognized mr. larkyns by a slight nod. "those are two christ church men," he said, "and noblemen. the one with the skye-terrier's coat and eye-glass is the earl of whitechapel, the duke of minories' son. i dare say you know the other man. no! why, he is lord thomas peeper, eldest son of the lord godiva who hunts our county. i knew him in the field." "but why do they wear ~gold~ tassels to their caps?" inquired the freshman. "ah," said the ingenious mr. larkyns, shaking his head; "i had rather you'd not have asked me that question, because that's the disgraceful part of the business. but these lords, you see, they ~will~ live at a faster pace than us commoners, who can't stand a champagne breakfast above once a term or so. why, those gold tassels are the badges of drunkenness!"* "of drunkenness! dear me!" "yes, it's very sad, isn't it?" pursued mr. larkyns; "and i wonder that peeper in particular should give way to such --- * as "tufts" and "tuft-hunters" have become "household words," it is perhaps needless to tell any one that the gold tassel is the distinguishing mark of a nobleman. -=- [an oxford freshman ] things. but you see how they brazen it out, and walk about as coolly as though nothing had happened. it's just the same sort of punishment," continued mr. larkyns, whose inventive powers increased with the demand that the freshman's gullibility imposed upon them, - "it is just the same sort of thing that they do with the greenwich pensioners. when ~they~ have been trangressing the laws of sobriety, you know, they are made marked men by having to wear a yellow coat as a punishment; and our dons borrowed the idea, and made yellow tassels the badges of intoxication. but for the credit of the university, i'm glad to say that you'll not find many men so disgraced." they now turned down the new road, and came to a strongly castellated building, which mr. larkyns pointed out (and truly) as oxford castle or the gaol; and he added (untruly), "if you hear botany-bay college* spoken of, this is the place that's meant. it's a delicate way of referring to the temporary sojourn that any undergrad has been forced to make there, to say that he belongs to botany-bay college." they now turned back, up queen street and high street, when, as they were passing all saints, mr. larkyns pointed out a pale, intellectual looking man who passed them, and said, "that man is cram, the patent safety. he's the first coach in oxford." "a coach!" said our freshman, in some wonder. "oh, i forgot you didn't know college-slang. i suppose a royal mail is the only gentleman coach that ~you~ know of. why, in oxford, a coach means a private tutor, you must know; and those who can't afford a coach, get a cab, - ~alias~ a crib, - ~alias~ a translation. you see, verdant, you are gradually being initiated into oxford mysteries." "i am, indeed," said our hero, to whom a new world was opening. they had now turned round by the west end of st. mary's, and were passing brasenose; and mr. larkyns drew verdant's attention to the brazen nose that is such a conspicuous object <vg .jpg> over the entrance-gate. "that," said he, "was modelled from a cast of the principal feature of the first head of the college; and so the college was named brazen-nose.+ the nose was formerly used as a place of punishment for any misbehaving brazennosian, who had to sit upon it for two hours, and was --- * a name given to worcester college, from its being the most distant college. + although we have a great respect for mr. larkyns, yet we strongly sus- [footnote continues next page] -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] not ~countenanced~ until he had done so. these punishments were so frequent that they gradually wore down the nose to its present small dimensions. "this round building," continued mr. larkyns, pointing to the radcliffe, "is the vice-chancellor's house. he has to go each night up to that balcony on the top, and look round to see if all's safe. those heads," he said, as they passed the ashmolean, "are supposed to be the twelve caesars; only there happen, i believe, to be thirteen of them. i think that they are the busts of the original heads of houses." mr. larkyns' inventive powers having been now somewhat exhausted, he proposed that they should go back to brazenface and have some lunch. this they did; after which mr. verdant green wrote to his mother a long account of his friend's kindness, and the trouble he had taken to explain the most interesting sights that could be seen by a freshman. "are you writing to your governor, verdant?" asked the friend, who had made his way to our hero's rooms, and was now perfuming them with a little tobacco-smoke. "no; i am writing to my mama - mother, i mean!" "oh! to the missis!" was the reply; "that's just the same. --- [cont.] pect that he is intentionally deceiving his friend. he has, however, the benefit of a doubt, as the authorities differ on the origin and meaning of the word brasenose, as may be seen by the following notices, to the last two of which the editor of ~notes and queries~ has directed our attention: "this curious appellation, which, whatever was the origin of it, has been perpetuated by the symbol of a brazen nose here and at stamford, occurs with the modern orthography, but in one undivided word, so early as , in an inquisition now printed in ~the hundred rolls~, though quoted by wood from the manuscript record." -~ingram's memorials of oxford~. "there is a spot in the centre of the city where alfred is said to have lived, and which may be called the native place or river-head of three separate societies still existing, university, oriel, and brasenose. brasenose claims his palace, oriel his church, and university his school or academy. of these, brasenose college is still called in its formal style ' the king's hall,' which is the name by which alfred himself, in his laws, calls his palace; and it has its present singular name from a corruption of ~brasinium~, or ~brasin-huse~, as having been originally located in that part of the royal mansion which was devoted to the then important accommodation of a brew house." -~from a review of ingram's memorials in the british critic~, vol. xxiv, p. . "brasen nose hall, as the oxford antiquary has shewn, may be traced as far back as the time of henry iii., about the middle of the thirteenth century; and early in the succeeding reign, th edward i., , it was known by the name of brasen nose hall, which peculiar name was undoubtedly owing, as the same author observes, to the circumstance of a nose of brass affixed to the gate. it is presumed, however, that this conspicuous appendage of the portal was not formed of the mixed metal which the word now denotes, but the genuine produce of the mine; as is the nose, or rather face, of a lion or leopard still remaining at stamford, which also gave name to the edifice it adorned. and hence, when henry viii. debased the coin by an alloy of ~copper~, it was a common remark or proverb, that 'testons were gone to oxford, to study in ~brasen~ nose.' " -~churton's life of bishop smyth~, p. . -=- [an oxford freshman ] well, had you not better take the opportunity to ask them to send you a proper certificate that you have been vaccinated, and had the measles favourably?" "but what is that for?" inquired our freshman, always anxious to learn. "your father sent up the certificate of my baptism, and i thought that was the only one wanted." "oh," said mr. charles larkyns, "they give you no end of trouble at these places; and they require the vaccination certificate before you go in for your responsions, - the little-go, you know. you need not mention my name in your letter as having told you this. it will be quite enough to say that you understand such a thing is required." verdant accordingly penned the request; and charles larkyns smoked on, and thought his friend the very beau-ideal of a freshman. "by the way, verdant," he said, desirous not to lose any opportunity, "you are going to wine with smalls this evening; and, - excuse me mentioning it, - but i suppose you would go properly dressed, - white tie, kids, and that sort of thing, eh? well! ta, ta, till then. 'we meet again at philippi!' " acting upon the hint thus given, our hero, when hall was over made himself uncommonly spruce in a new white tie, and spotless kids; and as he was dressing, drew a mental picture of the party to which he was going. it was to be composed of quiet, steady men, who were such hard readers as to be called "fast men." he should therefore hear some delightful and rational conversation on the literature of ancient greece and rome, the present standard of scholarship in the university, speculations on the forthcoming prize-poems, comparisons between various expectant class-men, and delightful topics of <vg .jpg> a kindred nature; and the evening would be passed in a grave and sedate manner; and after a couple of glasses of wine had been leisurely sipped, they should have a very enjoyable tea, and would separate for an early rest, mutually gratified and improved. this was the nature of mr. verdant green's speculations; but whether they were realized or no, may be judged by transferring the scene a few hours later to mr. smalls' room. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] chapter viii. mr. verdant green's morning reflections are not so pleasant as his evening diversions. mr. smalls' room was filled with smoke and noise. supper had been cleared away; the glasses were now sparkling on the board, and the wine was ruby bright. the table, moreover, was supplied with spirituous liquors and mixtures of all descriptions, together with many varieties of "cup," - a cup which not only cheers, but occasionally inebriates; and this miscellany of liquids was now being drunk on the premises by some score and a half of gentlemen, who were sitting round the table, and standing or lounging about in various parts of the room. heading the table, sat the host, loosely attired in a neat dressing gown of crimson and blue, in an attitude which allowed him to swing his legs easily, if not gracefully, over the arm of his chair, and to converse cheerfully with charles larkyns, who was leaning over the chair-back. visible to the naked eye, on mr. smalls' left hand, appeared the white tie and full evening dress which decorated the person of mr. verdant green. a great consumption of tobacco was going on, not only through the medium of cigars, but also of meerschaums, short "dhudheens" of envied colour, and the genuine yard of clay; and verdant, while he was scarcely aware of what he was doing, found himself, to his great amazement, with a real cigar in his mouth, which he was industriously sucking, and with great difficulty keeping alight. our hero felt that the unexpected exigencies of the case demanded from him some sacrifice; while he consoled himself by the reflection, that, on the homoeopathic principle of "likes cure likes," a cigar was the best preventive against any ill effects arising from the combination of the thirty gentlemen who were generating smoke with all the ardour of lime-kilns or young volcanoes, and filling mr. smalls' small room with an atmosphere that was of the smoke, smoky. smoke produces thirst; and the cup, punch, egg-flip, sherry-cobblers, and other liquids, which had been so liberally provided, were being consumed by the members of the party as though it had been their drink from childhood; while the conversation was of a kind very different to what our hero had anticipated, being for the most part vapid and unmeaning, and (must it be confessed?) occasionally too highly flavoured with improprieties for it to be faithfully recorded in these pages of most perfect propriety. the literature of ancient greece and rome was not even referred to; and when verdant, who, from the unusual com- [an oxford freshman ] bination of the smoke and liquids, was beginning to feel extremely amiable and talkative, - made a reflective observation (addressed to the company generally) which sounded like the words "nunc vino pellite curas, cras ingens,"* - he was immediately interrupted by the voice of mr. bouncer, crying out, "who's that talking shop about engines? holloa, giglamps!" - mr. bouncer, it must be observed, had facetiously adopted the ~sobriquet~ which had been bestowed on <vg .jpg> verdant and his spectacles on their first appearance outside the oxford coach, - "holloa, giglamps, is that you ill-treating the dead languages? i'm ashamed of you! a venerable party like you ought to be above such things. there! don't blush, old feller, but give us a song! it's the punishment for talking shop, you know." there was an immediate hammering of tables and jingling of glasses, accompanied with loud cries of "mr. green for a song! mr. green! mr. giglamps' song!" cries which nearly brought our hero to the verge of idiotcy. charles larkyns saw this, and came to the rescue. "gentlemen," he said, addressing the company, "i know that my friend verdant ~can~ sing, and that, like a good bird, he ~will~ --- * horace, car. i od. vii -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] sing. but while he is mentally looking over his numerous stock of songs, and selecting one for our amusement, i beg to fill up our valuable time, by asking you to fill up a bumper to the health of our esteemed host smalls (~vociferous cheers~) - a man whose private worth is only to be equalled by the purity of his milk-punch and the excellence of his weeds (~hear hear~). bumpers, gentlemen, and no heel-taps! and though i am sorry to interfere with mr. fosbrooke's private enjoyments, yet i must beg to suggest to him that he has been so much engaged in drowning his personal cares in the bowl over which he is so skilfully presiding, that my glass has been allowed to sparkle on the board empty and useless." and as charles larkyns held out his glass towards mr. fosbrooke and the punch-bowl, he trolled out, in a rich, manly voice, old cowley's anacreontic: "fill up the bowl then, fill it high! fill all the glasses there! for why should every creature drink but i? why, man of morals, tell me why?" by the time that the "man of morals" had ladled out for the company, and that mr. smalls' health had been drunk and responded to amid uproarious applause, charles larkyns' friendly diversion in our hero's favour had succeeded, and mr. verdant green had regained his confidence, and had decided upon one of those vocal efforts which, in the bosom of his own family, and to the pianoforte accompaniment of his sisters, was accustomed to meet with great applause. and when he had hastily tossed off another glass of milk-punch (merely to clear his throat), he felt bold enough to answer the spirit-rappings which were again demanding "mr. green's song!" it was given much in the following manner: ~mr. verdant green (in low plaintive tones, and fresh alarm at hearing the sounds of his own voice)~. "i dreamt that i dwe-elt in mar-arble halls, with" - ~mr. bouncer (interrupting)~. "spit it out, giglamps! dis child can't hear whether it's maudlin hall you're singing about, or what." ~omnes~. "order! or-~der~! shut up, bouncer!" ~charles larkyns (encouragingly)~. "try back, verdant: never mind." ~mr. verdant green (tries back, with increased confusion of ideas, resulting principally from the milk-punch and tobacco)~. "i dreamt that i dwe-elt in mar-arble halls, with vassals and serfs at my si-hi-hide; and - and - i beg your pardon, gentlemen, i really forget - oh, i know! - and i also dre-eamt, which ple-eased me most - no, that's not it" - ~mr. bouncer (who does not particularly care for the words of a [an oxford freshman ] song, but only appreciates the chorus)~ - "that'll do, old feller! we aint pertickler,-(~rushes with great deliberation and noise to the chorus~) "that you lo-oved me sti-ill the sa-ha-hame - chorus, gentlemen!" ~omnes (in various keys and time)~. "that you lo-oved me sti-ill the same." ~mr. bouncer (to mr. green, alluding remotely to the opera)~. "now my bohemian gal, can't you come out to-night? spit us out a yard or two more, giglamps." ~mr. verdant green (who has again taken the opportunity to clear his throat)~. "i dreamt that i dwe-elt in mar-arble- no! i beg pardon! sang that (~desperately~) - that sui-uitors sou-ught my hand, that knights on their (~hic~) ben-ended kne-e-ee - had (~hic~) riches too gre-eat to" - (~mr. verdant green smiles benignantly upon the company~) - "don't rec'lect anymo." ~mr. bouncer (who is not to be defrauded of the chorus)~. "chorus, gentlemen! - that you'll lo-ove me sti-ill the sa-a-hame!" ~omnes (ad libitum)~. "that you'll lo-ove me sti-ill the same!" though our hero had ceased to sing, he was still continuing to clear his throat by the aid of the milk-punch, and was again industriously sucking his cigar, which he had not yet succeeded in getting half through, although he had re-lighted it about twenty times. all this was observed by the watchful eyes of mr. bouncer, who, whispering to his neighbour, and bestowing a distributive wink on the company generally, rose and made the following remarks:- "mr. smalls, and gents all: i don't often get on my pins to trouble you with a neat and appropriate speech; but on an occasion like the present, when we are honoured with the presence of a party who has just delighted us with what i may call a flood of harmony (~hear, hear~), - and has pitched it so uncommon strong in the vocal line, as to considerably take the shine out of the woodpecker-tapping, that we've read of in the pages of history (~hear, hear: "go it again, bouncer!"~), - when, gentlemen, i see before me this old original little wobbler, - need i say that i allude to mr. verdant green? - (~vociferous cheers~)- i feel it a sort of, what you call a privilege, d'ye see, to stand on my pins, and propose that respected party's jolly good health (~renewed cheers~). mr. verdant green, gentlemen, has but lately come among us, and is, in point of fact, what you call a freshman; but, gentlemen, we've already seen enough of him to feel aware that - that brazenface has gained an acquisition, which - which - (~cries of "tally-ho! yoicks! hark forrud!"~) exactly so, gentlemen: so, as i see you are all anxious to do honour to our freshman, i beg, without further preface, to give you the health of mr. verdant green! with all the honours. chorus, gents! [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "for he's a jolly good fellow! for he's a jolly good fellow!! for he's a jolly good f-e-e-ell-ow!!! which nobody can deny!" this chorus was taken up and prolonged in the most indefinite manner; little mr. bouncer fairly revelling in it, and only regretting that he had not his post-horn with him to further contribute to the harmony of the evening. it seemed to be a great art in the singers of the chorus to dwell as long as possible on the third repetition of the word "fellow," and in the most defiant manner to pounce down on the bold affirmation by which it is followed; and then to lyrically proclaim that, not only was it a way they had in the varsity to drive dull care away, but that the same practice was also pursued in the army and navy for the attainment of a similar end. when the chorus had been sung over three or four times, and mr. verdant green's name had been proclaimed with equal noise, that gentleman rose (with great difficulty), to return thanks. he was understood to speak as follows: <vg .jpg> "genelum anladies (~cheers~), - i meangenelum. (~"that's about the ticket, old feller!" from mr. bouncer.~) customd syam plic speakn, i - i -(~hear, hear~) - feel bliged drinkmyel. i'm fresman, genelum, and prowtitle (~loud cheers~). myfren misserboucer, fallowme callm myfren! (~"in course, giglamps, you do me proud, old feller."~) myfren misserboucer seszime fresman - prow title, sureyou (~hear, hear~). genelmun, werall jolgoodfles, anwe wogohotillmorrin! (~"we won't, we won't! not a bit of it!"~) gelmul, i'm fresmal, an namesgreel, gelmul (~cheers~). fanyul dousmewor, herescardinpock'lltellm! misser verdalgreel, braseface, oxul fresmal, anprowtitle! (~great cheering and rattling of glasses, during which mr. verdant green's coat-tails are made the receptacles for empty bottles, lobsters' claws, and other miscellaneous articles.~) misserboucer said was fresmal. if misserboucer [an oxford freshman ] wantsultme (~"no, no!"~), herescardinpocklltellm namesverdalgreel, braseface! not shameofitgelmul! prowtitle! (~great applause.~) i doewaltilsul misserboucer! thenwhysee sultme? thaswaw iwaltknow! (~loud cheers, and roars of laughter, in which mr. verdant green suddenly joins to the best of his ability.~) i'm anoxful fresmal, gelmul, 'fmyfrel misserboucer loumecallimso. (~cheers and laughter, in which mr. verdant green feebly joins.~) anweerall jolgoodfles, anwe wogohotilmorril, an i'm fresmal, gelmul, anfanyul dowsmewor - an i - doefeel quiwell!" this was the termination of mr. verdant green's speech, for after making a few unintelligible sounds, his knees suddenly gave way, and with a benevolent smile he disappeared beneath the table. * * * * * * * * half an hour afterwards two gentlemen might have been seen, bearing with staggering steps across the moonlit quad the <vg .jpg> huddled form of a third gentleman, who was clothed in full evening dress, and appeared incapable of taking care of himself. the two first gentlemen set down their burden under an open doorway, painted over with a large _ _; and then, by pulling and pushing, assisted it to guide its steps up a narrow and intricate staircase, until they had gained the third floor, and stood before a door, over which the moonlight revealed, in newly-painted white letters, the name of "mr. verdant green." "well, old feller," said the first gentleman, "how do you feel now, after 'sich a getting up stairs'?" "feel much berrer now," said their late burden; "feel quite-comfurble! shallgotobed!" "well, giglamps," said the first speaker, "and by-by won't be at all a bad move for you. d'ye think you can unrig yourself and get between the sheets, eh, my beauty?" "its allri, allri!" was the reply; "limycandle!" "no, no," said the second gentleman, as he pulled up the window-blind, and let in the moonlight; "here's quite as much light as you want. it's almost morning." "sotis," said the gentleman in the evening costume: "anlittlebirds beginsingsoon! ilike littlebirds sing! jollittlebirds!" the speaker had suddenly fallen upon his bed, and was lying thereon at full length, with his feet on the pillow. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "he'll be best left in this way," said the second speaker, as he removed the pillow to the proper place, and raised the prostrate gentleman's head; "i'll take off his choker and make him easy about the neck, and then we'll shut him up, and leave him. why the beggar's asleep already!" and so the two gentlemen went away, and left him safe and sleeping. it is conjectured, however, that he must have got up shortly after this, and finding himself with his clothes on, must have considered that a lighted candle was indispensably necessary to undress by; for when mrs. tester came at her usual early hour to light the fires and prepare the sitting-rooms, she discovered him lying on the carpet embracing the coal-skuttle, <vg .jpg> with a candle by his side. the good woman raised him, and did not leave him until she had, in the most motherly manner, safely tucked him up in bed. * * * clink, clank! clink, clank! tingle, tangle! tingle, tangle! are demons smiting ringing hammers into mr. verdant green's brain, or is the dreadful bell summoning him to rise for morning chapel? mr. filcher puts an end to the doubt by putting his head in at the bedroom door, and saying, "time for chapel, sir! chapel," thought mr. filcher; "here is a chap ill, indeed! - bain't you well, sir? restless you look!" oh, the shame and agony that mr. verdant green felt! the desire to bury his head under the clothes, away from robert's and everyone else's sight; the fever that throbbed his brain and parched his lips, and made him long to drink up ocean; the eyes that felt like burning lead; the powerless hands that trembled like a weak old man's; the voice that came in faltering tones that jarred the brain at every word! how he despised himself; how he loathed the very idea of wine; how he resolved never, never to transgress so again! but perhaps mr. verdant green was not the only oxford freshman who has made this resolution. "bain't you well, sir?" repeated mr. filcher, with a passing thought that freshmen were sadly degenerating, and could [an oxford freshman ] not manage their three bottles as they did when he was first a scout: "bain't you well, sir?" "not very well, robert, thank you. i - my head aches, and i'm afraid i shall not be able to get up for chapel. will the master be very angry?" "well, he ~might~ be, you see, sir," replied mr. filcher, who never lost an opportunity of making anything out of his master's infirmities; "but if you'll leave it to me, sir, i'll make it all right for you, ~i~ will. of course you'd like to take out an ~aeger~, sir; and i can bring you your commons just the same. will that do, sir?". "oh, thank you; yes, any thing. you will find five shillings in my waistcoat-pocket, robert; please to take it; but i can't eat." "thank'ee, sir," said the scout, as he abstracted the five shillings; "but you'd better have a bit of somethin', sir; - a cup of strong tea, or somethin'. mr. smalls, sir, when he were pleasant, he always had beer, sir; but p'raps you ain't been used to bein' pleasant, sir, and slops might suit you better, sir." "oh, any thing, any thing!" groaned our poor, unheroic hero, as he turned his face to the wall, and endeavoured to recollect in what way he had been "pleasant" the night before. but, alas! the wells of his memory had, for the time, been poisoned, and nothing clear or pure could be drawn therefrom. so he got up and looked at himself in the glass, and scarcely recognized the tangled-haired, sallow-faced wretch, whose bloodshot eyes gazed heavily at him from the mirror. so he nervously drained the water-bottle, and buried himself once more among the tossed and tumbled bed-clothes. the tea really did him some good, and enabled him to recover sufficient nerve to go feebly through the operation of dressing; though it was lucky that nature had not yet brought mr. verdant green to the necessity of shaving, for the handling of a razor might have been attended with suicidal results, and have brought these veracious memoirs and their hero to an untimely end. he had just sat down to a second edition of tea, and was reading a letter that the post had brought him from his sister mary, in which she said, "i dare say by this time you have found mr. charles larkyns a very ~delightful~ companion, and i ~am sure~ a very ~valuable~ one; as, from what the rector says, he appears to be so ~steady~, and has such ~nice quiet~ companions:" - our hero had read as far as this, when a great noise just without his door, caused the letter to drop from his trembling hands; and, between loud ~fanfares~ from a post-horn, and heavy thumps upon the oak, a voice was heard, demanding "entrance in the proctor's name." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mr. verdant green had for the first time "sported his oak." under any circumstances it would have been a mere form, since his bashful politeness would have induced him to open it to any comer; but, at the dreaded name of the proctor, he sprang from his chair, and while impositions, rustications, and expulsions rushed tumultuously through his disordered brain, he nervously undid the springlock, and admitted - not the proctor, but the "steady" mr. charles larkyns and his "nice quiet companion," little mr. bouncer, who testified his joy at the success of their ~coup d'etat~, by blowing on his horn loud blasts that might have been borne by fontarabian echoes, and which rang through poor verdant's head with indescribable jarrings. "well, verdant," said charles larkyns, "how do you find yourself this morning? you look rather shaky." "he ain't a very lively picter, is he?" remarked little mr. bouncer, with the air of a connoisseur; "peakyish you feel, don't you, now, with a touch of the mulligrubs in your collywobbles? ah, i know what it is, my boy." it was more than our hero did; and he could only reply that he did not feel very well. "i - i had a glass of claret after some lobster-salad, and i think it disagreed with me." "not a doubt of it, verdant," said charles larkyns very gravely; "it would have precisely the same effect that the salmon always has at a public dinner, - bring on great hilarity, succeeded by a pleasing delirium, and concluding in a horizontal position, and a demand for soda-water." "i hope," said our hero, rather faintly, "that i did not conduct myself in an unbecoming manner last night; for i am sorry to say that i do not remember all that occurred." "i should think not, giglamps, you were as drunk as a besom," said little mr. bouncer, with a side wink to mr. larkyns, to prepare that gentleman for what was to follow. "why, you got on pretty well till old slowcoach came in, and then you certainly did go it, and no mistake!" "mr. slowcoach!" groaned the freshman. "good gracious! is it possible that ~he~ saw me? i don't remember it." "and it would be lucky for you if ~he~ didn't," replied mr, bouncer. "why his rooms, you know, are in the same angle of the quad as smalls'; so, when you came to shy the empty bottles out of smalls' window at ~his~ window -" "shy empty bottles! oh!" gasped the freshman. "why, of course, you see, he couldn't stand that sort of game, - it wasn't to be expected; so he puts his head out of the bedroom window, - and then, don't you remember crying out, as you pointed to the tassel of his night-cap sticking up straight [an oxford freshman ] on end, 'tally-ho! unearth'd at last! look at his brush!' don't you remember that, giglamps?" "oh, oh, no!" groaned mr. bouncer's victim; "i can't remember, - oh, what ~could~ have induced me!" "by jove, you ~must~ have been screwed! then i daresay you don't remember wanting to have a polka with him, when he came up to smalls' rooms?" "a polka! oh dear! oh no! oh!" "or asking him if his mother knew he was out, - and what he'd take for his cap without the tassel; and telling him that he was the joy of your heart, - and that you should never be happy unless he'd smile as he was won't to smile, and would love you then as now, - and saying all sorts of bosh? what, not remember it! 'oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!' as some cove says in shakespeare. but how screwed you ~must~ have been, giglamps!" "and do you think," inquired our hero, after a short but sufficiently painful reflection, - "do you think that mr. slowcoach will - oh! - expel me?" "why, it's rather a shave for it," replied his tormentor; "but the best thing you can do is to write an apology at once: pitch it pretty strong in the pathetic line, - say it's your first offence, and that you'll never be a naughty boy again, and all that sort of thing. you just do that, giglamps, and i'll see that the note goes to - the proper place." "oh, thank you!" said the freshman; and while, with equal difficulty from agitation both of mind and body, he composed and penned the note, mr. bouncer ordered up some buttery <vg .jpg> beer, and charles larkyns prepared some soda-water with a dash of brandy, which he gave verdant to drink, and which considerably refreshed that gentleman. "and i should advise you," he said, "to go out for a constitutional; for walking-time's come, although you have but just done your breakfast. a blow up headington hill will do you good, and set you on your legs again." so verdant, after delivering up his note to mr. bouncer, took his friend's advice, and set out for his constitutional in his cap and gown, feeling afraid to move without them, lest he [ adventures of mr. verdant green] should thereby trespass some law. this, of course, gained him some attention after he had crossed magdalen bridge; and he might have almost been taken for the original of that impossible gownsman who appears in turner's well-known "view of oxford, from ferry hincksey," as wandering- "remote, unfriended, solitary, ~slow,~" - in a corn-field, in the company of an umbrella! among the many pedestrians and equestrians that he encountered, our freshman espied a short and very stout gentleman, whose shovel-hat, short apron, and general decanical costume, proclaimed him to be a don of some importance. <vg .jpg> he was riding a pad-nag, who ambled placidly along, without so much as hinting at an outbreak into a canter; a performance that, as it seemed, might have been attended with disastrous consequences to his rider. our hero noticed, that the trio of undergraduates who were walking before him, while they passed others, who were evidently dons, without the slightest notice (being in mufti), yet not only raised their hats to the stout gentleman, but also separated for that purpose, and performed the salute at intervals of about ten yards. and he further remarked, that while the stout gentleman appeared to be exceedingly gratified at the notice he received, yet that he had also very great difficulty in returning the rapid salutations; and only accomplished them and retained his seat by catching at the pommel of his saddle, or the mane of his steed, - a proceeding which the pad-nag seemed perfectly used to. mr. verdant green returned home from his walk, feeling all the better for the fresh air and change of scene; but he still [an oxford freshman ] looked, as his neighbour, mr. bouncer, kindly informed him, "uncommon seedy, and doosid fishy about the eyes;" and it was some days even before he had quite recovered from the novel excitement of mr. smalls' "quiet party." chapter ix. mr. verdant green attends lectures and, in despite of sermons, has dealings with filthy lucre. our freshman, like all other freshmen, now began to think seriously of work, and plunged desperately into all the lectures that it was possible for him to attend, beginning every course with a zealousness that shewed him to be filled with the idea that such a plan was eminently necessary for the attainment of his degree; in all this in every respect deserving the humane society's medal for his brave plunge into the depths of the pierian spring, to fish up the beauties that had been immersed therein by the poets of old. when we say that our freshman, like other freshmen, "began" this course, we use the verb advisedly; for, like many other freshmen who start with a burst in learning's race, he soon got winded, and fell back among the ruck. but the course of lectures, like the course of true love, will not always run smooth, even to those who undertake it with the same courage as mr. verdant green. the dryness of the daily routine of lectures, which varied about as much as the steak-and-chop, chop-and-steak dinners of ancient taverns, was occasionally relieved by episodes, which, though not witty in themselves, were yet the cause of wit in others; for it takes but little to cause amusement in a lecture-room, where a bad construe; or the imaginative excuses of late-comers; or the confusion of some young gentleman who has to turn over the leaf of his greek play and finds it uncut; or the pounding of the same gentleman in the middle of the first chorus; or his offensive extrication therefrom through the medium of some cumberland barbarian; or the officiousness of the same barbarian to pursue the lecture when every one else has, with singular unanimity, "read no further;" - all these circumstances, although perhaps dull enough in themselves, are nevertheless productive of some mirth in a lecture-room. but if there were often late-comers to the lectures, there were occasionally early-goers from them. had mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke an engagement to ride his horse ~tearaway~ in the amateur steeple-chase, and was he constrained, by circumstances over which (as he protested) he had no control, to put [ adventures of mr. verdant green] in a regular appearance at mr. slowcoach's lectures, what was it necessary for him to do more than to come to lecture in a long greatcoat, put his handkerchief to his face as though his nose were bleeding, look appealingly at mr. slowcoach, and, as he made his exit, pull aside the long greatcoat, and display to his admiring colleagues the snowy cords and tops that would soon be pressing against ~tearaway's~ sides, that gallant animal being then in waiting, with its trusty groom, in the alley at the back of brazenface? and if little mr. bouncer, for astute <vg .jpg> reasons of his own, wished mr. slowcoach to believe that he (mr. b.) was particularly struck with his (mr. s.'s) remarks on the force of {kata} in composition, what was to prevent mr. bouncer from feigning to make a note of these remarks by the aid of a cigar instead of an ordinary pencil? but besides the regular lectures of mr. slowcoach, our hero had also the privilege of attending those of the rev. richard harmony. much learning, though it had not made mr. harmony mad, had, at least in conjunction with his natural tendencies, contributed to make him extremely eccentric; while to much perusal of greek and hebrew mss., he probably owed his defective vision. these infirmities, instead of being regarded with sympathy, as wounds received by mr. harmony in the classical engagements in the various fields of literature, were, to mr. verdant green's surprise, much imposed upon; [an oxford freshman ] for it was a favourite pastime with the gentlemen who attended mr. harmony's lectures, to gradually raise up the lecture-table by a concerted action, and when mr. harmony's book had nearly reached to the level of his nose, to then suddenly drop the table to its original level; upon which mr. harmony, to the immense gratification of all concerned, would rub his eyes, wipe his glasses, and murmur, "dear me! dear me! how my head swims this morning!" and then he would perhaps ring <vg .jpg> for his servant, and order his usual remedy, an orange, at which he would suck abstractedly, nor discover any difference in the flavour even when a lemon was surreptitiously substituted. and thus he would go on through the lecture, sucking his orange (or lemon), explaining and expounding in the most skilful and lucid manner, and yet, as far as the "table-movement" was concerned, as unsuspecting and as witless as a little child. mr. verdant green not only (at first) attended lectures with exemplary diligence and regularity, but he also duly went to morning and evening chapel; nor, when sundays came, did he neglect to turn his feet towards st. mary's to hear the university sermons. their effect was as striking to him as it probably is to most persons who have only been accustomed to the usual services of country churches. first, there was the peculiar character of the congregation: down below, the vice-chancellor in his throne, overlooking the other dons in [ adventures of mr. verdant green] their stalls (being "a complete realization of stalled oxon!" as charles larkyns whispered to our hero), who were relieved in colour by their crimson or scarlet hoods; and then, "upstairs," in the north and the great west galleries, the black <vg .jpg> mass of undergraduates; while a few ladies' bonnets and heads of male visitors peeped from the pews in the aisles, or looked out from the curtains of the organ-gallery, where, "by the kind permission of dr. elvey," they were accommodated with seats, and watched with wonder, while "the wild wizard's fingers, with magical skill, made music that lingers, in memory still." then there was the bidding-prayer, in which mr. verdant green was somewhat astonished to hear the long list of founders [an oxford freshman ] and benefactors, "such as were, philip pluckton, bishop of iffley; king edward the seventh; stephen de henley, earl of bagley, and maud his wife; nuneham courtney, knight," with a long et-cetera; though, as the preacher happened to be a brazenface man, our hero found that he was "most chiefly bound to praise clement abingdon, bishop of jericho, and founder of the college of brazenface; richard glover, duke of woodstock; giles peckwater, abbot of beney; and binsey green, doctor of music; - benefactors of the same." then there was the sermon itself; the abstrusely learned and classical character of which, at first, also astonished him, after having been so long used to the plain and highly practical advice which the rector, mr. larkyns, knew how to convey so well and so simply to his rustic hearers. but as soon as he had reflected on the very different characters of the two congregations, mr. verdant green at once recognized the appropriateness of each class of sermons to its peculiar hearers; yet he could not altogether drive away the thought, how the generality of those who had on previous sundays been his fellow-worshippers would open their blue saxon eyes, and ransack their rustic brains, as to "what ~could~ ha' come to rector," if he were to indulge in greek and latin quotations, - ~somewhat~ after the following style. "and though this interpretation may in these days be disputed, yet we shall find that it was once very generally received. for the learned st. chrysostom is very clear on this point, where he says, 'arma virumque cano, rusticus expectat, sub tegmine fagi'; of which the words of irenaeus are a confirmation - {otototoio, papaperax, poluphloisboio thalassaes}." our hero, indeed, could not but help wondering what the fairer portion of the congregation made of these parts of the sermons, to whom, probably, the sentences just quoted would have sounded as full of meaning as those they really heard. * * * * * * * * "hallo, giglamps!" said the cheery voice of little mr. bouncer, as he looked one morning into verdant's rooms, followed by his two bull-terriers; "why don't you sport something in the dog line? something in the bloodhound or tarrier way. ain't you fond o' dogs?" "oh, very!" replied our hero. "i once had a very nice one, - a king charles." "oh!" observed mr. bouncer, "one of them beggars that you have to feed with spring chickens, and get up with curling tongs. ah! they're all very well in their way, and do for women and carriage-exercise; but give ~me~ this sort of thing!" and mr. bouncer patted one of his villainous looking pets, who [ adventures of mr. verdant green] wagged his corkscrew tail in reply. "now, these are beauties, and no mistake! what you call useful and ornamental; ain't you, buzzy? the beggars are brothers; so i call them huz and buz:- huz his first-born, you know, and buz his brother." "i should like a dog," said verdant; "but where could i keep one?" "oh, anywhere!" replied mr. bouncer confidently. "i keep these beggars in the little shop for coal, just outside the door. it ain't the law, i know; but what's the odds as long as they're happy? ~they~ think it no end of a lark. i once had a newfunland, and tried ~him~ there; but the obstinate brute considered it too small for him, and barked himself in such an unnatural manner, that at last he'd got no wool on the top of his head, - just the place where the wool ought to grow, you know; so i swopped the beggar to a skimmery* man for a regular slap-up set of pets of the ballet, framed and glazed, petticoats and all, mind you. but about your dog, giglamps: -that cupboard there would be just the ticket; you could put him under the wine-bottles, and then there'd be wine above and whine below. ~videsne puer~? d'ye twig, young 'un? but if you're squeamish about that, there are heaps of places in the town where you could keep a beast." so, when our hero had been persuaded that the possession of an animal of the terrier species was absolutely necessary to a university man's existence, he had not to look about long without having the void filled up. money will in most places procure any thing, from a grant of arms to a pair of wooden legs; so it is not surprising if, in oxford, such an every-day commodity as a dog can be obtained through the medium of "filthy lucre;" for there was a well-known dog-fancier and proprietor, whose surname was that of the rich substantive just mentioned, to which had been prefixed the "filthy" adjective, probably for the sake of euphony. as usual, filthy lucre was clumping with his lame leg up and down the pavement just in front of the brazenface gate, accompanied by his last "new and extensive assortment" of terriers of every variety, which he now pulled up for the inspection of mr. verdant green. "is it a long-aird dawg, or a smooth 'un, as you'd most fancy?" inquired mr. lucre. "har, sir!" he continued, in a flattering tone, as he saw our hero's eye dwelling on a skye terrier; "i see you're a gent as ~does~ know a good style of dawg, when you see 'un! it ain't often as you see a skye sich as that, sir! look at his colour, sir, and the way he looks out of his 'air! he answers to the name of ~mop~, sir, in --- * oxford slang for "st. mary's hall." -=- [an oxford freshman ] consekvence of the length of his 'air; and he's cheap as dirt, sir, at four-ten! it's a throwin' of him away at the price; and i shouldn't do it, but i've got more dawgs than i've room for; so i'm obligated to make a sacrifice. four-ten, sir! 'ad the distemper, and everythink, and a reg'lar good 'un for the varmin." his merits also being testified to by mr. larkyns and mr. bouncer (who was considered a high authority in canine <vg .jpg> matters), and verdant also liking the quaint appearance of the dog, ~mop~ eventually became his property, for "four-ten" ~minus~ five shillings, but ~plus~ a pint of buttery beer, which mr. lucre always pronounced to be customary "in all dealins whatsumever atween gentlemen." verdant was highly gratified at possessing a real university dog, and he patted ~mop~, and said, "poo dog! poo mop! poo fellow then!" and thought what a pet his sisters would make of him when he took him back home with him for the holi - the vacation! ~mop~ was for following mr. lucre, who had clumped away up the street; and his new master had some difficulty in keeping him at his heels. by mr. bouncer's advice, he at once took him over the river to the field opposite the christ church [ adventures of mr. verdant green] meadows, in order to test his rat-killing powers. how this could be done out in the open country, our hero was at a loss to know; but he discreetly held his tongue, for he was gradually becoming aware that a freshman in oxford must live to learn, and that, as with most men, ~experientia docet~. they had just been punted over the river, and ~mop~ had been restored to ~terra firma~, when mr. bouncer's remark of "there's the cove that'll do the trick for you!" directed verdant's <vg .jpg> attention to an individual, who, from his general appearance, might have been first cousin to "filthy lucre," only that his live stock was of a different description. slung from his shoulders was a large but shallow wire cage, in which were about a dozen doomed rats, whose futile endeavours to make their escape by running up the sides of their prison were regarded with the most intense earnestness by a group of terriers, who gave way to various phases of excitement. in his hand he carried a small circular cage, containing two or three rats for immediate use. on the receipt of sixpence, one of these was liberated; and a few yards start being (sportsmanlike) allowed, the speculator's terrier was then let loose, joined gratuitously, after a short interval, by a perfect pack in full cry, with a human chorus of "hoo rat! too loo! loo dog!" the rat turned, twisted, doubled, became confused, [an oxford freshman ] was overtaken, and, with one grip and a shake, was dead; while the excited pack returned to watch and jump at the wire cages until another doomed prisoner was tossed forth to them. gentlemen on their way for a walk were thus enabled to wile away a few minutes at the noble sport, and indulge themselves and their dogs with a little healthy excitement; while the boating costume of other gentlemen shewed that they had for a while left aquatic pursuits, and had strolled up from the river to indulge in "the sports of the fancy." although his new master invested several sixpences on ~mop's~ behalf, yet that ungrateful animal, being of a passive temperament of mind as regarded rats, and a slow movement of body, in consequence of his long hair impeding his progress, rather disgraced himself by allowing the sport to be taken from his very teeth. but he still further disgraced himself, when he had been taken back to brazenface, by howling all through the night in the cupboard where he had been placed, thereby setting on mr. bouncer's two bull-terriers, huz and buz, to echo the sounds with redoubled fury from their coal-hole quarters; thus causing loss of sleep and a great outlay of saxon expletives to all the dwellers on the staircase. it was in vain that our hero got out of bed and opened the cupboard-door, and said, "poo mop! good dog, then!" it was in vain that mr. bouncer shied boots at the coal-hole, and threatened huz and buz with loss of life; it was in vain that the tenant of the attic, mr. sloe, who was a reading-man, and sat up half the night, working for his degree, - it was in vain that he opened his door, and mildly declared (over the banisters), that it was impossible to get up aristotle while such a noise was being made; it was in vain that mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, whose rooms were on the other side of verdant's, came and administered to ~mop~ severe punishment with a tandem-whip (it was a favourite boast with mr. fosbrooke, that he could flick a fly from his leader's ear); it was in vain to coax ~mop~ with chicken-bones: he would neither be bribed nor frightened, and after a deceitful lull of a few minutes, just when every one was getting to sleep again, his melancholy howl would be raised with renewed vigour, and huz and buz would join for sympathy. "i tell you what, giglamps," said mr. bouncer the next morning; "this game'll never do. bark's a very good thing to take in its proper way, when you're in want of it, and get it with port wine; but when you get it by itself and in too large doses, it ain't pleasant, you know. huz and buz are quiet enough, as long as they're let alone; and i should advise you to keep ~mop~ down at spavin's stables, or somewhere. but first, just let me give the brute the hiding he deserves." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] poor ~mop~ underwent his punishment like a martyr; and in the course of the day an arrangement was made with mr. spavin for ~mop's~ board and lodging at his stables. but when verdant called there the next day, for the purpose of taking him for a walk, there was no ~mop~ to be found; taking advantage of the carelessness of one of mr. spavin's men, he had bolted through the open door, and made his escape. mr. bouncer, at a subsequent period, declared that he met ~mop~ in the company of a well-known regent-street fancier; but, however that may be, ~mop~ was lost to mr. verdant green. chapter x. mr. verdant green reforms his tailors' bills and runs up others. he also appears in a rapid act of horsemanship, and finds isis cool in summer. the state of mr. verdant green's outward man had long offended mr. charles larkyns' more civilized taste; and he one day took occasion delicately to hint to his friend, that it would conduce more to his appearance as an oxford undergraduate, if he forswore the primitive garments that his country-tailor had condemned him to wear, and adapted the "build" of his dress to the peculiar requirements of university fashion. acting upon this friendly hint, our freshman at once betook himself to the shop where he had bought his cap and gown, and found its proprietor making use of the invisible soap and washing his hands in the imperceptible water, as though he had not left that act of imaginary cleanliness since verdant and his father had last seen him. "oh, certainly, sir; an abundant variety," was his reply to verdant's question, if he could show him any patterns that were fashionable in oxford. "the greatest stock hout of london, i should say, sir, decidedly. this is a nice unpretending gentlemanly thing, sir, that we make up a good deal!" and he spread a shaggy substance before the freshman's eyes. "what do you make it up for?" inquired our hero, who thought it more nearly resembled the hide of his lamented ~mop~ than any other substance. "oh, morning garments, sir! reading and walking-coats, for erudition and the promenade, sir! looks well with vest of the same material, sprinkled down with coral currant buttons! we've some sweet things in vests, sir; and some neat, quiet trouserings, that i'm sure would give satisfaction." and the tailor and robe-maker, between washings with the invisible soap, so visibly "soaped" our hero in what is understood to [an oxford freshman ] be the shop-sense of the word, and so surrounded him with a perfect irradiation of aggressive patterns of oriental gorgeousness, that mr. verdant green <vg .jpg> became bewildered, and finally made choice of one of the unpretending gentlemanly ~mop~-like coats, and "vest and trouserings," of a neat, quiet, plaid-pattern, in red and green, which, he was informed, were all the rage. when these had been sent home to him, together with a neck-tie of oxford-blue from randall's, and an immaculate guinea lincoln-and-bennett, our hero was delighted with the general effect of the costume; and after calling in at the tailor's to express his approbation, he at once sallied forth to "do the high," and display his new purchases. a drawn silk bonnet of pale lavender, from which floated some bewitching ringlets, quickly attracted our hero's attention; and the sight of an arch, french-looking face, which (to his short-sighted imagination) smiled upon him as the young lady rustled by, immediately plunged him into the depths of first-love. without the slightest encouragement being given him, he stalked this little deer to her lair, and, after some difficulty, discovered the enchantress to be mademoiselle mouslin de laine, one of the presiding goddesses of a fancy hosiery warehouse. there, for the next fortnight, - until which immense period his ardent passion had not subsided, - our hero was daily to be seen purchasing articles for which he had no earthly use, but fully recompensed for his outlay by the artless (ill-natured people said, artful) smiles, and engaging, piquant conversation of mademoiselle. our hero, when reminded of this at a subsequent period, protested that he had thus acted merely to improve his french, and only conversed with mademoiselle for educational purposes. but we have our doubts. ~credat judaeus!~ about this time also our hero laid the nest-eggs for a very pro- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mising brood of bills, by acquiring an expensive habit of strolling in to shops, and purchasing "an extensive assortment of articles of <vg .jpg> every description," for no other consideration than that he should not be called upon to pay for them until he had taken his degree. he also decorated the walls of his rooms with choice specimens of engravings: for the turning over of portfolios at ryman's, and wyatt's, usually leads to the eventual turning over of a considerable amount of cash; and our hero had not yet become acquainted with the cheaper circulating-system of pictures, which gives you a fresh set every term, and passes on your old ones to some other subscriber. but, in the meantime, it is very delightful, when you admire any thing, to be able to say, "send that to my room!" and to be obsequiously obeyed, "no questions asked," and no payment demanded; and as for the future, why - as mr. larkyns observed, as they strolled down the high - "i suppose the bills ~will~ come in some day or other, but the governor will see to them; and though he may grumble and pull a long face, yet he'll only be too glad you've got your degree, and, in the fulness of his heart, he will open his cheque-book. i daresay old horace gives very good advice when he says, 'carpe diem'; but when he adds, 'quam minimum credula postero,'* about 'not giving the least credit to the succeeding day,' it is clear that he never looked forward to the oxford tradesmen and the credit-system. do you ever read wordsworth, verdant?" continued mr. larkyns, as they stopped at the corner of oriel street, to look in at a spacious range of shop-windows, that were crowded with a costly and glittering profusion of ~papier mache~ articles, statuettes, bronzes, glass, and every kind of "fancy goods" that could be classed as "art-workmanship." "why, i've not read much of wordsworth myself," replied --- * car. i. od. xi. -=- [an oxford freshman ] our hero; "but i've heard my sister mary read a great deal of his poetry." "shews her taste," said charles larkyns. "well, this shop - you see the name - is spiers'; and wordsworth, in his sonnet to oxford, has immortalized him. don't you remember the lines?- 'o ye spiers of oxford! your presence overpowers the soberness of reason!'* it was very queer that wordsworth should ascribe to messrs. spiers all the intoxication of the place; but then he was a <vg .jpg> cambridge man, and prejudiced. nice shop, though, isn't it? particularly useful, and no less ornamental. it's one of the greatest lounges of the place. let us go in and have a look at what mrs. caudle calls the articles of bigotry and virtue." mr. verdant green was soon deeply engaged in an inspection of those ~papier-mache~ "remembrances of oxford" for which the messrs. spiers are so justly famed; but after turning over tables, trays, screens, desks, albums, portfolios, and other things, - all of which displayed views of oxford from every variety of aspect, and were executed with such truth and perception of the higher qualities of art, that they formed in --- * we suspect that mr. larkyns is again intentionally deceiving his freshman friend; for on looking into our wordsworth (~misc. son.~ iii. ) we find that the poet does ~not~ refer to the establishment of messrs. spiers and son, and that the lines, truly quoted, are, "o ye ~spires~ of oxford! domes and towers! gardens and groves! your presence," &c. we blush for mr. larkyns! -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] themselves quite a small but gratuitous academy exhibition, - our hero became so confused among the bewildering allurements around him, as to feel quite an ~embarras de richesses~, and to be in a state of mind in which he was nearly giving mr. spiers the most extensive (and expensive) order which probably that gentleman had ever received from an undergraduate. fortunately for his purse, his attention was somewhat distracted by perceiving that mr. slowcoach was at his elbow, looking over ink-stands and reading-lamps, and also by charles larkyns calling upon him to decide whether he should have the cigar-case he had purchased emblazoned with the heraldic device of the larkyns, or illuminated with the euripidean motto,- {to bakchikon doraema labe, se gar philo.} when this point had been decided, mr. larkyns proposed to verdant that he should astonish and delight his governor by having the green arms emblazoned on a fire-screen, and taking it home with him as a gift. "or else," he said, "order one with the garden-view of brazenface, and then they'll have more satisfaction in looking at that than at one of those offensive cockatoos, in an arabesque landscape, under a bronze sky, which usually sprawls over every thing that is ~papier mache~. but you won't see that sort of thing here; so you can't well go wrong, whatever you buy." finally, mr. verdant green (n.b. mr. green, senior, would have eventually to pay the bill) ordered a fire-screen to be prepared with the family-arms, as a present for his father; a ditto, with the view of his college, for his mother; a writing-case, with the high street view, for his aunt; a netting-box, card-case, and a model of the martyrs' memorial, for his three sisters; and having thus bountifully remembered his family-circle, he treated himself with a modest paper-knife, and was treated in return by mr. spiers with a perfect ~bijou~ of art, in the shape of "a memorial for visitors to oxford," in which the chief glories of that city were set forth in gold and colours, in the most attractive form, and which our hero immediately posted off to the manor green. "and now, verdant," said mr. larkyns, "you may just as well get a hack, and come for a ride with me. you've kept up your riding, of course." "oh, yes - a little!" faltered our hero. now, the reader may perhaps remember, that in an early part of our veracious chronicle we hinted that mr. verdant green's equestrian performances were but of a humble character. they were, in fact, limited to an occasional ride with his sisters when they required a cavalier; but on these occasions, the old cob, which verdant called his own, was warranted not [an oxford freshman ] to kick, or plunge, or start, or do anything derogatory to its age and infirmities. so that charles larkyns' proposition caused him some little nervous agitation; nevertheless, as he was ashamed to confess his fears, he, in a moment of weakness, consented to accompany his friend. "we'll go to symonds'," said mr. larkyns; "i keep my hack there; and you can depend upon having a good one." so they made their way to holywell street, and turned under a gateway, and up a paved yard, to the stables. the upper part of the yard was littered down with straw, and covered in by a light, open roof; and in the stables there was accommodation for a hundred horses. at the back of the stables, and separated from the wadham gardens by a narrow lane, was a paddock; and here they found mr. fosbrooke, and one or two of his friends, inspecting the leaping abilities of a fine hunter, which one of the stable-boys was taking backwards and forwards over the hurdles and fences erected for that purpose. the horses were soon ready, and verdant summoned up enough courage to say, with the count in ~mazeppa~, "bring forth the steed!" and when the steed was brought, in all the exuberance of (literally) animal spirits, he felt that he was about to be another mazeppa, and perform feats on the back of a wild horse; and he could not help saying to the ostler, "he looks rather -vicious, i'm afraid!" "wicious, sir," replied the groom; "bless you, sir! she's as sweet-tempered as any young ooman you ever paid your intentions to. the mare's as quiet a mare as was ever crossed; this 'ere's ony her play at comin' fresh out of the stable!" verdant, however, had a presentiment that the play would soon become earnest; but he seated himself in the saddle (after a short delirious dance on one toe), and in a state of extreme agitation, not to say perspiration, proceeded at a walk, by mr. larkyns' side, up holywell street. here the mare, who doubtless soon understood what sort of rider she had got on her back, began to be more demonstrative of the "fresh"ness of her animal spirits. broad street was scarcely broad enough to contain the series of ~tableaux vivants~ and heraldic attitudes that she assumed. "don't pull the curb-rein so!" shouted charles larkyns; but verdant was in far too dreadful a state of mind to understand what he said, or even to know which ~was~ the curb-rein; and after convulsively clutching at the mane and the pommel, in his endeavours to keep his seat, he first "lost his head," and then his seat, and ignominiously gliding over the mare's tail, found that his lodging was on the cold ground. relieved of her burden, the mare quietly trotted back to her stables; while verdant, finding himself unhurt, got up, replaced his hat and spectacles, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and registered a mental vow never to mount an oxford hack again. "never mind, old fellow!" said charles larkyns, <vg .jpg> consolingly; "these little accidents ~will~ occur, you know, even with the best regulated riders! there were not ~more~ than a dozen ladies saw you, though you certainly made very creditable exertions to ride over one or two of them. well! if you say you won't go back to symonds', and get another hack, i must go on solus; but i shall see you at the bump-supper to-night! i got old blades to ask you to it. i'm going now in search of an appetite, and i should advise you to take a turn round the parks and do the same. ~au re~ser~voir!~" so our hero, after he had compensated the livery-stable keeper, followed his friend's advice, and strolled round the neatly-kept potato-gardens denominated "the parks," looking in vain for the deer that have never been there, and finding them represented only by nursery-maids and - others. * * * * * * * * mr. blades, familiarly known as "old blades" and "billy," was a gentleman who was fashioned somewhat after the model of the torso of hercules; and, as stroke of the brazenface boat, was held in high estimation, not only by the men of his own college, but also by the boating men of the university at large. his university existence seemed to be engaged in one long struggle, the end and aim of which was to place the brazenface boat in that envied position known in aquatic anatomy as "the head of the river;" and in this struggle all mr. blades' energies of mind and body, - though particularly of body, - were engaged. not a freshman was allowed to enter brazenface, but immediately mr. blades' eye was upon him; and if the expansion of the upper part of his coat and waistcoat denoted that his muscular development of chest and arms was of a kind that might be serviceable to the great object aforesaid - the placing [an oxford freshman ] of the brazenface boat at the head of the river, - then mr. blades came and made flattering proposals to the new-comer to assist in the great work. but he was also indefatigable, as secretary to his college club, in seeking out all freshmen, even if their thews and sinews were not muscular models, and inducing them to aid the glorious cause by becoming members of the club. a bump-supper - that is, o ye uninitiated! a supper to commemorate the fact of the boat of one college <vg .jpg> having, in the annual races, bumped, or touched the boat of another college immediately in its front, thereby gaining a place towards the head of the river, - a bump-supper was a famous opportunity for discovering both the rowing and paying capabilities of freshmen, who, in the enthusiasm of the moment, would put down their two or three guineas, and at once propose their names to be enrolled as members at the next meeting of the club. and thus it was with mr. verdant green, who, before the evening was over, found that he had not only given in his name ("proposed by charles larkyns, esq., seconded by henry bouncer, esq."), but that a desire was burning within his breast to distinguish himself in aquatic pursuits. scarcely any thing else was talked of during the whole evening but the prospective chances of brazenface bumping balliol and brasenose, and thereby getting to the head of the river. it was also mysteriously whispered, that worcester and christ church were doing well, and might prove formidable; and that exeter, lincoln, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and wadham were very shady, and not doing the things that were expected of them. great excitement too was caused by the announcement, that the balliol stroke had knocked up, or knocked down, or done some thing which mr. verdant green concluded he ought not to have done; and that the brasenose bow had been seen with a cigar in his mouth, and also eating pastry in hall, -things shocking in themselves, and quite contrary to all training principles. then there were anticipations of henley; and criticisms on the new eight out-rigger <vg .jpg> that searle was laying down for the university crew; and comparisons between somebody's stroke and somebody else's spurt; and a good deal of reference to clasper and coombes, and newall and pococke, who might have been heathen deities for all that our hero knew, and from the manner in which they were mentioned. the aquatic desires that were now burning in mr. verdant green's breast could only be put out by the water; so to the river he next day went, and, by charles larkyns' advice, made his first essay in a "tub" from hall's. being a complete novice with the oars, our hero had no sooner pulled off his coat and given a pull, than he succeeded in catching a tremendous "crab," the effect of which was to throw him backwards, and almost to upset the boat. fortunately, however, "tubs" recover their equilibrium almost as easily as tombolas, and "the sylph" did not belie its character; so the freshman again assumed a proper position, and was shoved off with a boat-hook. at first he made some hopeless splashes in the stream, the only effect of which was to make the boat turn with a circular movement towards folly bridge; but charles larkyns [an oxford freshman ] at once came to the rescue with the simple but energetic compendium of boating instruction, "put your oar in deep, and bring it out with a jerk!" bearing this in mind, our hero's efforts met with well-merited success; and he soon passed that mansion which, instead of cellars, appears to have an ingenious system of small rivers to thoroughly irrigate its foundations. one by one, too, he passed those house-boats which are more like the noah's <vg .jpg> arks of toy-shops than anything else, and sometimes contain quite as original a mixture of animal specimens. warming with his exertions, mr. verdant green passed the university barge in great style, just as the eight was preparing to start; and though he was not able to "feather his oars with skill and dexterity," like the jolly young waterman in the song, yet his sleight-of-hand performances with them proved not only a source of great satisfaction to the crews on the river, but also to the promenaders on the shore. he had left the christ church meadows far behind, and was beginning to feel slightly exhausted by his unwonted exertions, when he reached that bewildering part of the river termed "the gut." so confusing were the intestine commotions of this gut, that, after passing a chequered existence as an aquatic shuttlecock, and being assailed with a slang-dictionary-full of opprobrious epithets, mr. verdant green caught another [ adventures of mr. verdant green] tremendous crab, and before he could recover himself, the "tub" received a shock, and, with a loud cry of "boat ahead!" ringing in his ears, the university eight passed over the place where he and "the sylph" had so lately disported themselves. with the wind nearly knocked out of his body by the blade of the bow-oar striking him on the chest as he rose to the surface, our unfortunate hero was immediately dragged from the water, in a condition like that of the child in ~the stranger~ (the only joke, by the way, in that most dreary play) "not dead, but very wet!" and forthwith placed in safety in his deliverer's boat. "hallo, giglamps! who the doose had thought of seeing you here, devouring isis in this expensive way!" said a voice very coolly. and our hero found that he had been rescued by little mr. bouncer, who had been tacking up the river in company with huz and buz and his meerschaum. "you ~have~ been and gone and done it now, young man!" continued the vivacious little gentleman, as he surveyed our hero's draggled and forlorn condition. "if you'd only a comb and a glass in your hand, you'd look distressingly like a cross-breed with a mermaid! you ain't subject to the whatdyecallems - the rheumatics, are you? because, if so, i could put you on shore at a tidy little shop where you can get a glass of brandy-and-water, and have your clothes dried; and then mamma won't scold." "indeed," chattered our hero, "i shall be very glad indeed; for i feel - rather cold. but what am i to do with my boat?" "oh, the lively polly, or whatever her name is, will find her way back safe enough. there are plenty of boatmen on the river who'll see to her and take her back to her owner; and if you got her from hall's, i daresay she'll dream that she's dreamt in marble halls, like you did, giglamps, that night at smalls', when you got wet in rather a more lively style than you've done to-day. now i'll tack you up to that little shop i told you of." so there our hero was put on shore, and mr. bouncer made fast his boat and accompanied him; and did not leave him until he had seen him between the blankets, drinking a glass of hot brandy-and-water, the while his clothes were smoking before the fire. this little adventure (for a time at least) checked mr. verdant green's aspirations to distinguish himself on the river; and he therefore renounced the sweets of the isis, and contented himself by practising with a punt on the cherwell. there, after repeatedly overbalancing himself in the most suicidal manner, he at length peacefully settled down into the lounging blissfulness of a "cherwell water-lily;" and on the hot days, [an oxford freshman ] among those gentlemen who had moored their punts underneath the overhanging boughs of the willows and limes, and <vg .jpg> beneath their cool shade were lying, in ~dolce far niente~ fashion, with their legs up and a weed in their mouth, reading the last new novel, or some less immaculate work, - among these gentlemen might haply have been discerned the form and spectacles of mr. verdant green. chapter xi. mr. verdant green's sports and pastimes. archery was all the fashion at brazenface. they had as fine a lawn for it as the trinity men had; and all day long there was somebody to be seen making holes in the targets, and endeavouring to realize the ~pose~ of the apollo belvidere; - rather a difficult thing to do, when you come to wear plaid trousers and shaggy coats. as mr. verdant green felt desirous not only to uphold all the institutions of the university, but also to make himself acquainted with the sports and pastimes of the place, he forthwith joined the archery and cricket clubs. he at once inspected the manufactures of muir and buchanan; and after selecting from their stores a fancy-wood bow, with arrows, belt, quiver, guard, tips, tassels, and grease-pot, he felt himself to be duly prepared to [ adventures of mr. verdant green] represent the toxophilite character. but the sustaining it was a more difficult thing than he had conceived; for although he thought that it would be next to impossible to miss a shot <vg - .jpg> when the target was so large, and the arrow went so easily from the bow, yet our hero soon discovered that even in the first steps of archery there was something to be learnt, and that the mere stringing of his bow was a performance attended with considerable difficulty. it was always slipping from his instep, or twisting the wrong way, or threatening to snap in sunder, or refusing to allow his fingers to slip the knot, or doing something that was dreadfully uncomfortable, <vg - .jpg> and productive of perspiration; and two or three times he was reduced to the abject necessity of asking his friends to string his bow for him. but when he had mastered this slight difficulty, he found that the arrows (to use mr. bouncer's phrase) "wobbled," and had a predilection for going anywhere but into the target, notwithstanding its size; and unfortunately one went into the body of the honourable mr. stormer's favourite skye terrier, though, thanks to its shaggy coat and the bluntness of the arrow, it did not do a great amount of mischief; nevertheless, the vials of mr. stormer's [an oxford freshman ] wrath were outpoured upon mr. verdant green's head; and <vg - .jpg> such ~epea pteroenta~ followed the winged arrow, that our hero became alarmed, and for the time forswore archery practice. as he had fully equipped himself for archery, so also mr. verdant green, (on the authority of mr. bouncer) got himself up for cricket regardless of expense; and he made his first appearance in the field in a straw hat with blue ribbon, and "flannels," and spiked shoes of perfect propriety. as mr. bouncer had told him that, in cricket, attitude was every thing, verdant, <vg - .jpg> as soon as he went in for his innings, took up what he considered to be a very good position at the wicket. little mr. bouncer, who was bowling, delivered the ball with a swiftness that seemed rather astonishing in such a small gentleman. the first ball was "wide;" nevertheless, verdant (after it had passed) struck at it, raising his bat high in the air, and bringing it straight down to the ground as though it were an executioner's axe. the second ball was nearer to the mark; but it came in with such swiftness, that, as mr. verdant green was [ adventures of mr. verdant green] quite new to round bowling, it was rather too quick for him, and hit him severely on the -, well, never mind, - on the trousers. <vg .jpg> "hallo, giglamps!" shouted the delighted mr. bouncer, "nothing like backing up; but it's no use assuming a stern appearance; you'll get your hand in soon, old feller!" but verdant found that before he could get his hand in, the ball was got into his wicket; and that while he was preparing for the strike, the ball shot by; and, as mr. stumps, the wicket-keeper, kindly informed him, "there was a row in his timber-yard." thus verdant's score was always on the ~lucus a non lucendo~ principle of derivation, for not even to a quarter of a score did it ever reach; and he felt that he should never rival a mynn or be a parr with anyone of the "all england" players. besides these out-of-door sports, our hero also devoted a good deal of his time to acquiring in-door games, being quickly initiated into the mysteries of billiards, and plunging headlong into pool. it was in the billiard-room that verdant first formed his acquaintance with mr. fluke of christ church, well known to be the best player in the university, and who, if report spoke truly, always made his five hundred a year by his skill in the game. mr. fluke kindly put our hero "into the way to become a player;" and verdant soon found the apprenticeship was attended with rather heavy fees. at the wine-parties also that he attended he became rather a greater adept at cards than he had formerly been. "van john" was the favourite game; and he was not long in discovering that [s]taking shillings and half-crowns, instead of counters and "fish," and going odds on the colours, and losing five pounds before he was aware of it, was a very different thing to playing ~vingt-et-un~ at home with his sisters for "love" - [an oxford freshman ] (though perhaps cards afford the only way in which young ladies at twenty-one will ~play~ for love). in returning to brazenface late from these parties, our hero was sometimes frightfully alarmed by suddenly finding himself face to face with a dreadful apparition, to which, by constant familiarity, he gradually became accustomed, and learned to look upon as the proctor with his marshal and bulldogs. at first, too, he was on such occasions greatly alarmed <vg .jpg> at finding the gates of brazenface closed, obliging him thereby to "knock-in;" and not only did he apologize to the porter for troubling him to open the wicket, but he also volunteered elaborate explanations of the reasons that had kept him out after time, - explanations that were not received in the spirit with which they were tendered. when our freshman became aware of the mysteries of a gate-bill, he felt more at his ease. mr. verdant green learned many things during his freshman's term, and, among others, he discovered that the quiet retirement of college-rooms, of which he had heard so much, was in many cases an unsubstantial idea, founded on imagination, and built up by fancy. one day that he had been writing a letter in mr. smalls' rooms, which were on the ground-floor, verdant congratulated himself that his own rooms were on the third floor, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and were thus removed from the possibility of his friends, when he had sported his oak, being able to get through his window to "chaff" him; but he soon discovered that rooms upstairs had also objectionable points in their private character, and were not altogether such eligible apartments as he had at first anticipated. first, there was the getting up and down the dislocated staircase, a feat which at night was sometimes attended with difficulty. then, when he had accomplished <vg .jpg> this feat, there was no way of escaping from the noise of his neighbours. mr. sloe, the reading-man in the garret above, was one of those abominable nuisances, a peripatetic student, who "got up" every subject by pacing up and down his limited apartment, and, like the sentry, "walked his dreary round" at unseasonable hours of the night, at which time could be plainly heard the wretched chuckle, and crackings of knuckles (mr. sloe's way of expressing intense delight), with which he welcomed some miserable joke of aristophanes, painfully elaborated by the help of liddell-and-scott; or the disgustingly sonorous way in which he declaimed his greek choruses. this was bad enough at night; but in the day-time there was a still greater nuisance. the rooms immediately beneath verdant's were possessed by a gentleman whose musical powers were of an unusually limited description, but who, unfortunately for [an oxford freshman ] his neighbours, possessed the idea that the cornet-a-piston was a beautiful instrument for pic-nics, races, boating-parties, and <vg - .jpg> other long-vacation amusements, and sedulously practised "in my cottage near a wood," "away with melancholy," and other airs of a lively character, in a doleful and distracted way, that would have fully justified his immediate homicide, or, at any rate, the confiscation of his offending instrument. then, on the one side of verdant's room, was mr. bouncer, sounding his octaves, and "going the complete unicorn;" and his bull-terriers, huz and buz, all and each of whom were of a restless and loud temperament; while, on the other side, were mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke's rooms, in which fencing, boxing, single-stick, and other violent sports, were gone through, with a great expenditure of "sa-ha! sa-ha!" and stampings. verdant was sometimes induced to go in, and never could sufficiently admire the way in which men could be rapped with single-sticks without crying out <vg - .jpg> or flinching; for it made him almost sore even to look at them. mr. blades, the stroke, was a frequent visitor there, and developed his muscles in the most satisfactory manner. after many refusals, our hero was at length persuaded to put on the gloves, and have a friendly bout with mr. blades. the result was as might have been anticipated; and mr. smalls doubtless gave a very correct ~resume~ of the proceeding (for, as we have before said, he was thoroughly conversant with the sporting slang of ~tintinnabulum's life~), when he told verdant, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] that his claret had been repeatedly tapped, his bread-basket walked into, his day-lights darkened, his ivories rattled, his nozzle barked, his whisker-bed napped heavily, his kissing-trap countered, his ribs roasted, his nut spanked, and his whole person put in chancery, stung, bruised, fibbed, propped, fiddled, <vg - .jpg> slogged, and otherwise ill-treated. so it is hardly to be wondered at if mr. verdant green from thenceforth gave up boxing, as a senseless and ungentlemanly amusement. but while these pleasures(?) of the body were being attended to, the recreation of the mind was not forgotten. mr. larkyns had proposed verdant's name at the union; and, to that gentleman's great satisfaction, he was not black-balled. he daily, therefore, frequented the reading-room, and made a point of looking through all the magazines and newspapers; while he felt quite a pride in sitting in luxurious state upstairs, writing his letters to the home department on the very best note-paper, and sealing them extensively with "the oxford union" seal; though he could not at first be persuaded that trusting his letters to a wire closet was at all a safe system of postage. he also attended the debates, which were then held in the <vg - .jpg> long room behind wyatt's; and he was particularly charmed with the manner in which vital questions, that (as he learned from the newspapers) had proved stumbling-blocks to the greatest statesmen of the land, were rapidly solved by the embryo statesmen of the oxford union. it was quite a sight, in that long picture-room, to see the rows of light iron seats densely crowded with young men - some of whom would perhaps rise to be cannings, or peels, or gladstones - and to hear how one beardless gentleman would call another beardless gentleman his "honourable friend," and appeal "to the sense of the house," and address himself to "mr. speaker;" and how they would all juggle the same tricks of rhetoric as their fathers were doing in certain other debates in a certain other house. and it was curious, too, to mark the points of resemblance between the two houses; and how the smaller one had, on its smaller scale, [an oxford freshman ] its hume, and its lord john, and its "dizzy;" and how they went through the same traditional forms, and preserved the same time-honoured ideas, and debated in the fullest houses, with the greatest spirit and the greatest length, on such points <vg - .jpg> as, "what course is it advisable for this country to take in regard to the government of its indian possessions, and the imprisonment of mr. jones by the rajah of humbugpoopoonah?" <vg - .jpg> indeed, mr. verdant green was so excited by this interesting debate, that on the third night of its adjournment he rose to address the house; but being "no orator as brutus is," his few broken words were received with laughter, and the honourable gentleman was coughed down. our hero had, as an oxford freshman, to go through that cheerful form called "sitting in the schools," - a form which consisted in the following ceremony. through a door in the right-hand corner of the schools quadrangle, - (oh, that door! [ adventures of mr. verdant green] does it not bring a pang into your heart only to think of it? to remember the day when you went in there as pale as the little pair of bands in which you were dressed for your sacrifice; and came out all in a glow and a chill when your examination was over; and posted your bosom-friend there to receive from purdue the little slip of paper, and bring you the thrilling intelligence that you had passed; or to come empty-handed, and say that you had been plucked! oh, that door! well <vg .jpg> might be inscribed there the line which, on dante's authority, is assigned to the door of another place, - "all hope abandon, ye who enter here!") - entering through this door in company with several other unfortunates, our hero passed between two galleries through a passage, by which, if the place had been a circus, the horses would have entered, and found himself in a tolerably large room lighted on either side by windows, and panelled half-way up the walls. down the centre of this room ran a large green-baize-covered table, on the one side of which were some eight or ten miserable beings who were then undergoing examination, and were supplied with pens, ink, blotting-pad, and large sheets of thin "scribble-paper," on which they were struggling to impress their ideas; or else had a book set before them, [an oxford freshman ] out of which they were construing, or being racked with questions that touched now on one subject and now on another, like a bee among flowers. the large table was liberally supplied with all the apparatus and instruments of torture; and on the other side of it sat the three examiners, as dreadful and <vg - .jpg> formidable as the terrible three of venice. at the upper end of the room was a chair of state for the vice-chancellor, whenever he deigned to personally superintend the torture; to the right and left of which accommodation was provided for other victims. on the right hand of the room was a small open <vg - .jpg> gallery of two seats (like those seen in infant schools); and here, from in the morning till in the afternoon, with only the interval of a quarter of an hour for luncheon, mr. verdant green was compelled to sit and watch the proceedings, his perseverance being attested to by a certificate which he received as a reward for his meritorious conduct. if this "sitting in the schools"* was established as an ~in terrorem~ form for the spectators, it undoubtedly generally had the desired effect; and what with the misery of sitting through a whole day on a hard bench with nothing to do, and the agony of seeing your fellow-creatures plucked, and having visions of the same prospective fate for yourself, the day on which the sitting takes place is --- * this form has been abolished ( ) under the new regulations. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] usually regarded as one of those which, "if 'twere done, 'twere well it should be done quickly." as an appropriate sequel to this proceeding, mr. verdant green attended the interesting ceremony of conferring degrees; where he discovered that the apparently insane promenade of the proctor gave rise to the name bestowed on (what mr. larkyns called) the equally insane custom of "plucking."* there too our hero saw the vice-chancellor in all his glory; and so agreeable were the proceedings, that altogether he had a great deal of bliss.+ chapter xii. mr. verdant green terminates his existence as an oxford freshman. "before i go home," said mr. verdant green, as he expelled a volume of smoke from his lips, - for he had overcome his first weakness, and now "took his weed" regularly, - "before i go home, i must see what i owe in the <vg .jpg> place; for my father said he did not like for me to run in debt, but wished me to settle my bills terminally." "what, you're afraid of having what we call bill-ious fever, i suppose, eh?" laughed charles larkyns. "all exploded --- * when the degrees are conferred, the name of each person is read out before he is presented to the vice-chancellor. the proctor then walks once up and down the room, so that any person who objects to the degree being granted may signify the same by pulling or "plucking" the proctor's robes. this has been occasionally done by tradesmen in order to obtain payment of their "little bills;" but such a proceeding is very rare, and the proctor's promenade is usually undisturbed. + the rev. philip bliss, d.c.l., after holding the onerous post of registrar of the university for many years, and discharging its duties in a way that called forth the unanimous thanks of the university, resigned office in . -=- [an oxford freshman ] ideas, my dear fellow. they do very well in their way, but they don't answer; don't pay, in fact; and the shopkeepers don't like it either. by the way, i can shew you a great curiosity; - the autograph of an oxford tradesman, ~very rare~! i think of presenting it to the ashmolean." and mr. larkyns opened his writing-desk, and took therefrom an oxford pastrycook's bill, on which appeared the magic word, "received." <vg .jpg> "now, there is one thing," continued mr. larkyns, "which you really must do before you go down, and that is to see blenheim. and the best thing that you can do is to join fosbrooke and bouncer and me, in a trap to woodstock to-morrow. we'll go in good time, and make a day of it." verdant readily agreed to make one of the party; and the next morning, after a breakfast in charles larkyns' rooms, they made their way to a side street leading out of beaumont street, where the dog-cart was in waiting. as it was drawn by two horses, placed in tandem fashion, mr. fosbrooke had an opportunity of displaying his jehu powers; which he did to great advantage, not allowing his leader to run his nose into the cart, and being enabled to turn sharp corners without chipping the bricks, or running the wheel up the bank. they reached woodstock after a very pleasant ride, and clattered up its one long street to the principal hotel; but mr. fosbrooke whipped into the yard to the left so rapidly, that our hero, who was not much used to the back seat of a dog-cart, flew off by some means at a tangent to the right, and was consequently degraded in the eyes of the inhabitants. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] after ordering for dinner every thing that the house was enabled to supply, they made their way in the first place (as it could only be seen between and ) to blenheim; the princely splendours of which were not only costly in themselves, but, as our hero soon found, costly also to the sight-seer. the doors in the ~suite~ of apartments were all opposite to each other, so that, as a crimson cord was passed from one to the other, the spectator was kept entirely to the one side of the room, and merely a glance could be obtained of the raffaelle, the glorious rubens's,* the vandycks, and the almost equally fine sir joshuas. but even the glance they had was but a passing one, as the servant trotted them through the rooms with the rapidity of locomotion and explanation of a westminster abbey verger; and he made a fierce attack on verdant, who had lagged behind, and was short-sightedly peering at the celebrated "charles the first" of vandyck, as though he had lingered in order to surreptitiously appropriate some of the tables, couches, and other trifling articles that ornamented the rooms. in this way they went at railroad pace through the ~suite~ of rooms and the library, - where the chief thing pointed out appeared to be a grease-mark on the floor made by somebody at somebody else's wedding-breakfast, - and to the chapel, where they admired the ingenuity of the sparrows and other birds that built about rysbrach's monumental mountain of marble to the memory of the duke and duchess of marlborough; - and then to the so-called "titian room" (shade of mighty titian, forgive the insult!) where they saw the loves of the gods represented in the most unloveable manner,+ and where a flunkey lounged lazily at the door, and, in spite of mr. bouncer's expostulatory "chaff," demanded half-a-crown for the sight. indeed, the sight-seeing at blenheim seemed to be a system of half-crowns. the first servant would take them a little way, and then say, "i don't go any further, sir; half-a-crown!" and hand them over to servant number two, who, after a short interval, would pass them on (half-a-crown!) to the servant who shewed the chapel (half-a-crown!), who would forward them on to the "titian" gallery (half-a-crown!), who would hand them over to the flower-garden (half-a-crown!),who would entrust them to the rose-garden (half-a-crown!), who would give them up to another, who shewed parts of the park, and --- * dr waagen says that the rubens collection at blenheim is only surpassed by the royal galleries of munich, vienna, madrid, and paris. + the ladies alone would repel one by their gaunt ugliness, their flesh being apparently composed of the article on which the pictures are painted, leather. the only picture not by "titian" in this room is a rubens, - "the rape of proserpine" - to see which is well worth the half-crown ~charged~ for the sight of the others. -=- [an oxford freshman ] the rest of it. somewhat in this manner an oxford party sees blenheim (the present of the nation); and mr. verdant green found it the most expensive show-place he had ever seen. some of the park, however, was free (though they were two or three times ordered to "get off the grass"); and they rambled about among the noble trees, and admired the fine views of the hall, and smoked their weeds, and became very pathetic at rosamond's spring. they then came back into woodstock, which they found to be like all oxford towns, only <vg .jpg> rather duller perhaps, the principal signs of life being some fowls lazily pecking about in the grass-grown street, and two cats sporting without fear of interruption from a dog, who was too much overcome by the ~ennui~ of the place to interfere with them. mr. bouncer then led the way to an inn, where the bar was presided over by a young lady, "on whom," he said, "he was desperately sweet," and with whom he conversed in the most affable and brotherly manner, and for whom also he had brought, as an appropriate present, a book of comic songs; "for," said the little gentleman, "hang it! she's a girl of what you call ~mind~, you know! and she's heard of the opera, and begun the piano, - though she don't get much time, you see, for it in the bar, - and she sings regular slap-up, and no mistake!" so they left this young lady drawing bitter beer for mr. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] bouncer, and otherwise attending to her adorer's wants, and endeavoured to have a game of billiards on a wooden table that had no cushions, with curious cues that had no leathers. slightly failing in this difficult game, they strolled about till dinner-time, when mr. verdant green became mysteriously lost for some time, and was eventually found by charles larkyns and mr. fosbrooke in a glover's shop, where he was sitting on a high stool, and basking in the sunshiny smiles of two "neat little glovers." our hero at first feigned to be simply making purchases of woodstock gloves and purses, as ~souvenirs~ of his visit, and presents for his sisters; but in the course of the evening, being greatly "chaffed" on the subject, he began to exercise his imagination, and talk of the "great fun" he had had; - though what particular fun there may be in smiling amiably across a counter at a feminine shopkeeper who is selling you gloves, it is hard to say: perhaps dr. sterne could help us to an answer. they spent altogether a very lively day; and after a rather protracted sitting over their wine, they returned to oxford with great hilarity, mr. bouncer's post-horn coming out with great effect in the stillness of the moonlight night. unfortunately their mirth was somewhat checked when they had got as far as peyman's gate; for the proctor, with mistaken kindness, had taken the trouble to meet them there, lest they should escape him by entering oxford by any devious way; and the marshal and the bull-dogs were at the leader's head just as mr. fosbrooke was triumphantly guiding them through the turnpike. verdant gave up his name and that of his college with a thrill of terror, and nearly fell off the drag from fright, when he was told to call upon the proctor the next morning. "keep your pecker up, old feller!" said mr. bouncer, in an encouraging tone, as they drove into oxford, "and don't be down in the mouth about a dirty trick like this. he won't hurt you much, giglamps! gate and chapel you; or give you some old greek party to write out; or send you down to your mammy for a twelve-month; or some little trifle of that sort. i only wish the beggar would come up our staircase! if huz, and buz his brother, didn't do their duty by him, it would be doosid odd. now, don't you go and get bad dreams, giglamps! because it don't pay; and you'll soon get used to these sort of things; and what's the odds, as long as you're happy? i like to take things coolly, i do." to judge from mr. bouncer's serenity, and the far-from-nervous manner in which he "sounded his octaves," ~he~ at least appeared to be thoroughly used to "that sort of thing," and doubtless slept as tranquilly as though nothing wrong had occurred. but it was far different with our hero, who passed [an oxford freshman ] a sleepless night of terror as to his probable fate on the morrow. and when the morrow came, and he found himself in the dreaded presence of the constituted authority, armed with all the power of the law, he was so overcome, that he fell on his knees and made an abject spectacle of himself, imploring that he might not be expelled, and bring down his father's grey hairs in the usually quoted manner. to his immense relief, however, he was treated in a more lenient way; and as the term had nearly expired, his punishment could not be of long duration; and as for the impositions, why, as mr. bouncer said, "ain't there coves to ~barber~ise 'em* for you, giglamps?" thus our freshman gained experience daily; so that by <vg .jpg> the end of the term, he found that short as the time had been, it had been long enough for him to learn what oxford life was like, and that there was in it a great deal to be copied, as well as some things to be shunned. the freshness he had so freely shown on entering oxford had gradually yielded as the term went on; and, when he had run halloing the brazenface boat all the way up from iffley, and had seen mr. blades realize his most sanguine dreams as to "the head of the river;" and when, from the gallery of the theatre, he had taken part in the licensed saturnalia of the commemoration, and had cheered for the ladies in pink and blue, and even given "one more" for the very proctor who had so lately interfered with his liberties; and when he had gone to a farewell pass-party (which charles larkyns did ~not~ give), and had assisted in the other festivities that usually mark the end of the academical year, - mr. verdant green found himself to be possessed of a considerable acquisition of knowledge of a most miscellaneous character; and on the authority, and in the figurative eastern language of mr. bouncer, "he was sharpened up no end, by being well rubbed against university bricks. so, good by, old feller!" said the little gentleman, with a kind remembrance of imaginary --- * impositions are often performed by deputy. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] individuals, "and give my love to sairey and the little uns." and mr. bouncer "went the complete unicorn," for the last time in that term, by extemporising a farewell solo to verdant, which was of such an agonizing character of execution, that huz, and buz his brother, lifted up their noses and howled. <vg - .jpg> "which they're the very moral of christyuns, sir!" observed mrs. tester, who was dabbing her curtseys in thankfulness for the large amount with which our hero had "tipped" her. "and has ears for moosic, sir. with grateful thanks to you, sir, for the same. and it's obleeged i feel in my art. which it reelly were like what my own son would do, sir. as was found in drink for his rewing. and were took to the west injies for a sojer. which he were - ugh! oh, oh! which you be'old me a hafflicted martyr to these spazzums, sir. and <vg - .jpg> how i am to get through them doorin' the veecation. without a havin' 'em eased by a-goin' to your cupboard, sir. for just three spots o' brandy on a lump o' sugar, sir. is a summut as i'm afeered to think on. oh! ugh!" upon which mrs. tester's grief and spasms so completely overcame her, that our hero presented her with an extra half-sovereign, wherewith to purchase the medicine that was so peculiarly adapted to her complaint. mr. robert filcher was also "tipped" in the same liberal manner; and our hero completed his first term's residence in brazenface by establishing himself as a decided favourite. among those who seemed disposed to join in this opinion was [an oxford freshman ] the jehu of the warwickshire coach, who expressed his conviction to our delighted hero, that "he wos a young gent as had much himproved hisself since he tooled him up to the 'varsity with his guvnor." to fully deserve which high opinion, mr. verdant green tipped for the box-seat, smoked <vg .jpg> more than was good for him, and besides finding the coachman in weeds, drank with him at every "change" on the road. the carriage met him at the appointed place, and his luggage (no longer encased in canvas, after the manner of females) was soon transferred to it; and away went our hero to the manor green, where he was received with the greatest demonstrations of delight. restored to the bosom of his family, our hero was converted into a kind of domestic idol; while it was proposed by miss mary green, seconded by miss fanny, and carried by unanimous acclamation, that mr. verdant green's university career had greatly enhanced his attractions. the opinion of the drawing-room was echoed from the servants'-hall, the ladies' maid in particular being heard freely to declare, that "oxford college had made quite a man of master verdant!" as the little circumstance on which she probably grounded her encomium had fallen under the notice of miss virginia verdant, it may have accounted for that most correct-minded lady being more reserved in expressing her opinion of her nephew's improvement than were the rest of the family; but she nevertheless thought a great deal on the subject. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "well, verdant!" said mr. green, after hearing divers anecdotes of his son's college-life, carefully prepared for home-consumption; "now tell us what you've learnt in oxford." "why," replied our hero, as he reflected on his freshman's career, "i have learnt to think for myself, and not to believe every thing that i hear; and i think i could fight my way in the world; and i can chaff a cad -" "chaff a cad! oh!" groaned miss virginia to herself, thinking it was something extremely dreadful. "and i have learnt to row - at least, not quite; but i can smoke a weed - a cigar, you know. i've learnt that." "oh, verdant, you naughty boy!" said mrs. green, with maternal fondness. "i was sadly afraid that charles larkyns would teach you all his wicked school habits!" "why, mama," said mary, who was sitting on a footstool at her brother's knee, and spoke up in defence of his college friend; "why, mama, all gentlemen smoke; and of course mr. charles larkyns and verdant must do as others do. but i dare say, verdant, he taught you more useful things than that, did he not?" "oh, yes," replied verdant; "he taught me to grill a devil." "grill a devil!" groaned miss virginia. "infatuated young man!" "and to make shandy-gaff and sherry-cobbler, and brew bishop and egg-flip: oh, it's capital! i'll teach you how to make <vg .jpg> it; and we'll have some to-night!" and thus the young gentleman astonished his family with the extent of his learning, and proved how a youth of ordinary natural attainments may acquire other knowledge in his university career than what simply pertains to classical literature. and so much experience had our hero gained during his freshman's term, that when the pleasures of the long vacation were at an end, and he had returned to brazenface, with his firm and fast friend charles larkyns, he felt himself entitled to assume a patronizing air to the freshmen who then entered, and even sought to impose upon their credulity in ways which his own personal experience suggested. it was clear that mr. verdant green had made his farewell bow as an oxford freshman. [ ] part ii. chapter i. mr. verdant green recommences his existence as an oxford undergraduate. <vg .jpg> the intelligent reader - which epithet i take to be a synonym for every one who has perused the first part of the adventures of mr. verdant green, - will remember the statement, that the hero of the narrative "had gained so much experience during his freshman's term, that, when the pleasures of the long vacation were at an end, and he had returned to brazenface with his firm and fast friend charles larkyns, he felt himself entitled to assume a patronizing air to the freshmen, who then entered, and even sought to impose upon their credulity in ways which his own personal experience suggested." and the intelligent reader will further call to mind the fact that the first part of these memoirs concluded with the words -"it was clear that mr. verdant green had made his farewell bow as an oxford freshman." but, although mr. verdant green had of necessity ceased to be "a freshman" as soon as he had entered upon his second term of residence, - the name being given to students in their first term only, - yet this necessity, which, as we all know, ~non habet leges~, will occasionally prove its rule by an exception; and if mr. verdant green was no longer a freshman in name, he still continued to be one by nature. and the intelligent reader will perceive when he comes to study these veracious memoirs, that, although their hero will no longer display those peculiarly virulent symptoms of freshness, which drew towards him so much friendly sympathy during the earlier part of his university career, yet that he will still, by his innocent simpli- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] city and credulity, occasionally evidence the truth of the horatian maxim,- "quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit odorem testa diu;"* which, when ~smart~-ly translated, means, "a cask will long preserve the flavour, with which, when new, it was once impregnated;" and which, when rendered in the saxon vulgate, signifieth, "what is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh." it would, indeed, take more than a freshman's term, - a two months' residence in oxford, - to remove the simple gaucheries of the country squire's hobbodehoy, and convert the girlish youth, the pupil of that nestor of spinsters, miss virginia verdant, into the man whose school was the university, whose alma mater was oxonia herself. we do not cut our wise teeth in a day; some people, indeed, are so unfortunate as never to cut them at all; at the best, two months is but a brief space in which to get through this sapient teething operation, a short time in which to graft our cutting on the tree of wisdom, more especially when the tender plant happens to be a verdant green. the golden age is past when the full-formed goddess of wisdom sprang from the brain of jove complete in all her parts. if our vulcans now-a-days were to trepan the heads of our jupiters, they would find nothing in them! in these degenerate times it will take more than one splitting headache to produce ~our~ wisdom. so it was with our hero. the splitting headache, for example, which had wound up the pleasures of mr. small's "quiet party," had taught him that the good things of this life were not given to be abused, and that he could not exceed the bounds of temperance and moderation without being made to pay the penalty of the trespass. it had taught him that kind of wisdom which even "makes fools wise"; for it had taught him experience. and yet, it was but a portion of that lesson of experience which it is sometimes so hard to learn, but which, when once got by heart, is like the catechism of our early days, - it is never forgotten, - it directs us, it warns us, it advises us; it not only adorns the tale of our life, but it points the moral which may bring that tale to a happy and peaceful end. experience! experience! what will it not do? it is a staff which will help us on when we are jostled by the designing crowds of our vanity fair. it is a telescope that will reveal to us the dark spots on what seemed to be a fair face. it is a finger-post to show us whither the crooked paths of worldly --- * horace, ep. lib. i. ii., . -=- [an oxford freshman ] ways will lead us. it is a scar that tells of the wound which the soldier has received in the battle of life. it is a lighthouse that warns us off those hidden rocks and quicksands where the wrecks of long past joys that once smiled so fairly, and were loved so dearly, now lie buried in all their ghastliness, stripped of grace and beauty, things to shudder at and dread. experience! why, even alma mater's doctors prescribe it to be taken in the largest quantities! "experientia - ~dose it~!" they say: and very largely some of us have to pay for the dose. but the dose does us good; and (for it is an allopathic remedy), the greater the dose, the greater is the benefit to be derived. the two months' allopathic dose of experience, which had been administered to mr. verdant green, chiefly through the agency of those skilful professors, messrs. larkyns, fosbrooke, smalls, and bouncer, had been so far beneficial to him, that, in the figurative eastern language of the last-named gentleman, he had not only been "sharpened up no end by being well rubbed against university bricks," but he had, moreover, "become so considerably wide-awake, that he would very soon be able to take the shine out of the old original weazel, whom the pages of history had recorded as never having been discovered in a state of somnolence." now, as mr. bouncer was a gentleman of considerable experience and was, too, (although addicted to expressions not to be found in "the polite preceptor,"), quite free from the vulgar habit of personal flattery, - or, as he thought fit to express it, in words which would have taken away my lord chesterfield's appetite, "buttering a party to his face in the cheekiest manner," - we may fairly presume, on this strong evidence, that mr. verdant green had really gained a considerable amount of experience during his freshman's term, although there were still left in his character and conduct many marks of viridity which "time's effacing fingers," assisted by mr. bouncer's instructions, would gradually remove. however, mr. verdant green had, at any rate, ceased to be "a freshman" in name; and had received that university promotion, which mr. charles larkyns commemorated by the following ~affiche~, which our hero, on his return from his first morning chapel in the michaelmas term, found in a conspicuous position on his oak, commission signed by the vice-chancellor of the university of oxford. mr. verdant green to be an oxford undergraduate, ~vice~ oxford freshman, sold out. it is generally found to be the case, that the youthful undergraduate first seeks to prove he is no longer a "freshman," by endeavouring to impose on the credulity of those young [ adventures of mr. verdant green] gentlemen who come up as freshmen in his second term. and, in this, there is an analogy between the biped and the quadruped; for, the wild, gambolling, schoolboy elephant, when he has been brought into a new circle, and has been trained to new habits, will take pleasure in ensnaring and deluding his late companions in play. the "sells" by which our hero had been "sold out" as a freshman, now formed a stock in trade for the undergraduate, which his experience enabled him to dispose of (with considerable interest) to the most credulous members of the generations of freshmen who came up after him. perhaps no freshman had ever gone through a more severe course of hoaxing - to survive it - than mr. verdant green; and yet, by a system of retaliation, only paralleled by the quadrupedal case of the before-mentioned elephant, and the biped-beadle case of the illustrious mr. bumble, who after having his own ears boxed by the late mrs. corney, relieved his feelings by boxing the ears of the small boy who opened the gate for him, - our hero took the greatest delight in seeking every opportunity to play off upon a freshman some one of those numerous hoaxes which had been so successfully practised on himself. and while, in referring to the early part of his university career, he omitted all mention of such anecdotes as displayed his own personal credulity in the strongest light - which anecdotes the faithful historian has thought fit to record, - he, nevertheless, dwelt with extreme pleasure on the reminiscences of a few isolated facts, in which he himself appeared in the character of the hoaxer. these facts, when neatly garnished with a little fiction, made very palatable dishes for university entertainment, and were served up by our hero, when he went "down into the country," to select parties of relatives and friends (n.b. - females preferred). on such occasions, the following hoax formed mr. verdant green's ~piece de resistance~. chapter ii. mr. verdant green does as he has been done by. one morning, mr. verdant green and mr. bouncer were lounging in the venerable gateway of brazenface. the former gentleman, being of an amiable, tame-rabbit-keeping disposition, was making himself very happy by whistling popular airs to the porter's pet bullfinch, who was laboriously engaged on a small tread-mill, winding up his private supply of water. mr. bouncer, being of a more volatile temperament, was amusing himself by asking the porter's opinion [an oxford freshman ] on the foreign policy of great britain, and by making very audible remarks on the passers-by. his attention was at length riveted by the appearance on the other side of the street, of a modest-looking young gentleman, who appeared to be so ill at ease in his frock-coat and "stick-up" collars, as to lead to the strong presumption that he wore those articles of manly dress for the first time. "i'll bet you a bottle of blacking, giglamps," said little mr. bouncer, as he directed our hero's attention to the stranger, "that this respected party is an intending freshman. look at his customary suits of solemn black, as othello, or hamlet, or some other swell, says in shakespeare. and, besides his black go-to-meeting bags, please to observe," continued the little gentleman, in the tone of a wax-work showman; "please to ~h~observe the pecooliarity hof the hair-chain, likewise the straps of the period. look! he's coming this way. giglamps, i vote we take a rise out of the youth. hem! good morning! can we have the pleasure of assisting you in anything?" "yes, sir! thank you, sir," replied the youthful stranger, who was flushing like a girl up to the very roots of his curly, auburn hair; "perhaps, sir, you can direct me to brazenface college, sir?" "well, sir! it's not at all improbable, sir, but what i could, sir;" replied mr. bouncer; "but, perhaps, sir, you'll first favour me with your name, and your business there, sir." "certainly, sir!" rejoined the stranger; and, while he fumbled at his card-case, the experienced mr. bouncer whispered to our hero, "told you he was a sucking freshman, giglamps! he has got a bran new card-case, and says 'sir' at the sight of the academicals." the card handed to mr. bouncer, bore the name of "mr. james pucker;" and, in smaller characters in the corner of the card, were the words, "~brazenface college, oxford~." "i came, sir," said the blushing mr. pucker, "to enter for my matriculation examination, and i wished to see the gentleman who will have to examine me, sir." "the doose you do!" said mr. bouncer sternly; "then young man, allow me to say, that you've regularly been and gone and done it, and put your foot in it most completely." "how-ow-ow, how, sir?" stammered the dupe. "how?" replied mr. bouncer, still more sternly; "do you mean to brazen out your offence by asking how? what ~could~ have induced you, sir, to have had printed on this card the name of this college, when you've not a prospect of belonging to it - it may be for years, it may be for never, as the bard says. you've committed a most grievous offence against the university statutes, young gentleman; and so this gentleman here - [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mr. pluckem, the junior examiner - will tell you!" and with that, little mr. bouncer nudged mr. verdant green, who took his cue with astonishing aptitude, and glared through his glasses at the trembling mr. pucker, who stood blushing, and bowing, and heartily repenting that his school-boy vanity had led him to invest four-and-sixpence in " cards, and plate, engraved with name and address." "put the cards in your pocket, sir, and don't let me see them again!" said our hero in his newly-confirmed title of the junior examiner; quite rejoiced at the opportunity afforded him of proving to his friend that ~he~ was no longer a freshman. "he forgives you for the sake of your family, young man!" said mr. bouncer with pathos; "you've come to the right shop, for ~this~ is brazenface; and you've come just at the right time, for here is the gentleman who will assist mr. pluckem in examining you;" and mr. bouncer pointed to mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, who was coming up the street on his way from the schools, where he was making a very laudable (but as it proved, futile) endeavour "to get through his smalls," or, in other words, to pass his little-go examination. the hoax which had been suggested to the ingenious mind of mr. bouncer, was based upon the fact of mr. fosbrooke's being properly got-up for his sacrifice in a white tie, and a pair of very small bands - the two articles, which, with the usual academicals, form the costume demanded by alma mater of all her children when they take their places in her schools. and, as mr. fosbrooke was far too politic a gentleman to irritate the examiners by appearing in a "loud" or sporting costume, he had carried out the idea of clerical character suggested by the bands and choker, by a quiet, gentlemanly suit of black, which, he had fondly hoped, would have softened his examiners' manners, and not permitted them to be brutal. mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, therefore, to the unsophisticated eye of the blushing mr. pucker, presented a very fine specimen of the examining tutor; and this impression on mr. pucker's mind was heightened by mr. fosbrooke, after a few minutes' private conversation with the other two gentlemen, turning to him, and saying, "it will be extremely inconvenient to me to examine you now; but as you probably wish to return home as soon as possible, i will endeavour to conclude the business at once - this gentleman, mr. pluckem," pointing to our hero, "having kindly promised to assist me. mr. bouncer, will you have the goodness to follow with the young gentleman to my rooms?" leaving mr. pucker to express his thanks for this great kindness, and mr. bouncer to plunge him into the depths of trepidation by telling him terrible ~stories~ of the examiner's [an oxford freshman ] fondness for rejecting the candidates for examination, mr. fosbrooke and our hero ascended to the rooms of the former, where they hastily cleared away cigar-boxes and pipes, turned certain french pictures with their faces to the wall, and covered over with an outspread ~times~ a regiment of porter and spirit bottles which had just been smuggled in, and were drawn up rank-and-file on the sofa. having made this preparation, and furnished the table with pens, ink, and scribble-paper, mr. bouncer and the victim were admitted. <vg .jpg> "take a seat, sir," said mr. fosbrooke, gravely; and mr. pucker put his hat on the ground, and sat down at the table in a state of blushing nervousness. "have you been at a public school?" "yes, sir," stammered the victim; "a very public one, sir; it was a boarding-school, sir; forty boarders, and thirty day-boys, sir; i was a day-boy, sir, and in the first class." "first class of an uncommon slow train!" muttered mr. bouncer. "and are you going back to the boarding-school?" asked mr. verdant green, with the air of an assistant judge. "no sir," replied mr. pucker, "i have just done with it; quite done with school, sir, this last half; and papa is going to put me to read with a clergyman until it is time for me to come to college." "refreshing innocence!" murmured mr. bouncer; while mr. fosbrooke and our hero conferred together, and hastily wrote on two sheets of the scribble-paper. "now, sir," said mr. fosbrooke to the victim, after a paper had been completed, "let us see what your latin writing is [ adventures of mr. verdant green] like. have the goodness to turn what i have written into latin; and be very careful, sir," added mr. fosbrooke, sternly, "be very careful that it is cicero's latin, sir!" and he handed mr. pucker a sheet of paper, on which he had scribbled the following: "to be translated into prose-y latin, in the manner of cicero's orations after dinner. "if, therefore, any on your bench, my luds, or in this assembly, should entertain an opinion that the proximate parts of a mellifluous mind are for ever conjoined and unconnected, i submit to you, my luds, that it will of necessity follow, that such clandestine conduct being a mere nothing, - or, in the noble language of our philosophers, bosh, - every individual act of overt misunderstanding will bring interminable limits to the empiricism of thought, and will rebound in the very lowest degree to the credit of the malefactor." "to be turned into latin after the manner of the animals of tacitus. "she went into the garden to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie. just then, a great she-bear coming down the street, poked its nose into the shop-window. 'what! no soap?' so he died, and she (very imprudently) married the barber. and there were present at the wedding the joblillies, and the piccannies, and the gobelites, and the great panjandrum himself, with the little button on top. so they all set to playing catch-who-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots." it was well for the purposes of the hoaxers that mr. pucker's trepidation prevented him from making a calm perusal of the paper; and he was nervously doing his best to turn the nonsensical english word by word into equally nonsensical latin, when his limited powers of latin writing were brought to a full stop by the untranslateable word "bosh". as he could make nothing of this, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and gazed appealingly at the benignant features of mr. verdant green. the appealing gaze was answered by our hero ordering mr. pucker to hand in his paper for examination, and to endeavour to answer the questions which he and his brother examiner had been writing down for him. mr. pucker took the two papers of questions, and read as follows: "history. " . draw a historical parallel (after the manner of plutarch) between hannibal and annie laurie. " . what internal evidence does the odyssey afford, that homer sold his trojan war-ballads at three yards an obolus? " . show the strong presumption there is, that nox was the god of battles. " . state reasons for presuming that the practice of lithography may be traced back to the time of perseus and the gorgon's head. " . in what way were the shades on the banks of the styx supplied with spirits? " . show the probability of the college hornpipe having been used by the students of the academia; and give passages from thucydides and tennyson in support of your answer. [an oxford freshman ] " . give a brief account of the roman emperors who visited the united states, and state what they did there. " . show from the redundancy of the word {gas} in sophocles, that gas must have been used by the athenians; also state, if the expression {oi barbaroi} would seem to signify that they were close shavers. " . show from the words 'hoc erat in votis' (sat. vi., lib. ii.,) that horace's favourite wine was hock, and that he meant to say 'he always voted for hock.' " . draw a parallel between the children in the wood and achilles in the styx. " . when it is stated that ariadne, being deserted by theseus, fell in love with bacchus, is it the poetical way of asserting that she took to drinking to drown her grief? " . name the ~prima donnas~ who have appeared in the operas of virgil and horace since the 'virgilii opera,' and 'horatii opera' were composed." "euclid, arithmetic, and algebra. " . 'the extremities of a line are points.' prove this by the rule of railways. " . show the fallacy of defining an angle, as 'a worm at one end and a fool at the other.' " . if one side of a triangle be produced, what is there to prevent the other two sides from also being brought forward? " . let a and b be squares having their respective boundaries in e and w ends, and let c and d be circles moving in them; the circle d will be superior to the circle c. " . in equal circles, equal figures from various squares will stand upon the same footing. " . if two parts of a circle fall out, the one part will cut the other. " . describe a square which shall be larger than belgrave square. " . if the gnomon of a sun-dial be divided into two equal, and also into two unequal parts, what would be its value? " . describe a perpendicular triangle having the squares of the semi-circle equal to half the extremity between the points of section. " . if an austrian florin is worth . francs, what will be the value of pennsylvanian bonds? prove by rule-of-three inverse. " . if seven horses eat twenty-five acres of grass in three days, what will be their condition on the fourth day? prove by practice. " . if a coach-wheel, / in diameter and / in circumference, makes / revolutions in a second, how many men will it take to do the same piece of work in ten days? " . find the greatest common measure of a quart bottle of oxford port. " . find the value of a 'bob,' a 'tanner,' 'a joey,' and a 'tizzy.' " . explain the common denominators 'brick,' 'trump,' 'spoon,' 'muff,' and state what was the greatest common denominator in the last term. " . reduce two academical years to their lowest terms. " . reduce a christ church tuft to the level of a teddy hall man. " . if a freshman ~a~ have any mouth ~x~, and a bottle of wine ~y~, show how many applications of ~x~ to ~y~ will place ~y~+~y~ before ~a~." mr. pucker did not know what to make of such extraordinary and unexpected questions. he blushed, attempted to write, fingered his curls, tried to collect his faculties, and then appeared to give himself over to despair; whereupon little mr. bouncer was seized with an immoderate fit of coughing which had well nigh brought the farce to its ~denouement~. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "i'm afraid, young gentleman," said mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, as he carelessly settled his white tie and bands, "i am afraid, mr. pucker, that your learning is not yet up to the brazenface standard. we are particularly cautious about admitting any gentleman whose acquirements are not of the highest order. but we will be as lenient to you as we are able, and give you one more chance to retrieve yourself. we will try a little ~viva voce~, mr. pucker. perhaps, sir, you will favour me with your opinions on the fourth punic war, and will also give me a slight sketch of the constitution of ancient heliopolis." mr. pucker waxed, if possible, redder and hotter than before[,] he gasped like a fish out of water; and, like dryden's prince, "unable to conceal his pain," he "sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again." but all was to no purpose: he was unable to frame an answer to mr. fosbrooke's questions. "ah, sir," continued his tormentor, "i see that you will not do for us yet awhile, and i am therefore under the painful necessity of rejecting you. i should advise you, sir, to read hard for another twelvemonths, and endeavour to master those subjects in which you have now failed. for, a young man, mr. pucker, who knows nothing about the fourth punic war, and the constitution of ancient heliopolis, is quite unfit to be enrolled among the members of such a learned college as brazenface. mr. pluckem quite coincides with me in this decision." (here mr. verdant green gave a burleigh nod.) "we feel very sorry for you, mr. pucker, and also for your unfortunate family; but we recommend you to add to your present stock of knowledge, and to keep those visiting-cards for another twelvemonth." and mr. fosbrooke and our hero - disregarding poor mr. pucker's entreaties that they would consider his pa and ma, and would please to matriculate him this once, and he would read very hard, indeed he would - turned to mr. bouncer and gave some private instructions, which caused that gentleman immediately to vanish, and seek out mr. robert filcher. five minutes after, that excellent scout met the dejected mr. pucker as he was crossing the quad on his way from mr. fosbrooke's rooms. "beg your pardon, sir," said mr. filcher, touching his forehead; for, as mr. filcher, after the manner of his tribe, never was seen in a head-covering, he was unable to raise his hat or cap; "beg your pardon, sir! but was you a lookin' for the party as examines the young gents for their matrickylation?" [an oxford freshman ] "eh?-no! i have just come from him," replied mr. pucker, dolefully. "beg your pardon, sir," remarked mr. filcher, "but his rooms ain't that way at all. mr. slowcoach, as is the party you ~ought~ to have seed, has ~his~ rooms quite in a hopposite direction, sir; and he's the honly party as examines the matrickylatin' gents." "but i ~have~ been examined," observed mr. pucker, with the <vg .jpg> air of a plucked man; "and i am sorry to say that i was rejected, and" - "i dessay, sir," interrupted mr. filcher; "but i think it's a 'oax, sir!" "a what?" stammered mr. pucker. "a 'oax - a sell;" replied the scout confidentially. "you see, sir, i think some of the gents have been makin' a little game of you, sir; they often does with fresh parties like you, sir, that seem fresh and hinnocent like; and i dessay they've been makin' believe to examine you, sir, and a pretendin' that you wasn't clever enough. but they don't mean no harm, sir; it's only their play, bless you!" "then," said mr. pucker, whose countenance had been gradually clearing with every word the scout spoke; "then i'm not really rejected, but have still a chance of passing my examination?" "percisely so, sir," replied mr. filcher; "and - hexcuse me, sir, for a hintin' of it to you, - but, if you would let me adwise you, sir, you wouldn't go for to mention anythin' about the 'oax to mr. slowcoach; ~he~ wouldn't be pleased, sir, and ~you'd~ only get laughed at. if you like to go to him now, sir, i know he's in his rooms, and i'll show you the way there with the greatest of pleasure." mr. pucker, immensely relieved in mind, gladly put himself under the scout's guidance, and was admitted into the presence of mr. slowcoach. in twenty minutes after this he issued from the examining tutor's rooms with a joyful countenance, and again encountered mr. robert filcher. "hope you've done the job this time, sir," said the scout. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "yes," replied the radiant mr. pucker; "and at two o'clock i am to see the vice-chancellor; and i shall be able to come to college this time next year." "werry glad of it, indeed, sir!" observed mr. filcher, with genuine emotion, and an eye to future perquisites; "and i suppose, sir, you didn't say a word about the 'oax?" "not a word!" replied mr. pucker. "then, sir," said mr. filcher, with enthusiasm, "hexcuse me, but you're a trump, sir! and mr. fosbrooke's compliments to you, sir, and he'll be 'appy if you'll come up into his rooms, and take a glass of wine after the fatigues of the examination. and, - hexcuse me again, sir, for a hintin' of it to you, but of course you can't be aweer of the customs of the place, unless somebody tells you on 'em, - i shall be werry glad to drink your werry good health, sir." need it be stated that the blushing mr. pucker, delirious with joy at the sudden change in the state of affairs, and the delightful prospect of being a member of the university, not only tipped mr. filcher a five-shilling piece, but also paid a second visit to mr. fosbrooke's rooms, where he found that gentleman in his usual costume, and by him was introduced to the mr. pluckem, who now bore the name of mr. verdant green? need it be stated that the nervous mr. pucker blushed and laughed, and laughed and blushed, while his two pseudo-examiners took wine with him in the most friendly manner; mr. bouncer pronouncing him to be "an out-and-outer, and no mistake!" and need it be stated that, after this undergraduate display of hoaxing, mr. verdant green would feel exceedingly offended were he still to be called "an oxford freshman?" chapter iii. mr. verdant green endeavours to keep his spirits up by pouring spirits down. it was the evening of the fifth of november; the day which the protestant youth of england dedicate to the memory of that martyr of gunpowder, the firework faux, and which the youth of oxford, by a three months' anticipation of the calendar, devote to the celebration of those scholastic sports for which the day of st. scholastica the virgin was once so famous.* --- * town and gown disturbances are of considerable antiquity. fuller and matthew paris give accounts of some which occurred as early as the year . these disputes not unfrequently terminated fatally to some of the combatants. one of the most serious town and gown rows on record took place on the day of st. scholastica the virgin, february th, , when several lives were lost on either side. the university was at [footnote continues next page] -=- [an oxford freshman ] rumour with its hundred tongues had spread far and wide the news, that a more than ordinary demonstration would be made of the might of town, and that this demonstration would be met by a corresponding increase of prowess on the side of gown. it was darkly whispered that the purlieus of jericho would send forth champions to the fight. it was mentioned that the parish of st. thomas would be powerfully represented by its bargee lodgers. it was confidently reported that st. aldate's** would come forth in all its olden strength. it was told as a fact that st. clement's had departed from the spirit of clemency, and was up in arms. from an early hour of the evening, the townsmen had gathered in threatening groups; and their determined aspect, and words of chaff, had told of the coming storm. it was to be a tremendous town and gown! the poet has forcibly observed- "strange that there should such diff'rence be, 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee!" but the difference between town and gown, is not to be classed with the tweedledum and tweedledee difference. it is something more than a mere difference of two letters. the lettered gown lorded it over the unlettered town: the plebeian town was perpetually snubbed by the aristocratic gown. if gown even wished to associate with town, he could only do so under certain restrictions imposed by the statutes; and town was thus made to feel exceedingly honoured by the gracious condescension of gown. but town, moreover, maintained its existence, that it might contribute to the pleasure and amusements, the needs and necessities, of gown. and very expensively was town occasionally made to pay for its existence; so expensively indeed, that if it had not --- [cont.] that time in the lincoln diocese; and grostete, the bishop, placed the townspeople under an interdict, from which they were not released till , and then only on condition that the mayor and sixty of the chief burgesses should, on every anniversary of the day of st. scholastica, attend st. mary's church and offer up mass for the souls of the slain scholars; and should also individually present an offering of one penny at the high altar. they, moreover, paid a yearly fine of marks to the university, with the penalty of an additional fine of the same sum for every omission in attending at st. mary's. this continued up to the time of the reformation, when it gradually fell into abeyance. in the fifteenth year of elizabeth, however, the university asserted their claim to all arrears. the matter being brought to trial, it was decided that the town should continue the annual fine and penance, though the arrears were forgiven. the fine was yearly paid on the th of february up to our own time: the mayor and chief burgesses attended at st. mary's, and made the offering at the conclusion of the litany, which, on that occasion, was read from the altar. this was at length put an end to by convocation in the year . -=- --- ** corrupted by oxford pronunciation (which makes magdalen ~maudlin~) into st. ~old's~. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] been for the great interest which town assumed on gown's account, the former's business-life would have soon failed. but, on many accounts, or rather, ~in~ many accounts, gown was deeply indebted to town; and, although gown was often loth to own the obligation, yet town never forgot it, but always placed it to gown's credit. occasionally, in his early freshness, gown would seek to compensate town for his obliging favours; but town would gently run counter to this wish, and preferred that the evidences of gown's friendly intercourse with him should accumulate, until he could, with renewed interest (as we understand from the authority of an aged pun), obtain his payments by degrees. when gown was absent, town was miserable: it was dull; it did nothing; it lost its customer-y application to business. when gown returned, there was no small change, - the benefit was a sovereign one to town. notes, too, passed between them; of which, those received by town were occasionally of intrinsic value. town thanked gown for these, - even thanked him when his civility had only been met by checks, - and smirked, and fawned, and flattered; and gown patronised town, and was offensively condescending. what a relief then must it have been to the pent-up feelings of town, when the saturnalia of a guy-faux day brought its usual license, and town could stand up against gown and try a game of fisticuffs! and if, when there was a cry "to arms!" we could always settle the dispute in an english fashion with those arms with which we have been supplied by nature, there would then, perhaps, be fewer weeping widows and desolate orphans in the world than there are just at present. on the evening of the fifth of november, then, mr. bouncer's rooms were occupied by a wine-party; and, among the gentlemen assembled, we noticed (as newspaper reporters say), mr. verdant green, mr. charles larkyns, mr. fosbrooke, mr. smalls, and mr. blades. the table was liberally supplied with wine; and a "dessert at eighteen-pence per head," - as mr. bouncer would afterwards be informed through the medium of his confectioner's bill; - and, while an animated conversation was being held on the expected town and gown, the party were fortifying themselves for the ~emeute~ by a rapid consumption of the liquids before them. our hero, and some of the younger ones of the party, who had not yet left off their juvenile likings, were hard at work at the dessert in that delightful, disregardless-of-dyspepsia manner, in which boys so love to indulge, even when they have passed into university ~men~. as usual, the ~bouquet~ of the wine was somewhat interfered with by those narcotic odours, which, to a smoker, are as the gales of araby the blest. [an oxford freshman ] mr. blades was conspicuous among the party, not only from his dimensions, - or, as he phrased it, from "his breadth of beam," - but also from his free-and-easy costume. "to get himself into wind," as he alleged, mr. blades had just been knocking the wind out of the honourable flexible shanks (youngest son of the earl of buttonhole), a tuft from christ church, who had left his luxurious rooms in the canterbury quad chiefly for the purpose of preparing himself for the forthcoming town and gown, by putting on the gloves with his boating friend. the bout having terminated by mr. flexible shanks having been sent backwards into a tray of wine-glasses with which mr. filcher was just entering the room, the gloves were put aside, and the combatants had an amicable set-to at a bottle of carbonell's "forty-four," which mr. bouncer brought out of a wine-closet in his bed-room for their especial delectation. mr. blades, who was of opinion that, in dress, ease should always be consulted before elegance, had not resumed that part of his attire of which he had divested himself for fistianic purposes; and, with a greater display of linen than is usually to be seen in society, was seated comfortably in a lounging chair, smoking the pipe of peace. since he had achieved the proud feat of placing the brazenface boat at the head of the river, mr. blades had gained increased renown, more especially in his own college, where he was regarded in the light of a tutelary river deity; and, as training was not going on, he was now enabled to indulge in a second glass of wine, and also in the luxury of a cigar. mr. blades' shirt-sleeves were turned up so as to display the anatomical proportion of his arms; and little mr. bouncer, with the grave aspect of a doctor feeling a pulse, was engaged in fingering his deltoid and biceps muscles, and in uttering panegyrics on his friend's torso-of-hercules condition. "my gum, billy!" (it must be observed, ~en passant~, that, although the name given to mr. blades at an early age was frank, yet that when he was not called "old blades," he was always addressed as "billy," - it being a custom which has obtained in universities, that wrong names should be familiarly given to certain gentlemen, more as a mark of friendly intimacy than of derision or caprice.) "my gum, billy!" observed mr. bouncer, "you're as hard as nails! what an extensive assortment of muscles you've got on hand, - to say nothing about the arms. i wish i'd got such a good stock in trade for our customers to-night; i'd soon sarve 'em out, and make 'em sing peccavi." "the fact is," said mr. flexible shanks, who was leaning smoking against the mantelpiece behind him, "billy is like a respectable family of bivalves - he is nothing but mussels." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "or like an old turk," joined in mr. bouncer, "for he's a regular mussulman." "oh! shanks! bouncer!" cried charles larkyns, "what stale jokes! do open the window, somebody, - it's really offensive." "ah!" said mr. blades, modestly, "you only just wait till footelights brings the pet, and then you'll see real muscles." "it was rather a good move," said mr. cheke, a gentleman commoner of corpus, who was lounging in an easy chair, smoking a meerschaum through an elastic tube a yard long, - "it was rather a good move of yours, fossy," he said, addressing himself to mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, "to secure the pet's services. the feller will do us some service, and will astonish the ~oi polloi~ no end." "oh! how prime it ~will~ be," cried little mr. bouncer, in ecstacies with the prospect before him, "to see the pet pitching into the cads, and walking into their small affections with his one, two, three! and don't i just pity them when he gets them into chancery! were you ever in chancery, giglamps?" "no, indeed!" replied the innocent mr. verdant green; "and i hope that i shall always keep out of it: lawsuits are "so very disagreeable and expensive." mr. bouncer had only time to remark ~sotto voce~ to mr. flexible shanks, "it is so jolly refreshing to take a rise out of old giglamps!" when a knock at the oak was heard; and, as mr. bouncer roared out, "come in!" the knocker entered. he was rather dressy in his style of costume, and wore his long dark hair parted in the middle. opening the door, and striking into an attitude, he exclaimed in a theatrical tone and manner: "scene, mr. bouncer's rooms in brazenface: in the centre a table, at which mr. b. and party are discovered drinking log-juice, and smoking cabbage-leaves. door, left, third entrance; enter the putney pet. slow music; lights half-down." and standing on one side, the speaker motioned to a second gentleman to enter the room. there was no mistaking the profession of this gentleman; even the inexperience of mr. verdant green did not require to be informed that the putney pet was a prizefighter. "bruiser" was plainly written in his personal appearance, from his hard-featured, low-browed, battered, hang-dog face, to his thickset frame, and the powerful muscular development of the upper part of his person. his close-cropped thatch of hair was brushed down tightly to his head, but was permitted to burst into the luxuriance of two small ringlets, which dangled in front of each huge ear, and were as carefully curled and oiled as though they had graced the face of beauty. the pet was attired in a dark olive-green cutaway coat, buttoned [an oxford freshman ] over a waistcoat of a violent-coloured plaid, -a pair of white cord trousers that fitted tightly to the leg, - and a white-spotted blue handkerchief, which was twisted round a neck that might have served as a model for the minotaur's. in his mouth, the pet cherished, according to his wont, a sprig of parsley; small fragments of which herb he was accustomed to chew and spit out, as a pleasing relief to the monotony of conversation. <vg .jpg> the pet, after having been proclaimed victor in more than one of those playfully frolicsome "frolics of the fancy," in which nobly born but ignobly-minded "corinthians" formerly invested so much interest and money, had at length matched his powers against the gentleman who bore the title of "the champion of the ring"; but, after a protracted contest of two hours and a half, in which one hundred and nineteen rounds had been fought, the pet's eyes had been completely closed up by an amusing series of blows from the heavy fists of the more skilful champion; and as the pet, moreover, was so battered and bruised, and was altogether so "groggy" that he was barely able to stand up to be knocked down, his humane second had thrown up the sponge in acknowledgment of his defeat. but though unable to deprive the champion of his belt, yet - as ~tintinnabulum's life~ informed its readers on the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] following sunday, in its report of this "matchless encounter," - the putney pet had "established a reputation;" and a reputation ~is~ a reputation, even though it be one which may be offensive to the nostrils. retiring, therefore, from the more active public duties of his profession, he took unto himself a wife and a beershop, - for it seems to be a freak of "the fancy," when they retire from one public line to go into another, - and placing the former in charge of the latter, the pet came forth to the world as a "professor of the noble art of self-defence." it was in this phase of his existence, that mr. fosbrooke had the pleasure of forming his acquaintance. mr. fosbrooke had received a card, which intimated that the pet would have great pleasure in giving him "~lessons in the noble and manly art of self-defence, either at the gentleman's own residence, or at the pet's spacious sparring academy, , cribb court, drury lane, which is fitted up with every regard to the comfort and convenience of his pupils. gloves are provided. n.b. - ratting sports at the above crib every evening. plenty of rats always on hand. use of the pit gratis.~" mr. fosbrooke, having come to the wise conclusion that every englishman ought to know how to be able to use his fists in case of need, and being quite of the opinion of the gentleman who said: - "my son should even learn to box, for do we not meet with imposing toll-keepers, and insolent cabmen? and, as he can't call them out, he should be able to knock them down,"* at once put himself under the pet's tuition; and, as we have before seen, still kept up his practice with the gloves, when he had got to his own rooms at brazenface. but the pet had other oxford pupils than mr. fosbrooke; and he took such an affectionate interest in their welfare, that he came down from town two or three times in each term, to see if his pupils' practice had made them perfect in the art. one of the pet's pupils, was the gentleman who had now introduced him to mr. bouncer's rooms. his name was foote, but he was commonly called "footelights;" the addition having been made to his name by way of ~sobriquet~ to express his unusual fondness for the stage, which amounted to so great a passion, that his very conversation was redolent of "the footlights." he had only been at st. john's a couple of terms, and mr. fosbrooke had picked up his acquaintance through the medium of the pet, and had afterwards made him known to most of the men who were now assembled at mr. bouncer's wine. "your servant, gents!" said the pet, touching his forehead, and making a scrape with his leg, by way of salutation. --- * "a bachelor of arts", act i. -=- [an oxford freshman ] "hullo, pet!" returned mr. bouncer; "bring yourself to an anchor, my man." the pet accordingly anchored himself by dropping on to the edge of a chair, and placing his hat underneath it; while huz and buz smelt suspiciously round his legs, and looked at him with an expression of countenance which bore a wonderful resemblance to that which they gazed upon. "never mind the dogs; they're amiable little beggars," observed mr. bouncer, "and they never bite any one except in play. now then, pet, what sort of liquors are you given to? here are claret liquors, port liquors, sherry liquors, egg-flip liquors, cup liquors. you pays your money, and you takes your choice! "well, sir, thankee!" replied the pet, "i ain't no ways pertikler, but if you ~have~ sich a thing as a glass o' sperrits, i'd prefer that - if not objectionable." "in course not, pet! always call for what you like. we keep all sorts of liquors, and are allowed to get drunk on the premises. ain't we, giglamps?" firing this raking shot as he passed our hero, little mr. bouncer dived into the cupboard which served as his wine-bin, and brought therefrom two bottles of brandy and whiskey which he set before the pet. "if you like gin or rum, or cherry-brandy, or old old-tom, better than these liquors," said mr. bouncer, astonishing the pet with the resources of a college wine-cellar, "just say the word, and you shall have them. 'i can call spirits from the vasty deep;' as shikspur says. how will you take it, pet? neat, or adulterated? are you for ~callidum cum~, or ~frigidum sine~ - for hot-with, or cold-without?" "i generally takes my sperrits 'ot, sir - if not objectionable," replied the pet deferentially. whereupon mr. bouncer seizing his speaking-trumpet, roared through it from the top of the stairs, "rob-ert! rob-ert!" but, as mr. filcher did not answer the summons, mr. bouncer threw up the window of his room, and bellowed out "rob-ert" in tones which must have been perfectly audible in the high street. "doose take the feller, he's always over at the buttery;" said the incensed gentleman. "i'll go up to old sloe's room, and get his kettle," said mr. smalls; "he teas all day long to keep himself awake for reading. if he don't mind, he'll blow himself up with his gunpowder tea before he can take his double-first." by the time mr. smalls had re-appeared with the kettle, mr. filcher had thought it prudent to answer his master's summons. "did you call, sir?" asked the scout, as though he was doubtful on that point. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "call!" said mr. bouncer, with great irony; "oh, no! of course not! i should rather think not! do you suppose that you are kept here that parties may have the chance of hollering out their lungs for you? don't answer me, sir! but get some hot water, and some more glasses; and be quick about it." mr. filcher was gone immediately; and, in three minutes, everything was settled to mr. bouncer's satisfaction, and he gave mr. filcher farther orders to bring up coffee and anchovy toast, at half-past eight o'clock. "now, pet, my <vg .jpg> beauty!" said the little gentleman, "you just walk into the liquors; because you've got some toughish work before you, you know." the pet did not require any pressing, but did as he was told; and, bestowing a collective nod on the company, drank their healths with the prefatory remark, "i looks to-~wards~ you gents!" "will you poke a smipe, pet?" asked mr. bouncer, rather enigmatically; but, as he at the same time placed before pet a "yard of clay" and a box of cigars, the professor of the art of self-defence perceived that he was asked to smoke a pipe. "that's right, pet!" said the honourable flexible shanks, condescendingly, as the prizefighter scientifically filled the bowl of his pipe; "i'm glad to see you join us in a bit of smoke. we're all ~baccy~-nalians now!" "shanks, you're incorrigible!" said charles larkyns; "and don't you remember what the ~oxford parodies~ say?" and in his clear, rich voice, mr. larkyns sang the two following verses to the air of "love not:"- smoke not, smoke not, your weeds nor pipes of clay! cigars they are made from leaves of cauliflowers;- [an oxford freshman ] things that are doomed no duty e'er to pay;- grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours. smoke not - smoke not! smoke not, smoke not, the weed you smoke may change the healthfulness of your stomachic tone; things to the eye grow queer and passing strange; all thoughts seem undefined - save one - to be alone! smoke not - smoke not! "i know what you're thinking about, giglamps," said mr. bouncer, as charles larkyns ceased his parody amid an approving clatter of glasses; "you were thinking of your first weed on the night of smalls' quiet party: wer'nt you now, old feller? ah, you've learnt to poke a smipe, beautiful, since then. pet, here's your health. i'll give you a toast and s~i~ntiment, gentlemen. may the gown give the town a jolly good hiding!" the sentiment was received with great applause, and the toast was drunk with all the honours, and followed by the customary but inappropriate chorus, "for he's a jolly good fellow!" without the singing of which mr. bouncer could not allow any toast to pass. "how many cads could you lick at once, one off and the other on?" asked mr. fosbrooke of the pet, with the air of boswell when he wanted to draw out the doctor. "well, sir," said the pet, with the modesty of true genius, "i wouldn't be pertickler to a score or so, as long as i'd got my back well up agin some'ut, and could hit out." "what an effective tableau it would be!" observed mr. foote, who had always an eye to dramatic situations. "enter the pet, followed by twenty townspeople. first t.p. - yield, traitor! pet - never! the man who would yield when ordered to do so, is unworthy the name of a pet and an englishman! floors the twenty t.p.'s one after the other. tableau, blue fire. why, it would surpass the british sailor's broadsword combat for six, and bring down the house." "talking of bringing down", said mr. blades, "did you remember to bring down a cap and gown for the pet, as i told you?" "well, i believe those ~were~ the stage directions," answered mr. foote; "but, really, the wardrobe was so ill provided that it would only supply a cap. but perhaps that will do for a super." "if by a super you mean a supernumerary, footelights," said mr. cheke, the gentleman commoner of corpus, "then the pet isn't one. he's the leading character of what you would call the ~dramatis personae.~" "true," replied mr. foote, "he's cast for the hero; though he will create a new ~role~ as the walking-into-them gentleman." "you see, footelights," said mr. blades, "that the pet is to [ adventures of mr. verdant green] lead our forces; and we depend upon him to help us on to victory: and we must put him into academicals, not only because the town cads must think he is one of us, but also because the proctors might otherwise deprive us of his services - and old towzer, the senior proctor, in particular, is sure to be all alive. who's got an old gown?" "i will lend mine with pleasure," said mr. verdant green. "but you'll want it yourself," said mr. blades. "why, thank you," faltered our hero, "i'd rather, i think, keep within college. i can see the - the fun - yes, the fun - from the window." "oh, blow it, giglamps!" ejaculated mr. bouncer, "you'll never go to do the mean, and show the white feather, will you?" "music expressive of trepidation," murmured mr. foote, by way of parenthesis. "but," pursued our hero, apologetically, "there will be, i dare say, a large crowd." "a very powerful ~caste~, no doubt," observed mr. foote. "and i may get my - yes, my spectacles broken; and then" - "and then, giglamps," said mr. bouncer, "why, and then you shall be presented with another pair as a testimonial of affection from yours truly. come, giglamps, don't do the mean! a man of your standing, and with a chest like that!" and the little gentleman sounded on our hero's shirt-front, as doctors do when they stethoscope a patient. "come, giglamps, old feller, you mustn't refuse. you didn't ought to was, as shakespeare says." "pardon me! not shakespeare, but wright, in the 'green bushes,' " interrupted mr. foote, who was as painfully anxious as mr. payne collier himself that the text of the great poet should be free from corruptions. so mr. verdant green, reluctantly, it must be confessed, suffered himself to be persuaded to join that section of the gown which was to be placed under the leadership of the redoubted pet; while little mr. bouncer, who had gone up into mr. sloe's rooms, and had vainly endeavoured to persuade that gentleman to join in the forthcoming ~melee~, returned with an undergraduate's gown, and forthwith invested the pet with it. "i don't mind this 'ere mortar-board, sir," remarked the professor of the noble art of self-defence, as he pointed to the academical cap which surmounted his head, "i don't mind the mortar-board, sir; but i shall never be able to do nothink with this 'ere toggery on my shudders. i couldn't use my mawleys no how!" and the pet illustrated his remark in a professional manner, by sparring at an imaginary opponent in a feeble and unscientific fashion. [an oxford freshman ] "but you can tie the tail-curtain round your shoulders - like this!" said mr. fosbrooke, as he twisted his own gown tightly round him. but the pet had taken a decided objection to the drapery: "the costume would interfere with the action," as mr. foote remarked, "and the management of a train requires great practice." "you see, sir," said the pet, "i ain't used to the feel of it, and i couldn't go to business properly, or give a straight nosender no how. but the mortar-board ain't of so much consekvence." so a compromise was made; and it was agreed that the pet was to wear the academicals until he had arrived at the scene of action, where he could then pocket the gown, and resume it on any alarm of the proctor's approach. "here, giglamps, old feller! get a priming of fighting-powder!" said little mr. bouncer to our hero, as the party were on the point of sallying forth; "it'll make you hit out from your shoulder like a steam-engine with the chill off." and, as mr. bouncer whispered to charles larkyns, "so he kept his spirits up by pouring spirits down," verdant - who felt extremely nervous, either from excitement or from fear, or from a pleasing mixture of both sensations-drank off a deep draught of something which was evidently not drawn from nature's spring or the college pump; for it first took away his breath, and made his eyes water; and it next made him cough, and endeavour to choke himself; and it then made his face flush, and caused him to declare that "the first snob who 'sulted him should have a sound whopping". "brayvo, giglamps!" cried little mr. bouncer, as he patted him on the shoulder; "come along! you're the right sort of fellow for a town and gown, after all!" chapter iv. mr. verdant green discovers the difference between town and gown. it was ten minutes past nine, and tom,* with a sonorous voice, was ordering all college gates to be shut, when the wine party, which had just left mr. bouncer's room, passed round the corner of st. mary's, and dashed across the high. the town and gown had already begun. --- * the great bell of christ church. it tolls times each evening at ten minutes past nine o'clock (there being students on the foundation) and marks the time for the closing of the college gates. "tom" is one of the lions of oxford. it formerly belonged to oseney abbey, and weighs about , pounds, being more than double the weight of the great bell of st. paul's. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] as usual, the town had taken the initiative; and, in a dense body, had made their customary sweep of the high street, driving all before them. after this gallant exploit had been accomplished to the entire satisfaction of the oppidans, the town had separated into two or three portions, which had betaken themselves to the most probable fighting points, and had gone where glory waited them, thirsting for the blood, or, at any rate, for the bloody noses of the gowned aristocrats. woe betide the luckless gownsman, who, on such an occasion, ventures abroad without an escort, or trusts to his own unassisted powers to defend himself! he is forthwith pounced upon by some score of valiant townsmen, who are on the watch for these favourable opportunities for a display of their personal prowess, and he may consider himself very fortunate if he is able to get back to his college with nothing worse than black eyes and bruises. it is so seldom that the members of the oxford snobocracy have the privilege afforded them of using their fists on the faces and persons of the members of the oxford aristocracy, that when they ~do~ get the chance, they are unwilling to let it slip through their fingers. dark tales have, indeed, been told, of solitary and unoffending undergraduates having, on such occasions, not only received a severe handling from those same fingers, but also having been afterwards, through their agency, bound by their own leading strings to the rails of the radcliffe, and there left ignominiously to struggle, and shout for assistance. and darker tales still have been told of luckless gownsmen having been borne "leg and wing" fashion to the very banks of the isis, and there ducked, amidst the jeers and taunts of their persecutors. but such tales as these are of too dreadful a nature for the conversation of gownsmen, and are very properly believed to be myths scandalously propagated by the town. the crescent moon shone down on mr. bouncer's party, and gave ample light to light ~them~ on ~their~ prey. a noise and shouting, - which quickly made our hero's bob-acreish resolutions ooze out at his fingers' ends, - was heard coming from the direction of oriel street; and a small knot of gownsmen, who had been cut off from a larger body, appeared, manfully retreating with their faces to the foe, fighting as they fell back, but driven by superior numbers up the narrow street, by st. mary's hall, and past the side of spiers's shop into the high street. "gown to the rescue!" shouted mr. blades as he dashed across the street; "come on, pet! here we are in the thick of it, just in the nick of time!" and, closely followed by charles larkyns, mr. fosbrooke, mr. smalls, mr. bouncer, mr. flexible [an oxford freshman ] shanks, mr. cheke, mr. foote, and our hero, and the rest of the party, they soon plunged ~in medias res~. the movement was particularly well-timed, for the small <vg .jpg> body of gownsmen were beginning to get roughly handled; but the succour afforded by the pet and his party soon changed the aspect of affairs; and, after a brief skirmish, there was a temporary cessation of hostilities. as reinforcements poured in on either side, the mob which represented the town, wavered, and spread themselves across on each side of the high; while a huge, lumbering bargeman, who appeared to be the generalissimo of their forces, delivered himself of a brief but energetic speech, in which he delivered his opinion of gownsmen in general, and his immediate foes in particular, in a way which would have to be expressed in proper print chiefly by blanks, and which would have assuredly entailed upon him a succession of five-shilling fines, had he been in a court of justice, and before a magistrate. "here's a pretty blank, i don't think!" he observed in conclusion, as he pointed to mr. verdant green, who was nervously settling his spectacles, and wishing himself safe back in his own rooms; "i would'nt give a blank for such a blank blank. i'm blank if he don't look as though he'd swaller'd a blank codfish, and had bust out into blank barnacles!" as the bargee was apparently regarded by his party as a gentleman of infinite humour, his highly-flavoured blank remarks were received by them with shouts of laughter; while our hero obtained far more of the ~digito monstrari~ share of public notice than he wished for. for some brief space, the warfare between the rival parties of town and gown continued to be one merely of words - a mutual discharge of ~epea pteroenta~ (~vulgariter~ "chaff"), in which a small amount of sarcasm was mingled with a large [ adventures of mr. verdant green] share of vituperation. at length, a slang rhyme of peculiar offensiveness was used to a wadham gentleman, which so exasperated him that he immediately, by way of a forcible reply, sent his fist full into the speaker's face. on this, a collision took place between those who formed the outside of the crowd; and the gowns flocked together to charge ~en masse~. mr. verdant green was not quite aware of this sudden movement, and, for a moment, was cut off from the rest. this did not escape the eyes of the valiant bargee, who had already <vg .jpg> singled out our hero as the one whom he could most easily punish, with the least chance of getting quick returns for his small profits. forthwith, therefore, he rushed to his victim, and aimed a heavy blow at him, which verdant only half avoided by stooping. instinctively doubling his fists, our hero found that necessity was, indeed, the mother of invention; and, with a passing thought of what would be his mother's and aunt virginia's feelings could they see him fighting in the public streets with a common bargeman, he contrived to guard off the second blow. but at the next furious l[ ]unge of the bargee he was not quite so fortunate, and, receiving that gentleman's heavy fist full in his forehead, he staggered backwards, and was only prevented from measuring his length on the pavement by falling against the iron gates of st. mary's. the delighted bargee was just on the point of putting the ~coup de grace~ to his attack, when, to verdant's inexpressible delight and relief, his lumbering antagonist was sent sprawling by a well-directed blow on his right ear. charles larkyns, who had kept a friendly eye on our hero, had spied his condition, and had sprung to his assistance. he was closely followed by the pet, who had divested himself of the gown which had encumbered his shoulders, and was now freely striking out [an oxford freshman ] in all directions. the fight had become general, and fresh combatants had sprung up on either side. "keep close to me, verdant," said charles larkyns, - quite unnecessarily, by the way, as our hero had no intention of <vg .jpg> doing otherwise until he saw a way to escape; "keep close to me, and i'll take care you are not hurt." "here ye are!" cried the pet, as he set his back against the stone-work flanking the iron gates of the church, immediately in front of one of the curiously twisted pillars of the porch;* "come on, half a dozen of ye, and let me have a rap at your smellers!" and he looked at the mob in the "come one, come --- * the porch was erected in by order of archbishop laud. in the centre of the porch is a statue of the virgin with the child in her arms, holding a small crucifix; which at the time of its erection gave such offence to the puritans that it was included in the articles of impeachment against the archbishop. the statue remains to this day. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] all defiant" fashion of fitz-james; while charles larkyns and verdant set their backs against the church gates, and prepared for a rush. the bargee came up furious, and hit out wildly at charles larkyns; but science was more than a match for brute force; and, after receiving two or three blows which caused him to shake his head in a don't-like-it sort of way, he endeavoured to turn his attention to mr. verdant green, who, with head in air, was taking the greatest care of his spectacles, and endeavouring to ward off the indiscriminate lunges of half a dozen townsmen. the bargee's charitable designs on our hero were, however, frustrated by the opportune appearance of mr. blades and mr. cheke, the gentleman- commoner of corpus, who, in their turn, were closely followed by mr. smalls and mr. flexible shanks; and mr. blades exclaiming, "there's a smasher for your ivories, my fine fellow!" followed up his remark with a practical application of his fist to the part referred to; whereupon the bargee fell back with a howl, and gave vent to several curse-ory observations, and blank remarks. all this time the pet was laying about him in the most determined manner; and, to judge from his professional observations, his scientific acquirements were in full play. he had agreeable remarks for each of his opponents; and, doubtless, the punishment which they received from his stalwart arms came with more stinging force when the parts affected were pointed out by his illustrative language. to one gentleman he would pleasantly observe, as he tapped him on the chest, "bellows to mend for you, my buck!" or else, "there's a regular rib-roaster for you!" or else, in the still more elegant imagery of the ring, "there's a squelcher in the breadbasket, that'll stop ~your~ dancing, my kivey!" while to another he would cheerfully remark, "your head-rails were loosened there, wasn't they?" or, "how about the kissing-trap?" or, "that draws the bung from the beer-barrel i'm a thinkin'." while to another he would say, as a fact not to be disputed, "you napp'd it heavily on your whisker-bed, didn't you?" or, "that'll raise a tidy mouse on your ogle, my lad!" or, "that'll take the bark from your nozzle, and distil the dutch pink for you, won't it?" while to another he would mention as an interesting item of news, "now we'll tap your best october!" or, "there's a crack on your snuff-box!" or, "that'll damage your potato-trap!" or else he would kindly inquire of one gentleman, "what d'ye ask a pint for your cochineal dye?" or would amiably recommend another that, as his peepers were a goin' fast, he'd best put up the shutters, because the early-closing movement ought to be follered out. all this was done in the cheeriest manner; while, at the same [an oxford freshman ] time, the pet proved himself to be not only a perfect master of his profession, but also a skilful adept in those figures of speech, or "nice derangements of epitaphs," as mrs. malaprop calls them, in which the admirers of the fistic art so much delight. at every blow, a fresh opponent either fell or staggered off; the supremacy of the pet was complete, and his claim to be considered a professor of the noble and manly art of self-defence was triumphantly established. "the putney pet" was a decidedly valuable acquisition to the side of gown. <vg .jpg> soon the crowd became thinner, as those of the town who liked to give, but not to receive hard blows, stole off to other quarters; and the pet and his party would have been left peaceably to themselves. but this was not what they wanted, as long as fighting was going on elsewhere; even mr. verdant green began to feel desperately courageous as the town took to their heels, and fled; and, having performed prodigies of valour in almost knocking down a small cad who had had the temerity to attack him, our hero felt himself to be a hero indeed, and announced his intention of pursuing the mob, and sticking close to charles larkyns, - taking especial care to do the latter. "all the savage soul of ~fight~ was up"; and the gown following the scattered remnant of the flying town, ran them round by all saints' church, and up the turl. here another town and gown party had fought their way from the corn-market; and the gown, getting considerably the worst of the conflict, had taken refuge within exeter college by the express order of the senior proctor, the rev. thomas tozer, more familiarly known as "old towzer." he had endeavoured to assert his proctorial authority over the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mob of the townspeople; but the ~profanum vulgus~ had not only scoffed and jeered him, but had even torn his gown, and treated his velvet sleeves with the indignity of mud; while the only fireworks which had been exhibited on that evening had been let off in his very face. pushed on, and hustled by the mob, and only partially protected by his marshal and bulldogs,* he was saved from further indignity by the arrival of a small knot of gownsmen, who rushed to his rescue. their number was too small, however, to make head against the mob, and the best that they could do was to cover the proctor's retreat. now, the rev. thomas tozer was short, and inclined to corpulence, and, although not wanting for courage, yet the exertion of defending himself from a superior force, was not only a fruitless one, but was, moreover, productive of much unpleasantness and perspiration. deeming, therefore, that discretion was the better part of valour, he fled (like those who tended, or ~ought~ to have attended to, the flocks of mr. norval, sen.) "for safety and for succour;" and, being rather short of the necessary article of wind, by the time that he had reached exeter college, he had barely breath enough left to tell the porter to keep the gate shut until he had assembled a body of gownsmen to assist him in capturing those daring ringleaders of the mob who had set his authority at defiance. this was soon done; the call to arms was made, and every exeter man who was not already out, ran to "old towzer's" assistance. "now, porter," said mr. tozer, "unbar the gate without noise, and i will look forth to observe the position of the mob. gentlemen, hold yourselves in readiness to secure the ringleaders." the porter undid the wicket, and the rev. thomas tozer cautiously put forth his head. it was a rash act; for, no sooner had his nose appeared round the edge of the wicket, than it received a flattening blow from the fist of an active gentleman, who, like a clever cricketer, had been on the lookout for an opportunity to get in to his adversary's wicket. "oh, this is painful! this is very painful!" ejaculated mr. tozer, as he rapidly drew in his head. "close the wicket directly, porter, and keep it fast." it was like closing the gates of hougomont. the active gentleman who had damaged mr. tozer's nose threw himself against the wicket, his comrades assisted him, and the porter had some difficulty in obeying the proctor's orders. --- * the marshal is the proctor's chief officer. the name of "bull-dogs" is given to the two inferior officers who attend the proctor in his nightly rounds. -=- [an oxford freshman ] "oh, this is painful!" murmured the rev. thomas tozer, as he applied a handkerchief to his bleeding nose; "this is painful, this is very painful! this is exceedingly painful, gentlemen!" he was immediately surrounded by sympathizing undergraduates, who begged him to allow them at once to charge the town; but "old towzer's" spirit seemed to have been aroused by the indignity to which he had been forced so publicly to submit, and he replied that, as soon as the bleeding <vg .jpg> had ceased, he would lead them forth in person. an encouraging cheer followed this courageous resolve, and was echoed from without by the derisive applause of the town. when mr. tozer's nose had ceased to bleed, the signal was given for the gates to be thrown open; and out rushed proctor, marshal, bull-dogs, and undergraduates. the town was in great force, and the fight became desperate. to the credit of the town, be it said, they discarded bludgeons and stones, and fought, in john bull fashion, with their fists. scarcely a stick was to be seen. singling out his man, mr. tozer made at him valiantly, supported by his bull-dogs, and a small band of gownsmen. but the heavy gown and velvet sleeves were a grievous hindrance to the proctor's prowess; and, although supported on either side by his two attendant bull-dogs. yet [ adventures of mr. verdant green] the weight of his robes made poor mr. tozer almost as harmless as the blind king of bohemia between his two faithful knights at the battle of crecy; and, as each of the party had to look to, and fight for himself, the senior proctor soon found himself in an awkward predicament. the cry of "gown to the rescue!" therefore, fell pleasantly on his ears; and the reinforcement headed by mr. charles larkyns and his party, materially improved the aspect of affairs on the side of gown. knocking down a cowardly fellow, who was using his heavy-heeled boots on the body of a prostrate undergraduate, mr. blades, closely followed by the pet, dashed in to the proctor's assistance; and never in a town and gown was assistance more timely rendered; for the rev. thomas tozer had just received his first knock-down blow! by the help of mr. blades the fallen chieftain was quickly replaced upon his legs; while the pet stepped before him, and struck out skilfully right and left. ten more minutes of scientific pugilism, and the fate of the battle was decided. the town fled every way; some round the corner by lincoln college; some up the turl towards trinity; some down ship street; and some down by jesus college, and market street. a few of the more resolute made a stand in broad street; but it was of no avail; and they received a sound punishment at the hands of the gown, on the spot, where, some three centuries before, certain mitred gownsmen had bravely suffered martyrdom.* now, the rev. thomas tozer was a strict disciplinarian, and, although he had so materially benefited by the pet's assistance, yet, when he perceived that that pugilistic gentleman was not possessed of the full complement of academical attire, the duties of the proctor rose superior to the gratitude of the man; and, with all the sternness of an ancient roman father, he said to the pet, "why have you not on your gown, sir?" "i ax your pardon, guv'nor!" replied the pet, deferentially; "i didn't so much care about the mortar-board, but i couldn't do nothin' nohow with t'other thing, so i pocketted him; but some cove must have gone and prigged him, for he ain't here." "i am unable to comprehend the nature of your language, sir," observed the rev. thomas tozer, angrily; for, what with his own excitement, and the shades of evening which had stolen over and obscured the pet's features, he was unable to read --- * the ~exact~ spot where archbishop cranmer and bishops ridley and latimer suffered martyrdom is not known. "the most likely supposition is, that it was in the town ditch, the site of which is now occupied by the houses in broad street, which are immediately opposite the gateway of balliol college, or the footpath in front of them, where an extensive layer of wood-ashes is known to remain." - (parker). -=- [an oxford freshman ] that gentleman's character and profession in his face, and therefore came to the conclusion that he was being chaffed by some impudent undergraduate. "i don't in the least understand you, sir; but i desire at once to know your name, and college, sir!" the putney pet stared. if the rev. thomas tozer had asked him for the name of his academy, he would have been able to have referred him to his spacious and convenient sparring academy, , cribb court, drury lane; but the inquiry <vg .jpg> for his "college," was, in the language of his profession, a "regular floorer". mr. blades, however, stepped forward, and explained matters to the proctor, in a satisfactory manner. "well, well!" said the pacified mr. tozer to the pet; "you have used your skill very much to our advantage, and displayed pugilistic powers not unworthy of the athletes, and xystics of the noblest days of rome. as a palaestrite you would have gained palms in the gymnastic exercises of the circus maximus. you might even have proved a formidable rival to dares, who, as you, mr. blades, will remember, caused the death of butes at hector's tomb. you will remember, mr. blades, that virgil makes mention of his 'humeros latos,' and says:- 'nec quisquam ex agmine tanto audet adire virum, manibusque inducere caestus;' * --- * aen., book v., . -=- [ the adventures of mr. verdant green] which, in our english idiom, would signify, that every one was afraid to put on the gloves with him. and, as your skill," resumed mr. tozer, turning to the pet, "has been exercised in defence of my person, and in upholding the authority of the university, i will overlook your offence in assuming that portion of the academical attire, to which you gave the offensive epithet of 'mortar-board ;' more especially, as you acted at the suggestion and bidding of those who ought to have known better. and now, go home, sir, and resume your customary head-dress; and - stay! here's five shillings for you." "i'm much obleeged to you, guv'nor," said the pet, who had been listening with considerable surprise to the proctor's quotations and comparisons, and wondering whether the gentleman named dares, who caused the death of beauties, was a member of the p.r., and whether they made it out a case of manslaughter against him? and if the gaining palms in a circus was the customary "flapper-shaking" before "toeing the scratch for business?" - "i'm much obleeged to you, guv'nor," said the pet, as he made a scrape with his leg; "and, whenever you ~does~ come up to london, i 'ope you'll drop in at cribb court, and have a turn with the gloves!" and the pet, very politely, handed one of his professional cards to the rev. thomas tozer. a little later than this, a very jovial supper party might have been seen assembled in a principal room at "the roebuck." to enable them to be back within their college walls, and save their gates, before the hour of midnight should arrive, the work of consuming the grilled bones and welch-rabbits was going on with all reasonable speed, the heavier articles being washed down by draughts of "heavy." after the cloth was withdrawn, several songs of a miscellaneous character were sung by "the professional gentlemen present," including, "by particular request," the celebrated "marble halls" song of our hero, which was given with more coherency than on a previous occasion, but was no less energetically led in its "you-loved-me-still-the-same" chorus by mr. bouncer. the pet was proudly placed on the right hand of the chairman, mr. blades; and, when his health was proposed, "with many thanks to him for the gallant and plucky manner in which he had led on the gown to a glorious victory," the "three times three," and the "one cheer more," and the "again," and "again," and the "one other little un!" were uproariously given (as mr. foote expressed it), "by the whole strength of the company, assisted by messrs. larkyns, smalls, fosbrooke, flexible shanks, cheke, and verdant green." the forehead of the last-named gentleman was decorated with a patch of brown paper, from which arose an aroma, as [an oxford freshman ] though of vinegar. the battle of "town and gown" was over; and mr. verdant green was among the number of the wounded. chapter v. mr. verdant green is favoured with mr. bouncer's opinions regarding an undergraduate's epistolary communications to his maternal relative. "come in, whoever you are! don't mind the dogs!" shouted little mr. bouncer, as he lay, in an extremely inelegant attitude, in, a red morocco chair, which was <vg .jpg> considerably the worse for wear, chiefly on account of the ill-usage it had to put up with, in being made to represent its owner's antagonist, whenever mr. bouncer thought fit to practise his fencing. "oh! it's you and giglamps is it, charley? i'm just refreshing myself with a weed, for i've been desperately hard at work." "what! harry bouncer devoting himself to study! but this is the age of wonders," said charles larkyns, who entered the room in company with mr. verdant green, whose forehead still betrayed the effects of the blow he had received a few nights before. "it ain't reading that i meant," replied mr. bouncer, "though that always ~does~ floor me, and no mistake! and what's the use of their making us peg away so at latin and greek, i can't make out. when i go out into society, i don't want to talk about those old greek and latin birds that they make us get up. i don't want to ask any old dowager i happen to fall in with at a tea-fight, whether she believes all the crammers that herodotus tells us, or whether she's well up in the naughty tales and rummy nuisances that we have to pass no end of our years in getting by heart. and when i go to a ball, and do the light fantastic, i don't want to ask my partner what she thinks about euripides, or whether she prefers ovid's metamorphoses to ovid's art of love, and all that sort of thing; and as for requesting her to do me a problem of [ the adventures of mr. verdant green] euclid, instead of working me any glorified slippers or woolleries, i'd scorn the ~h~action. i ain't like you, charley, and i'm not ~guv~ in the classics: i saw too much of the beggars <vg .jpg> while i was at eton to take kindly to 'em; and just let me once get through my greats, and see if i don't precious soon drop the acquaintance of those old classical parties!" "no you won't, old fellow!" said charles larkyns; "you'll find that they'll stick to you through life, just like poor relations, and you won't be able to shake them off. and you ought not to wish to do so, more especially as, in the end, you will find them to have been very rich relations." "a sort of 'o my prophetic soul, my uncle!' i suppose, master charley." observed mr. bouncer; "but what i meant when i said that i had been hard at work was, that i had been writing a letter; and, though i say it that ought not to say it, i flatter myself it's no end of a good letter." "is it a love-letter?" asked charles larkyns, who was leaning against the mantelpiece, amusing himself with a cigar which he had taken from mr. bouncer's box. "a love-letter?" replied the little gentleman, contemptuously - "my gum! no; i should rayther think not! i may have done many foolish things in my life, but i can't have the tender passion laid to my charge. no! i've been writing my letter to the mum: i always write to her once a term." mr. bouncer, it must be observed, always referred to his maternal relative (his father had been long dead) by the epithet of "the mum." "once a term!" said our hero, in a tone of surprise; "why i always write home once or twice every week." "you don't mean to say so, giglamps!" replied mr. bouncer, with admiration. "well, some fellers have what you call a genius for that sort of thing, you see, though what [an oxford freshman ] you can find to tell 'em i can't imagine. but if i'd gone at that pace i should have got right through the guide book by this time, and then it would have been all u p, and i should have been obleeged to have invented another dodge. you don't seem to take, giglamps?" "well, i really don't know what you mean," answered our hero. "why," continued mr. bouncer, "you see, there's only the mum and fanny at home: fanny's my sister, giglamps - a regular stunner - just suit you! - and they, you understand, don't care to hear about wines, and town and gowns, and all that sort of thing; and, you see, i ain't inventive and that, and can't spin a yarn about nothing; so, as soon as ever i came up to oxford, i invested money in a guide book; and i began at the beginning, and i gave the mum three pages of guide book in each letter. of course, you see, the mum imagines it's all my own observation; and she thinks no end of my letters, and says that they make her know oxford almost as well as if she lived here; and she, of course, makes a good deal of me; and as oxford's the place where i hang out, you see, she takes an interest in reading something about the jolly old place." "of course," observed mr. verdant green - "my mamma - mother, at least - and sisters, always take pleasure in hearing about oxford; but your plan never occurred to me." "it's a first-rater, and no mistake," said mr. bouncer, confidently, "and saves a deal of trouble. i think of taking out a patent for it - 'bouncer's complete letter-writer,' - or get some literary swell to put it into a book, 'with a portrait of the inventor;' it would be sure to sell. you see, it's what you call amusement blended with information; and that's more than you can say of most men's letters to the home department." "cocky palmer's, for instance," said charles larkyns, "which always contained a full, true, and particular account of his wheatley doings. he used to go over there, verdant, to indulge in the noble sport of cock-fighting, for which he had a most unamiable and unenviable weakness; that was the reason why he was called 'cocky' palmer. his elder brother - who was a pembroke man - was distinguished by the pronomen 'snuffy,' to express his excessive partiality for that titillating compound." "and snuffy palmer," remarked mr. bouncer, "was a long sight better feller than cocky, who was in the very worst set in brazenface. but cocky did the wheatley dodge once too often, and it was a good job for the king of oude when his friend cocky came to grief, and had to take his name off the books." "you look as though you wanted a translation of this," [ adventures of mr. verdant green] said charles larkyns to our hero, who had been listening to the conversation with some wonderment, - understanding about as much of it as many persons who attend the st. james's theatre understand the dialogue of the french plays. "there are college ~cabalia~, as well as jewish; and college surnames are among these. 'the king of oude' was a man of the name of towlinson, who always used to carry into hall with him a bottle of the '~king of oude's sauce~,' for which he had some mysterious liking, and without which he professed himself unable to get through his dinner. at one time he was a great friend of cocky palmer's, and used to go with him to the cock-fights at wheatley - that village just on the other side shotover hill - where we did a 'constitutional' the other day. cocky, as our respected friend says, 'came to grief,' but was allowed to save himself from expulsion by voluntarily, or rather in-voluntarily, taking his name off the books. when his connection with cocky had thus been ruthlessly broken, 'the king' got into a better set, and retrieved his character." "the moral of which, my beloved giglamps," observed mr. bouncer, "is, that there are as many sets of men in a college as there are of quadrilles in a ball-room, and that it's just as easy to take your place in one as it is in another; but, that when you've once taken up your position, you'll find it ain't an easy thing, you see, to make a change for yourself, till the set is broken up. whereby, giglamps, you may comprehend what a grateful bird you ought to be, for charley's having put you into the best set in brazenface." mr. verdant green was heard to murmur, "sensible of honour, - grateful for kindness, - endeavours to deserve," - and the other broken sentiments which are commonly made use of by gentlemen who get upon their legs to return thanks for having been "tea-potted." "if you like to hear it," said mr. bouncer, "i'll read you my letter to the mum. it ain't very private; and i flatter myself, giglamps, that it'll serve you as a model." "let's have it by all means, harry," said charles larkyns. "it must be an interesting document; and i am curious to hear what it is that you consider a model for epistolary communi- [an oxford freshman ] cation from an undergraduate to his maternal relative." "off she goes then;" observed mr. bouncer; "lend me your ears - list, list, o list! as the recruiting-sergeant or some other feller says in the play. 'now, my little dears! look straight for'ard - blow your noses, and don't brathe on the glasses!'" and mr. bouncer read the letter, interspersing it with explanatory observations:- ~" 'my dearest mother, - i have been quite well since i left you, and i hope you and fanny have been equally salubrious.~'- that's doing the civil, you see: now we pass on to statistics. - '~we had rain the day before yesterday, but we shall have a new moon to-night.~' - you see, the mum always likes to hear about the weather, so i get that out of the almanack. now we get on to the interesting part of the letter. - '~i will now tell you a little about merton college.~' - that's where i had just got to. we go right through the guide book, you understand. - '~the history of this establishment is of peculiar importance, as exhibiting the primary model of all the collegiate bodies in oxford and cambridge. the statutes of walter de merton had been more or less copied by all other founders in succession; and the whole constitution of both universities, as we now behold them, may be, not without reason, ascribed to the liberality and munificence of this truly great man.~' - truly great man! that's no end good, ain't it? observed mr. bouncer, in the manner of the 'mobled queen is good' of polonius. - '~his sagacity and wisdom led him to profit by the spirit of the times; his opulence enabled him to lay the foundation of a nobler system; and the splendour of his example induced others, in subsequent ages, to raise a superstructure at once attractive and solid.~' - that's piling it up mountaynious, ain't it? - '~the students were no longer dispersed through the streets and lanes of the city, dwelling in insulated houses, halls, inns, or hostels, subject to dubious control and precarious discipline.~' - that's stunnin', isn't it? just like those ~times~ fellers write. - '~but placed under the immediate superintendence of tutors and governors, and lodged in comfortable chambers. this was little less than an academical revolution; and a new order of things may be dated from this memorable era. love to fanny; and, believe me your affectionate son, henry bouncer.~' - if the mum don't say that's first-rate, i'm a dutchman! you see, i don't write very close, so that this respectably fills up three sides of a sheet of note-paper. oh, here's something over the leaf. '~p.s. i hope stump and rowdy have got something for me, because i want some tin very bad.~' that's all! well, giglamps! don't you call that quite a model letter for a university man to send to his tender parient?" "it certainly contains some interesting information," said our hero, with a quaker-like indirectness of reply. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "it seems to me, harry," said charles larkyns, "that the pith of it, like a lady's letter, lies in the postscript - the demand for money." "you see," observed the little gentleman in explanation, "stump and rowdy are the beggars that have got all my property till i come of age next year; and they only let me have money at certain times, because it's what they facetiously call ~tied-up~: though ~why~ they've tied it up, or ~where~ they've tied it up, i hav'nt the smallest idea. so, though i tick for nearly everything, - for men at college, giglamps, go upon tick as naturally as the crows do on the sheep's backs, - i sometimes am rather hard up for ready dibs; and then i give the mum a gentlemanly hint of this, and she tips me. by-the-way," continued mr. bouncer, as he re-read his postscript, "i must alter the word 'tin' into 'money'; or else she'll be taking it literally, just as she did with the ponies. know what a pony is, giglamps?" "why, of course i do," replied mr. verdant green; "besides which, i have kept one: he was an exmoor pony, - a bay one, with a long tail." "oh, giglamps! you'll be the death of me some fine day," faintly exclaimed little mr. bouncer, as he slowly recovered from an exhausting fit of laughter. "you're as bad as the mum was. a pony means twenty-five pound, old feller. but the mum didn't know that; and when i wrote to her and said, 'i'm very short; please to send me two ponies;' meaning, of course, that i wanted fifty pound; what must she do, but write <vg .jpg> back and say, that, with some difficulty, she had procured for me two shetland ponies, and that, as i was short, she hoped they would suit my size. and, before i had time to send her another letter, the two little beggars came. well, i couldn't ride them both at once, like the fellers do at astley's; so i left one at tollitt's, and i rode the other down the high, as cool as a cucumber. you see, though i ain't a giant, and that, yet i was big for the pony; and as shelties are rum-looking little beggars, i dare say we look'd rather queer and original. but the proctor happened to see me; and he cut up so doosed rough about it, that i couldn't show on the shelties any [an oxford freshman ] more; and tollitt was obliged to get rid of them for me." "well, harry," said charles larkyns, "it is to tollitt's that you must now go, as you keep your horse there. we want you to join us in a ride." "what!" cried out mr. bouncer, "old giglamps going outside an oxford hack once more! why, i thought you'd made a vow never to do so again?" <vg .jpg> "why, i certainly did so," replied mr. verdant green; "but charles larkyns, during the holidays - the vacation, at least - was kind enough to take me out several rides; so i have had a great deal of practice since last term." "and you don't require to be strapped on, or to get inside and pull down the blinds?" inquired mr. bouncer. "oh dear, no!" the fact was, that during the long vacation charles larkyns had paid considerable attention to our hero's equestrian exercises; not so much, it must be confessed, out of friendship for his friend, as that he might have an opportunity of riding by the side of that friend's fair sister mary, for whom he entertained something more than a partiality. and herein, probably, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mr. charles larkyns showed both taste and judgment. for there may be many things less pleasant in this world than cantering down a green warwickshire lane - on some soft summer's day when the green is greenest and the blossoms brightest - side by side with a charming girl whose nature is as light and sunny as the summer air and the summer sky. pleasant it is to watch the flushing cheek glow rosier than the rosiest of all the briar-roses that stoop to kiss it. pleasant it is to look into the lustrous light of tender eyes; and to see the loosened ringlets reeling with the motion of the ride. pleasant it is to canter on from lane to lane over soft moss, and springy turf, between the high honeysuckle hedges, and the broad-branched beeches that meet overhead in a tangled embrace. but pleasanter by far than all is it, to hug to one's heart the darling fancy that she who is cantering on by your side in all the witchery of her maiden beauty, holds you in her dearest thoughts, and dowers you with all her wealth of love. pleasant rides indeed, pleasant fancies, and pleasant day-dreams, had the long vacation brought to charles larkyns! "well, come along, verdant," said mr. larkyns, "we'll go to charley symonds' and get our hacks. you can meet us, harry, just over the maudlin bridge; and we'll have a canter along the henley road." so mr. verdant green and his friend walked into holywell street, and passed under the archway up to symonds' stables. but the nervous trepidation which our hero had felt in the same place on a previous occasion returned with full force when his horse was led out in an exuberantly playful and "fresh" condition. the beast he had bestridden during his long vacation rides, with his sister and his (and sister's) friend, was a cob-like steed, whose placidity of temper was fully equalled by its gravity of demeanour; and who would as soon have thought of flying over a five-bar gate as he would of kicking up his respectable heels both behind and before in the low-lived manner recorded of the ethiopian "old joe." but, if "charley symonds'" hacks had been of this pacific and easygoing kind, it is highly probable that mr. c. s. and his stud would not have acquired that popularity which they had deservedly achieved. for it seems to be a ~sine-qua-non~ with an oxford hack, that to general showiness of exterior, it must add the power of enduring any amount of hard riding and rough treatment in the course of the day which its ~pro-tem.~ proprietor may think fit to inflict upon it; it being an axiom which has obtained, as well in universities as in other places, that it is of no advantage to hire a hack unless you get out of him as much as you can for your money; you won't want to use him to-morrow, so you don't care about over-riding him to-day. [an oxford freshman ] but, all this time, mr. verdant green is drawing on his gloves, in the nervous manner that tongue-tied gentlemen go through the same performance during the conversational spasms of the first-set of quadrilles; the groom is leading out the exuberantly playful quadruped on whose back mr. verdant green is to disport himself; charles larkyns is mounted; the november sun is shining brightly on the perspective of the <vg .jpg> yard and stables, and the tower of new college; the dark archway gives one a peep of holywell street; while the cold blue sky is flecked with gleaming pigeons. at last, mr. verdant green has scrambled into his saddle, and is riding cautiously down the yard, while his heart beats in an alarming alarum-like way. as they ride under the archway, there, in the little room underneath it, is mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, selecting his particular tandem-whip from a group of some two score of similar whips kept there in readiness for their respective owners. "charley, you're a beast!" says mr. fosbrooke, politely addressing himself to mr. larkyns; "i wanted bouncer to come with me in the cart to abingdon, and i find that the little man is engaged to you." upon which, mr. fosbrooke playfully raising his tandem-whip, mr. verdant green's horse [ adventures of mr. verdant green] plunges, and brings his rider's head into concussion with the lamp which hangs within the gateway; whereupon, the hat falls off, and our hero is within an ace of following his hat's example. by a powerful exertion, however, he recovers his proper <vg .jpg> position in the saddle, and proceeds in an agitated and jolted condition, by charles larkyns's side, down holywell street, past the music room,* and round by the long wall, and over magdalen bridge. here they are soon joined by mr. bouncer, mounted, according to the custom of small men, on one of tollitt's tallest horses, of ever-so-many hands high. as by this time our hero has got more accustomed to his steed, his courage gradually returns, and he rides on with his companions very pleasantly, enjoying the magnificent distant view of his university. when they have passed cowley, some very tempting fences are met with; and mr. bouncer and mr. larkyns, being unable to resist their fascinations, put their horses at them, and leap in and out of the road in an insane vandycking kind of way; while an excited agriculturist, whose smock-frock heaves with indignation, pours down denunciations on their heads. "blow that bucolical party!" says mr. bouncer; "he's no right to interfere with the enjoyments of the animals. if they break the fences, it ain't their faults; it's the fault of the farmers for not making the fences strong enough to bear them. come along, giglamps! put your beast at that hedge! he'll take you over as easy as if you were sitting in an arm-chair." but mr. verdant green has doubts about the performance of this piece of equestrian upholstery; and, thinking that the arm-chair would soon become a reclining one, he is firm in his refusal to put the leaping powers of his steed to the test. but having, afterwards, obtained some "jumping powder" at a certain small road-side hostelry to which mr. bouncer has piloted the party, our hero, on his way back to oxford, screws up his courage sufficiently to gallop his steed desperately at a ditch which yawns, a foot wide, before him. but to his immense astonishment - not to say, disgust - the obtuse-minded quadruped gives a leap which would have taken him clear over a canal; and our hero, not being prepared for this very needless --- * now used for the museum of the oxford architectural society. -=- [an oxford freshman ] display of agility, flies off the saddle at a tangent, and finds that his "vaulting ambition" had o'erleap'd itself, and fallen on the other side - of the ditch. "it ain't your fault, giglamps!" says mr. bouncer, when he has galloped after verdant's steed, and has led it up to him, and when he has ascertained that his friend is not in <vg .jpg> the least hurt; but has only broken - his glasses; "it ain't your fault, giglamps, old feller! it's the clumsiness of the hack. he tossed you up, and couldn't catch you again!" and so our hero rides back to oxford. but, before the term has ended, he has become more accustomed to oxford hacks, and has made himself acquainted with the respective merits of the stables of messrs. symonds, tollitt, and pigg; and has, moreover, ridden with the drag, and, in this way, hunted the fabled foxes of bagley wood, and whichwood forest. chapter vi. mr. verdant green feathers his oars with skill and dexterity. november is not always the month of fog and mist and dulness. oftentimes there are brilliant exceptions to that generally-received rule of depressing weather which, in this month (according to our lively neighbours), induces the natives of our english metropolis to leap in crowds from the bridge of waterloo. there are in november, days of calm beauty, which are peculiar to that month - that kind of calm beauty which is so often seen as the herald of decay. but, whatever weather the month may bring to oxford, it never brings gloom or despondency to oxford men. they are a happily constituted set of beings, and can always create their own amusements; they crown minerva with flowers without [ adventures of mr. verdant green] heeding her influenza, and never seem to think that the rosy-bosomed hours may be laid up with bronchitis. winter and summer appear to be pretty much the same to them: reading and recreation go hand-in-hand all the year round; and, among other pleasures, that of boating finds as many votaries in cold november, as it did in sunny june - indeed, the chillness of <vg .jpg> the air, in the former month, gives zest to an amusement which degenerates to hard labour in the dog-days. the classic isis in the month of november, therefore, whenever the weather is anything like favourable, presents an animated scene. eight-oars pass along, the measured pull of the oars in the rowlocks marking the time in musical cadence with their plashing dip in the water; perilous skiffs flit like fire-flies over the glassy surface of the river; men lounge about in the house-boats and barges, or gather together at king's, or hall's, and industriously promulgate small talk and tobacco-smoke. all is gay and bustling. although the feet of the strollers in the christ church meadows rustle through the sere and yellow leaf, yet rich masses of brown and russet foliage still hang upon the [an oxford freshman ] trees, and light up into gold in the sun. the sky is of a cold but bright blue; the distant hills and woods are mellowed into sober purplish-gray tints, but over them the sun looks down with that peculiar red glow which is only seen in november. <vg .jpg> it was one of these bright days of "the month of gloom," that mr. verdant green and mr. charles larkyns being in the room of their friend mr. bouncer, the little gentleman inquired, "now then! what are you two fellers up to? i'm game for anything, i am! from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter." "i'm afraid," said charles larkyns, "that we can't accommodate you in either amusement, although we are going down to the river, with which verdant wishes to renew his acquaintance. last term, you remember, you picked him up in the gut, when he had been played with at pitch-and-toss in a way that very nearly resembled manslaughter." "i remember, i remember, how old giglamps floated by!" said mr. bouncer; "you looked like a half-bred mermaid giglamps." "but the gallant youth," continued mr. larkyns, "undismayed by the perils from which he was then happily preserved, has boldly come forward and declared himself a worshipper of isis, in a way worthy of the ancient egyptians, or of tom moore's epicurean." "well! stop a minute you fellers," said mr. bouncer; "i must have my beer first: i can't do without my bass relief. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] i'm like the party in the old song, and i likes a drop of good beer." and as he uncorked a bottle of bass, little mr. bouncer sang, in notes as musical as those produced from his own tin horn- 'twixt wet and dry i always try between the extremes to steer; though i always shrunk from getting -- intoxicated, i was always fond of my beer! for i likes a drop of good beer! i'm particularly partial to beer! porter and swipes always give me the - stomach-ache! but that's never the case with beer!" "bravo, harry!" cried charles larkyns; "you roar us an' twere any nightingale. it would do old bishop still's heart good to hear you; and 'sure ~i~ think, that ~you~ can drink with any that wears a hood,' or that ~will~ wear a hood when you take your bachelor's, and put on your gown." and charles larkyns sang, rather more musically than mr. bouncer had done, from that song which, three centuries ago, the bishop had written in praise of good ale,- let back and side go bare, go bare, both hand and foot go cold: but, belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old. they were soon down at the river side, where verdant was carefully put into a tub (alas! the dear, awkward, safe, old things are fast passing away; they are giving place to suicidal skiffs, and will soon be numbered among the boats of other days!)- and was started off with almost as much difficulty as on his first essay. the tub - which was, indeed, his old friend the ~sylph,~ - betrayed an awkward propensity for veering round towards folly bridge, which our hero at first failed to overcome; and it was not until he had performed a considerable amount of crab-catching, that he was enabled to steer himself in the proper direction. charles larkyns had taken his seat in an outrigger skiff (so frail and shaky that it made verdant nervous to look at it), and, with one or two powerful strokes, had shot ahead, backed water, turned, and pulled back round the tub long before verdant had succeeded in passing that eccentric mansion, to which allusion has before been made, as possessing in the place of cellars, an ingenious system of small rivers to thoroughly irrigate its foundation - a hydropathic treatment which may (or may not) be agreeable in venice, but strikes one as being decidedly cold and comfortless when applied to oxford, - at any rate, in the month of november. walking on the lawn which stretched from this house towards the river, our hero espied two extremely pretty young ladies, whose hearts he endeavoured at once to take captive by dis- [an oxford freshman ] playing all his powers in that elegant exercise in which they saw him engaged. it may reasonably be presumed that mr. verdant green's hopes were doomed to be blighted. let us leave him, and take a look at mr. bouncer. mr. bouncer had been content to represent the prowess of his college in the cricket-field, and had never aspired to any fame as an oar. the exertions, as well as the fame, of aquatic honours, he had left to mr. blades, and those others like him, who considered it a trifle to pull down to iffley and back <vg .jpg> again, two or three times a day, at racing pace with a fresh spurt put on every five minutes. mr. bouncer, too, had an antipathy to eat beefsteaks otherwise than in the state in which they are usually brought to table; and, as it seemed a ~sine qua non~ with the gentleman who superintended the training for the boat-races, that his pupils should daily devour beefsteaks which had merely looked at the fire, mr. bouncer, not having been brought up to cannibal habits, was unable to conform himself to this, and those other vital principles which seemed to regulate the science of aquatic training. the little gentleman moreover, did not join with the "torpids" (as the second boats of a college are called), either, because he had a soul above them, - he would be ~aut caesar, aut nullus~; either in the eight, or nowhere, - or else, because even the torpids would cause him more trouble and pleasurable pain than would be agreeable to him. when mr. bouncer sat down on any hard substance, he liked to be able to do so without betraying any emotion that the action caused him personal discomfort; and he had noticed that many of the torpids - not to mention one or two of the eight - were more particular than young men usually are about having a very easy, soft, and yielding chair to sit on. mr. bouncer, too, was of opinion that continued blisters [ adventures of mr. verdant green] were both unsightly and unpleasant; and that rawness was bad enough when taken in conjunction with beefsteaks, without being extended to one's own hands. he had also a summer passion for ices and creams, which were forbidden luxuries to one in training, - although (paradoxical as it may seem to say so) they trained on isis! he had also acquired a bad habit of getting up in one day, and going to bed in the next, - keeping late hours, and only rising early when absolutely compelled to do so in order to keep morning chapel - a habit which the trainer would have interfered with, considerably to the little gentleman's advantage. he had also an amiable weakness for pastry, port, claret, "et ~hock~ genus omne"; and would have felt it a cruelty to have been deprived of his daily modicum of "smoke"; and in all these points, boat-training would have materially interfered with his comfort. mr. bouncer, therefore, amused himself equally as much to his own satisfaction as if he had been one of the envied eight, by occasionally paddling about with charles larkyns in an old pair-oar, built by davis and king, and bought by mr. bouncer of its late brazenfacian proprietor, when that gentleman, after a humorous series of plucks, rustications, and heavy debts, had finally been compelled to migrate to the king's bench, for that purification of purse and person commonly designated "whitewashing." when charles larkyns and his partner did not use their pair-oar, the former occupied his outrigger skiff; and the latter, taking huz and buz on board a sailing boat, tacked up and down the river with great skill, the smoke gracefully curling from his meerschaum or short black pipe, - for mr. bouncer disapproved of smoking cigars at those times when the wind would have assisted him to get through them. "hullo, giglamps! here we are! as the clown says in the pantermime," sung out the little gentleman as he came up with our hero, who was performing some extraordinary feats in full sight of the university crew, who were just starting from their barge; "you get no end of exercise out of your tub, i should think, by the style you work those paddles. they go in and out beautiful! splish, splash; splish, splash! you must be one of the ~wherry~ identical row-brothers-row, whose voices kept tune and whose ears kept time, you know. you ought to go and splish-splash in the freshman's river, giglamps; - but i forgot - you ain't a freshman now, are you, old feller? those swells in the university boats look as though they were bursting with envy - not to say, with laughter," added mr. bouncer, ~sotto voce~. "who taught you to do the dodge in such a stunning way, giglamps?" "why, last term, charles larkyns did," responded mr. verdant green, with the freshness of a freshman still lingering [an oxford freshman ] lovingly upon him. "i've not forgotten what he told me, - to put in my oar deep, and to bring it out with a jerk. but though i make them go as deep as i can, and jerk them out as much as possible, yet the boat ~will~ keep turning round, and i can't keep it straight at all; and the oars are very heavy and unmanageable, and keep slipping out of the rowlocks -" "commonly called ~rullocks~," put in mr. bouncer, as a parenthetical correction, or marginal note on mr. verdant green's words. <vg .jpg> "and when the trinity boat went by, i could scarcely get out of their way; and they said very unpleasant things to me; and, altogether, i can assure you that it has made me very hot." "and a capital thing, too, giglamps, this cold november day," said mr. bouncer; 'i'm obliged to keep my coppers warm with this pea-coat, and my pipe. charley came alongside me just now, on purpose to fire off one of his poetical quotations. he said that i reminded him of beattie's ~minstrel~:- 'dainties he needed not, nor gaud, nor toy, save one short pipe.' i think that was something like it. but you see, giglamps, i haven't got a figure-head for these sort of things like charley has, so i couldn't return his shot; but since then, to me deeply pondering, as those old greek parties say, a fine sample of our superior old crusted jokes has come to hand; and when charley next pulls alongside, i shall tell him that i am like that beggar we read about in old slowcoach's lecture the other day, and that, if i had been in the humour, i could have sung out, io bacche!* ~i owe baccy~ - d'ye see, giglamps? well, old --- * - "si collibuisset, ab ovo "usque ad mala citaret, io bacche!" - hor. sat. lib. i. . -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] feller! you look rather puffed, so clap on your coat; and, if there's a rope's end, or a chain, in your tub, and you'll just pay it out here, i'll make you fast astern, and pull you down the river; and then you'll be in prime condition to work yourself up again. the wind's in our back, and we shall get on jolly." so our hero made fast the tub to his friend's sailing-boat, and was towed as far as the haystack. during the voyage mr. bouncer ascertained that mr. charles larkyns had <vg .jpg> improved some of the shining hours of the long vacation considerably to mr. verdant green's benefit, by teaching him the art of swimming - a polite accomplishment of which our hero had been hitherto ignorant. little mr. bouncer, therefore, felt easier in his mind, if any repetition of his involuntary bath in the gut should befal our hero; and, after giving him (wonderful to say) some correct advice regarding the management of the oars, he cast off the ~sylph,~ and left her and our hero to their own devices. but, profiting by the friendly hints which he had received, mr. verdant green made considerable progress in the skill and dexterity with which he feathered his oars; and he sat in his tub looking as wise as diogenes may (perhaps) have done in ~his~. he moreover pulled the boat back to hall's without meeting with any accident worth mentioning; and when he had got on shore he was highly complimented by mr. blades and a group of boating gentlemen "for the admirable display of science which he had afforded them." mr. verdant green was afterwards taken alternately by charles larkyns and mr. bouncer in their pair-oar; so that, by the end of the term, he at any rate knew more of boating than to accept as one of its fundamental rules, "put your oar in deep, and bring it out with a jerk." in the first week in december he had an opportunity of pulling over a fresh piece of water. one of those inundations occurred to which oxford is so liable, and the meadow-land to the south and west of the city was covered by the flood. boats [an oxford freshman ] plied to and from the railway station in place of omnibuses; the great western was not to be seen for water; and, at the abingdon-road bridge, at cold-harbour, the rails were washed away, and the trains brought to a stand-still. the isis was amplified to the width of the christ church meadows; the broad walk had a peep of itself upside down in the glassy mirror; the windings of the cherwell could only be traced by the trees on its banks. there was "water, water everywhere," and a disagreeable quantity of it too, as those christ church <vg .jpg> men whose ground-floor rooms were towards the meadows soon discovered. mr. bouncer is supposed to have brought out one of his "fine, old, crusted jokes," when he asserted in reference to the inundation, that "nature had assumed a lake complexion." posts and rails, and hay, and a miscellaneous collection of articles, were swept along by the current, together with the bodies of hapless sheep and pigs. but, in spite of these incumbrances, boats of all descriptions were to be seen sailing, pulling, skiffing, and punting, over the flooded meadows. numerous were the disasters, and many were the boats that were upset. indeed, the adventures of mr. verdant green would probably have here terminated in a misadventure, had he not (thanks to charles larkyns) mastered the art of swimming; for he was in mr. bouncer's sailing-boat, which was sailing very merrily over the flood, when its merriness was suddenly checked by its grounding on the stump of a lopped pollard [ adventures of mr. verdant green] willow, and forthwith capsizing. our hero, who had been sitting in the bows, was at once swept over by the sail, and, for a moment, was in great peril; but, disengaging himself from the cordage, he struck out, and swam to a willow whose friendly boughs and top had just formed an asylum for mr. bouncer, who in great anxiety was coaxing huz and buz to swim to the same ark of safety. mr. verdant green and mr. bouncer were speedily rescued from their position, and were not a little thankful for their escape. chapter vii. mr. verdant green partakes of a dove-tart and a spread-eagle. "hullo, giglamps, you lazy beggar!" said the cheery voice of little mr. bouncer, as he walked into our hero's bedroom one morning towards the end of term, and found mr. verdant green in bed, though sufficiently awakened by the sounding of mr. bouncer's octaves for the purposes of conversation; "this'll never do, you know, giglamps! cutting chapel to do the downy! why, what do you mean, sir? didn't you ever learn in the nursery what happened to old daddy longlegs when he wouldn't say his prayers?" "robert ~did~ call me," said our hero, rubbing his eyes; "but i felt tired, so i told him to put in an ~aeger~." "upon my word, young un," observed mr. bouncer, "you're a coming it, you are! and only in your second term, too. what makes you wear a nightcap, giglamps? is it to make your hair curl, or to keep your venerable head warm? nightcaps ain't healthy; they are only fit for long-tailed babbies, and old birds that are as bald as coots; or else for gents that grease their wool with 'thine incomparable oil, macassar,' as the noble poet justly remarks." "it ain't always pleasant," continued the little gentleman, who was perched up on the side of the bed, and seemed in a communicative disposition, "it ain't always pleasant to turn out for morning chapel, is it, giglamps? but it's just like the eels with their skinning: it goes against the grain at first, but you soon get used to it. when i first came up, i was a frightful lazy beggar, and i got such a heap of impositions for not keeping my morning chapels, that i was obliged to have three fellers constantly at work writing 'em out for me. this was rather expensive, you see; and then the dons threatened to take away my term altogether, and bring me to grief, if i didn't be more regular. so i was obliged to make a virtuous resolu- [an oxford freshman ] tion, and i told robert that he was to insist on my getting up in a morning, and i should tip him at the end of term if he succeeded. so at first he used to come and hammer at <vg - .jpg> the door; but that was no go. so then he used to come in and shake me, and try to pull the clothes off; but, you see, i always used to prepare for him, by taking a good supply of boots and things to bed with me; so i <vg - .jpg> was able to take shies at the beggar till he vanished, and left me to snooze peaceably. you see, it ain't every feller as likes to have a wellington boot at his head; but that rascal of a robert is used to those trifles, and i was obliged to try another dodge. this you know was only of a morning when i was in bed. when i had had my breakfast, and got my imposition, and become virtuous again, i used to slang him awful for having let me cut chapel; and then i told him that he must always stand at the door until he heard me out of bed. but, when the morning came, it seemed running such a risk, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] you see, to one's lungs and all those sort of things to turn out of the warm bed into the cold chapel, that i would answer robert when he hammered at the door; but, instead of getting up, i would knock my boots against the floor, as though i was out of bed, don't you see, and was padding about. but that wretch of a robert was too old a bird to be caught with this dodge; so he used to sing out, 'you must show a leg, sir!' and, as he kept on hammering at the door till i ~did~ - for, you see, giglamps, he was looking out for the tip at the end of term, so it made him persevere - and as his beastly hammering used, of course, to put a stopper on my going to sleep again, i used to rush out in a frightful state of wax, and show a leg. and then, being well up, you see, it was no use doing the downy again, so it was just as well to make one's ~twilight~ and go to chapel. don't gape, giglamps; it's beastly rude, and i havn't done yet. i'm going to tell you another dodge - one of old smalls'. he invested money in an alarum, with a string from it tied on to the bed-clothes, so as to pull them off at whatever time you chose to set it. but i never saw the fun of being left high and dry on your bed: it would be a shock to the system which i couldn't stand. but even this dreadful expedient would be better than posting an ~aeger~; which, you know, you didn't ought to was, giglamps. well, turn out, old feller! i've told robert to take your commons* into my room. smalls and charley are coming, and i've got a dove-tart and a spread-eagle." "whatever are they?" asked mr. verdant green. "not know what they are!" cried mr. bouncer; "why a dove-tart is what mortals call a pigeon-pie. i ain't much in tennyson's line, but it strikes me that dove-tarts are more poetical than the other thing; spread-eagle is a barn-door fowl smashed out flat, and made jolly with mushroom sauce, and no end of good things. i don't know how they squash it, but i should say that they sit upon it; i daresay, if we were to inquire, we should find that they kept a fat feller on purpose. but you just come, and try how it eats." and, as mr. verdant green's bedroom barely afforded standing room, even for one, mr. bouncer walked into the sitting-room, while his friend arose from his couch like a youthful adonis, and proceeded to bathe his ambrosial person, by taking certain sanatory measures in splashing about in a species of tub - a per- --- * the rations of bread, butter, and milk, supplied from the buttery. the breakfast-giver tells his scout the names of those ~in~-college men who are coming to breakfast with him. the scout then collects their commons, which thus forms the substratum of the entertainment. the other things are of course supplied by the giver of the breakfast, and are sent in by the confectioner. as to the knives and forks and crockery, the scout produces them from his common stock. -=- [an oxford freshman ] formance which mr. bouncer was wont to term "doing tumbies." <vg .jpg> "what'll you take for your letters, giglamps?" called out the little gentleman from the other room; "the post's in, and here are three for you. two are from women, - young uns i should say, from the regular ups and downs, and right angles: they look like billyduxes. give you a bob for them, at a venture! they may be funny. the other is suspiciously like a tick, and ought to be looked shy on. i should advise you not to open it, but to pitch it in the fire: it may save a fit of the blues. if you want any help over shaving, just say so, giglamps, will you, before i go; and then i'll hold your nose for you, or do anything else that's civil and accommodating. and, when you've done your tumbies, come in to the dove-tart and the spread-eagle." and off went mr. bouncer, making terrible noises with his post-horn, in his strenuous but futile endeavours to discover the octaves. our hero soon concluded his "tumbies" and his dressing (~not~ including the shaving), and made his way to mr. bouncer's rooms, where he did full justice to the dove-tart, and admired the spread-eagle so much, that he thought of bribing the confectioner for the recipe to take home as a christmas-box for his mother. "well, giglamps," said mr. bouncer, when breakfast was over, "to spare the blushes on your venerable cheeks, i won't even so much as refer to the billyduxes; but, i'll only ask, what was the damage of the tick?" "oh! it was not a bill," replied mr. verdant green; "it was a letter about a dog from the man of whom i bought mop last term." "what! filthy lucre?" cried mr. bouncer; "well, i thought, somehow, i knew the fist! he writes just as if he'd learnt from imitating his dogs' hind-legs. let's have a sight of it if it ain't private and confidential!" "oh dear no! on the contrary, i was going to show it to you, and ask your advice on the contents." and verdant [ adventures of mr. verdant green] handed to mr. bouncer a letter, which had been elaborately sealed with the aid of a key, and was directed high up in the left-hand corner to "virdon grene esqre braisenface collidge oxford." "you look beastly lazy, charley!" said mr. bouncer to mr. charles larkyns; "so, while i fill my pipe, just spit out the <vg .jpg> letter, ~pro bono~." and charles larkyns, lying in mr. bouncer's easiest lounging chair, read as follows:- "onnerd sir i tak the libbaty of a dressin of you in respex of a dog which i wor sorry for to ear of your loss in mop which i had the pleshur of sellin of you onnerd sir a going astray and not a turnin hup bein of a unsurtin tempor and guv to a folarin of strandgers which wor maybe as ow you wor a lusein on him onnerd sir bein overdogd at this ere present i can let you have a rale good teryer at a barrging which wold giv sattefacshun onnered sir it wor munth ago i sold to bounser esqre a red smooth air terier dog anserin nam of tug as wor rite down goodun and no mistake onnerd sir the purpurt of this ere is too say as ow i have a hone brother to tug black tann and ful ears and if you wold like him i shold bee prowd too wate on you onnerd sir he wor by robbingsons twister out of mister jones of abingdons fan of witch brede bounser esqre nose on the merritts onnerd sir he is very smal and smooth air and most xlent aither for wood or warter a liter before tug onnerd sir is nam is vermin and he hant got his nam by no mistake as no vermin not even poll katts can live long before him onnerd sir i considders as vermin is very sootble compannion for a gent indors or hout and bein lively wold give amoose- [an oxford freshman ] ment i shall fele it a plesure a waitin on you onnerd sir opin you will pardin the libbaty of a dressin of you but my head wor ful of vermin and i wishd to tel you "onnerd sir yures komand j. looker." "the nasty beggar!" said mr. bouncer, in reference to the last paragraph. "well, giglamps! filthy lucre doesn't tell fibs when he says that tug came of a good breed: but he was so doosed pugnacious, that he was always having set-to's with huz and buz, in the coal-shop just outside the door here; and so, as i'd nowhere else to stow them, i was obliged to give tug away. dr. what's-his-name says, 'let dogs delight to bark and bite, for 'tis their nature to.' but then, you see, it's only a delight when they bite ~somebody else's~ dog; and if dr. what's-his-name had had a kennel of his own, he would'nt have took it so coolly; and, whether it was their nature so to do or not, he wouldn't have let the little beggars, that he fork'd out thirteen bob a-year for to the government, amuse themselves by biting each other, or tearing out each other's eyes; he'd have turn'd them over, don't you see, to his neighbours' dogs, and have let them do the biting department on ~them~. and, altogether, giglamps, i'd advise you to let filthy lucre's vermin alone, and have nothing to do with the breed." so mr. verdant green took his friend's advice, and then took himself off to learn boxing at the hands, and gloves, of the putney pet; for our hero, at the suggestion of mr. charles larkyns, had thought it advisable to receive a few lessons in the fistic art, in order that he might be the better able to defend himself, should he be engaged in a second town and gown. he found the pet in attendance upon mr. foote; and, by their mutual aid, speedily mastered the elements of the art of self-defence. mr. foote's rooms at st. john's were in the further corner to the right-hand side of the quad, and had windows looking into the gardens. when charles had held his court at st. john's, and when the loyal college had melted down its plate to coin into money for the king's necessities, the royal visitor had occupied these very rooms. but it was not on this account alone that they were the show rooms of the college, and that tutors sent their compliments to mr. foote, with the request that he would allow a party of friends to see his rooms. it was chiefly on account of the lavish manner in which mr. foote had furnished his rooms, with what he theatrically called "properties," that made them so sought out: and country lionisers of oxford, who took their impressions of an oxford student's room from those of mr. foote, must have entertained very highly coloured ideas of the internal aspect of the sober-looking old colleges. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] the sitting-room was large and lofty, and was panelled with oak throughout. at the further end was an elaborately carved book-case of walnut wood, filled with books gorgeously bound in every tint of morocco and vellum, with their backs richly tooled in gold. it was currently reported in the college that "footelights" had given an order for a certain number of ~feet~ of books, - not being at all proud as to their contents, - and had laid down the sum of a thousand pounds (or thereabouts) for their binding. this might have been scandal; but the fact of his father being a colossus of (the iron) roads, and indulging his son and heir in every expense, gave some colour to the rumour. the panels were covered with the choicest engravings (all proofs-before-letters), and with water-colour drawings by cattermole, cox, fripp, hunt, and frederick tayler - their wide, white margins being sunk in light gilt frames. above these gleamed groups of armour, standing out effectively (and theatrically), against the dark oak panels, and full of "reflected lights," that would have gladdened the heart of maclise. there were couches of velvet, and lounging chairs of every variety and shape. there was a broadwood's grand pianoforte, on which mr. foote, although uninstructed, could play skilfully. there were round tables and square tables, and writing tables; and there were side tables with statuettes, and swiss carvings, and old china, and gold apostle-spoons, and lava ware, and etruscan vases, and a swarm of spiers's elegant knick-knackeries. there were reading-stands of all sorts; briarean-armed brazen ones that fastened on to the chair you sat in, - sloping ones to rest on the table before you, elaborately carved in open work, and an upright one of severe gothic, like a lectern, where you were to stand and read without contracting your chest. then there were all kinds of stands to hold books: sliding ones, expanding ones, portable ones, heavy fixture ones, plain mahogany ones, and oak ones made glorious by margetts with the arms of oxford and st. john's, carved and emblazoned on the ends. mr. foote's rooms were altogether a very gorgeous instance of a collegian's apartment; and mr. foote himself was a very striking example of the theatrical undergraduate. possessing great powers of mimicry and facial expression, he was able to imitate any peculiarities which were to be observed either in dons or undergraduates, in presidents or scouts. he could sit down at his piano, and give you - after the manner of theodore hook, or john parry - a burlesque opera; singing high up in his head for the prima donna, and going down to his boots for the ~basso profondo~ of the great lablache. he could also draw corks, saw wood, do a bee in a handkerchief, [an oxford freshman ] and make monkeys, cats, dogs, a farm-yard, or a full band, with equal facility. he would also give you mr. keeley, in "betsy baker;" mr. paul bedford, as "i believe you my bo-o-oy"; mr. buckstone, as cousin joe, and "box and cox;" or mr. wright, as paul pry, or mr. felix fluffy. besides the comedians, mr. footelights would also give you the leading tragedians, and would favour you (through his nose) with the popular burlesque imitation of mr. charles kean, as ~hablet~. he <vg .jpg> would fling himself down on the carpet, and grovel there as hamlet does in the play-scene, and would exclaim, with frantic vehemence, "he poisods hib i' the garded, for his estate. his dabe's godzago: the story is extadt, ad writted id very choice italiad. you shall see adod, how the burderer gets the love of godzago's wife." moreover, as his room possessed the singularity of a trap-door leading down into a wine-cellar, mr. "footelights" was thus enabled to leap down into the aperture, and carry on the personation of hamlet in ophelia's grave. as the theatrical trait in his character was productive of much amusement, and as he was also considered to be one of those hilarious fragments of masonry, popularly known as "jolly bricks," mr. foote's society was greatly cultivated; and mr. verdant green struck up a warm friendship with him. but the michaelmas term was drawing to its close. buttery and kitchen books were adding up their sums total; bursars were preparing for battels;* witless men were cramming for --- * battels are the accounts of the expenses of each student. it is stated in todd's ~johnson~ that this singular word is derived from the saxon verb, meaning "to count or reckon." but it is stated in the ~gentleman's magazine~ for , that the word may probably be derived from the low-german word ~bettahlen~, "to pay," whence may come our english word, ~tale~ or ~score~. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] collections;* scouts and bedmakers were looking for tips; and tradesmen were hopelessly expecting their little accounts. and, in a few days, mr. verdant green might have been seen at the railway station, in company with mr. charles larkyns and mr. bouncer, setting out for the manor green, ~via~ london - this being, as is well known, the most direct route from oxford to warwickshire. mr. bouncer, who when travelling was never easy in his mind unless huz and buz were with him in the same carriage, had placed these two interesting specimens of the canine species in a small light box, partially ventilated by means of holes drilled through the top. but huz and buz, not much admiring this contracted mode of conveyance, and probably suffering from incipient asphyxia, in spite of the admonitory kicks against their box, gave way to dismal howls, at the very moment when the guard came to look at the tickets. "can't allow dogs in here, sir! they must go in the locker," said the guard. "dogs?" cried mr. bouncer, in apparent astonishment: "they're rabbits!" "rabbits!" ejaculated the guard, in his turn. "oh, come, sir! what makes rabbits bark?" "what makes 'em bark? why, because they've got the pip, poor beggars!" replied mr. bouncer, promptly. at which the guard graciously laughed, and retired; probably thinking that he should, in the end, be a gainer if he allowed huz and buz to journey in the same first-class carriage with their master. ______________________ chapter viii. mr. verdant green spends a merry christmas and a happy new year. christmas had come; the season of kindness, and hospitality; the season when the streams of benevolence flow full in their channels; the season when the honourable miss hyems indulges herself with ice, while the vulgar jack frost regales himself with cold-without. christmas had come, and had brought with it an old fashioned winter; and, as mr. verdant green stands with his hands in his pockets, and gazes from the drawing-room of his paternal mansion, he looks forth upon a white world. the snow is everywhere. the shrubs are weighed down by masses of it; the terrace is knee-deep in it; the plaster apollo, in the long-walk, is more than knee-deep in it, and is furnished --- * college terminal examinations. -=- [an oxford freshman ] with a surplice and wig, like a half-blown bishop. the distant country looks the very ghost of a landscape: the white-walled cottages seem part and parcel of the snow-drifts around them, -drifts that take every variety of form, and are swept by the wind into faery wreaths, and fantastic caves. the old mill-wheel is locked fast, and gemmed with giant icicles; its slippery stairs are more slippery than ever. golden gorse and purple heather are now all of a colour; orchards put forth blossoms of real snow; the gently swelling hills look bright and dazzling in the wintry sun; the grey church tower has grown from grey to white; nothing looks black, except the swarms of rooks that dot the snowy fields, or make their caws (long as any chancery-suit) to be heard from among the dark branches of the stately elms that form the avenue to the manor-green. it is a rare busy time for the intelligent mr. mole the gardener! he is always sweeping at that avenue, and, do what he will, he cannot keep it clear from snow. as mr. verdant green looks forth upon the white world, his gaze is more particularly directed to this avenue, as though the form of the intelligent mr. mole was an object of interest. from time to time mr. verdant green consults his watch in a nervous manner, and is utterly indifferent to the appeals of the robin-redbreast <vg .jpg> who is hopping about outside, in expectation of the dinner which has been daily given to him. just when the robin, emboldened by hunger, has begun to tap fiercely with his bill against the window-pane, as a gentle hint that the smallest donations of crumbs of comfort will be thankfully received, - mr. verdant green, utterly oblivious of robins in general, and of the sharp pecks of this one in particular, takes no notice of the little redbreast waiter with the bill, but, slightly colouring up, fixes his gaze upon the lodge-gate through which a group of ladies and gentlemen are passing. stepping back for a moment, and stealing a glance at himself in the mirror, mr. verdant green hurriedly arranges and disarranges his hair - pulls about his collar - ties and [ adventures of mr. verdant green] unties his neck-handkerchief-buttons and then unbuttons his coat -takes another look from the window - sees the intelligent mr. mole. (besom in hand) salaaming the party, and then makes a rush for the vestibule, to be at the door to receive them. let us take a look at them as they come up the avenue. ~place aux dames~, is the proper sort of thing; but as there is no rule without its exception, and no adage without its counter-proverb, we will give the gentlemen the priority of description. hale and hearty, the picture of amiability and gentlemanly feeling, comes the rector, mr. larkyns, sturdily crunching the frozen snow, which has defied all the besom powers of the intelligent mr. mole. here, too, is mr. charles larkyns, and, moreover, his friend henry bouncer, esq., who has come to christmas at the rectory. following in their wake is a fourth gentleman attired in the costume peculiar to clergymen, dissenting ministers, linen-drapers' assistants, and tavern waiters. he happens to belong to the first-named section, and is no less a person than the rev. josiah meek, b.a., (st. christopher's coll., oxon.) - who, for the last three months, has officiated as mr. larkyns's curate. he appears to be of a peace-loving, lamb-like disposition; and, though sportive as a lamb when occasion requires, is yet of timid ways and manners. he is timid, too, in voice, - speaking in a feeble treble; he is timid, too, in his address, - more particularly as regards females; and he has mild-looking whiskers, that are far too timid to assume any decided or obtrusive colour, and have fallen back on a generalized whitey-brown tint. but, though timid enough in society, he was bold and energetic in the discharge of his pastoral duties, and had already won the esteem of every one in the parish. so, verdant had been told, when, on his return from college, he had asked his sisters how they liked the new curate. they had not only heard of his good deeds, but they had witnessed many of them in their visits to the schools and among the poor. mary and fanny were loud in his praise; and if helen said but little, it was perhaps because she thought the more; for helen was now of the susceptible age of "sweet seventeen," an age that not only feels warmly but thinks deeply; and, who shall say what feelings and thoughts may lie beneath the pure waters of that sea of maidenhood whose surface is so still and calm? love alone can tell: - love, the bold diver, who can cleave that still surface, and bring up into the light of heaven the rich treasures that are of heaven's own creation. with the four gentlemen come two ladies - young ladies, moreover, who, as penny-a-liners say, are "possessed of con- [an oxford freshman ] siderable personal attractions." these are the misses honeywood, the blooming daughters of the rector's only sister; and they have come from the far land of the north, and are looking as fresh and sweet as their own heathery hills. the roses of health that bloom upon their cheeks have been brought into full blow by the keen, sharp breeze; the shepherd's-plaid shawls drawn tightly around them give the outline of figures that gently swell into the luxuriant line of beauty and grace. altogether, they are damsels who are pleasant to the eye, and very fair to look upon. since they had last visited their uncle four years had passed, and, in that time, they had shot up to womanhood, although they were not yet out of their teens. their father was a landed proprietor living in north northumberland; and, like other landed proprietors who live under the shade of the cheviots, was rich in his flocks, and his herds, and his men-servants and his maid-servants, and his he-asses and his she-asses, and was quite a modern patriarch. during the past summer, the rector had taken a trip to northumberland, in order to see his sister, and refresh himself with a <vg .jpg> clergyman's fortnight at honeywood hall, and he would not leave his sister and her husband until he had extracted from them a promise that they would bring down their two eldest daughters and christmas in warwickshire. this was accordingly agreed to, and, more than that, acted upon; and little mr. bouncer and his sister fanny were asked to meet them; but, to relieve the rector of a superfluity of lady guests, miss bouncer's quarters had been removed to the manor green. it was quite an event in the history of our hero and his sisters. four years ago, they, and kitty and patty honeywood, were mere chits, for whom dolls had not altogether lost their interest, and who considered it as promotion when they sat in the drawing-room on com- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] pany evenings, instead of being shown up at dessert. four years at this period of life makes a vast change in young ladies, and the green and honeywood girls had so altered since last they met, that they had almost needed a fresh introduction to each other. but a day's intimacy made them bosom friends; and the manor green soon saw such revels as it had not seen for many a long year. every night there were (in the language of the play-bills of provincial theatres) "singing and dancing, with a variety of other entertainments;" the "other entertainments" occasionally consisting (as is scandalously affirmed) of a very favourite class of entertainment - popular at all times, but running mad riot at the christmas season - wherein two performers of either sex take their places beneath a white-berried bough, and go through a species of dance, or ~pas de fascination~, accompanied by mysterious rites and solemnities that have been scrupulously observed, and handed down to us, from the earliest age. mr. verdant green, during the short - alas! ~too~ short - christmas week, had performed more polkas than he had ever danced in his life; and, under the charming tuition of miss patty honeywood, was fast becoming a proficient in the ~valse a deux temps~. as yet, the whirl of the dance brought on a corresponding rotatory motion of the brain, that made everything swim before his spectacles in a way which will be easily understood by all bad travellers who have crossed from dover to calais with a chopping sea and a gale of wind. but miss patty honeywood was both good-natured and persevering: and she allowed our hero to dance on her feet without a murmur, and watchfully guided him when his giddy vision would have led them into contact with foreign bodies. [an oxford freshman ] it is an old saying, that gratitude begets love. mr. verdant green had already reached the first part of this dangerous creation, for he felt grateful to the pretty patty for the good-humoured trouble she bestowed on the awkwardness, which he now, for the first time, began painfully to perceive. but, what his gratitude might end in, he had perhaps never taken the trouble to inquire. it was enough to mr. verdant green that he enjoyed the present; and, as to the future, he fully followed out the horatian precept- quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere; * * * nec dulces amores sperne, puer, neque tu choreas. <vg .jpg> it was perhaps ungrateful in our hero to prefer miss patty honeywood to miss fanny bouncer, especially when the latter was staying in the house, and had been so warmly recommended to his notice by her vivacious brother. especially, too, as there was nothing to be objected to in miss bouncer, saving the fact that some might have affirmed she was a trifle too much inclined to ~embonpoint~, and was indeed a bouncer in person as well as in name. especially, too, as miss fanny bouncer was both good-humoured and clever, and, besides being mistress of the usual young-lady accomplishments, was a clever proficient in the fascinating art of photography, and had brought her camera and chemicals, and had not only calotyped mr. verdant green, but had made no end of duplicates of him, in a manner that was suggestive of the deepest admiration and affection. but these sort of likings are not made to rule, and mr. verdant green could see miss fanny [ adventures of mr. verdant green] bouncer approach without betraying any of those symptoms of excitement, under the influence of which we had the privilege to see him, as he gazed from the window of his paternal mansion, and then, on beholding the approaching form of miss patty honeywood, rush wildly to the vestibule. the party had no occasion to ring, for the hall door was already opened for them, and mr. verdant green was soon exchanging a delightful pressure of the hand with the blooming patty. "we were such a formidable party," said that young lady, as she laughed merrily, and thereby disclosed to the enraptured gazer a remarkably even set of white teeth ("all her own, too!" as little mr. bouncer afterwards remarked to the enraptured gazer); "we were such a formidable party," said miss patty, "that papa and mamma declared they would stay behind at the rectory, and would not join in such a visitation." mr. verdant green replies, "oh dear! i am very sorry," and looks remarkably delighted - though it certainly may not be at the absence of the respected couple; and he then proclaims that everything is ready, and that miss bouncer and his sisters had found out some capital words. "what a mysterious communication, verdant!" remarks the rector, as they pass into the house. but the rector is only to be let so far into the secret as to be informed that, at the evening party which is to be held at the manor green that night, a charade or two will be acted, in order to diversify the amusements. the misses honeywood are great adepts in this sort of pastime; so, also, are miss bouncer and her brother. for although the latter does not shine as a mimic, yet, as he is never deserted by his accustomed coolness, he has plenty of the ~nonchalance~ and readiness which is a requisite for charade acting. the miss honeywoods and mr. bouncer have therefore suggested to mr. verdant green and his sisters, that to get up a little amateur performance would be "great fun;" and the suggestion has met with a warm approval. the drawing-room at the manor green opened by large folding-doors to the library; so (as mr. bouncer observed to our hero), "there you've got your stage and your drop-scene as right as a trivet; and, if you stick a lot of candles and lights on each side of the doors in the library, there you'll have a regular flare-up that'll show off your venerable giglamps no end." so charades were determined on; and, when words had been hunted up, a council of war was called. but, as the ladies and gentlemen hold their council with closed doors, we cannot intrude upon them. we must therefore wait till the evening, when the result of their deliberations will be publicly manifested. __________________ [an oxford freshman ] chapter ix. mr. verdant green makes his first appearance on any boards. it is the last night of december. the old year, worn out and spent with age, lies a dying, wrapped in sheets of snow. a stern stillness reigns around. the steps of men are muffled; no echoing footfalls disturb the solemn nature of the time. the little runnels weep icy tears. the dark pines hang out their funereal plumes, and nod with their weight of snow. the elms have thrown off their green robes of joy, and, <vg .jpg> standing up in gaunt nakedness, wildly toss to heaven their imploring arms. the old year lies a dying. silently through the snow steal certain carriages to the portals of the manor green: and, with a ringing of bells and a banging of steps, the occupants disappear in a stream of light that issues from the hall door. mr. green's small sanctum to the right of the hall has been converted into a cloak-room, and is fitted up with a ladies'-maid and a looking-glass, in a manner not to be remembered by the oldest inhabitant. there the finishing stroke of ravishment is given to the toilette disarranged by a long drive through the impeding snow. there miss parkington (whose papa has lately revived his old school friendship with mr. green) discovers, to her unspeakable disgust, that the ten mile drive through the cold has invested her cheek with purple tints, and given to her ~retrousse~ (ill-natured people call it "pug") nose a hue that mocks the turkey's crested fringe. there, too, miss waters (whose paternities had hitherto only been on morning-call terms with the manor green people, but had brushed up their acquaintance now that there was a son of marriageable years and heir to an independent fortune) discovers to her dismay that the joltings received during a six-mile drive through snowed-up lanes, have somewhat [ adventures of mr. verdant green] deteriorated the very full-dress aspect of her attire, and considerably flattened its former balloon-like dimensions. and there, too, miss brindle (whose family have been hunted up for the occasion) makes the alarming discovery that, in the <vg .jpg> lurch which their hack-fly had made at the cross roads, her brother alfred's patent boots had not only dragged off some yards (more or less) of her flounces, but had also - to use her own mystical language - "torn her skirt at the gathers!" all, however, is put right as far as possible. a warm at the sanctum's fire diminishes the purple in miss parkington's cheeks; and the maid, by some hocus-pocus peculiar to her craft, again inflates miss waters into a balloon, and stitches up miss brindle's flounces and "gathers." the ladies join their respective gentlemen, who have been cooling their toes and uttering warm anathemas in the hall; and the party sail, arm-in-arm, into the drawing-room, and forthwith fall to lively remarks on that neutral ground of conversation, the weather. mr. verdant green is there, dressed with elaborate magnificence; but he continues in a state of listless apathy, and is indifferent to the "lively" rattle of the balloon-like miss waters, until john the footman (who is suffering from influenza) rouses him into animation by the magic talisman "bister, bissis, an' the biss "oneywoods;" when he beams through his spectacles in the most benign and satisfied manner. [an oxford freshman ] the misses honeywood are as blooming as usual: the cold air, instead of spoiling their good looks, has but improved their healthy style of beauty; and they smile, laugh, and talk in a perfectly easy, unaffected, and natural manner. mr. verdant green at once makes his way to miss patty honeywood's side, and, gracefully standing beside her, coffee-cup in hand, plunges headlong into the depths of a tangled conversation. <vg .jpg> meanwhile, the drawing-room of the manor green becomes filled in a way that has not been seen for many a long year; and the intelligent mr. mole, the gardener (who has been impressed as an odd man for the occasion, and is served up in a pseudo-livery to make him more presentable), sees more "genteel" people than have, for a long time, been visible to his naked eye. the intelligent mr. mole, when he has afterwards been restored to the bosom of mrs. mole and his family, confides to his equally intelligent helpmate that, in his opinion, "master has guv the party to get husbands for the young ladies" - an opinion which, though perhaps not founded on [ adventures of mr. verdant green] fact so far as it related to the party which was the subject of mr. mole's remark, would doubtless be applicable to many similar parties given under somewhat similar circumstances. it is not improbable that the intelligent mr. mole may have based his opinion on a circumstance - which, to a gentleman of his sagacity, must have carried great weight - namely, that whenever in the course of the evening the hall was made the promenade for the loungers and dancers, he perceived, firstly, that miss green was invariably accompanied by mr. charles larkyns; secondly, that the rev. josiah meek kept miss helen dallying about the wine and lemonade tray much longer than was necessary for the mere consumption of the cooling liquids; and thirdly, that miss fanny, who was a pert, talkative miss of sixteen, was continually to be found there with either mr. henry bouncer or mr. alfred brindle dancing attendance upon her. but, be this as it may, the intelligent mr. mole was impressed with the conviction that mr. green had called his young friends together as to a matrimonial auction, and that his daughters were to be put up without reserve, and knocked down to the highest bidder. all the party have arrived. the weather has been talked over for the last time (for the present); a harp, violin, and a cornet-a-piston from the county town, influenced by the spirit of gin-and-water, are heard discoursing most eloquent music in the dining-room, which has been cleared out for the dance. miss patty honeywood, accepting the offer of mr. verdant green's arm, swims joyously out of the room; other ladies and gentlemen pair, and follow: the ball is opened. a polka follows the quadrille; and, while the dancers rest awhile from their exertions, or crowd around the piano in the drawing-room to hear the balloon-like miss waters play a firework piece of music, in which execution takes the place of melody, and chromatic scales are discharged from her fingers like showers of rockets, mr. verdant green mysteriously weeds out certain members of the party, and vanishes with them up-stairs. when miss waters has discharged all her fireworks, and has descended from the throne of her music-stool, a set of lancers is formed; and, while the usual mistakes are being made in the figures, the dancers find a fruitful subject of conversation in surmises that a charade is going to be acted. the surmise proves to be correct; for when the set has been brought to an end with that peculiar in-and-out tum-tum-tiddle-iddle-tum-tum-tum movement which characterizes the last figure of ~les lanciers~, the trippers on the light fantastic toe are requested to assemble in the drawing-room, where the chairs and couches have been pulled up to face the folding [an oxford freshman ] doors that lead into the library. mr. verdant green appears; and, after announcing that the word to be acted will be one of three syllables, and that each syllable will be represented by itself, and that then the complete word will be given, throws open the folding doors for scene i. ~syllable~ . - enter the miss honeywoods, dressed in fashionable bonnets and shawls. they are shown in by a footman (mr. bouncer) attired in a peculiarly ingenious and <vg .jpg> effective livery, made by pulling up the trousers to the knee, and wearing the dress-coat inside out, so as to display the crimson silk linings of the sleeves: the effect of mr. bouncer's appearance is considerably heightened by a judicious outlay of flour sprinkled over his hair. mr. bouncer (as footman) gives the ladies chairs, and inquires, "what name shall i be pleased to say, mem?" miss patty answers in a languid and fashionable voice, "the ladies louisa and arabella mountfidget." mr. bouncer evaporates with a low bow, leaving the ladies to play with their parasols, and converse. lady arabella (miss patty) then expresses a devout wish that lady trotter (wife of sir lambkin trotter, bart.), in whose house they are supposed to be, will not keep them waiting as long as she detained her aunt, lady bellwether, when the poor old lady fell asleep from sheer fatigue, and was found snoring on the sofa. lady [ adventures of mr. verdant green] louisa then falls to an inspection of the card-tray, and reads the paste-boards of some high-sounding titles not to be found in debrett, and expresses wonder as to where lady trotter can have picked up the duchess of ditchwater's card, as she (lady louisa) is morally convinced that her grace can never have condescended to have even sent in her card by a footman. becoming impatient at the non-appearance of lady trotter, miss patty honeywood then rings the bell, and, with much asperity of manner, inquires of mr. bouncer (as footman) if lady trotter is informed that the ladies louisa and arabella mountfidget are waiting to see her? mr. bouncer replies, with a footman's bow, and a footman's ~h~exasperation of his h's, "me lady is haweer hof your ladyships' visit; but me lady is at present hunable to happear: me lady, 'owever, has give me a message, which she hasks me to deliver to your ladyships." then why don't you deliver it at once," says miss patty, "and not waste the valuable time of the ladies louisa and arabella mountfidget? what ~is~ the message?" "me lady," replies mr. bouncer, "requests me to present her compliments to your ladyships, and begs me to hinform you that me lady is a cleaning of herself!" amid great laughter from the audience, the ladies mountfidget toss their heads and flutter grandly out of the room, followed by the floured footman; while mr. verdant green, unseen by those in front, pushes-to the folding doors, to show that the first syllable is performed. praises of the acting, and guesses at the word, agreeably fill up the time till the next scene. the rev.d josiah meek, who is not much used to charades, confides to miss helen green that he surmises the word to be, either "visitor" or "impudence;" but, as the only ground to this surmise rests on these two words being words of three syllables, miss helen gently repels the idea, and sagely observes, "we shall see more in the next scene." scene ii. ~syllable~ . - the folding-doors open, and discover mr. verdant green, as a sick gentleman, lying on a sofa, in a dressing-gown, with pillows under his head, and miss patty honeywood in attendance upon him. a table, covered with glasses and medicine bottles, is drawn up to the sufferer's couch in an inviting manner. miss patty informs the sufferer that the time is come for him to take his draught. the sufferer groans in a dismal manner, and says, "oh! is it, my dear?" she replies, "yes! you must take it now;" and sternly pours some sherry wine out of the medicine bottle into a cup. the sufferer makes piteous faces, and exclaims, "it is so nasty, i can't take it, my love!" (it is to be observed that mr. verdant green, skilfully taking advantage of the circumstance that miss [an oxford freshman ] patty honeywood is supposed to represent the wife of the sufferer, plentifully besprinkles his conversation with endearing epithets.) when, after much persuasion and groaning, the sufferer has been induced to take his medicine, his spouse announces the arrival of the doctor; when, enter mr. bouncer, still floured as to his head, but wearing spectacles, a long black coat, and a shirt-frill, and having his dress otherwise altered so as to represent a medical man of the old school. the doctor asks what sort of a night his patient has had, inspects his <vg .jpg> tongue with professional gravity, feels his pulse, looks at his watch, and mysteriously shakes his head. he then commences thrusting and poking mr. verdant green in various parts of his body, - after the manner of doctors with their victims, and farmers with their beasts, - inquiring between each poke, "does that hurt you?" and being answered by a convulsive "oh!" and a groan of agony. the doctor then prescribes a draught to be taken every half-hour, with the pills and blister at bed-time; and, after covering his two fellow-actors with confusion, by observing that he leaves his patient in admirable hands, and, that in an affection of the heart, the application of lip-salve and warm treatment will give a decided tone to the system, and produce soothing and grateful emotions - takes his leave; and the folding-doors are closed on the blushes of miss patty honeywood, and mr. verdant green. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] more applause: more agreeable conversation: more ingenious speculations. the revd. josiah meek is now of opinion that the word is either "medicine" or "suffering." miss helen still sagely observes, "we shall see more in the next scene." scene iii. ~syllable~ . - mr. verdant green discovered sitting at a table furnished with pens and ink, books, and rolls of paper. mr. verdant green wears on his head a chelsea pensioner's cocked-hat (the "property" of the family, - as mr. footelights would have said), folded into a shovel shape; and is supposed to accurately represent the outside of a london publisher. to him enter mr. bouncer - the flour off his head - coat buttoned tightly to the throat, no visible linen, and wearing in his face and appearance generally, "the garb of humility." says the publisher "now, sir, please to state your business, and be quick about it: i am much engaged in looking over for the press a work of a distinguished author, which i am just about to publish." meekly replies the other, as he holds under his arm an immense paper packet: "it is about a work of my own, sir, that i have now ventured to intrude upon you. i have here, sir, a small manuscript," (producing his roll of a book), "which i am ambitious to see given to the world through the medium of your printing establishment." to him, the publisher - "already am i inundated with manuscripts on all possible subjects, and cannot undertake to look at any more for some time to come. what is the nature of your manuscript?" meekly replies the other - "the theme of my work, sir, is a history of england before the flood. the subject is both new and interesting. it is to be presumed that our beloved country existed before the flood: if so, it must have had a history. i have therefore endeavoured to fill up what is lacking in the annals of our land, by a record of its antediluvian state, adapted to the meanest comprehension, and founded on the most baseless facts. i am desirous, sir, to see myself in print. i should like my work, sir, to appear in large letters; in very large letters, sir. indeed, sir, it would give me joy, if you would condescend to print it altogether in capital letters: my ~magnum opus~ might then be called with truth, a capital work." to him, the publisher - "much certainly depends on the character of the printing." meekly the author - "indeed, sir, it does. a great book, sir, should be printed in great letters. if you will permit me, i will show you the size of the letters in which i should wish my book to be printed." mr. bouncer then points out in some books on the table, the printing he most admires; and, beseeching the publisher to read over his manuscript, and think favourably of his history of england before the flood, makes his bow to mr. verdant green and the chelsea pensioner's cocked hat. [an oxford freshman ] more applause, and speculations. the revd. josiah meek confident that he has discovered the word. it must be either "publisher" or "authorship." miss helen still sage. scene iv. ~the word~. - miss bouncer discovered with her camera, arranging her photographic chemicals. she soliloquizes: "there! now, all is ready for my sitter." she calls the footman (mr. verdant green), and says, "john, you may show the lady fitz-canute upstairs." the footman shows in miss honeywood, dressed in an antiquated bonnet and mantle, waving a huge fan. john gives her a chair, into which she drops, exclaiming, "what an insufferable toil it is to ascend to these elevated photographic rooms;" and makes good use of her fan. miss bouncer then fixes the focus of her camera, and begs the lady fitz-canute to sit perfectly still, and to call up an agreeable smile to her face. miss honeywood thereupon disposes her face in ludicrous "wreathed smiles;" and miss bouncer's head disappears under the velvet hood of the camera. "i am afraid," at length says miss bouncer, "i am afraid that i shall not be able to succeed in taking a likeness of your ladyship this morning." "and why, pray?" asks her ladyship with haughty surprise. "because it is a gloomy day," replies the photographer, "and much depends upon the rays of light." "then procure the rays of light!" "that is more than i can do." "indeed! i suppose if the lady fitz-canute wishes for the rays of light, and condescends to pay for the rays of light, she can obtain the rays of light." miss bouncer considers this too ~exigeant~, and puts her sitter off by promising to complete a most fascinating portrait of her on some more favourable day. lady fitz-canute appears to be somewhat mollified at this, and is graciously pleased to observe, "then i will undergo the fatigue of ascending to these elevated photographic-rooms at some future period. but, mind, when i next come, that you procure the rays of light!" so she is shown out by mr. verdant green, and the folding-doors are closed amid applause, and the audience distract themselves with guesses as to the word. "photograph" is a general favourite, but is found not to agree with the three first scenes, although much ingenuity is expended in endeavouring to make them fit the word. the curate makes a headlong rush at the word "daguerreotype," and is confident that he has solved the problem, until he is informed that it is a word of more than three syllables. charles larkyns has already whispered the word to mary green; but they keep their discovery to themselves. at length, the revd. josiah meek, in a moment of inspiration, hits upon the word, and proclaims it to be calotype ("call - oh! - type;") upon which mr. alfred brindle declares to miss fanny green that [ adventures of mr. verdant green] he had fancied it must be that, all along, and, in fact, was just on the point of saying it: and the actors, coming in in a body, receive the violet-crowns and laurel-wreaths of praise as the meed of their exertions. perhaps, the miss honeywoods and mr. bouncer receive larger crowns than the others, but mr. verdant green gets his due share, and is fully satisfied with his first appearance on "the boards." dancing then succeeds, varied by songs from the young ladies, and discharges of chromatic fireworks from the fingers <vg .jpg> of miss waters, for whom charles larkyns does the polite, in turning over the leaves of her music. then some carol-singers come to the hall-door, and the bells of the church proclaim, in joyful peals, the birth of the new year; - a new year of hopes, and joys, and cares, and griefs, and unions, and partings; - a new year of which, who then present shall see the end? who shall be there to welcome in its successor? who shall be absent, laid in the secret places of the earth? ah, ~who~? for, even in the midst of revelry and youth, the joy-peals of those old church bells can strike the key-note of a wail of grief. another charade follows, in which new actors join. then comes a merry supper, in which mr. alfred brindle, in order to give himself courage to appear in the next charade, takes more [an oxford freshman ] champagne than is good for him; in which, too (probably, from similar champagney reasons), miss parkington's unfortunately self-willed nose again assumes a more roseate hue than is becoming to a maiden; in which, too, mr. verdant green being called upon to return thanks for "the ladies" -(toast, proposed in eloquent terms by h. bouncer, esq., and drunk "with the usual honours,")- is so alarmed at finding himself upon his legs, that his ideas altogether vanish, and in great confusion of utterance, he observes, - "i-i-ladies and gentleman-feel-i-i-a-feel-assure you-grattered and flattified-i mean, flattered and gratified-being called on-return thanks-i-i-a-the ladies-give a larm to chife - i mean, charm to life-(~applause~)-and-a-a-grace by their table this presence, -i mean-a-a-(~applause~),-and joytened our eye-i mean, heighted our joy, to-night-(~applause~),-in their name-thanks-honour." mr. verdant green takes advantage of the applause which follows these incoherent remarks, and sits down, covered with confusion, but thankful that the struggle is over. more dancing follows. our hero performs prodigies in the ~valse a deux temps~, and twirls about until he has not a leg left to stand upon. the harp, the violin, and the cornet-a-piston, from the county town, play mechanically in their sleep, and can only be roused by repeated applications of gin-and-water. carriages are ordered round: wraps are in requisition: the mysterious rites under the white-berried bush are stealthily repeated for the last time: the guests depart, as it were, in a heap; the rectory party being the last to leave. the intelligent mr. mole, who has fuddled himself by an injudicious mixture of the half-glasses of wine left on the supper-table, is exasperated with the butler for not allowing him to assist in putting away the silver; and declares that he (the butler) is "a hold himage," for which, he (the intelligent mr. m.), "don't care a button!" and, as the epithet "image" appears to wondrously offend the butler, mr. mole is removed from further consequences by his intelligent wife, who is waiting to conduct her lord and master home. at length, the last light is out in the manor green. mr. verdant green is lying uncomfortably upon his back, and is waltzing through dreamland with the blooming patty honeywood. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] chapter x. mr. verdant green enjoys a real cigar. the christmas vacation passed rapidly away; the honeywood family returned to the far north; and, once more, mr. verdant green found himself within the walls of brazenface. he and mr. bouncer had together gone up to oxford, leaving charles larkyns behind to keep a grace-term. charles larkyns had determined to take a good degree. for some time past, he had been reading steadily; and, though only a few hours in each day may be given to books - yet, when that is done, with regularity and painstaking, a real and sensible progress is made. he knew that he had good abilities, and he had determined not to let them remain idle any longer, but to make that use of them for which they were given to him. his examination would come on during the next term; and he hoped to turn the interval to good account, and be able in the end to take a respectable degree. he was destined for the bar; and, as he had no wish to be a briefless barrister, he knew that college honours would be of great advantage to him in his after career. he, at once, therefore, set bodily to work to read up his subjects; while his father assisted him in his labours, and mary green smiled a kind approval. meanwhile, his friends, mr. verdant green and mr. henry bouncer, were enjoying oxford life, and disporting themselves among the crowd of skaters in the christ church meadows. and a very different scene did the meadows present to the time when they had last skimmed over its surface. then, the green fields were covered with sailing-boats, out-riggers, and punts, and mr. verdant green had nearly come to an untimely end in the waters. but now the scene was changed! jack frost had stepped in, and had seized the flood in his frozen fingers, and had bound it up in an icy breast-plate. and a capital place did the meadows make for any undergraduate who was either a professed skater, or whose skating education (as in the case of our hero) had been altogether neglected. for the water was only of a moderate depth; so that, in the event of the ice giving way, there was nothing to fear beyond a slight and partial ducking. this was especially fortunate for mr. verdant green, who, after having experienced total submersion and a narrow escape from drowning on that very spot, would never have been induced to again commit himself to the surface of the deep, had he not been fully convinced that the deep had now subsided into a shallow. with his breast fortified by this resolution, he therefore fell a victim to the syren tongue of mr. bouncer, when that gentle- [an oxford freshman ] man observed to him with sincere feeling, "giglamps, old fellow! it would be a beastly shame, when there's such jolly ice, if you did not learn to skate; especially, as i can show you the trick." for, mr. bouncer was not only skilful with his hands and arms, but could also perform feats with his feet. he could not only dance quadrilles in dress boots in a ball-room, but he could also go through the figures on the ice in a pair of skates. he could do the outside edge at a more acute angle than the generality of people; he could cut figures of eight that were worthy of cocker himself, he could display spread-eagles that would have astonished the fellows of the zoological society. he could skim over the thinnest ice in the most don't-care way; and, when at full speed, would stoop to pick up a stone. he would take a hop-skip-and-a-jump; and would vault over walking-sticks, as easily as if he were on dry land, - an accomplishment which he had learnt of the count doembrownski, a russian gentleman, who, in his own country, lived chiefly on skates, and, in this country, on pigeons, and whose short residence in oxford was suddenly brought to a full stop by the arbitrary power of the vice-chancellor. so, mr. verdant green was persuaded to purchase, and put on a pair of skates, and to make his first appearance as a skater in the christ church meadows, under the auspices of mr. bouncer. the sensation of first finding yourself in a pair of skates is peculiar. it is not unlike the sensation which must have been felt by the young bear, when he was dropped from his mamma's mouth, and, for the first time, told to walk. the poor little bear felt, that it was all very well to say "walk,"- but how was he to do it? was he to walk with his right fore-leg only? or, with his left fore-leg? or, with both his fore-legs? or, was he to walk with his right hind-leg?, or, with his left hind-leg? or, with both his hind-legs? or, was he to make a combination of hind and fore-legs, and walk with all four at once? or, what was he to do? so he tried each of these ways; and they all failed. poor little bear! mr. verdant green felt very much in the little bear's condition. he was undecided whether to skate with his right leg, or with his left leg, or with both his legs. he tried his right leg, and immediately it glided off at right angles with his body, while his left leg performed a similar and spontaneous movement in the contrary direction. having captured his left leg, he put it cautiously forwards, and immediately it twisted under him, while his right leg amused itself by describing an altogether unnecessary circle. obtaining a brief mastery over both legs, he put them forwards at the same moment, and they fled from beneath him, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and he was flung - bump!- on his back. poor little bear! but, if it is hard to make a start in a pair of skates <vg .jpg> when you are in a perpendicular position, how much is the difficulty increased when your position has become a horizontal one! you raise yourself on your knees, - you assist yourself with your hands, - and, no sooner have you got one leg right, than away slides the other, and down you go. it is like the movement in that scene with the pair of short stilts, in which the french clowns are so amusing, and it is almost as difficult to perform. mr. verdant green soon found that though he might be ambitious to excel in the polite accomplishment of skating, yet that his ambition was destined to meet with many a fall. but he persevered, and perseverance will achieve wonders, especially when aided by the tuition of such an indefatigable gentleman as mr. bouncer. "you get on stunningly, giglamps," said the little gentleman, "and hav'nt been on your beam ends more than once a minute. but i should advise you, old fellow, to get your sit-upons seated with wash-leather, - just like the eleventh hussars do with their cherry-coloured pants. it'll come cheaper in the end, and may be productive of comfort. and now, after all these exciting ups and downs, let us go and have a quiet hand at billiards." so the two friends strolled up the high, where they saw two queensmen "confessing their shame," as mr. bouncer phrased it, by standing under the gateway of their college; and went on to bickerton's, where they found all the tables occupied, and jonathan playing a match with mr. fluke of christ church. so, after watching the celebrated marker long enough to inspire them with a desire to accomplish similar feats of dexterity, they continued their walk to broad street, and, turning up a yard opposite to the clarendon, found that betteris had an upstair room at liberty. here they accomplished several pleasing mathematical problems with the balls, and contributed their modicum towards the smoking of the ceiling of the room. since mr. verdant green had acquired the art of getting [an oxford freshman ] through a cigar without making himself ill, he had looked upon himself as a genuine smoker; and had, from time to time, bragged of his powers as regarded the fumigation of "the herb nicotiana, commonly called tobacco," (as the oxford statute <vg - .jpg> tersely says). this was an amiable weakness on his part that had not escaped the observant eye of mr. bouncer, who had frequently taken occasion, in the presence of his friends, to defer to mr. verdant green's judgment in the matter of <vg - .jpg> cigars. the train of adulation being thus laid, an opportunity was only needed to fire it. it soon came. "once upon a time," as the story-books say, it chanced that mr. bouncer was consuming his minutes and cigars at his tobacconist's, when his eye lighted for the thousandth time on the roll of cabbage-leaves, brown paper, and refuse tobacco, which being done up into the form of a monster cigar (a foot long, and of proportionate thickness), was hung in the shop window, and did duty as a truthful token of the commodity vended within. mr. bouncer had looked at this implement [ adventures of mr. verdant green] nine hundred and ninety-nine times, without its suggesting anything else to his mind, than its being of the same class of art as the monster mis-representations outside wild-beast shows; but he now gazed upon it with new sensations. in short, mr. bouncer took such a fancy to the thing, that he purchased it, and took it off to his rooms, - though he did not mention this fact to his friend, mr. verdant green, when he saw him soon afterwards, and spoke to him of his excellent judgment in tobacco. "a taste for smoke comes natural, giglamps!" said mr. bouncer. "it's what you call a ~nascitur non fit~; and, if you haven't the gift, why you can't purchase it. now, you're a judge of smoke; it's a gift with you, don't you see; and you could no more help knowing a good weed from a bad one, than you could help waggling your tail if you were a baa-lamb." mr. verdant green bowed, and blushed, in acknowledgment of this delightful flattery. "now, there's old footelights, you know; he's got an uncle, who's a governor, or some great swell, out in barbadoes. well, every now and then the old trump sends footelights no end of a box of weeds; not common ones, you understand, but regular tip-toppers; but they're quite thrown away on poor footelights, who'd think as much of cabbage-leaves as he would of real havannahs, so he's always obliged to ask somebody else's opinion about them. well, he's got a sample of a weed of a most terrific kind: - ~magnifico pomposo~ is the name; - no end uncommon, and at least a foot long. we don't meet with 'em in england because they're too expensive to import. well, it would'nt do to throw away such a weed as this on any one; so, footelights wants to have the opinion of a man who's really a judge of what a good weed is. i refused, because my taste has been rather out of order lately; and billy blades is in training for henley, so he's obliged to decline; so i told him of you, giglamps, and said, that if there was a man in brazenface that could tell him what his magnifico pomposo was worth, that man was verdant green. don't blush, old feller! you can't help having a fine judgment, you know; so don't be ashamed of it. now, you must wine with me this evening; footelights and some more men are coming; and we're all anxious to hear your opinion about these new weeds, because, if it's favourable we can club together, and import a box." mr. bouncer's victim, being perfectly unconscious of the trap laid for him, promised to come to the wine, and give his opinion on this weed of fabled size and merit. when the evening and company had come, he was rather staggered at beholding the dimensions of the pseudo-cigar; but, rashly judging that to express surprise would be to betray [an oxford freshman ] ignorance, mr. verdant green inspected the formidable monster with the air of a connoisseur, and smelt, pinched, and rolled his tongue round it, after the manner of the best critics. if this was a diverting spectacle to the assembled guests of mr. <vg .jpg> bouncer, how must the humour of the scene have been increased, when our hero, with great difficulty, lighted the cigar, and, with still greater difficulty, held it in his mouth, and endeavoured to smoke it! as mr. foote afterwards observed, "it was a situation for a screaming farce." "it doesn't draw well!" faltered the victim, as the bundle of rubbish went out for the fourth time. "why, that's always the case with the barbadoes baccy!" said mr. bouncer; "it takes a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together to get it to make a start; but when once it does go, it goes beautiful - like a house a-fire. but you can't expect it to be like a common threepenny weed. here! let me light him for you, giglamps; i'll give the beggar a dig in his ribs, as a gentle persuader." mr. bouncer thereupon poked his pen-knife through the rubbish, and after a time induced it to "draw"; and mr. verdant green pulled at it furiously, and made his eyes water with the unusual cloud of smoke that he raised. "and now, what d'ye think of it, my beauty?" inquired mr. bouncer. "it's something out of the common, ain't it?" "it has a beautiful ash!" observed mr. smalls. "and diffuses an aroma that makes me long to defy the trainer, and smoke one like it!" said mr. blades. "so pray give me your reading - at least, your opinion, - on my magnifico pomposo!" asked mr. foote. "well," answered mr. verdant green, slowly - turning very pale as he spoke, - "at first, i thought it was be-yew-tiful; but, altogether, i think-that-the barbadoes tobacco-doesn't quite-agree with-my stom-" the speaker abruptly concluded by dropping the cigar, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and rushing into mr. bouncer's bed-room. the magnifico pomposo had been too much for him, and had produced sensations accurately interpreted by mr. bouncer, who forthwith represented in expressive pantomime, the actions of a distressed voyager, when he feebly murmurs "steward!" [ adventures of mr. verdant green] to atone for the "chaffing" which he had been the means of inflicting on his friend, the little gentleman, a few days afterwards, proposed to take our hero to the chipping norton steeple-chase, - mr. smalls and mr. fosbrooke making up the quartet for a tandem. it was on their return from the races, that, after having stopped at ~the bear~ at woodstock, "to wash out the horses' mouths," and having done this so effectually that the horses had appeared to have no mouths left, and had refused to answer the reins, and had smashed the cart against <vg .jpg> a house, which had seemed to have danced into the middle of the road for their diversion, - and, after having put back to ~the bear~, and prevailed upon that animal to lend them a nondescript vehicle of the "pre-adamite buggy" species, described by sidney smith, - that, much time having been consumed by the progress of this chapter of accidents, they did not reach peyman's gate until a late hour; and mr. verdant green found that he was once more in difficulties. for they had no sooner got through the gate, than the wild octaves from mr. bouncer's post-horn were suddenly brought to a full stop, and mr. fosbrooke, who was the "waggoner," was brought to woh! and was compelled to pull up in obedience to the command of the proctor, who, as on a previous occasion, suddenly appeared from behind the toll-house, in company with his marshal and bull-dogs. the sentence pronounced on our hero the next day, was, "sir! - you will translate all your lectures; have your name crossed on the buttery and kitchen books; and be confined to chapel, hall, and college." this sentence was chiefly annoying, inasmuch as it somewhat interfered with the duties and pleasures attendant upon his [an oxford freshman ] boating practice. for, wonderful to relate, mr. verdant green had so much improved in the science, that he was now "number " of his college "torpid," and was in hard training. the torpid races commenced on march th, and were continued on the following days. our hero sent his father a copy of ~tintinnabulum's life~, which - after informing the manor green family that "the boats took up positions in the following order: "brazenose, exeter i, wadham, balliol, st. john's, pembroke, university, oriel, brazenface, christ church i, worcester, jesus, queen's, christ church , exeter " - proceeded to enter into particulars of each day's sport, of which it is only necessary to record such as gave interest to our hero's family. "first day. *** brazenface refused to acknowledge the bump by christ church (i) before they came to the cherwell. there is very little doubt but that they were bumped at the gut and the willows. *** "second day. *** brazenface rowed pluckily away from worcester. *** "third day. *** a splendid race between brazenface and worcester; and, at the flag, the latter were within a foot; they did not, however, succeed in bumping. the cheering from the brazenface barge was vociferous. *** "fourth day. *** worcester was more fortunate, and succeeded in making the bump at the cherwell, in consequence of no. of the brazenface boat fainting from fatigue." under "no. " mr. verdant green had drawn a pencil line, and had written " v.g." he shortly after related to his family the gloomy particulars of the bump, when he returned home for the easter vacation. _____________________ chapter xi. mr. verdant green gets through his smalls. despite the hindrance which the ~grande passion~ is supposed to bring to the student, charles larkyns had made very good use of the opportunities afforded him by the leisure of his grace-term. indeed, as he himself observed, "who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, the power of ~grace~!" and as he felt that the hours of his grace-term had not been wasted in idleness, but had been turned to profitable account, it is not at all unlikely that his pleasures of hope regarding his degree-examination, and the position his name would occupy in the class-list, were of a roseate hue. he, therefore, when the easter vacation had come to an end, returned to oxford in [ adventures of mr. verdant green] high spirits, with our hero and his friend mr. bouncer, who, after a brief visit to "the mum," had passed the remainder of the vacation at the manor green. during these few holiday weeks, charles larkyns had acted as private tutor to his two friends, and had, in the language of mr. bouncer, "put them through their paces uncommon;" for the little gentleman was going in for his degree, ~alias~ great-go, ~alias~ greats; and our hero for his first examination ~in literis humanioribus~, ~alias~ responsions, ~alias~ little-go, ~alias~ smalls. thus the friends returned to oxford mutually benefited; but, as the time for examination drew nearer and still nearer, the fears of mr. bouncer rose in a gradation of terrors, that threatened to culminate in an actual panic. "you see," said the little gentleman, "the mum's set her heart on my getting through, and i must read like the doose. and i haven't got the head, you see, for latin and greek; and that beastly euclid altogether stumps me; and i feel as though i should come to grief. i'm blowed," the little gentleman would cry, earnestly and sadly, "i'm blow'd if i don't think they must have given me too much pap when i was a babby, and softened my brains! or else, why can't i walk into these classical parties just as easy as you, charley, or old giglamps there? but i can't, you see: my brains are addled. they say it ain't a bad thing for reading to get your head shaved. it cools your brains, and gives full play to what you call your intellectual faculties. i think i shall try the dodge, and get a gent's real head of hair, till after the exam.; and then, when i've stumped the examiners, i can wear my own luxuriant locks again." and, as mr. bouncer professed, so did he; and, not many days after, astonished his friends and the university generally by appearing in a wig of curly black hair. it was a pleasing sight to see the little gentleman with a scalp like a billiard ball, a pipe in his mouth, and the wig mounted on a block, with books spread before him, endeavouring to persuade himself that he was working up his subjects. it was still more pleasing to view him, in moments of hilarity, divest himself of his wig, and hurl it at the scout, or any other offensive object that appeared before him. and it was a sight not to be forgotten by the beholders, when, after too recklessly partaking of an indiscriminate mixture of egg-flip, sangaree, and cider-cup, he feebly threw his wig at the spectacles of mr. verdant green, and, overbalanced by the exertion, fell back into the coal-scuttle, where he lay, bald-headed and helpless, laughing and weeping by turns, and caressed by huz and buz. but the shaving of his head was not the only feature (or, [an oxford freshman ] rather, loss of feature) that distinguished mr. bouncer's reading for his degree. the gentleman with the limited knowledge of the cornet-a-piston, who had the rooms immediately beneath those of our hero and his friend, had made such slow progress in his musical education, that he had even now scarcely got into his "cottage near a wood." this gentleman was mr. bouncer's frankenstein. he was always rising up when he was not wanted. when mr. bouncer felt as if he could read, and sat down to his books, wigless and determined, the doleful legend of the cottage near a wood was <vg .jpg> forced upon him in an unpleasingly obtrusive and distracting manner. it was in vain that mr. bouncer sounded his octaves in all their discordant variations; the gentleman had no ear, and was not to be put out of his cottage on any terms: mr. bouncer's notices of ejectment were always disregarded. he had hoped that the ears of mr. slowcoach (whose rooms were in the angle of the quad) would have been pierced by the noise, and that he would have put a stop to the nuisance; but, either from its being too customary a custom, or that the ears of mr. slowcoach had grown callous, the nuisance was suffered to continue unreproved. mr. bouncer resolved, therefore, on some desperate method of calling attention to one nuisance, by creating another of a louder description; and, as his octaves appeared to fail in this, -notwithstanding the energy and annoying ability that he threw into them, - he conceived the idea of setting up a drum! the plan was no sooner thought of than carried out. he met with an instrument sufficiently large and formidable for his purpose, - hired it, and had it stealthily conveyed into college [ adventures of mr. verdant green] (like another falstaff) in a linen "buck-basket." he waited his opportunity; and, the next time that the gentleman in the rooms beneath took his cornet to his cottage near a wood, mr. bouncer, stationed on the landing above, played a thundering accompaniment on his big drum. <vg .jpg> the echoes from the tightened parchment rolled round the quad, and brought to the spot a rush of curious and excited undergraduates. mr. bouncer, - after taking off his wig in honour of the air, - then treated them to the national anthem, arranged as a drum solo for two sticks, the chorus being sustained by the voices of those present; when in the midst of the entertainment, the reproachful features of mr. slowcoach appeared upon the scene. sternly the tutor demanded the reason of the strange hubbub; and was answered by mr. bouncer, that, as one gentleman was allowed to play ~his~ favourite instrument whenever he chose, for his own but no one else's gratification, he could not see why he (mr. bouncer) might not also, whenever he pleased, play for ~his~ own gratification his favourite instrument - the big drum. this specious excuse, although logical, was not altogether satisfactory to mr. slowcoach; and, with some asperity, he ordered mr. bouncer never again to indulge in, what he termed (in reference probably to the little gentleman's bald head), "such an indecent exhibition." but, as he further ordered that the cornet-a-piston gentleman was to instrumentally enter into his cottage near a wood, only at stated hours in the afternoon, mr. bouncer had gained his point in putting a stop to the nuisance so far as it interfered with his reading; and, thenceforth, he might be seen on brief occasions persuading himself that he was furiously reading and getting up his subjects by the aid of those royal roads to knowledge, variously known as cribs, crams, plugs, abstracts, analyses, or epitomes. but, besides the assistance thus afforded to him ~out~ of the schools, mr. bouncer, like many others, idle as well as [an oxford freshman ] ignorant, intended to assist himself when ~in~ the schools by any contrivance that his ingenuity could suggest, or his audacity carry out. "it's quite fair," was the little gentleman's argument, "to do the examiners in any way that you can, as long as you only go in for a pass. of course, if you were going in for a class, or a scholarship, or anything of that sort, it would be no end mean and dirty to crib; and the gent that did it ought to be kicked out of the society of gentlemen. but when you only go in for a pass, and ain't doing any one any harm by a little bit of cribbing, but choose to run the risk to save yourself the bother of being ploughed, why then, i think, a feller's bound to do what he can for himself. and, you see, in my case, giglamps, there's the mum to be considered; she'd cut up doosid, if i didn't get through; so i must crib a bit, if it's only for ~her~ sake." but although the little gentleman thus made filial tenderness the excuse for his deceit, and the salve for his conscience, yet he could neither persuade mr. verdant green to follow his example, nor to be a convert to his opinions; nor would he be persuaded by our hero to relinquish his designs. "why, look here, giglamps!" mr. bouncer would say; "how ~can~ i relinquish them, after having had all this trouble? i'll put you up to a few of my dodges - free, gratis, for nothing. in the first place, giglamps, you see here's a small circular bit of paper, covered with peloponnesian and punic wars, and no end of dates, - written small and short, you see, but quite legible, - with the chief things done in red ink. well, this gentleman goes in the front of my watch, under the glass; and, when i get stumped for a date, out comes the watch; - i look at the time of day - you understand, and down goes the date. here's another dodge!" added the little gentleman - who might well have been called "the artful dodger" - as he produced a shirt from a drawer. "look here, at the wristbands! here are all the kings of israel and judah, with their dates and prophets, written down in india-ink, so as to wash out again. you twitch up the cuff of your coat, quite accidentally, and then you book your king. you see, giglamps, i don't like to trust, as some fellows do, to having what you want, written down small and shoved into a quill, and passed to you by some man sitting in the schools; that's dangerous, don't you see. and i don't like to hold cards in my hand; i've improved on that, and invented a first-rate dodge of my own, that i intend to take out a patent for. like all truly great inventions, it's no end simple. in the first place, look straight afore you, my little dear, and you will see this pack of cards, - all made of a size, nice to hold in the palm of your hand; [ adventures of mr. verdant green] they're about all sorts of rum things, - everything that i want. and you see that each beggar's got a hole drilled in him. and you see, here's a longish string with a little bit of hooked wire at the end, made so that i can easily hang the card on it. well, i pass the string up my coat sleeve, and down under my waistcoat; and here, you see, i've got the wire end in the palm of my hand. then, i slip out the card i want, and hook it on to the wire, so that i can have it just before me as i <vg .jpg> write. then, if any of the examiners look suspicious, or if one of them comes round to spy, i just pull the bit of string that hangs under the bottom of my waistcoat, and away flies the card up my coat sleeve; and when the examiner comes round, he sees that my hand's never moved, and that there's nothing in it! so he walks off satisfied; and then i shake the little beggar out of my sleeve again, and the same game goes on as before. and when the string's tight, even straightening your body is quite sufficient to hoist the card into your sleeve, without moving either of your hands. i've got an examination-coat made on purpose, with a heap of pockets, in which i can stow my cards in regular order. these three pockets," said mr. bouncer, as he produced the coat, "are entirely for euclid. here's each problem written right out on a card; they're laid regularly in order, and i turn them over in my pocket, till i get hold of the one i want, and then i take it out, and work it. so you see, giglamps, i'm safe to get through! - it's impossible for them to plough me, with all these contrivances. that's a consolation for a cove in distress, ain't it, old feller?" both our hero and charles larkyns endeavoured to persuade [an oxford freshman ] mr. bouncer that his conduct would, at the very least, be foolhardy, and that he had much better throw his pack of cards into the fire, wash the kings of israel and judah off his shirt, destroy his strings and hooked wires, and keep his examination-coat for a shooting one. but all their arguments were in vain, and the infatuated little gentleman, like a deaf adder, shut his ears at the voice of the charmer. what between the cowley cricketings, and the isis boatings, mr. verdant green only read by spasmodic fits; but, as he was very fairly up in his subjects - thanks to charles larkyns and the rector - and as the little-go was not such a very formidable affair, or demanded a scholar of first-rate calibre, the only terrors that the examination could bring him were those which were begotten of nervousness. at length the lists were out; and our hero read among the names of candidates, that of "green, ~verdant, e coll. aen. fac.~" there is a peculiar sensation on first seeing your name in print. instances are on record where people have taken a world of trouble merely that they may have the pleasure of perusing their names "among the fashionables present" at the countess of so-and-so's evening-reception; and cases are not wanting where young ladies and gentlemen have expended no small amount of pocket-money in purchasing copies of ~the times~ (no reduction, too, being made on taking a quantity!) in order that their sympathizing friends might have the pride of seeing their names as coming out at drawing-rooms and ~levees~. when a young m.p. has stammered out his ~coup-d'essai~ in the house, he views, with mingled emotions, his name given to the world, for the first time, in capital letters. when young authors and artists first see their names in print, is it not a pleasure to them? when ensign dash sees himself gazetted, does he not look on his name with a peculiar sensation, and forthwith send an impression of the paper to master jones, who was flogged with him last week for stealing apples? when mr. smith is called to the bar, and mr. robinson can dub himself m.r.c.s., do they not behold their names in print with feelings of rapture? and when miss brown has been to her first ball, does she not anxiously await the coming of the next county newspaper, in order to have the happiness of reading her name there? but, different to these are the sensations that attend the seeing your name first in print in a college examination-list. they are, probably, somewhat similar to the sensations you would feel on seeing your name in a death-warrant. your blood runs hot, then cold, then hot again; your pulse goes at [ adventures of mr. verdant green] fever pace; the throbbing arteries of your brow almost jerk your cap off. you know that the worst is come, - that the law of the dons, which altereth not, has fixed your name there, and that there is no escape. the courage of despair then takes possession of your soul, and nerves you for the worst. you join the crowd of nervous fellow-sufferers who are thronging round the buttery-door to examine the list, and you begin with them calmly to parcel out the names by sixes and eights, <vg .jpg> and then to arrive at an opinion when your day of execution will be. if your name comes at the head of the list, you wish that you were "young, ~carolus, e coll. vigorn.~" that you might have a reprieve of your sentence. if your name is at the end of the list, you wish that you were "adams, ~edvardus jacobus, e coll. univ.~" that you might go in at once, and be put out of your misery. if your name is in the middle of the list, you wish that it were elsewhere: and then you wish that it were out of the list altogether. through these varying shades of emotion did mr. verdant green pass, until at length they were all lost in the deeper gloom of actual entrance into the schools. when once there, his fright soon passed away. reassured by the kindly voice of the examiner, telling him to read over his greek before construing it, our hero recovered his equanimity, and got through his ~viva voce~ with flying colours; and, on glancing over his paper-work, soon saw that the questions were within his scope, and that he could answer most of them. without hazarding his success by making "bad shots," he contented himself by answering those questions only on which he felt sure; and, when his examination was over, he left the schools with a [an oxford freshman ] pretty safe conviction that he was safe, "and was well through his smalls." he could not but help, however, feeling some anxiety on the subject, until he was relieved from all further fears, by the arrival of messrs. fosbrooke, smalls, and blades, with a slip of paper (not unlike those which mr. levi, the sheriff's officer, makes use of), on which was written and printed as follows:- "green, verdant, e coll. aen. fac. quaestionibus magistrorum scholarum in parviso pro forma respondit. {gulielmus smith, ita testamur, { {robertus jones. ~junii~ , --." alas for mr. bouncer! though he had put in practice all the ingenious plans which were without a doubt to ensure his success; and though he had worked his cribs with consummate coolness, and had not been discovered; yet, nevertheless, his friends came to him empty-handed. the infatuated little gentleman had either trusted too much to his own astuteness, or else he had over-reached himself, and had used his card-knowledge in wrong places; or, perhaps, the examiners may have suspected his deeds from the nature of his papers, and may have refused to pass him. but whatever might be the cause, the little gentleman had to defer taking his degree for some months at least. in a word - and a dreadful word it is to all undergraduates - mr. bouncer was plucked! he bore his unexpected reverse of fortune very philosophically, and professed to regret it only for "the mum's" sake; but he seemed to feel that the dons of his college would look shy upon him, and he expressed his opinion that it would be better for him to migrate to the tavern.* but, while mr. bouncer was thus deservedly punished for his idleness and duplicity, charles larkyns was rewarded for all his toil. he did even better than he had expected: for, not only did his name appear in the second class, but the following extra news concerning him was published in the daily papers, under the very appropriate heading of "university ~intelligence~." "oxford, june . -the chancellor's prizes have been awarded as follows:- "latin essay, charles larkyns, commoner of brazenface. the newdigate prize for english verse was also awarded to the same gentleman." his writing for the prize poem had been a secret. he had conceived the idea of doing so when the subject had been given out in the previous "long:" he had worked at the subject --- * a name given to new inn hall, not only from its title, "new inn," but also because the buttery is open all day, and the members of the hall can call for what they please at any hour, the same as in a tavern. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] privately, and, when the day (april ) on which the poems had to be sent in, had come, he had watched his opportunity, and secretly dropped through the wired slit in the door of the registrar's office at the clarendon, a manuscript poem, distinguished by the motto:- "oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still." we may be quite sure that there was great rejoicing at the manor green and the rectory, when the news arrived of the success of charles larkyns and mr. verdant green. ________________ chapter xii. mr. verdant green and his friends enjoy the commemoration. the commemoration had come; and, among the people who were drawn to the sight from all parts of the country, the warwickshire coach landed in oxford our friends mr. green, his two eldest daughters, and the rector - for all of whom charles larkyns had secured very comfortable lodgings in oriel street. the weather was of the finest; and the beautiful city of colleges looked at its best. while the rector met with old friends, and heard his son's praises, and renewed his acquaintance with his old haunts of study, mr. green again lionized oxford in a much more comfortable and satisfactory manner than he had previously done at the heels of a professional guide. as for the young ladies, they were charmed with everything; for they had never before been in a university town, and all things had the fascination of novelty. great were the luncheons held in mr. verdant green's and charles larkyns' rooms; musical was the laughter that floated merrily through the grave old quads of brazenface; happy were the two hearts that held converse with each other in those cool cloisters and shady gardens. how a few flounces and bright girlish smiles can change the aspect of the sternest homes of knowledge! how sunlight can be brought into the gloomiest nooks of learning by the beams that irradiate happy girlish faces, where the light of love and truth shines out clear and joyous! how the appearance of the commemoration week is influenced in a way thus described by one of oxonia's poets:- "peace! for in the gay procession brighter forms are borne along- fairer scholars, pleasure-beaming, float amid the classic throng. blither laughter's ringing music fills the haunts of men awhile, and the sternest priests of knowledge blush beneath a maiden's smile. [an oxford freshman ] maidens teach a softer science - laughing love his pinions dips, hush'd to hear fantastic whispers murmur'd from a pedant's lips. oh, believe it, throbbing pulses flutter under folds of starch, and the dons are human-hearted if the ladies' smiles be arch." thanks to the influence of charles larkyns and his father, the party were enabled to see all that was to be seen during the commemoration week. on the saturday night they went to the amateur concert at the town hall, in aid of which, strange to say, mr. bouncer's proffer of his big drum had been <vg .jpg> declined. on the sunday they went, in the morning, to st. mary's to hear the bampton lecture; and, in the afternoon, to the magnificent choral service at new college. in the evening they attended the customary "show sunday" promenade in christ church broad walk, where, under the delicious cool of the luxuriant foliage, they met all the rank, beauty, and fashion that were assembled in oxford; and where, until tom "tolled the hour for retiring," they threaded their way amid a miscellaneous crowd of dons and doctors, and tufts and heads of houses, - with prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, and bright girl-graduates with their golden hair. on the monday they had a party to woodstock and blenheim; and in the evening went, on the brazenface barge, to see the procession of boats, where the misses green had the satisfaction to see their brother pulling in one of the fifteen torpids that followed immediately in the wake of the other boats. they concluded the evening's entertainments in a most satisfactory manner, by going to the ball at the town hall. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] indeed, the way the two young ladies worked was worthy of all credit, and proved them to be possessed of the most vigorous constitutions; for, although they danced till an <vg .jpg> early hour in the morning, they not only, on the next day, went to the anniversary sermon for the radcliffe, and after that to the horticultural show in the botanical gardens, and after that to the concert in the sheldonian theatre, but - as though they had not had enough to fatigue them already - they must, forsooth - brazenface being one of the ball-giving colleges - wind up the night by accepting the polite invitation of mr. verdant green and mr. charles larkyns to a ball given in their college hall. and how many polkas these young ladies danced, and how many waltzes they waltzed, and how many ices they consumed, and how many too susceptible partners they drove to the verge of desperation, it would be improper, if not impossible, to say. but, however much they might have been fagged by their exertions of feet and features, it is certain that, by ten of the clock the next morning, they appeared, quite fresh and charming to the view, in the ladies' gallery in the theatre. there - after the proceedings had been opened by the undergraduates in ~their~ peculiar way, and by the vice-chancellor in ~his~ peculiar way - and, after the degrees had been conferred, and the public orator had delivered an oration in a tongue not understanded of the people, our friends from warwickshire had the delight of beholding mr. charles larkyns ascend the rostrums to deliver, in their proper order, the latin essay and the english verse. he had chosen his friend verdant to be his prompter; so that the well-known "gig-lamps" of our hero formed, as it were, a very focus of attraction: but it was well for mr. charles larkyns that he was possessed of self-control and a good memory, for mr. verdant green was far too nervous to have prompted him in any efficient manner. we may be sure, that in all that bevy of fair women, at least one pair of bright eyes kindled with rapture, and one heart beat with exulting joy, when the deafening cheers that followed the [an oxford freshman ] poet's description of the moon, the sea, and woman's love (the three ingredients which are apparently necessary for the sweetening of all prize poems), rang through the theatre and made its walls re-echo to the shouting. and we may be sure that, when it was all over, and when the commemoration had come to an end, charles larkyns felt rewarded for all his hours <vg .jpg> of labour by the deep love garnered up in his heart by the trustful affection of one who had become as dear to him as life itself! * * * * * * * * it was one morning after they had all returned to the manor green that our hero said to his friend, "how i ~do~ wish that this day week were come!" "i dare say you do," replied the friend: "and i dare say that the pretty patty is wishing the same wish." upon which mr. verdant green not only laughed but blushed! for it seemed that he, together with his sisters, mr. charles larkyns, and mr. bouncer, were about to pay a long-vacation visit to honeywood hall, in the county of northumberland; and the young man was naturally looking forward to it with all the ardour of a first and consuming passion. [ ] part iii. chapter i. mr. verdant green travels north. <vg .jpg> july: fierce and burning! a day to tinge the green corn with a golden hue. a day to scorch grass into hay between sunrise and sunset. a day in which to rejoice in the cool thick masses of trees, and to lie on one's back under their canopy, and look dreamily up, through its rents, at the peep of hot, cloudless, blue sky. a day to sit on shady banks upon yielding cushions of moss and heather, from whence you gaze on bright flowers blazing in the blazing sun, and rest your eyes again upon your book to find the lines swimming in a radiance of mingled green and red. a day that fills you with amphibious feelings, and makes you desire to be even a dog, that you might bathe and paddle and swim in every roadside brook and pond, without the exertion of dressing and undressing, and yet with propriety. a day that sends you out by willow-hung streams, to fish, as an excuse for idleness. a day that drives you dinnerless from smoking joints, and plunges you thirstfully into barrels of beer. a day that induces apathetic listlessness and total prostration of energy, even under the aggravating warfare of gnats and wasps. a day that engenders pity for the ranks of ruddy haymakers, hotly marching on under the merciless glare of the noonday sun. a day when the very air, steaming up from the earth, seems to palpitate with the heat. a day when society has left its cool and pleasant country-house, and finds itself baked and burnt up in town, condemned to ovens of operas, and fiery furnaces of levees and drawing-rooms. a day when even ice is warm, and perspiring visitors to the zoological gardens envy the hippopotamus living in his bath. a day when a hot, frizzling, sweltering smell ascends from the [an oxford freshman ] ground, as though it was the earth's great ironing day. and - above all - a day that converts a railway traveller into a martyr, and a first-class carriage into a moving representation of the black hole of calcutta. so thought mr. verdant green, as he was whirled onward to the far north, in company with his three sisters, miss bouncer, and mr. charles larkyns. being six in number, they formed a snug (and hot) family party, and filled the carriage, to the exclusion of little mr. bouncer, who, nevertheless, bore this temporary and unavoidable separation with a tranquil mind, inasmuch as it enabled him to ride in a second-class carriage, where he could the more conveniently indulge in the furtive pleasures of the virginian weed. but, to keep up his connection with the party, and to prove that his interest in them could not be diminished by a brief and enforced absence, mr. bouncer paid them flying visits at every station, keeping his pipe alight by a puff into the carriage, accompanied with an expression of his full conviction that miss fanny green had been smoking, in defiance of the company's by-laws. these rapid interviews were enlivened by mr. bouncer informing his friends that huz and buz (who were panting in a locker) were as well as could be expected, and giving any other interesting particulars regarding himself, his fellow-travellers, or the country in general, that could be compressed into the space of sixty seconds or thereabouts; and the visits were regularly and ruthlessly brought to an abrupt termination by the angry "now, then, sir!" of the guard, and the reckless thrusting of the little gentleman into his second-class carriage, to the endangerment of his life and limbs, and the exaggerated display of authority on the part of the railway official. mr. bouncer's mercurial temperament had enabled him to get over the little misfortune that had followed upon his examination for his degree; but he still preserved a memento of that hapless period in the shape of a wig of curly black hair. for he found, during the summer months, such coolness from his shaven poll, that, in spite of "the mum's" entreaties, he would not suffer his own luxuriant locks to grow, but declared that, till the winter at any rate, he would wear his gent's real head of hair; and in order that our railway party should not forget the reason for its existence, mr. bouncer occasionally favoured them with a sight of his bald head, and also narrated to them, with great glee, how, when a very starchy lady of a certain age had left their carriage, he had called after her upon the platform - holding out his wig as he did so - that she had left some of her property behind her; and how the passengers and porters had grinned, and the starchy lady had lost all her stiffening through the hotness of her wrath. york at last! a half-hour's escape from the hot carriage, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and a hasty dinner on cold lamb and cool salad in the pleasant refreshment-room hung round with engravings. mr. bouncer's dinner is got over with incredible rapidity, in order that the little gentleman may carry out his humane intention of releasing huz and buz from their locker, and giving them their dinner and a run on the remote end of the platform, at a distance from timid spectators; which design is satisfactorily performed, and crowned with a douche bath from the engine-pump. then, <vg .jpg> away again to the rabbit-hole of a locker, the smoky second-class carriage, and the stuffy first-class; incarcerated in which black-hole, the plump miss bouncer, notwithstanding that she has removed her bonnet and all superfluous coverings, gets hotter than ever in the afternoon sun, and is seen, ever and anon, to pass over her glowing face a handkerchief cooled with the waters of cologne. and, when the man with the grease-pot comes round to look at the tires of the wheels, the sight of it increases her warmth by suggesting a desire (which cannot be gratified) for lemon ice. nevertheless, they have with them a variety of cooling refreshments, and their hot-house fruit and strawberries are most acceptable. the misses green have wisely followed their friend's example, in the removal of bonnets and mantles; and, as they amuse themselves with books and embroidery, the black-hole bears, as far as possible, a resemblance to a boudoir. charles larkyns favours the company with extracts from ~the times~; reads to them the last number of dickens's new tale, or directs their attention to the most note-worthy points on their route. mr. verdant green is seated ~vis-a-vis~ to the plump miss bouncer, and benignantly beams upon her through his glasses, or musingly consults his ~bradshaw~ to count how much nearer they have crept to their destination, the while his thoughts have travelled on in the very quickest of express trains, and have already reached the far north. thus they journey: crawling under the stately old walls of york; then, with a rush and a roar, sliding rapidly over the [an oxford freshman ] level landscape, from whence they can look back upon the glorious minster towers standing out grey and cold from the sunlit plain. then, to darlington; and on by porters proclaiming the names of stations in uncouth dunelmian tongue, informing passengers that they have reached "faweyill" and "fensoosen," instead of "ferry hill" and "fence houses," and terrifying nervous people by the command to "change here for doom!" when only the propinquity of the palatinate city is signified. and so, on by the triple towers of durham that gleam in the sun with a ruddy orange hue; on, leaving to the left that last resting-place of bede and st. cuthbert, on the rock "where his cathedral, huge and vast, looks down upon the wear." on, past the wonderfully out-of-place "durham monument," a grecian temple on a naked hill among the coal-pits; on, with a double curve, over the wear, laden with its rhine-like rafts; on, to grimy gateshead and smoky newcastle, and, with a scream and a rattle, over the wonderful high level (then barely completed), looking down with a sort of self-satisfied shudder upon the bridge, and the tyne, and the fleet of colliers, and the busy quays, and the quaint timber-built houses with their overlapping storys, and picturesque black and white gables. then, on again, after a cool delay and brief release from the black-hole; on, into northumbrian ground, over the wansbeck; past morpeth; by warkworth, and its castle, and hermitage; over the coquet stream, beloved by the friends of gentle izaak walton; on, by the sea-side - almost along the very sands - with the refreshing sea-breeze, and the murmuring plash of the breakers - the misses green giving way to childish delight at this their first glimpse of the sea; on, over the aln, and past alnwick; and so on, still further north, to a certain little station, which is the terminus of their railway journey, and the signal of their deliverance from the black-hole. there, on the platform is mr. honeywood, looking hale and happy, and delighted to receive his posse of visitors; and there, outside the little station, is the carriage and dog-cart, and a spring-cart for the luggage. charles larkyns takes possession of the dog-cart, in company with mary and fanny green, and little mr. bouncer; while huz and buz, released from their weary imprisonment, caracole gracefully around the vehicle. mr. honeywood takes the reins of his own carriage; mr. verdant green mounts the box beside him; miss bouncer and miss helen green take possession of the open interior of the carriage; the spring-cart, with the servants and luggage, follows in the rear; and off they go. but, though the two blood-horses are by no means slow of [ adventures of mr. verdant green] action, and do, in truth, gallop apace like fiery-footed steeds, yet to mr. verdant green's anxious mind they seem to make but slow progress; and the magnificent country through which they pass offers but slight charms for his abstracted thoughts; until (at last) they come in sight of a broken mountain-range, and mr. honeywood, pointing with his whip, exclaims, "yon's the cheevyuts, as they say in these parts; there are the cheviot hills; and there, just where you see that gleam of light on a white house among some trees - there is honeywood hall." did mr. verdant green remove his eyes from that object of attraction, save when intervening hills, for a time, hid it from his view? did he, when they neared it, and he saw its landscape beauties bathed in the golden splendours of a july sunset, did he think it a very paradise that held within its bowers the peri of his heart's worship? did he - as they passed the lodge, and drove up an avenue of firs - did he scan the windows of the house, and immediately determine in his own mind which was her window, oblivious to the fact that she might sleep on the other side of the building? did he, as they pulled up at the door, scrutinize the female figures who were there to receive them, and experience a feeling made up of doubt and certainty, that there was one who, though not present, was waiting near with a heart beating as anxiously as his own? did he make wild remarks, and return incoherent answers, until the long-expected moment had come that brought him face to face with the adorable patty? did he envy charles larkyns for possessing and practising the cousinly privilege of bestowing a kiss upon her rosy cheeks? and did he, as he pressed her hand, and marked the heightened glow of her happy face, did he feel within his heart an exultant thrill of joy as the fervid thought fired his brain - one day she may be mine? perhaps! [an oxford freshman ] chapter ii. mr. verdant green delivers miss patty honeywood from the horns of a dilemma. <vg .jpg> even if mr. verdant green had not been filled with the peculiarly pleasurable sensations to which allusion has just been made, it is yet exceedingly probable that he would have found his visit to honeywood hall one of those agreeable and notable events which the memory of after-years invests with the ~couleur du rose~. in the first place - even if miss patty was left out of the question - every one was so particularly attentive to him, that all his wants, as regarded amusement and occupation, were promptly supplied, and not a minute was allowed to hang heavily upon his hands. and, in the second place, the country, and its people and customs, had so much freshness and peculiarity, that he could not stir abroad without meeting with novelty. new ideas were constantly received; and other sensations of a still more delightful nature were daily deepened. thus the time passed pleasantly away at honeywood hall, and the hours chased each other with flying feet. mr. honeywood was a squire, or laird; and though the prospect from the hall was far too extensive to allow of his being monarch of ~all~ that he surveyed, yet he was the proprietor of no inconsiderable portion. the small village of honeybourn, - which brought its one wide street of long, low, lime-washed houses hard by the hall, - owned no other master than mr. honeywood; and all its inhabitants were, in one way or other, his labourers. they had their own blacksmith, shoemaker, tailor, and carpenter; they maintained a general shop of the tea-coffee-tobacco-and-snuff genus; and they lived as one family, entirely independent of any other village. in fact, the villages in that district were as sparingly distributed as are "livings" among poor curates, and, when met with, were equally as small; and so it happened, that as the landowners usually resided, like mr. honeywood, among their own people, a gentleman would occasionally be as badly off for a neighbour, as though he had been a resident in the backwoods of canada. this evil, however, was productive of good, in that it set aside [ adventures of mr. verdant green] the possibility of a deliberate interchange of formal morning-calls, and obliged neighbours to be hospitable to each other, ~sans ceremonie~, and with all good fellowship. to drive fifteen, twenty, or even five-and-twenty miles, to a dinner party was so common an occurrence, that it excited surprise only in a stranger, whose wonderment at this voluntary fatigue would be quickly dispelled on witnessing the hearty hospitality and friendly freedom that made a north country visit so enjoyable, and robbed the dinner party of its ordinary character of an english solemnity. close to honeybourn village was the squire's model farm, with its wide-spreading yards and buildings, and its comfortable bailiff's house. in a morning at sunrise, when our warwickshire friends were yet in bed, such of them as were light sleepers would hear a not very melodious fanfare from a cow's horn - the signal to the village that the day's work was begun, which signal was repeated at sunset. this old custom possessed uncommon charms for mr. bouncer, whose only regret was that he had left behind him his celebrated tin horn. but he took to the cow-horn with the readiness of a child to a new plaything; and, having placed himself under the instruction of <vg .jpg> the northumbrian koenig, was speedily enabled to sound his octaves and go the complete unicorn (as he was wont to express it, in his peculiarly figurative eastern language) with a still more astounding effect than he had done on his former instrument. the little gentleman always made a point of thus signalling the times of the arrival and departure of the post, - greatly to the delight of small jock muir, who, girded with his letter-bag, and mounted on a highly-trained donkey, rode to and fro to the neighbouring post-town. although mr. verdant green was not (according to mr. bouncer) "a bucolical party," and had not any very amazing taste for agriculture, he nevertheless could not but feel interested in what he saw around him. to one who was so accustomed to the small enclosures and timbered hedge-rows of the midland counties, the country of the cheviots appeared in a grand, though naked aspect, like some stalwart gladiator of the stern old times. the fields were of large extent; and it was no uncommon sight to see, within one boundary fence, a [an oxford freshman ] hundred acres of wheat, rippling into mimic waves, like some inland sea. the flocks and herds, too, were on a grand scale; men counted their sheep, not by tens, but by hundreds. everything seemed to be influenced, as it were, by the large character of the scenery. the green hills, with their short sweet grass, gave good pasture for the fleecy tribe, who were dotted over the sward in almost countless numbers; and mr. verdant green was as much gratified with "the silly sheep," as with anything else that he witnessed in that land of novelty. to see the shepherd, with his bonnet and grey plaid, and long slinging step, walking first, and the flock following him, - to hear him call the sheep by name, and to perceive how he knew them individually, and how they each and all would answer to his voice, was a realization of scripture reading, and a northern picture of eastern life. the head shepherd, old andrew graham - an active youth whose long snowy locks had been bleached by the snows of eighty winters - was an especial favourite of mr. verdant green's, who would never tire of his company, or of his anecdotes of his marvellous dogs. his cottage was at a distance from the village, up in a snug hollow of one of the hills. there he lived, and there had been brought up his six sons, and as many daughters. of the latter, two were out at service in noble families of the county; one was maid to the misses honeywood, and the three others were at home. how they and the other inmates of the cottage were housed, was a mystery; for, although old andrew was of a superior condition in life to the other cottagers of honeybourn, yet his domicile was like all the rest in its arrangements and accommodation. it was one moderately large room, fitted up with cupboards, in which, one above another, were berths, like to those on board a steamer. in what way the morning and evening toilettes were performed was a still greater mystery to our warwickshire friends; nevertheless, the good-looking trio of damsels were always to be found neat, clean, and presentable; and, as their mother one day proudly remarked, they were "douce, sonsy bairns, wi' weel-faur'd nebs; and, for puir folks, would be weel tochered." upon which our hero said "indeed!" which, as he had not the slightest idea what the good woman meant, was, perhaps, the wisest remark that he could have made. one of them was generally to be found spinning at her muckle wheel, retiring and advancing to the music of its cheerful hum, the while her spun thread was rapidly coiled up on the spindle. the others, as they busied themselves in their household duties, or brightened up the delf and pewter, and set it out on the shelf to its best advantage, would join in some plaintive scotch ballad, with such good taste and skill that our friends would [ adventures of mr. verdant green] frequently love to linger within hearing, though out of sight. <vg .jpg> but these artless ditties were sometimes specially sung for them when they paid the cottage-room a visit, and sat around its canopied, projecting fire-place. for, old andrew was a great smoker; and little mr. bouncer was exceedingly fond of waylaying him on his return home, and "blowing a cloud" with so loquacious and novel a companion. and mr. verdant green sometimes joined him in these visits; on which occasions, as harmony was the order of the day, he would do his best to further it by singing "marble halls," or any other song that his limited ~repertoire~ could boast; while old andrew would burst into "tullochgorum," or do violence to "get up and bar the door." it must be confessed, that the conversation at such times was sustained not without difficulty. old andrew, his wife, and the major portion of his family, were barely able to understand the language of their guests, whom they persisted in generalizing as "cannie soothrons;" while the guests, on their part, could not altogether arrive at the meaning of observations that were couched in the most incomprehensible ~patois~ that was ever invented. it was "neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring," although it was flavoured with the northumbrian burr, and mixed with a species of scotch; and the historian of these pages would feel almost as much difficulty in setting down this north-northumbrian dialect, as he would do were he to attempt to reduce to words the bird-like chatter of the bosjesmen. when, for example, the bewigged mr. bouncer - "the laddie wi' the black pow," as they called him - was addressed as "hinny! jist come ben, and crook yer hough on the settle, and het yersen by the chimney-lug," it was as much by action as by word that he understood an invitation to be seated; though the "wet yer thrapple wi' a drap o' whuskie, mon!" was easier of comprehension when accompanied with the presentation of the whiskey-horn. in like manner, when mr. [an oxford freshman ] verdant green's arrival was announced by the furious barking of the faithful dogs, the apology that "the camstary breutes of dougs would not steek their clatterin' gabs," was accepted as an ample explanation, more from the dogs being quieted than from the lucidity of the remark that explained their uproar. there was one class of lady-labourers, peculiar to that part <vg .jpg> of the country, who were called bondagers, - great strapping damsels of three or four - woman - power, whose occupation it was to draw water, and perform some of the rougher duties attendant upon agricultural pursuits. the sturdy legs of these young ladies were equipped in greaves of leather, which protected them from the cutting attacks of stubble, thistles, and all other lacerating specimens of botany, and their exuberant figures were clad in buskins, and many-coloured garments, that were not long enough to conceal their greaves and clod-hopping boots. altogether, these young women, when engaged at their ordinary avocations by the side of a spring, formed no unpicturesque subject for the sketcher's pencil, and might have been advantageously transferred to canvas by many an artist who travels to greater distances in search of lesser novelties.* but many peculiar subjects for the pencil might there have been found. one day when they were all going to see the ewe-milking (which of itself would have furnished material --- * in north-northumberland, farm-labourers are usually hired by the year - from whitsunday to whitsunday - and are paid mostly in kind, - so many bolls of oats, barley, and peas - so much flax and wheat - the keep of a cow, and the addition of a few pounds in money. every hind or labourer is bound, in return for his house, to provide a woman labourer to the farmer, for so much a day throughout the year-which is usually tenpence a day in summer, and eightpence in winter; and as it often happens that he has none of his own family fit for the work, he has to hire a woman, at large wages, to do it. as the demand is greater than the supply there is not always a strict inquiry into the "bondager's" character. as with the case of hop-pickers - whom these bondagers somewhat resemble both socially and morally - they are oftentimes the inhabitants of densely-populated towns, who are tempted to live a brief agricultural life, not so much from the temptation of the wages, as from the desire to pass a summer-time in the country. -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green ] for a host of sketches), they suddenly came upon the following scene. round by the gable of a cottage was seated <vg .jpg> a shock-headed rustic absalom, and standing over him was another rustic, who, with a large pair of shears, was acting as an amateur tonson, and was earnestly engaged in reducing the other's profuse head of hair; an occupation upon which he busied himself with more zeal than discretion. of this little scene miss patty honeywood forthwith made a memorandum. for miss patty possessed the enviable accomplishment of sketching from nature; and, leaving the beaten track of young-lady figure-artists, who usually limit their efforts to chalk-heads and crayon smudges, she boldy launched into the more difficult, but far more pleasing undertaking of delineating the human form divine from the very life. mr. verdant green found this sketching from nature to be so pretty a pastime, that though unable of himself to produce the feeblest specimen of art, he yet took the greatest delight in watching the facility with which miss patty's taper fingers transferred to paper the ~vraisemblance~ of a pair of sturdy bondagers, or the miniature reflection of a grand landscape. happily for him, also, by way of an excuse for bestowing his company upon miss patty, he was enabled to be of some use to her in carrying her sketching-block and box of moist water-colours, or in bringing to her water from a neighbouring spring, or in sharpening her pencils. on these occasions verdant would have preferred their being left to the sole enjoyment of each other's company; but this was not so to be, for they were always favoured with the attendance of at least a third person. but (at last!) on one happy day, when the bright sunshine was reflected in miss patty honeywood's bright-beaming face, mr. verdant green found himself wandering forth, "all in the blue, unclouded weather," with his heart's idol, and no third person to intrude upon their duet. the alleged purport of the walk was, that miss patty might sketch the ruined church of lasthope, which was about [an oxford freshman ] two miles distant from the hall. to reach it they had to follow the course of the swirl, which ran through the squire's grounds. the swirl was a brawling, picturesque stream; at one place narrowing into threads of silver between lichen-covered stones and fragments of rock; at another place flowing on in deep pools - "wimpling, dimpling, staying never- lisping, gurgling, ever going, sipping, slipping, ever flowing, toying round the polish'd stone;"* fretting "in rough, shingly shallows wide," and then "bickering down the sunny day." on one day, it might, in places, and with the aid of stepping-stones, be crossed dryshod; and within twenty-four hours it might be swelled by mountain torrents into a river wider than the thames at richmond. this sudden growth of the "infant of the weeping hills," was the reason why the high road was carried over the swirl by a bridge of ten arches - a circumstance which had greatly excited little mr. bouncer's ideas of the ridiculous when he perceived the narrow stream scarcely wide enough to wet the sides of one of the arches of the great bridge that straggled over it, like a railway viaduct over a canal. but, ere his visit to honeywood hall had come to an end, the little gentleman had more than once seen the swirl swollen to its fullest dimensions, and been enabled to recognize the use of the bridge, and the full force of the local expression - "the waeter is grit." as verdant and miss patty made their way along the bank of this most changeable stream, they came upon mr. charles larkyns knee-deep in it, equipped in his wading-boots and fishing dress, and industriously whipping the water for trout. the swirl was a famous trout-stream, and mr. honeywood's coachman was a noted fisherman, and was accustomed to pass many of his nights fishing the stream with a white moth. it appeared that the finny inhabitants of the swirl were as fond of whitebait as are cabinet ministers and london aldermen; for the coachman's deeds of darkness invariably resulted in the production of a fine dish of freshly-caught trout for the breakfast-table. "it must be hard work," said verdant to his friend, as they stopped awhile to watch him; "it must be hard work to make your way against the stream, and to clamber in and out among the rocks and stones." "not at all hard work," was charles larkyns's reply, "but play. play, too, in more senses than one. see! i have just struck a fish. watch, while i play him. --- * thomas aird -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] 'the play's the thing!' wait awhile and you'll see me land him, or i'm much mistaken." <vg .jpg> so they waited awhile and watched this fisherman at play, until he had triumphantly landed his fish, and then they pursued their way. miss patty had great conversational abilities and immense power of small talk, so that verdant felt quite at ease in her society, and found his natural timidity and quiet bashfulness to be greatly diminished, even if they were not altogether put on one side. they were always such capital friends, and miss patty was so kind and thoughtful in making verdant appear to the best advantage, and in looking over any little ~gaucheries~ to which his bashfulness might give birth, that it is not to be wondered at if the young gentleman should feel great delight in her society, and should seek for it at every opportunity. in fact, miss patty honeywood was beginning to be quite necessary to mr. verdant green's happy existence. it may be that the young lady was not altogether ignorant of this, but was enabled to read the young man's state of mind, and to judge pretty accurately of his inward feelings, from those minute details of outward evidence which womankind are so quick to mark, and so skilful in tracing to their true source. it may be, also, that the young lady did not choose either to check these feelings or to alter this state of mind - which she certainly ought to have done if she was solicitous for her companion's happiness, and was unable to increase it in the way that he wished. but, at any rate, with mutual satisfaction for the present, they strolled together along the swirl's rocky banks, and passing into a large enclosure, they advanced midway through the fields to a spot which seemed a suitable one for miss patty's purpose. the brawling stream made a good foreground for the picture, which, on the one side, was shut in by a steep hill rising precipitously from the water's rough bed, and on the other side opened out into a mountainous landscape, having in the near view the ruined church of lasthope, with the still more ruinous minister's house, a fir plantation, and a rude bridge; with a middle distance of bold, sheep-dotted hills; and for a background the "sow-backed" cheviot itself. [an oxford freshman ] miss patty had made her outline of this scene, and was preparing to wash it in, when, as her companion came up from <vg .jpg> the stream with a little tin can of water, he saw, to his equal terror and amazement, a huge bull of the most uninviting aspect stealthily approaching the seated figure of the unconscious young lady. mr. verdant green looked hastily around and at once perceived the danger that menaced his fair friend. it was evident that the bull had come up from the further end of the large enclosure, the while they had been too occupied to observe his stealthy approach. no one was in sight save charles larkyns, who was too far off to be of any use. the nearest gate was about a hundred and fifty yards distant; and the bull was so placed that he could overtake them before they would be able to reach it. overtake them! - yes! but suppose they separated? then, as the brute could not go two ways at once, there would be a chance for one of them to get through the gate in safety. love, which induces people to take extraordinary steps, prompted mr. verdant green to jump at a conclusion. he determined, with less display but more sincerity than melodramatic heroes, to save miss patty, or "perish in the attempt." she was seated on the rising bank altogether ignorant of the presence of danger; and, as verdant returned to her with the tin can of water, she received him with a happy smile, and a gush of pleasant small talk, which our hero immediately repressed by saying, "don't be frightened - there is no danger - but there is a bull coming towards us. walk quietly to that gate, and keep your face towards him as much as possible, and don't let him see that you are afraid of him. i will take off his attention till you are safe at the gate, and then i can wade through the stream and get out of his reach." miss patty had at once sprung to her feet, and her smile had changed to a terrified expression. "oh, but he will hurt you!" she cried; "do come with me. it is papa's bull ~roarer~; he is very savage. i can't think what brings him here - he is generally up at the bailiff's. pray do come; i can take care of myself." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] miss patty in her agitation and anxiety had taken hold of mr. verdant green's hand; but, although the young gentleman would at any other time have very willingly allowed her to retain possession of it, on the present occasion he disengaged it from her clasp, and said, "pray don't lose time, or it will be too late for both of us. i assure you that i can easily take care of myself. now do go, pray; quietly, but quickly." so miss patty, with an earnest, searching gaze into her companion's face, did as he bade her, and retreated with her face to the foe. in a few seconds, however, the object of her movement had dawned upon mr. roarer's dull understanding, upon which discovery he set up a bellow of fury, and stamped the ground in very undignified wrath. but, more than this, like a skilful general who has satisfactorily worked out the forty-seventh proposition of the first book of euclid, and knows therefrom that the square of the hypothenuse equals both that of the base and perpendicular, he unconsciously commenced the solution of the problem, by making a galloping charge in the direction of the gate to which miss patty was hastening. thereupon, mr. verdant green, perceiving the young lady's peril, deliberately ran towards mr. roarer, shouting and brandishing the sketch-book. mr. roarer paused in wonder and perplexity. mr. verdant green shouted and advanced; miss patty steadily retreated. after a few moments of indecision mr. roarer abandoned his design of pursuing the petticoats, and resolved that the gentleman should be his first victim. accordingly he sounded his trumpet for the conflict, gave another roar and a stamp, and then ran towards mr. verdant green, who, having picked up a large stone, threw it dexterously into mr. roarer's face, which brought that broad-chested gentleman to a stand-still of astonishment and a search for the missile. of this mr. verdant green took advantage, and made a parthian retreat. glancing towards miss patty he saw that she was within thirty yards of the gate, and in a minute or two would be in safety - saved through his means! a bellow from mr. roarer's powerful lungs prevented him for the present from pursuing this delightful theme. in another moment the bull charged, and mr. verdant green - braced up, as it were, to energetic proceedings by the screams with which miss patty had now begun to shrilly echo mr. roarer's deep-mouthed bellowings - waited for his approach, and then, as the bull rushed on him - like a massive rock hurled forward by an avalanche - he leaped aside, nimble as a doubling hare. as he did so, he threw down his wide-awake, which the irate mr. roarer forthwith fell upon, and tossed, and tossed, and tore into shreds. by this time, verdant had reached the bank of the swirl; but before he could proceed further, the [an oxford freshman ] bull was upon him again. verdant was prepared for this, and had taken off his coat. as the bull dashed heavily towards him, with head bent wickedly to the ground, verdant again doubled, and, with the dexterity of a matador, threw his coat upon the horns. blinded by this, mr. roarer's headlong career was temporarily checked; and it was three minutes before he had torn to shreds the imaginary body of his enemy; but this three minutes' pause was of very great importance, and in all probability prevented the memoirs of mr. verdant green from coming to an untimely end at this portion of the narrative. miss patty's continued screams had been signals of distress that had not only brought up charles larkyns, but four labourers also, who were working in a field within ear-shot. this ~corps de reserve~ ran up to the spot with all speed, shouting as they did so, in order to distract mr. roarer's attention. by this time mr. verdant green had waded into the water, and was making the best of his way across the swirl, in order that he might reach the precipitous hill to the right; up this he could scramble and bid defiance to mr. roarer. but there is many a slip 'tween cup and lip. poor verdant chanced to make a stepping-stone of a treacherous boulder, and fell headlong into the water; and ere he could regain his feet, the bull had plunged with a bellow into the stream, and was within a yard of his prostrate form, when - when you may imagine mr. verdant green's delight and miss patty honeywood's thankfulness at seeing one of the labourers run into the stream, and strike the bull a heavy stroke with a sharp hoe, the pain of which wound caused mr. roarer to suddenly wheel round and engage with his new adversary, who followed up his advantage, and cut into his enemy with might and main. then charles larkyns and the other three labourers came up, and the bull was prevented from doing an injury to any one until a farm-servant had arrived upon the scene with a strong halter, when mr. roarer, somewhat spent with wrath, and suffering from considerable depression of animal spirits, was conducted to the obscure retirement and littered ease of the bull-house. this little adventure has been recorded here, inasmuch as from it was forged, by the hand of cupid, a golden link in our hero's chain of fate; for to this occurrence miss patty attached no slight importance. she exalted mr. verdant green's conduct on this occasion into an act of heroism worthy to be ranked with far more notable deeds of valour. she looked upon him as a bayard who had chivalrously risked his life in the cause of - love, was it? or only of - a lady. her gratitude, she considered, ought to be very great to one who had, at so great a venture, preserved her from so horrible a death. for [ adventures of mr. verdant green] that she would have been dreadfully gored, and would have lost her life, if she had not been rescued by mr. verdant green, miss patty had most fully and unalterably decided - which, certainly, might have been the case. at any rate, our hero had no reason to regret that portion of his life's drama in which mr. roarer had made his appearance. chapter iii. mr. verdant green studies ye manners and customs of ye natyves. <vg .jpg> miss patty honeywood was not only distinguished for unlimited powers of conversation, but was also equally famous for her equestrian abilities. she and her sister were the first horsewomen in that part of the county; and, if their father had permitted, they would have been delighted to ride to hounds, and to cross country with the foremost flight, for they had pluck enough for anything. they had such light hands and good seats, and in every respect rode so well, that, as a matter of course, they looked well - never better, perhaps, than - when on horseback. their bright, happy faces - which were far more beautiful in their piquant irregularities of feature, and gave one far more pleasure in the contemplation than if they had been moulded in the coldly chiselled forms of classic beauty - appeared with no diminution of charms, when set off by their pretty felt riding-hats; and their full, firm, and well-rounded figures were seen to the greatest advantage when clad in the graceful dress that passes by the name of a riding-habit. every morning, after breakfast, the two young ladies were accustomed to visit the stables, where they had interviews with their respective steeds - steeds and mistresses appearing to be equally gratified thereby. it is perhaps needless to state that during mr. verdant green's sojourn at honeywood hall, miss patty's stable calls were generally made in his company. such rides as they took in those happy days - wild, pic-nic sort of rides, over country equally as wild and removed from [an oxford freshman ] formality - rides by duets and rides in duodecimos; sometimes a solitary couple or two; sometimes a round dozen of them, scampering and racing over hill and heather, with startled grouse and black-cock skirring up from under the very hoofs of the equally startled horses;- rides by tumbling streams, like the swirl - splashing through them, with pulled-up or draggled habits - then cantering on "over bank, bush, and scaur," like so many fair ellens and young lochinvars - clambering up very precipices, and creeping down break-neck hills - laughing <vg .jpg> and talking, and singing, and whistling, and even (so far as mr. bouncer was concerned) blowing cows' horns! what vagabond, rollicking rides were those! what a healthy contrast to the necessarily formal, groom-attended canter on society's rotten row! a legion of dogs accompanied them on these occasions; a miscellaneous pack composed of masters huz and buz (in great spirits at finding themselves in such capital quarters), a black newfoundland (answering to the name of "nigger"), a couple of setters (with titles from the heathen mythology - "juno" and "flora"), a ridiculous-looking, bandy-legged otter-hound (called "gripper"), a wiry, rat-catching terrier ("nipper"), and two silky-haired, long-backed, short-legged, sharp-nosed, bright-eyed, pepper-and-salt skye-terriers, who respectively answered to the names of "whisky" and "toddy," and were the property of the misses honeywood. the lordly shepherds' dogs, whom they encountered on their journeys, would have nothing to do with such a medley of unruly scamps, but turned from their overtures of friendship with patrician disdain. they routed up rabbits; they turned [ adventures of mr. verdant green] out hedgehogs; and, at their approach, they made the game fly with a whir-r-r-r-r-r-r arranged as a ~diminuendo~. these free-and-easy equestrian expeditions were not only agreeable to mr. verdant green's feelings, but they were also useful to him as so many lessons of horsemanship, and so greatly advanced him in the practice of that noble science, that the admiring squire one day said to him - "i'll tell you what, verdant! before we've done with you, we shall make you ride <vg .jpg> like a shafto!" at which high eulogium mr. verdant green blushed, and made an inward resolution that, as soon as he had returned home, he would subscribe to the warwickshire hounds, and make his appearance in the field. on sundays the honeywood party usually rode and drove to the church of a small market-town, some seven or eight miles distant. if it was a wet day, they walked to the ruined church of lasthope - the place miss patty was sketching when disturbed by mr. roarer. lasthope was in lay hands; and its lay rector, who lived far away, had so little care for the edifice, or the proper conduct of divine service, that he allowed the one to continue in its ruins, and suffered the other to be got through anyhow, or not at all - just as it happened. clergymen were engaged to perform the service (there was but one each day) at the lowest price of the clerical market. occasionally it was announced, in the vernacular of the district, that there would be no church, "because the priest had gone for the sea-bathing," or because the waters were out, and the priest could not get [an oxford freshman ] across. as a matter of course, in consequence of the uncertainty of finding any one to perform the service when they had got to church, and of the slovenly way in which the service was scrambled through when they had got a clergyman there, the congregation generally preferred attending the large presbyterian meeting-house, which was about two miles from lasthope. here, at any rate, they met with the reverse of coldness in the conduct of the service. mr. verdant green and his male friends strayed there one sunday for curiosity's sake, and found a minister of indefatigable eloquence and enviable power of lungs, who had arrived at such a pitch of heat, from the combined effects of the weather and his own exertions, that in the very middle of his discourse - and literally in the heat of it - he paused to divest himself of his gown, heavily braided with serge and velvet, and, hanging it over the side of the pulpit ("the pilput," his congregation called it), mopped his head with his handkerchief, and then pursued his theme like a giant refreshed. at this stage in the proceedings, little mr. bouncer became in a high state of pleasurable excitement, from the expectation that the minister would next divest himself of his coat, and would struggle through the rest of his argument in his shirt-sleeves; but mr. bouncer's improper wishes were not gratified. the sermon was so extremely metaphorical, was founded on such abstruse passages, and was delivered in so broad a dialect, that it was ~caviare~ to mr. verdant green and his friends; but it seemed to be far otherwise with the attentive and crowded congregation, who relieved their minister at intervals by loud bursts of singing, that were impressive from their fervency though not particularly harmonious to a delicately-musical ear. near to the close of the service there was a collection, which induced mr. bouncer to whisper to verdant - as an axiom deduced from his long experience - that "you never come to a strange place, but what you are sure to drop in for a collection;" but, on finding that it was a weekly offering, and that no one was expected to give more than a copper, the little gentleman relented, and cheerfully dropped a piece of silver into the wooden box. it was astonishing to see the throngs of people, that, in so thinly inhabited a district, could be assembled at this meeting-house. though it seemed almost incredible to our midland-county friends, yet not a few of these poor, simple, earnest-minded people would walk from a distance of fifteen miles, starting at an early hour, coming by easy stages, and bringing with them their dinner, so as to enable them to stay for the afternoon service. on the sunday mornings the red cloaks and grey plaids of these pious men and women might be seen dotting the green hillsides,and slowly moving towards [ adventures of mr. verdant green] the gaunt and grim red brick meeting-house. and around it, on great occasions, were tents pitched for the between-service accommodation of the worshippers. both they and it contrasted, in every way, with the ruined church of lasthope, whose worship seemed also to have gone to ruin with the uncared-for edifice. its aisles had tumbled down, and their material had been rudely built up within the arches of the nave. the church was thus converted into the non-ecclesiastical form of a parallelogram, and was fitted up with the very rudest and ugliest of deal enclosures, which were dignified with the names of pews, but ought to have been termed pens. during the time of mr. verdant green's visit, the service at this ecclesiastical ruin was performed by a clergyman who had apparently been selected for the duty from his harmonious resemblance to the place; for he also was an ecclesiastical ruin - a schoolmaster in holy orders, who, having to slave hard all through the working-days of the week, had to work still harder on the day of rest. for, first, the ruin had to ride his stumbling old pony a distance of twelve miles (and twelve ~such~ miles!) to lasthope, where he stabled it (bringing the feed of corn in his pocket, and leading it to drink at the swirl) in the dilapidated stable of the tumbled-down rectory-house. then he had to get through the morning service without any loss of time, to enable him to ride eight miles in another direction (eating his sandwich dinner as he went along), where he had to take the afternoon duty and occasional services at a second church. when this was done, he might find his way home as well as he could, and enjoy with his family as much of the day of rest as he had leisure and strength for. the stipend that the ruin received for his labours was greatly below the wages given to a butler by the lay rector, who pocketed a very nice income by this respectable transaction. but the butler was a stately edifice in perfect repair, both outside and in, so far as clothes and food went; and the parson was an ill-conditioned ruin left to moulder away in an obscure situation, without even the ivy of luxuriance to make him graceful and picturesque. mr. honeywood's family were the only "respectable" persons who occasionally attended the ruin's ministrations in lasthope church. the other people who made up the scanty congregation were old andrew graham and his children, and a few of the poorer sort of honeybourn. they all brought their dogs with them as a matter of course. on entering the church the men hung up their bonnets on a row of pegs provided for that purpose, and fixed, as an ecclesiastical ornament, along the western wall of the church. they then took their places in their pens, accompanied by their dogs, who usually behaved with remarkable propriety, and, during the sermon, set their [an oxford freshman ] masters an example of watchfulness. on one occasion the proceedings were interrupted by a rat hunt; the dogs gave tongue, and leaped the pews in the excitement of the chase - their masters followed them and laid about them with their sticks - and when with difficulty order had been restored, the service was proceeded with. it must be confessed that mr. bouncer was so badly disposed as to wish for a repetition of this scene; but (happily) he was disappointed. the choir of lasthope church was centred in the person of the clerk, who apparently sang tunes of his own composing, in which the congregation joined at their discretion, though usually to different airs. the result was a discordant struggle, through which the clerk bravely maintained his own until he had exhausted himself, when he shut up his book and sat down, and the congregation had to shut up also. during the singing the intelligence of the dogs was displayed in their giving a stifled utterance to howls of anguish, which were repeated ~ad libitum~ throughout the hymn; but as this was a customary proceeding it attracted no attention, unless a dog expressed his sufferings more loudly than was wont, when he received a clout from his master's staff that silenced him, and sent him under the pew-seat, as to a species of ecclesiastical st. helena. such was lasthope church, its ruin, and its service; and, as may be imagined from these notes which the veracious historian has thought fit to chronicle, mr. verdant green found that his sundays in northumberland produced as much novelty as the week-days. chapter iv. mr. verdant green endeavours to say snip to some one's snap. there was a gate in the kitchen-garden of honeywood hall, that led into an orchard; and in this orchard there was a certain apple-tree that had assumed one of those peculiarities of form to which the children of pomona are addicted. after growing upright for about a foot and a half, it had suddenly shot out at right angles, with a gentle upward slope for a length of between three and four feet, and had then again struck up into the perpendicular. it thus formed a natural orchard seat, capable of holding two persons comfortably - provided that they regarded a close proximity as comfortable sitting. one day miss patty directed verdant's attention to this vagary of nature. "this is one of my favourite haunts," she said. "i often steal here on a hot day with some work or a [ adventures of mr. verdant green] book. you see this upper branch makes quite a little table, and i can rest my book upon it. it is so pleasant to be under the shade here, with the fruit or blossoms over one's head; and it is so snug and retired, and out of the way of every one." "it ~is~ very snug - and very retired," said mr. verdant green; and he thought that now would be the very time to put in execution a project that had for some days past been haunting his brain. "when kitty and i," said miss patty, "have any secrets we come here and tell them to each other while we sit at our work. no one can hear what we say; and we are quite snug all to ourselves." very odd, thought verdant, that they should fix on this particular spot for confidential communications, and take the trouble to come here to make them, when they could do so in their own rooms at the house. and yet it isn't such a bad spot either. "try how comfortable a seat it is!" said miss patty. mr. verdant green began to feel hot. he sat down, however, and tested the comforts of the seat, much in the same way as he would try the spring of a lounging chair, and apparently with a like result, for he said, "yes it ~is~ very comfortable - very comfortable indeed." "i thought you'd like it," said miss patty; "and you see how nicely the branches droop all round: they make it quite an arbour. if kitty had been here with me i think you would have had some trouble to have found us." "i think i should; it is quite a place to hide in," said verdant. but the young lady and gentleman must have been speaking with the spirit of ostriches, and have imagined that, when they had hidden their heads, they had altogether concealed themselves from observation; for the branches of the apple-tree only drooped low enough to conceal the upper part of their figures, and left the rest exposed to view. "won't you sit down, also?" asked verdant, with a gasp and a sensation in his head as though he had been drinking champagne too freely. "i'm afraid there's scarcely room for me," pleaded miss patty. "oh yes, there is, indeed! pray sit down." so she sat down on the lower part of the trunk. mr. verdant green glanced rapidly round and perceived that they were quite alone, and partly shrouded from view. the following highly interesting conversation then took place. ~he.~ "won't you change places with me? you'll slip off." ~she.~ "no - i think i can manage." ~he.~ "but you can come closer." ~she.~ "thanks." (~she comes closer.~) [an oxford freshman ] ~he.~ "isn't that more comfortable?" ~she.~ "yes - very much." ~he.~ (~very hot, and not knowing what to say~) - "i - i think you'll slip!" ~she.~ "oh no! it's very comfortable indeed." (that is to say - thinks mr. verdant green-that sitting by me is very comfortable. hurrah!) ~she.~ "it's very hot, don't you think?" ~he.~ "how very odd! i was just thinking the same." ~she.~ "i think i shall take my hat off - it is so warm. dear me! how stupid! - the strings are in a knot." ~he.~ "let me see if i can untie them for you." ~she.~ "thanks! no! i can manage." (~but she cannot.~) ~he.~ "you'd better let me try! now do!" ~she.~ "oh, thanks! but i'm sorry you should have the trouble." ~he.~ "no trouble at all. quite a pleasure." in a very hot condition of mind and fingers, mr. verdant green then endeavoured to release the strings from their entanglement. but all in vain: he tugged, and pulled, and only made matters worse. once or twice in the struggle his hands touched miss patty's chin; and no highly-charged electrical machine could have imparted a shock greater than that tingling sensation of pleasure which mr. verdant green experienced when his fingers, for the fraction of a second, touched miss patty's soft dimpled chin. then there was her beautiful neck, so white, and with such blue veins! he had an irresistible desire to stroke it for its very smoothness - as one loves to feel the polish of marble, or the glaze of wedding cards - instead of employing his hands in fumbling at the brown ribands, whose knots became more complicated than ever. then there was her happy rosy face, so close to which his own was brought; and her bright, laughing, hazel eyes, in which, as he timidly looked up, he saw little daguerreotypes of himself. would that he could retain such a photographer by his side through life! miss bouncer's camera was as nothing compared with the ~camera lucida~ of those clear eyes, that shone upon him so truthfully, and mirrored for him such pretty pictures. and what with these eyes, and the face, and the chin, and the neck, mr. verdant green was brought into such an irretrievable state of mental excitement that he was perfectly unable to render miss patty the service he had proffered. but, more than that, he as yet lacked sufficient courage to carry out his darling project. at length miss patty herself untied the rebellious knot, and took off her hat. the highly interesting conversation was then resumed. ~she.~ "what a frightful state my hair is in!" (~loops up an [ adventures of mr. verdant green] escaped lock.~) "you must think me so untidy. but out in the country, and in a place like this where no one sees us, it makes one careless of appearance." ~he.~ "i like 'a sweetneglect,' especially in - in some people; it suits them so well. i - 'pon my word, it's very hot!" ~she.~ "but how much hotter it must be from under the shade. it is so pleasant here. it seems so dreamlike to sit among the shadows and look out upon the bright landscape." ~he.~ "it ~is~ - very jolly - soothing, at least!" (~a pause.~) "i think you'll slip. do you know, i think it will be safer if you will let me" (~here his courage fails him. he endeavours to say~ put my arm round your waist, ~but his tongue refuses to speak the words; so he substitutes~) "change places with you." ~she.~ (~rises, with a look of amused vexation.~) "certainly! if you so particularly wish it." (~they change places.~) "now, you see, you have lost by the change. you are too tall for that end of the seat, and it did very nicely for a little body like me." ~he.~ (~with a thrill of delight and a sudden burst of strategy.~) "i can hold on to this branch, if my arm will not inconvenience you." ~she.~ "oh no! not particularly:" (~he passes his right arm behind her, and takes hold of a bough:~) "but i should think it's not very comfortable for you." ~he.~ "i couldn't be more comfortable, i'm sure." (~nearly slips off the tree, and doubles up his legs into an unpicturesque attitude highly suggestive of misery. - a pause~) "and do you tell your secrets here?" ~she.~ "my secrets? oh, i see - you mean, with kitty. oh, yes! if this tree could talk, it would be able to tell such dreadful stories." ~he.~ "i wonder if it could tell any dreadful stories of - ~me?~" [an oxford freshman ] ~she.~ "of you? oh, no! why should it? we are only severe on those we dislike." ~he.~ "then you don't dislike me?" ~she.~ "no! - why should we?" ~he.~ "well - i don't know - but i thought you might. well, i'm glad of that - i'm ~very~ glad of that. 'pon my word, it's ~very~ hot! don't you think so?" ~she.~ "yes! i'm burning. but i don't think we should find a cooler place." (~does not evince any symptoms of moving.~) ~he.~ "well, p'raps we shouldn't." (~a pause.~) "do you know that i'm very glad you don't dislike me; because, it wouldn't have been pleasant to be disliked by you, would it?" ~she.~ "well - of course, i can't tell. it depends upon one's own feelings." ~he.~ "then you don't dislike me?" ~she.~ "oh dear, no! why should i?" ~he.~ "and if you don't dislike me, you must like me?" ~she.~ "yes - at least - yes, i suppose so." at this stage of the proceedings, the arm that mr. verdant green had passed behind miss patty thrilled with such a peculiar sensation that his hand slipped down the bough, and the arm consequently came against miss patty's waist, where it rested. the necessity for saying something, the wish to make that something the something that was bursting his heart and brain, and the dread of letting it escape his lips - these three varied and mingled sensations so distracted poor mr. verdant green's mind, that he was no more conscious of what he was giving utterance to than if he had been talking in a dream. but there was miss patty by his side - a very tangible and delightful reality - playing (somewhat nervously) with those rebellious strings of her hat, which loosely hung in her hand, while the dappled shadows flickered on the waving masses of her rich brown hair, - so something must be said; and, if it should lead to ~the~ something, why, so much the better. returning, therefore, to the subject of like and dislike, mr. verdant green managed to say, in a choking, faltering tone, "i wonder how much you like me - very much?" ~she.~ "oh, i couldn't tell - how should i? what strange questions you ask! you saved my life; so, of course, i am very, very grateful; and i hope i shall always be your friend." ~he.~ "yes, i hope so indeed - always - and something more. do you hope the same?" ~she.~ "what ~do~ you mean? hadn't we better go back to the house?" ~he.~ "not just yet - it's so cool here - at least, not cool exactly, but hot - pleasanter, that is - much pleasanter here. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] ~you~ said so, you know, a little while since. don't mind me; i always feel hot when - when i'm out of doors." ~she.~ "then we'd better go indoors." ~he.~ "pray don't - not yet - do stop a little longer." and the hand that had been on the bough of the tree, timidly seized miss patty's arm, and then naturally, but very gently, fell upon her waist. a thrill shot through mr. verdant green, like an electric flash, and, after traversing from his head to his heels, probably passed out safely at his boots - for it did him no harm, but, on the contrary, made him feel all the better. "but," said the young lady, as she felt the hand upon her waist - not that she was really displeased at the proceeding, but perhaps she thought it best, under the circumstances, to say something that should have the resemblance of a veto - "but it is not necessary to hold me a prisoner." "it's ~you~ that hold ~me~ a prisoner!" said mr. verdant green, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm and blushes, and a great stress upon the pronouns. "now you are talking nonsense, and, if so, i must go!" said miss patty. and she also blushed; perhaps it was from the heat. but she removed mr. verdant green's hand from her waist, and he was much too frightened to replace it. "oh! ~do~ stay a little!" gasped the young gentleman, with an awkward sensation of want of employment for his hands. "you said that secrets were told here. i don't want to talk nonsense; i don't indeed; but the truth. ~i've~ a secret to tell you. should you like to hear it?" "oh yes!" laughed miss patty. "i like to hear secrets." now, how very absurd it was in mr. verdant green wasting time in beating about the bush in this ridiculously timid way! why could he not at once boldly secure his bird by a straightforward shot? she did not fly out of his range - did she? and yet, here he was making himself unnecessarily hot and uncomfortable, when he might, by taking it coolly, have been at his ease in a moment. what a foolish young man! nay, he still further lost time and evaded his purpose, by saying once again to miss patty - instead of immediately replying to her observation - "'pon my word, it's uncommonly hot! don't you think so?" upon which miss patty replied, with some little chagrin, "and was that your secret?" if she had lived in the elizabethan era she could have adjured him with a "marry, come up!" which would have brought him to the point without any further trouble; but living in a victorian age, she could do no more than say what she did, and leave the rest of her meaning to the language of the eyes. "don't laugh at me!" urged the bashful and weak-minded [an oxford freshman ] young man; "don't laugh at me! if you only knew what i feel when you laugh at me, you'd" - "cry, i dare say!" said miss patty, cutting him short with a merry smile, and (it must be confessed) a most wickedly-roguish expression about those bright flashing hazel eyes of hers. "now, you haven't told me this wonderful secret!" "why," said mr. verdant green, slowly and deliberately - feeling that his time was coming on, and cowardly anxious still to fight off the fatal words - "you said that you didn't dislike me; and, in fact, that you liked me very much; and" - but here miss patty cut him short again. she turned sharply round upon him, with those bright eyes and that merry face, and said, "oh! how ~can~ you say so? i never said anything of the sort!" "well," said mr. verdant green, who was now desperate, and mentally prepared to take the dreaded plunge into that throbbing sea that beats upon the strand of matrimony, "whether ~you~ like ~me~ very much or not, ~i~ like ~you~ very much! - very much indeed! ever since i saw you, since last christmas, i've - i've liked you - very much indeed." mr. verdant green, in a very hot and excited state, had, <vg .jpg> while he was speaking, timidly brought his hand once more to miss patty's waist; and she did not interfere with its position. in fact, she was bending down her head, and was gazing intently on another knot that she had wilfully made in her hat-strings; and she was working so violently at that occupation of untying the knot, that very probably she might not have been aware of the situation of mr. verdant green's hand. at any rate, her own hands were too much busied to suffer her to interfere with his. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] at last the climax had arrived. mr. verdant green had screwed his courage to the sticking point, and had resolved to tell the secret of his love. he had got to the very edge of the precipice, and was on the point of jumping over head and ears into the stream of his destiny, and of bursting into any excited form of words that should make known his affection and his designs, when - when a vile perfume of tobacco, a sudden barking rush of huz and buz, and the horrid voice of little mr. bouncer, dispelled the bright vision, dispersed his ideas, and prevented the fulfilment of his purpose. "holloa, giglamps!" roared the little gentleman, as he removed a short pipe from his mouth, and expelled an ascending curl of smoke; "i've been looking for you everywhere! here we are, - as hamlet's uncle said, - all in the horchard! i hope he's not been pouring poison in ~your~ ear, miss honeywood; he looks rather guilty. the mum - i mean your mother - sent me to find you. the luncheon's been on the table more than an hour!" luckily for mr. verdant green and miss patty honeywood, little mr. bouncer rattled on without waiting for any reply to his observations, and thus enabled the young lady to somewhat recover her presence of mind, and to effect a hasty retreat from under the apple tree, and through the garden gate. "i say, old feller," said mr. bouncer, as he criticized mr. verdant green's countenance over the bowl of his pipe, "you look rather in a stew! what's up? my gum!" cried the little gentleman, as an idea of the truth suddenly flashed upon him; "you don't mean to say you've been doing the spooney - what you call making love - have you?" "oh!" groaned the person addressed, as he followed out the train of his own ideas; "if you ~had~ but have come five minutes later - or not at all! it's most provoking!" "well, you're a grateful bird, i don't think!" said mr. bouncer. "cut after her into luncheon, and have it out over the cold mutton and pickles!" "oh no!" responded the luckless lover; "i can't' eat - especially before the others! i mean - i couldn't talk to her before the others. oh! i don't know what i'm saying." "well, i don't think you do, old feller!" said mr. bouncer, puffing away at his pipe. "i'm sorry i was in the road, though! because, though i fight shy of those sort of things myself, yet i don't want to interfere with the little weaknesses of other folks. but come and have a pipe, old feller, and we'll talk matters over, and see what pips are on the cards, and what's the state of the game." now, a pipe was mr. bouncer's panacea for every kind of indisposition, both mental and bodily. [an oxford freshman ] chapter v. mr. verdant green meets with the green-eyed monster. <vg .jpg> mention had frequently been made by the members of the honeywood family, but more especially by miss patty, of a cousin - a male cousin - to whom they all seemed to be exceedingly partial - far more partial, as mr. verdant green thought, with regard to miss patty, than he would have wished her to have been. this cousin was mr. frank delaval, a son of their father's sister. according to their description, he possessed good looks, and an equivalently good fortune, with all sorts of accomplishments, both useful and ornamental; and was, in short (in their eyes at least), a very admirable crichton of the nineteenth century. mr. verdant green had heard from miss patty so much of her cousin frank, and of the pleasure they were anticipating from a visit he had promised shortly to make to them, that he had at length begun to suspect that the young lady's maiden meditations were not altogether "fancy free," and that her thoughts dwelt upon this handsome cousin far more than was palatable to mr. verdant green's feelings. in the most unreasonable manner, therefore, he conceived a violent antipathy to mr. frank delaval, even before he had set eyes upon him, and considered that the honeywood family had, one and all, greatly overrated him. but these suppositions and suspicions made him doubly anxious to come to an understanding with miss patty before the arrival of the dreaded adonis; and it was this thought that had helped to nerve him through the terrors of the orchard scene, and which, but for mr. bouncer's ~malapropos~ intrusion, would have brought things to a crisis. however, after he had had a talk with mr. bouncer, and had been fortified by that little gentleman's pithy admonitions to "go in and win," and to "strike while the iron's hot," and that "faint heart never won a nice young 'ooman," he determined to seek out miss patty at once, and bring to an end their unfinished conversation. for this purpose he returned to the hall, where he found a great commotion, and a carriage at the door; and out of the carriage jumped a handsome young man, with a black moustache, who ran up to the open hall-door (where miss patty [ adventures of mr. verdant green] was standing with her sister), seized miss kitty by the hand, and placed his moustache under her nose, and then seized miss patty by ~her~ hand, and removed the moustache to beneath ~her~ nose! and all this unblushingly and as a matter of course, out in the sunshine, and before the servants! mr. verdant green retreated without having been seen, and, plunging into the shrubbery, told his woes to the evergreens, and while he listened to "the dry-tongued laurel's pattering talk," he thought, "it is as i feared! i am nothing more to her than a simple friend." though, why he so morosely arrived at this idea it would be hard to say. perhaps other jealous lovers have been similarly unreasonable and unreasoning in their conclusions, and, of their own accord, run to the dark side of the cloud, when they might have pleasantly remained within its silver lining. but when frank delaval had been seen, and heard, and made acquaintance with, verdant, who was much too simple-hearted to dislike any one without just grounds for so doing, entered (even after half an hour's knowledge) into the band of his <vg .jpg> admirers; and that same evening, in the drawing-room, while miss kitty was playing one of schulhoff's mazurkas, with her moustached cousin standing by her side, and turning over the music-leaves, verdant privately declared, over a chessboard, to miss patty, that mr. frank delaval was the handsomest and most delightful man he had ever met. and when miss patty's eyes sparkled at this proof of his truth and disinterestedness, verdant mistook the bright signals; and further misconstruing [an oxford freshman ] the cause why (as they continued to speak of her cousin) she made a most egregious blunder, that caused her opponent to pronounce the word "mated!" he regarded it as a fatal omen, more especially as mr. frank came to her side at that very moment; and when the young lady laughed, and said, "what a goose i am! whatever could i have been thinking of?" he thought within himself (persisting in his illogical and perverse conclusions), "it is very plain what she is thinking about! i was afraid that she loved him, and now i know it." so he put up the chess-men, while she went to the piano with her cousin; and he even wished that mr. bouncer had interrupted their apple-tree conversation at its commencement; but was thankful to him for coming in time to save him from the pain of being rejected in favour of another. then, in five minutes, he changed his mind, and had decided that it would have spared him much misery if he could have heard his fate from his patty's own lips. then he wished that he had never come to northumberland at all, and began to think how he should spend his time in the purgatory that honeywood hall would now be to him. when they separated for the night, he again placed his moustache beneath her nose. mr. verdant green turned away his head at such a sickly exhibition. it was a presumption upon cousinship. charles larkyns did not kiss her; and he was equally as much her cousin as frank delaval. and yet, when the young men went into the back kitchen for a pipe and a chat before going to bed, verdant was so delighted with that handsome cousin frank, that he thought, "if i was a girl, i should think as ~she~ does." "and why should she not love him?" meditated the poor fellow, when he was lying awake in his bed that self-same night, rendered sleepless by the pain of his new wound; "why should she not love him? how could she do otherwise? thrown together as they have been from children - speaking to each other as 'patty' and 'fred'- kissing each other - and being as brother and sister. would that they were so! how he kept near her all the evening - coming to her even when she was playing chess with ~me~, then singing with her, and playing her accompaniments. she said that no one could play her accompaniments like ~he~ could - he had such good taste, and such a firm, delicate touch. then, when they talked about sketching, she said how she had missed him, and that she had been reserving the view from brankham law, in order that they might sketch it together. then he showed her his last drawings - and they were beautiful. what can i do against this?" groaned poor verdant, from under the bed-clothes; "he has accomplishments, and i have none; he has good looks, and i haven't; [ adventures of mr. verdant green] he has a moustache and a pair of whiskers, - and i have only a pair of spectacles! i cannot shine in society, and win admiration, like he does; i have nothing to offer her but my love. lucky fellow! he is worthier of her than i am - and i hope they will be very happy." at which thought, verdant felt highly the reverse, and went off into dismal dreams. in the morning, when miss patty and her cousin were setting out for the hill called brankham law, verdant, who had retreated to a garden-seat beneath a fine old cedar, was roused from a very abstracted perusal of "the dream of fair women," by the apparition of one who, in his eyes, was fairer than them all. "i have been searching for you everywhere," said miss patty. "mamma said that you were not riding with the others, so i knew that you must be somewhere about. i think i shall lock up my ~tennyson~, if it takes you so much out of our society. won't you come up brankham law with frank and me?" "willingly if you wish it," answered verdant, though with an unwilling air; "but of what use can i be? - othello's occupation is gone. your cousin can fill my place much better than if i were there." "how very ungrateful you are!" said miss patty; "you really deserve a good scolding! i allow you to watch me when i am painting, in order that you may gain a lesson, and just when you are beginning to learn something, then you give up. but, at any rate, take fred for your master, and come and watch ~him~; he ~can~ draw. if you were to go to any of the great men to have a lesson of them, all that they would do would be to paint before you, and leave you to look on and pick up what knowledge you could. i know that ~i~ cannot draw anything worth looking at, -" "indeed, but -" "but fred," continued miss patty, who was going at too great a pace to be stopped, "but fred is as good as many masters that you would meet with; so it will be an advantage to you to come and look over him." "i think i should prefer to look over you." "now you are paying compliments, and i don't like them. but, if you will come, you will really be useful. you see i am mercenary in my wishes, after all. here is fred with a load of sketching materials; won't you take pity on him, and relieve him of my share of his burden?" if i could take ~you~ off his hands, thought verdant, i should be better pleased. but miss patty won the day; and verdant took possession of her sketching-block and drawing materials, and set off with them to brankham law. frederick delaval was a yachtsman, and owner of the ~fleur- [an oxford freshman ] de-lys~, a cutter yacht, of fifty tons. besides being inclined to amateur nautical pursuits, he was also partial to an amateur nautical costume; and he further dressed the character of a yachtsman by slinging round him his telescope, which was protected from storms and salt water by a leathern case. this telescope was, in a moment, uncased and brought to bear upon everybody and everything, at every opportunity, in proper nautical fashion, being used by him for distant objects as other people would use an eyeglass for nearer things. and no sooner had they arrived at the grassy ~plateau~ that marked the summit of brankham law, than the telescope was unslung, and its proprietor swept the horizon - for there was a distant view of the ocean - in search of the ~fleur-de-lys~. "i am afraid," he said, "that we shall not be able to make <vg .jpg> her out; the distance is almost too great to distinguish her from other vessels, although the whiteness of her sails would assist us to a recognition. if the skipper got under way at the hour i told him, he ought about this time to be rounding the headland that you see stretching out yonder." "i think i see a white sail in that direction," said miss patty, as she shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked out earnestly in the required quarter. "my dear patty," laughed her cousin, "if you knew anything of nautical matters, you would see that it was not a cutter yacht, for she has more than one mast; though, certainly, as you saw her, she seemed to have but one, for she was just coming about, and was in stays." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] "in stays!" exclaimed miss patty; "why what singular expressions you sailors have!" "oh yes!" said frederick delaval, "and some vessels have waists - like young ladies. but now i think i see the ~fleur-de-lys~! that gaff tops'l yard was never carried by a coasting vessel. to be sure it is! the skipper knows how to handle her; and, if the breeze holds, she will soon reach her port. come and have a look at her, patty, while i rest the glass for you." so he balanced it on his shoulder, while miss patty looked through it with her one eye, and placed her fingers upon the other - after the manner of young ladies when they look through a telescope; and then burst into such animated, but not thoughtful observations, as "oh! i can see it quite plainly. oh! it is rolling about so! oh! there are two little men in it! oh! one of them's pulling a rope! oh! it all seems to be brought so near!" as if there had been some doubt on the matter, and she had expected the telescope to make things invisible. miss patty was quite in childish delight at watching the ~fleur-de-lys~' movements, and seemed to forget all about the proposed sketch, although mr. verdant green had found her a comfortable rock seat, and had placed her drawing materials ready for use. "how happy and confiding they are!" he thought, as he gazed upon them thus standing together; "they seem to be made for each other. he is far more fitted for her than i am. i wonder if i shall ever see them after they are - married. ~i~ shall never be married." and, after this morbid fashion, the young gentleman took a melancholy pleasure in arranging his future. it was about this time that the divine afflatus - which had lain almost dormant since his boyish "address to the moon" - was again manifested in him by the production of numberless poetical effusions, in which his own poignant anguish and miss patty's incomparable attractions were brought forward in verses of various degrees of mediocrity. they were also equally varied in their style and treatment; one being written in a fierce and gloomy byronic strain, while another followed the lighter childish style of wordsworth. to this latter class, perhaps, belonged the following lines, which, having accidentally fallen into the hands of mr. bouncer, were pronounced by him to be "no end good! first-rate fun!" for the little gentleman put a highly erroneous construction upon them, and, to the great laceration of the author's feelings, imagined them to be altogether of a comic tendency. but, when mr. verdant green wrote them, he probably thought that "deep meaning lieth oft in childish play":- [an oxford freshman ] "pretty patty honeywood, fresh, and fair, and plump, into your affections i should like to jump! into your good graces i should like to steal; that you lov'd me truly i should like to feel. "pretty patty honeywood, you can little know how my sea of passion unto you doth flow; how it ever hastens, with a swelling tide, to its strand of happiness at thy darling side. "pretty patty honeywood, would that you and i could ask the surpliced parson our wedding knot to tie! oh! my life of sunshine then would be begun, pretty patty honeywood, when you and i were one." but by far his greatest poetical achievement was his "legend of the fair margaret," written in spenserian metre, and commenced at this period of his career, though never completed. the plot was of the most dismal and intricate kind. the fair margaret was beloved by two young men, one of whom (sir frederico) was dark, and (necessarily, therefore) as badly disposed a young man as you would desire to keep out of your family circle, and the other (sir verdour) was light, and (consequently) as mild and amiable as any given number of maiden aunts could wish. as a matter of course, therefore, the fair margaret perversely preferred the dark sir frederico, who had poisoned her ears, and told her the most abominable falsehoods about the good and innocent sir verdour; when just as sir frederico was about to forcibly carry away the fair margaret- why, just then, circumstances over which mr. verdant green had no control, prevented the ~denouement~, and the completion of "the legend." [ adventures of mr. verdant green] chapter vi. mr. verdant green joins a northumberland pic-nic. <vg .jpg> some weeks had passed away very pleasantly to all - pleasantly even to mr. verdant green; for, although he had not renewed his apple-tree conversation with miss patty, and was making progress with his "legend of the fair margaret," yet - it may possibly have been that the exertion to make "dove" rhyme with "love," and "gloom" with "doom," occupied his mind to the exclusion of needless sorrow - he contrived to make himself mournfully amiable, even if not tolerably happy, in the society of the fair enchantress. the honeywood party were indeed a model household; and rode, and drove, and walked, and fished, and sketched, as a large family of brothers and sisters might do - perhaps with a little more piquancy than is generally found in the home-made dish. they had had more than one little friendly pic-nic and excursion, and had seen warkworth, and grown excessively sentimental in its hermitage; they had lionised alnwick, and gone over its noble castle, and sat in hotspur's chair, and fallen into raptures at the duchess's bijou of a dairy, and viewed the pillared ~passant~ lion, with his tail blowing straight out (owing, probably, to the breezy nature of his position), and seen the duke's herd of buffaloes tearing along their park with streaming manes; and they had gone back to honeywood hall, and received honeywood guests, and been entertained by them in return. but the squire was now about to give a pic-nic on a large scale; and as it was important, not only in its dimensions and preparations, but also in bringing about an occurrence that in no small degree affected mr. verdant green's future life, it becomes his historian's duty to chronicle the event with the fulness that it merits. the pic-nic, moreover, deserves mention because it possessed an individuality of character, and was unlike the ordinary solemnities attending the pic-nics of every-day life. in the first place, the party had to reach the appointed spot - which was chillingham - in an unusual manner. at least half [an oxford freshman ] of the road that had to be traversed was impassable for carriages. bridgeless brooks had to be crossed; and what were called "roads" were little better than the beds of mountain torrents, and in wet weather might have been taken for such. deep channels were worn in them by the rush of impetuous streams, and no known carriage-springs could have lived out such ruts. carriages, therefore, in this part of the country, were out of the question. the squire did what was usual on such occasions: he appointed, as a rendezvous, a certain little inn at the extremity of the carriageable part of the road, and there all the party met, and left their chariots and horses. they then - after a little preparatory pic-nic, for many of them had come from long distances - took possession of certain wagons that were in waiting for them. these wagons, though apparently of light build, were constructed for the country, and were capable of sustaining the severe test of the rough roads. within them were lashed hay-sacks, which, when covered with railway rugs, formed sufficiently comfortable seats, on which the divisions of the party sat ~vis-a-vis~, like omnibus travellers. frederick delaval and a few others, on horses and ponies, as outriders, accompanied the wagon procession, which was by no means deficient in materials for the picturesque. the teams of horses were turned out to their best advantage, and decorated with flowers. the fore horse of each team bore his collar of little brass bells, which clashed out a wild music as they moved along. the ruddy-faced wagoners were in their shirt-sleeves, which were tied round with ribbons; they had gay ribbons also on their hats and whips, and did not lack bouquets and flowers for the further adornment of their persons. altogether they were most theatrical-looking fellows, and appeared perfectly prepared to take their places in the ~sonnambula~, or any other opera in which decorated rustics have to appear and unanimously shout their joy and grief at the nightly rate of two shillings per head. the light summer dresses of the ladies helped to make an agreeable variety of colour, as the wagons moved slowly along the dark heathery hills, now by the side of a brawling brook, and now by a rugged road. the joltings of these same roads were, as little mr. bouncer feelingly remarked, facts that must be felt to be believed. for, when the wheel of any vehicle is suddenly plunged into a rut or hole of a foot's depth, and from thence violently extracted with a jerk, plunge, and wrench, to be again dropped into another hole or rut, and withdrawn from thence in a like manner, - and when this process is being simultaneously repeated, with discordant variations, by other three wheels attached to the self-same vehicle, it will follow, as a matter of course, that the result [ adventures of mr. verdant green] of this experiment will be the violent agitation and commingling of the movable contents of the said vehicle; and, when these contents chance to take the semblance of humanity, it may <vg .jpg> readily be imagined what must have been the scene presented to the view as the pic-nic wagons, with their human freight, laboured thro' the mountain roads that led towards chillingham. but all this only gave a zest to the day's enjoyment; and, if miss patty honeywood was unable to maintain her seat without assistance from her neighbour, mr. verdant green, it is not at all improbable but that she approved of his kind attention, and that the other young ladies who were similarly situated accepted similar attentions with similar gratitude. in this way they literally jogged along to chillingham, where they alighted from their novel carriages and four, and then leisurely made their way to the castle. when they had sufficiently lionized it, and had strolled through the gardens, they went to have a look at the famous wild cattle. our warwickshire friends had frequently had a distant view of them; for the cattle kept together in a herd, and as their park was on the slope of a dark hill, they were visible from afar off as a moving white patch on the landscape. on the present occasion they found that the cattle, which numbered their full herd of about a hundred strong, were quietly grazing on the border of their pine-wood, where a few of their fellow-tenants, the original red-deer, were lifting their enormous antlers. from their position the pic-nic party were unable to obtain a very near view of them; but the curiosity of the young ladies was strongly excited, and would not be allayed without a closer acquaintance with these formidable but beautiful creatures. and it therefore happened that, when the courageous miss bouncer proposed that they should make an incursion into the very territory of the wild cattle, her proposition was not only seconded, but was carried almost unanimously. it was in vain [an oxford freshman ] that mr. honeywood, and the seniors and chaperones of the party, reminded the younger people of the grisly head they had just seen hanging up in the lodge, and those straight sharp horns that had gored to death the brave keeper who had risked his own life to save his master's friend; it was in vain that charles larkyns, fearful for his mary's sake, quoted the "bride of lammermoor," and urged the improbability of another master of ravenswood starting out of the bushes to the rescue of a second lucy ashton; it was in vain that anecdotes were told of the fury of these cattle - how they would single out some aged or wounded companion, and drive him out of the herd until he miserably died, and how they would hide themselves for days within their dark pine-wood, where no one dare attack them; it was in vain that mr. verdant green reminded miss patty honeywood of her narrow escape from mr. roarer, and warned her that her then danger was now increased a hundredfold; all in vain, for miss patty assured him that the cattle were as peaceable as they were beautiful, and that they only attacked people in self-defence when provoked or molested. so, as the young ladies were positively bent upon having a nearer view of the milk-white herd, the greater number of the gentlemen were obliged to accompany them. it was no easy matter to get into the wild cattle's enclosure, as the boundary fence was of unusual height, and the difficulty of its being scaled by ladies was proportionately increased. nevertheless, the fence and the difficulty were alike surmounted, and the party were safely landed within the park. they had promised to obey mr. honeywood's advice, and to abstain from that mill-stream murmur of conversation in which a party of young ladies usually indulge, and to walk quietly among the trees, across an angle of the park, at some two or three hundred yards' distance from the herd, so as not to unnecessarily attract their attention; and then to scale the fence at a point higher up the hill. following this advice, they walked quietly across the mossy grass, keeping behind trees, and escaping the notice of the cattle. they had reached midway in their proposed path, and, with silent admiration, were watching the movements of the herd as they placidly grazed at a short distance from them, when miss bouncer, who was addicted to uncontrollable fits of laughter at improper seasons, was so tickled at some ~sotto voce~ remark of frederick delaval's, that she burst into a hearty ringing laugh, which, ere she could smother its noise with her handkerchief, had startled the watchful ears of the monarch of the herd. the bull raised his magnificent head, and looked round in the direction from whence the disturbance had proceeded. as he perceived it, he sniffed the air, made a rapid movement with his [ adventures of mr. verdant green] pink-edged ears, and gave an ominous bellow. this signal awoke the attention of the other bulls, their wives, and children, who simultaneously left off grazing and commenced gazing. the bovine monarch gave another bellow, stamped upon the ground, lashed his tail, advanced about twenty yards in a threatening manner, and then paused, and gazed fixedly upon the pic-nic party and miss bouncer, who too late regretted her malapropos laugh. "for heaven's sake!" whispered mr. honeywood, "do not speak; but get to the fence as quietly and quickly as you can." the young ladies obeyed, and forbore either to scream or faint - for the present. the bull gave another stamp and bellow, and made a second advance. this time he came about fifty yards before he paused, and he was followed at a short distance, and at a walking pace, by the rest of the herd. the ladies retreated quietly, the gentlemen came after them, but the park-fence appeared to be at a terribly long distance, and it was evident that if the herd made a sudden rush upon them, nothing could save them - unless they could climb the trees; but this did not seem very practicable. mr. verdant green, however, caught at the probability of such need, and anxiously looked round for the most likely tree for his purpose. the bull had made another advance, and was gaining upon them. it seemed curious that he should stand forth as the champion of the herd, and do all the roaring and stamping, while the other bulls remained mute, and followed with the rest of the herd, yet so it was; but there seemed no reason to disbelieve the unpleasant fact that the monarch's example would be imitated by his subjects. the herd had now drawn so near, and the young ladies had made such a comparatively slow retreat, that they were yet many yards distant from the boundary fence, and it was quite plain that they could not reach it before the advancing milk-white mass would be hurled against them. some of the young ladies were beginning to feel faint and hysterical, and their alarm was more or less shared by all the party. it was now, by charles larkyns's advice, that the more active gentlemen mounted on to the lower branches of the wide-spreading trees, and, aided by others upon the ground, began to lift up the ladies to places of security. but, the party being a large one, this caring for its more valued but less athletic members was a business that could not be transacted without the expenditure of some little time and trouble, more, as it seemed, than could now be bestowed; for, the onward movement of the chillingham cattle was more rapid than the corresponding upward movement of the northumbrian pic-nickers. and, even if charles larkyns's plan should have a [an oxford freshman ] favourable issue, it did not seem a very agreeable prospect to be detained up in a tree, with a century of bulls bellowing beneath, until casual assistance should arrive; and yet, what was this state of affairs when compared with the terrors of that impending fate from which, for some of them at least, there seemed no escape? mr. verdant green fully realized the horrors of this alternative when he looked at miss patty honeywood, who had not yet joined those ladies who, clinging fearfully to the boughs, and crouching among the branches like roosting guinea-fowls, were for the present in comparative safety, and out of the reach of the cattle. the monarch of the herd had now come within forty yards' distance, and then stopped, lashing his tail and bellowing defiance, as he appeared to be preparing for a final rush. behind him, in a dense phalanx, white and terrible, were the rest of the herd. suddenly, and before the snowy bull had made his advance, frederick delaval, to the wondering fear of all, stepped boldly forth to meet him. as has been said, he was one of the equestrians of the party, and he carried a heavy-handled whip, furnished with a long and powerful lash. he wrapped this lash round his hand, and walked resolutely towards the bull, fixing his eyes steadily upon him. the bull chafed angrily, and stamped upon the ground, but did not advance. the herd, also, were motionless; but their dark, lustrous eyes were centred upon frederick delaval's advancing figure. the members of the pic-nic party were also watching him with intense interest. if they could, they would have prevented his purpose; for to all appearance he was about to lose his own life in order that the rest of the party might gain time to reach a place of safety. the very expectation of this prevented many of the ladies availing themselves of the opportunity thus so boldly purchased, and they stood transfixed with terror and astonishment, breathlessly awaiting the result. they watched him draw near the wild white bull, who stood there yet, foaming and stamping up the turf, but not advancing. his huge horned head was held erect, and his mane bristled up, as he looked upon the adversary who thus dared to brave him. he suffered frederick delaval to approach him, and only betrayed a consciousness of his presence by his heavy snorting, angry lashing of the tail, and quick motion of his bright eye. all this time the young man had looked the bull steadfastly in the front, and had drawn near him with an equal and steady step. suppressed screams broke from more than one witness of his bravery, when he at length stood within a step of his huge adversary. he gazed fixedly into the bull's eyes, and, after a moment's pause, suddenly raised his riding-whip, and lashed the animal heavily over the shoulders. the bull tossed round, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and roared with fury. the whole herd became agitated, and other bulls trotted up to support their monarch. still looking him steadfastly in the eyes, frederick delaval again raised his heavy whip, and lashed him more severely than before. the wild bull butted down, swerved round, and dashed out with his heels. as he did so, frederick again struck him heavily with the whip, and, at the same time, blew a piercing signal on the boatswain's whistle that he usually carried with him. the sudden shriek of the whistle appeared to put the ~coup de grace~ to the young man's bold attack, for the animal had no sooner heard it than he tossed up his head and threw forward his ears, as though to ask from whence the novel noise proceeded. frederick delaval again blew a piercing shriek on the whistle; and when the wild bull heard it, and once more felt the stinging lash of the heavy whip, he swerved round, and with a bellow of pain and fury trotted back to the herd. the young man blew another shrill whistle, and cracked the long lash of his whip until its echoes reverberated like so many pistol-shots. the wild bull's trot increased to a gallop, and he and the whole herd of the chillingham cattle dashed rapidly away from the pic-nic party, and in a little time were lost to view in the recesses of their forest. "thank god!" said mr. honeywood; and it was echoed in the hearts of all. but the squire's emotion was too deep for words, as he went to meet frederick delaval, and pressed him by the hand. "get the women outside the park as quickly as possible," said frederick, "and i will join you." but when this was done, and mr. honeywood had returned to him, he found him lying motionless beneath the tree. [an oxford freshman ] chapter vii. mr. verdant green has an inkling of the future. <vg .jpg> among other things that mr. honeywood had thoughtfully provided for the pic-nic was a flask of pale brandy, which, for its better preservation, he had kept in his own pocket. this was fortunate, as it enabled the squire to make use of it for frederick delaval's recovery. he had fainted: his concentrated courage and resolution had borne him bravely up to a certain point, and then his overtaxed energies had given way when the necessity for their exertion was removed. when he had come to himself, he appeared to be particularly thankful that there had not been a spectator of (what he deemed to be) his unpardonable foolishness in giving way to a weakness that he considered should be indulged in by none other than faint-hearted women; and he earnestly begged the squire to be silent on this little episode in the day's adventure. when they had left the wild cattle's park, and had joined the rest of the party, frederick delaval received the hearty thanks that he so richly deserved; and this, with such an exuberant display of feminine gratitude as to lead mr. bouncer to observe that, if mr. delaval chose to take a mean advantage of his position, he could have immediately proposed to two-thirds of the ladies, without the possibility of their declining his offer: at which remark mr. verdant green experienced an uncomfortable sensation, as he thought of the probable issue of events if mr. delaval should partly act upon mr. bouncer's suggestion, by selecting one young lady - his cousin patty - and proposing to her. this reflection became strengthened into a determination to set the matter at rest, decide his doubts, and put an end to his suspense, by taking the first opportunity to renew with miss patty that most interesting apple-tree conversation that had been interrupted by mr. bouncer at such a critical moment. the pic-nic party, broken up into couples and groups, slowly made their way up the hill to ros castle - the doubly-intrenched british fort on the summit - where the dinner was to take place. it was a rugged road, running along the side of the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] park, bounded by rocky banks, and shaded by trees. it was tenanted as usual by a faw gang, - a band of gipsies, whose wild and gay attire, with their accompaniments of tents, carts, horses, dogs, and fires, added picturesqueness to the scene. with the characteristic of their race - which appears to be a shrewd mixture of mendicity and mendacity - they at once abandoned their business of tinkering and peg-making; and, resuming their other business of fortune-telling and begging, they judiciously distributed themselves among the various divisions of the pic-nic party. mr. verdant green was strolling up the hill lost in meditation, and so inattentive to the wiles of miss eleonora morkin, and her sister letitia jane (two fascinating young ladies who were bent upon turning the pic-nic to account), that they had left him, and had forcibly attached themselves to mr. poletiss (a soft young gentleman from the neighbourhood of wooler), when a gipsy woman, with a baby at her back and two children at her heels, singled out our hero as a not unlikely victim, and began at once to tell his fate, dispensing with the aid of stops:- "may the heavens rain blessings on your head my pretty gentleman give the poor gipsy a piece of silver to buy her a bit for the bairns and i can read by the lines in your face my pretty gentleman that you're born to ride in a golden coach and wear buckles of diemints and that your heart's opening like a flower to help the poor gipsy to get her a trifle for her poor famishing bairns that i see the tears of pity astanding like pearls in your eyes my pretty gentleman and may you never know the want of the shilling that i see you're going to give the poor gipsy who will send you all the rich blessings of heaven if you will but cross her hand with the bright pieces of silver that are not half so bright as the sweet eyes of the lady that's awaiting and athinking of you my pretty gentleman." this unpunctuated exhortation of the dark-eyed prophetess was here diverted into a new channel by the arrival of miss patty honeywood, who had left her cousin frank, and had brought her sketch-book to the spot where "the pretty gentleman" and the fortune-teller were standing, "i do so want to draw a real gipsy," she said. "i have never yet sketched one; and this is a good opportunity. these little brownies of children, with their italian faces and hair, are very picturesque in their rags." "oh! do draw them!" said verdant enthusiastically, as he perceived that the rest of the party had passed out of sight. "it is a capital opportunity, and i dare say they will have no objection to be sketched." "may the heavens be the hardest bed you'll ever have to lie on my pretty rosebud," said the unpunctuating descendant of [an oxford freshman ] john faa, as she addressed herself to miss patty; "and you're welcome to take the poor gipsy's picture and to cross her hand <vg .jpg> with the shining silver while she reads the stars and picks you out a prince of a husband and twelve pretty bairns like the" - "no, no!" said miss patty, checking the gipsy in her bounteous promises. "i'll give you something for letting me sketch you, but i won't have my fortune told. i know it already; at least as much as i care to know." a speech which mr. verdant green interpreted thus: frederick delaval has proposed, and has been accepted. "pray don't let me keep you from the rest of the party," said miss patty to our hero, while the gipsy shot out fragments of persuasive oratory. "i can get on very well by myself." "she wants to get rid of me," thought verdant. "i dare say her cousin is coming back to her." but he said, "at any rate let me stay until mr. delaval rejoins you." "oh! he is gone on with the rest, like a polite man. the miss maxwells and their cousins were all by themselves." "but ~you~ are all by ~yourself~" and, by your own showing, i ought to prove my politeness by staying with you." "i suppose that is oxford logic," said miss patty, as she went on with her sketch of the two gipsy children. "i wish these small persons would stand quiet. put your hands on your stick, my boy, and not before your face. - but there are the miss morkins, with one gentleman for the two; and i dare say you would much rather be with miss eleonora. now, wouldn't you?" and the young lady, as she rapidly sketched the figures before her, stole a sly look at the enamoured gentleman by her side, who forthwith protested, in an excited and confused manner, that he would rather stand near her for one minute than walk and talk for a whole day with the miss morkins; and then, having made this (for him) unusually strong avowal, he timidly blushed, and retired within himself. "oh yes! i dare say," said miss patty; "but i don't believe in compliments. if you choose to victimize yourself by [ adventures of mr. verdant green] staying here, of course you can do so. - look at me, little girl; you needn't be frightened; i shan't eat you. - and perhaps you can be useful. i want some water to wash-in these figures; and if they were literally washed in it, it would be very much to their advantage, wouldn't it?" of course it would; and of course mr. verdant green was delighted to obey the command. "what spirits she is in!" he thought, as he dipped the little can of water into the spring. "i dare say it is because she and her cousin frederick have come to an understanding." "if you are anxious to hear a fortune told," said miss patty, "here is the old gipsy coming back to us, and you had better let her tell yours." "i am afraid that i know it." "and do you like the prospect of it?" "not at all!" and as he said this mr. verdant green's countenance fell. singularly enough, a shade of sadness also stole over miss patty's sunny face. what could he mean? a somewhat disagreeable silence was broken by the gipsy most volubly echoing miss patty's request. "you had better let her tell you your fortune," said the young lady; "perhaps it may be an improvement on what you expected. and i shall be able to make a better sketch of her in her true character of a fortune-teller." then, like as martivalle inspected quentin durward's palm, according to the form of the mystic arts which he practised, so the swarthy prophetess opened her book of fate, and favoured mr. verdant green with choice extracts from its contents. first, she told the pretty gentleman a long rigmarole about the stars, and a planet that ought to have shone upon him, but didn't. then she discoursed of a beautiful young lady, with a heart as full of love as a pomegranate was full of seeds, - painting, in pretty exact colours, a lively portraiture of miss patty, which was no very difficult task, while the fair original was close at hand; nevertheless, the infatuated pretty gentleman was deeply impressed with the gipsy narrative, and began to think that the practice and knowledge of the occult sciences may, after all, have been handed down to the modern representatives of the ancient egyptians. he was still further impressed with this belief when the gipsy proceeded to tell him that he was passionately attached to the pomegranate-hearted young lady, but that his path of true love was crossed by a rival - a dark man. frederick delaval! this is really most extraordinary! thought mr. verdant green, who was not familiar with a fortune-teller's stock in trade; and he waited with some anxiety for the further unravelling of his fate. [an oxford freshman ] the cunning gipsy saw this, and broadly hinted that another piece of silver placed upon the junction of two cross lines in the <vg .jpg> pretty gentleman's right palm would materially propitiate the stars, and assist in the happy solution of his fortune. when the hint had been taken she pursued her romantic narrative. her elaborate but discursive summing-up comprehended the triumph of mr. verdant green, the defeat of the dark man, the marriage of the former to the pomegranate-hearted young lady, a yellow carriage and four white horses with long tails, and, last but certainly not least, a family of twelve children: at which childish termination miss patty laughed, and asked our hero if that was the fate that he had dreaded? her sketch being concluded, she remunerated her models so munificently as to draw down upon her head a rapid series of the most wordy and incoherent blessings she had ever heard, under cover of which she effected her escape, and proceeded with her companion to rejoin the others. they were not very far in advance. the gipsies had beset them at divers points in their progress, and had made no small number of them yield to their importunities to cross their hands with silver. when the various members of the pic-nic party afterwards came to compare notes as to the fortunes that had been told them, it was discovered that a remarkable similarity pervaded the fates of all, though their destinies were greatly influenced by the amount expended in crossing the hand; and it was observable that the number of children promised to bless the nuptial tie was also regulated by a sliding-scale of payment - the largest payers being rewarded with the assurance of the largest families. it was also discovered that the description of the favoured lover was invariably the verbal delineation of the lady or gentleman who chanced to be at that time walking with the person whose fortune was being told - a prophetic discrimination worthy of all praise, since it had the pretty good security of being correct in more than one case, and in the other cases there was the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] chance of the prophecy coming true, however improbable present events would appear. thus, miss eleonora morkin received, and was perfectly satisfied with, a description of mr. poletiss; while miss letitia jane morkin was made supremely happy with a promise of a similarly-described gentleman; until the two sisters had compared notes, when they discovered that the same husband had been promised to both of them - which by no means improved their sororal amiability. as verdant walked up the hill with miss patty, he thought very seriously on his feelings towards her, and pondered what might be the nature of her feelings in regard to him. he believed that she was engaged to her cousin frederick. all her little looks, and acts, and words to himself, he could construe as the mere tokens of the friendship of a warm-hearted girl. if she was inclined to a little flirtation, there was then an additional reason for her notice of him. then he thought that she was of far too noble a disposition to lead him on to a love which she could not, or might not wish to, return; and that she would not have said and done many little things that he fondly recalled, unless she had chosen to show him that he was dearer to her than a mere friend. having ascended to the heights of happiness by this thought, verdant immediately plunged from thence into the depths of misery, by calling to mind various other little things that she had said and done in connection with her cousin; and he again forced himself into the conviction that in frederick delaval he had a rival, and, what was more, a successful one. he determined, before the day was over, to end his tortures of suspense by putting to miss patty the plain question whether or no she was engaged to her cousin, and to trust to her kindness to forgive the question if it was an impertinent one. he was unable to do this for the present, partly from lack of courage, and partly from the too close neighbourhood of others of the party; but he concocted several sentences that seemed to him to be admirably adapted to bring about the desired result. "how abstracted you are!" said miss patty to him rather abruptly. "why don't you make yourself agreeable? for the last three minutes you have not taken your eyes off kitty." (she was walking just before them, with her cousin frederick.) "what were you thinking about?" perhaps it was that he was suddenly roused from deep thought, and had no time to frame an evasive reply; but at any rate mr. verdant green answered, "i was thinking that mr. delaval had proposed, and had been accepted." and then he was frightened at what he had said; for miss patty looked confused and surprised. "i see that it is so," he sighed, and his heart sank within him. [an oxford freshman ] "how did you find it out?" she replied. "it is a secret for the present; and we do not wish any one to know of it." "my dear patty," said frederick delaval, who had waited for them to come up, "wherever have you been? we thought the gipsies had stolen you. i am dying to tell you my fortune. i was with miss maxwell at the time, and the old woman described her to me as my future wife. the fortune-teller was slightly on the wrong tack, wasn't she?" so frederick delaval and the misses honeywood laughed; and mr. verdant green also laughed in a very savage manner; and they all seemed to think it a very capital joke, and walked on together in very capital spirits. "my last hope is gone!" thought verdant. "i have now heard my fate from her own lips." chapter viii. mr. verdant green crosses the rubicon. <vg .jpg> the pic-nic dinner was laid near to the brow of the hill of ros castle, on the shady side of the park wall. in this cool retreat, with the thick summer foliage to screen them from the hot sun, they could feast undisturbed either by the wild cattle or the noon-day glare, and drink in draughts of beauty from the wide-spread landscape before them. the hill on which they were seated was broken up into the most picturesque undulations; here, the rock cropped out from the mossy turf; there, the blaeberries (the bilberries of more southern counties) clustered in myrtle-like bushes. the intrenched hill sloped down to a rich plain, spreading out for many miles, traversed by the great north road, and dotted over with hamlets. then came a brown belt of sand, and a broken white line of breakers; and then the sea, flecked with crested waves, and sails that glimmered in the dreamy distance. holy island was also in sight, together with the rugged castle of bamborough, and the picturesque groups of the staple and the farn islands, covered with sea-birds, and circled with pearls of foam. the immediate foreground presented a very cheering pros- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] pect to hungry folks. the snowy table-cloth - held down upon the grass by fragments of rock against the surprise of high winds - was dappled over with loins of lamb, and lobster salads, and pigeon-pies, and veal cakes, and grouse, and game, and ducks, and cold fowls, and ruddy hams, and helpless tongues, and cool cucumbers, and pickled salmon, and roast-beef of old england, and oyster patties, and venison pasties, and all sorts of pastries, and jellies, and custards, and ice: to say nothing of piles of peaches, and nectarines, and grapes, and melons, and pines. everything had been remembered - even the salt, and the knives and forks, which are usually forgotten at ~alfresco~ entertainments. all this was very cheering, and suggestive of enjoyment and creature comforts. wines and humbler liquids stood around; and, for the especial delectation of the ladies, a goodly supply of champagne lay cooling itself in some ice-pails, under the tilt of the cart that had brought it. this cart-tilt, draped over with loose sacking, formed a very good imitation of a gipsy tent, that did not in the least detract from the rusticity of the scene, more especially as close behind it was burning a gipsy fire, surmounted by a triple gibbet, on which hung a kettle, melodious even then, and singing through its swan-like neck an intimation of its readiness to aid, at a moment's notice, in the manufacture of whisky-toddy. the dinner was a very merry affair. the gentlemen vied with the servants in attending to the wants of the ladies, and <vg .jpg> were assiduous in the duties of cutting and carving; while the sharp popping of the champagne, and the heavier artillery of the pale ale and porter bottles, made a pleasant fusillade. little mr. bouncer was especially deserving of notice. he sat with his legs in the shape of the letter v inverted, his legs being forced to retain their position from the fact of three dishes of various dimensions being arranged between them in a diminuendo passage. these three dishes he vigorously attacked, not only on his own account, but also on behalf of his neighbours, more especially miss fanny green, who reclined by his side in an oriental posture, and made a table of her lap. the disposition of the rest of [an oxford freshman ] the ~dramatis personae~ was also noticeable, as also their positions - their sitting ~a la~ turk or tailor, and their ~degages~ attitudes and costumes. charles larkyns had got by mary green; mr. poletiss was placed, sandwich-like, between the two miss morkins, who were both making love to him at once; frederick delaval was sitting in a similar fashion between the two miss honeywoods, who were not, however, both making love to him at once; and on the other side of miss patty was mr. verdant green. the infatuated young man could not drag himself away from his conqueror. although, from her own confession, he had learnt what he had many times suspected - that frederick delaval had proposed and had been accepted - yet he still felt a pleasure in burning his wings and fluttering round his light of love. "an affection of the heart cannot be cured at a moment's notice," thought verdant; "to-morrow i will endeavour to begin the task of forgetting - to-day, remembrance is too recent; besides, every one is expected to enjoy himself at a pic-nic, and i must appear to do the same." but it did not seem as though miss patty had any intention of allowing those in her immediate vicinity to betake themselves to the dismals, or to the produce of wet-blankets, for she was in the very highest spirits, and insisted, as it were, that those around her should catch the contagion of her cheerfulness. and it accordingly happened that mr. verdant green seemed to be as merry as was old king cole, and laughed and talked as though black care was anywhere else than between himself and miss patty honeywood. close behind miss patty was the gipsy-tent-looking cart-tilt; and when the dinner was over, and there was a slight change of places, while the fragments were being cleared away and the dessert and wine were being placed on the table - that is to say, the cloth - miss patty, under pretence of escaping from a ray of sunshine that had pierced the trees and found its way to her face, retreated a yard or so, and crouched beneath the pseudo gipsy-tent. and what so natural but that mr. verdant green should also find the sun disagreeable, and should follow his light of love, to burn his wings a little more, and flutter round her fascinations? at any rate, whether natural or no, verdant also drew back a yard or so, and found himself half within the cart-tilt, and very close to miss patty. the pic-nic party were stretched at their ease upon the grass, drinking wine, munching fruit, talking, laughing, and flirting, with the blue sea before them and the bluer sky above them, when said the squire in heroic strain, "song alone is wanting to crown our feast! charles larkyns, you have not only the face of a singer, but, as we all know, you have the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] voice of one. i therefore call upon you to set our minstrels an example; and, as a propitiatory measure, i beg to propose <vg .jpg> your health, with eulogistic thanks for the song you are about to sing!" which was unanimously seconded amid laughter and cheers; and the pop of the champagne bottles gave charles larkyns the key-note for his song. it was suited to the occasion (perhaps it was composed for it?), being a paean for a pic-nic, and it stated (in chorus)- "then these aids to success should a pic-nic possess for the cup of its joy to be brimming: three things there should shine fair, agreeable, and fine- the weather, the wine, and the women!" a rule of pic-nics which, if properly worked out, could not fail to answer. other songs followed; and mr. poletiss, being a young gentleman of a meek appearance and still meeker voice, lyrically informed the company that "oh! he was a pirate bold, the scourge of the wide, wide sea, with a murd'rous thirst for gold, and a life that was wild and free!" and when mr. poletiss arrived at this point, he repeated the last word two or three times over - just as if he had been king george the third visiting whitbread's brewery- "grains, grains!" said majesty, "to fill their crops? grains, grains! that comes from hops - yes, hops, hops, hops!" so mr. poletiss sang, "and a life that was wild and free, free, free, and a life that was wild and free." to this charming lyric there was a chorus of, "then hurrah for the pirate bold, and hurrah for the rover wild, and hurrah for the yellow gold, and hurrah for the ocean's child!" the mild enunciation of which highly moral and appropriate chant appeared to give mr. poletiss great satisfaction, as he turned his half-shut eyes to the sky, and fashioned his mouth into a smile. mr. bouncer's love for a chorus was conspicuously displayed on this occasion; [an oxford freshman ] and miss eleonora and miss letitia jane morkin added their feeble trebles to the hurrahs with which mr. poletiss, in his george the third fashion, meekly hailed the advantages to be derived from a pirate's career. but what was mr. verdant green doing all this time? the sunbeam had pursued him, and proved so annoying that he had found it necessary to withdraw altogether into the shade of the pseudo gipsy-tent. miss patty honeywood had made such room for him that she was entirely hidden from the rest of the party by the rude drapery of the tent. by the time that mr. poletiss had commenced his piratical song, miss patty and verdant were deep in a whispered conversation. it was she who had started the conversation, and it was about the gipsy and her fortune-telling. just when mr. poletiss had given his first imitation of king george, and was mildly plunging into his hurrah chorus, mr. verdant green - whose timidity, fears, and depression of spirits had somewhat been dispelled and alleviated by the allied powers of miss patty and the champagne - was speaking thus: "and do you really think that she was only inventing, and that the dark man she spoke of was a creature of her own imagination?" "of course!" answered miss patty; "you surely don't believe that she could have meant any one in particular, either in the gentleman's case or in the lady's?" "but, in the lady's, she evidently described ~you~." "very likely! just as she would have described any other young lady who might have chanced to be with you: miss morkin, for example. the gipsy knew her trade." "many true words are spoken in jest. perhaps it was not altogether idly that she spoke; perhaps i ~did~ care for the lady she described." the sunbeam must surely have penetrated through the tent's coarse covering, for both miss patty and mr. verdant green were becoming very hot - hotter even than they had been under the apple-tree in the orchard. mr. poletiss was all this time giving his imitations of george the third, and lyrically expressing his opinion as to the advantages to be derived from the profession of a pirate; and, as his song was almost as long as "chevy chase," and mainly consisted of a chorus, which was energetically led by mr. bouncer, there was noise enough made to drown any whispered conversation in the pseudo gipsy-tent. "but," continued verdant, "perhaps the lady she described did not care for me, or she would not have given all her love to the dark man." "i think," faltered miss patty, "the gipsy seemed to say [ adventures of mr. verdant green] that the lady preferred the light man. but you do not believe what she told you?" "i would have done so a few days ago - if it had been repeated by you." "i scarcely know what you mean." "until to-day i had hoped. it seems that i have built my hopes on a false foundation, and one word of yours has crumbled them into the dust!" this pretty sentence embodied an idea that he had stolen from his own ~legend of the fair margaret~. he felt so much pride in his property that, as miss patty looked slightly bewildered and remained speechless, he reiterated the little quotation <vg .jpg> about his crumbling hopes. "whatever can i have done," said the young lady, with a smile, "to cause such a ruin?" "it caused you no pain to utter the words," replied verdant; "and why should it? but, to me, they tolled the knell of my happiness." (this was another quotation from his ~legend.~) "then hurrah for the pirate bold. and hurrah for the rover wild!" sang the meek mr. poletiss. miss patty honeywood began to suspect that mr. verdant green had taken too much champagne! "what ~do~ you mean?" she said. "whatever have i said or done to you that you make use of such remarkable expressions?" "and hurrah for the yellow gold, and hurrah for the ocean's child!" chorussed messrs. poletiss, bouncer, and co. looking as sentimental as his spectacles would allow, mr. verdant green replied in verse - " 'hopes that once we've loved to cherish may fade and droop, but never perish!' as shakespeare says." (although he modestly attributed this sentiment to the swan of avon, it was, nevertheless, another quotation from his own ~legend~.) "and it is my case. ~i~ cannot forget the past, though ~you~ may!" [an oxford freshman ] "really you are as enigmatical as the sphinx!" said miss patty, who again thought of mr. verdant green in connection with champagne. "pray condescend to speak more plainly, for i was never clever at finding out riddles." "and have you forgotten what you said to me, in reply to a question that i asked you, as we came up the hill?" "yes, i have quite forgotten. i dare say i said many foolish things; but what was the particular foolish thing that so dwells on your mind?" "if it is so soon forgotten, it is not worth repeating." "oh, it is! pray gratify my curiosity. i am sorry my bad memory should have given you any pain." "it was not your bad memory, but your words." "my bad words?" "no, not bad; but words that shut out a bright future, and changed my life to gloom." (the ~legend~ again.) miss patty looked more perplexed than ever; while mr. poletiss politely filled up the gap of silence with an imitation of king george the third. "i really do not know what you mean," said miss patty. "if i have said or done anything that has caused you pain, i can assure you it was quite unwittingly on my part, and i am very sorry for it; but, if you will tell me what it was, perhaps i may be able to explain it away, and disabuse your mind of a false impression." "i am quite sure that you did not intend to pain me," replied verdant; "and i know that it was presumptuous in me to think as i did. it was scarcely probable that you would feel as i felt; and i ought to have made up my mind to it, and have borne my sufferings with a patient heart." (the ~legend~ again!) "and yet when the shock ~does~ come, it is very hard to be borne." miss patty's bright eyes were dilated with wonder, and she again thought of mr. verdant green in connection with champagne. mr. poletiss was still taking his pirate through all sorts of flats and sharps, and chromatic imitations of king george. "but, what ~is~ this shock?" asked miss patty. "perhaps i can relieve it; and i ought to do so if it came through my means." "you cannot help me," said verdant. "my suspicions were confirmed by your words, and they have sealed my fate." "but you have not yet told me what those words were, and i must really insist upon knowing," said miss patty, who had begun to look very seriously perplexed. "and, can you have forgotten!" was the reply. "do you not remember, that, as we came up the hill, i put a certain [ adventures of mr. verdant green] question to you about mr. delaval having proposed and having been accepted?" "yes! i remember it very well! and, what then?" "and, what then!" echoed mr. verdant green, in the greatest wonder at the young lady's calmness; "what then! why, when you told me that he ~had~ been accepted, was not that sufficient for me to know? - to know that all my love had been given to one who was another's, and that all my hopes were blighted! was not this sufficient to crush me, and to change the colour of my life?" and verdant's face showed that, though he might be quoting from his ~legend~, he was yet speaking from his heart. "oh! i little expected this!" faltered miss patty, in real grief; "i little thought of this. why did you not speak sooner to some one - to me, for instance - and have spared yourself this misery? if you had been earlier made acquainted with frederick's attachment, you might then have checked your own. i did not ever dream of this!" and miss patty, who had turned pale, and trembled with agitation, could not restrain a tear. "it is very kind of you thus to feel for me!" said verdant; "and all i ask is, that you will still remain my friend." "indeed, i will. and i am sure kitty will always wish to be the same. she will be sadly grieved to hear of this; for, i can assure you that she had no suspicion you were attached to her." "attached to her!" cried verdant, with vast surprise. "what ever do you mean?" "have you not been telling me of your secret love for her?" answered miss patty, who again turned her thoughts to the champagne. "love for ~her~? no! nothing of the kind." "what! and not spoken about your grief when i told you that frederick delaval had proposed to her, and had been accepted?" "proposed to ~her~?" cried verdant, in a kind of dreamy swoon. "yes! to whom else do you suppose he would propose?" "to ~you~!" "to me!" "yes, to you! why, have you not been telling me that you were engaged to him?" "telling you that ~i~ was engaged to fred!" rejoined miss patty. "why, what could put such an idea into your head? fred is engaged to kitty. you asked me if it was not so; and i told you, yes, but that it was a secret at present. why, then of whom were ~you~ talking?" [an oxford freshman ] "of ~you~!" "of ~me~?" "yes, of you!" and the scales fell from the eyes of both, and they saw their mutual mistake. there was a silence, which verdant was the first to break. "it seems that love is really blind. i now perceive how we have been playing at cross questions and crooked answers. when i asked you about mr. delaval, my thoughts were wholly of you, and i spoke of you, and not of your sister, as you imagined; and i fancied that you answered not for your sister but for yourself. when i spoke of my attachment, it did not refer to your sister, but to you." "to me?" softly said miss patty, as a delicious tremor stole over her. "to you, and to you alone," answered verdant. the great stumbling-block of his doubts was now removed, and his way lay clear before him. then, after a momentary pause to nerve his determination, and without further prelude, or beating about the bush, he said, "patty - my dear miss honeywood - i love you! do you love me?" there it was at last! the dreaded question over which he had passed so many hours of thought, was at length spoken. the elaborate sentences that he had devised for its introduction, had all been forgotten; and his artificial flowers of oratory had been exchanged for those simpler blossoms of honesty and truth - "i love you - do you love me?" he had imagined that he should put the question to her when they were alone in some quiet room; or, better still, when they were wandering together in some sequestered garden walk or shady lane; and, now, here he had unexpectedly, and undesignedly, found his opportunity at a pic-nic dinner, with half a hundred people close beside him, and his ears assaulted with a songster's praises of piracy and murder. strange accompaniments to a declaration of the tender passion! but, like others before him, he had found that there was no such privacy as that of a crowd - the fear of interruption probably adding a spur to determination, while the laughter and busy talking of others assist to fill up awkward pauses of agitation in the converse of the loving couple. despite the heat, miss patty's cheeks paled for a moment, as verdant put to her that question, "do you love me?" then a deep blush stole over them, as she whispered "i do." what need for more? what need for pressure of hands or lips, and vows of love and constancy? what need even for the elder and more desperate of the miss morkins to maliciously suggest that mr. poletiss - who had concluded, amid a great display of approbation (probably because it ~was~ concluded) his mild piratical chant, and his imitations of king george the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] third - should call upon mr. verdant green, who, as she understood, was a very good singer? "and, dear me! where could he have gone to, when he was here just now, you know! and, good gracious! why there he was, under the cart-tilt - and well, i never was so surprised - miss martha honeywood with him, flirting now, i dare say? shouldn't you think so?" no need for this stroke of generalship! no need for miss letitia jane morkin to prompt miss fanny green to bring her brother out of his retirement. no need for mr. frederick delaval to say "i thought you were never going to slip from your moorings!" or for little mr. bouncer to cry, "yoicks! unearthed at last!" no need for anything, save the parental sanction to the newly-formed engagement. mr. verdant green had proposed, and had been accepted; and miss patty honeywood could exclaim with schiller's heroine, "ich habe gelebt und geliebet! - i have lived, and have loved!" chapter ix. mr. verdant green asks papa. <vg .jpg> miss morkin met with her reward before many hours. the pic-nic party were on their way home, and had reached within a short distance of the inn where their wagons had to be exchanged for carriages. it has been mentioned that, among the difficulties of the way, they had to drive through bridgeless brooks; and one of these was not half-a-mile distant from the inn. it happened that the mild mr. poletiss was seated at the tail end of the wagon, next to the fair miss morkin, who was laying violent siege to him, with a battery of words, if not of charms. if the position of mr. poletiss, as to deliverance from his fair foe, was a difficult one, his position, as to maintaining his seat during the violent throes and tossings to and fro of the wagon, was even more difficult; for mr. poletiss's mildness of voice was surpassed by his mildness of manner, and he was far too timid to grasp at the side of the wagon by placing his arm behind the fair miss morkin, lest it should be supposed that he was assuming the privileged position of a partner in a ~valse~. mr. poletiss, therefore, whenever they jolted through ruts or brooks, held on to his hay hassock, and preserved his equilibrium as best he could. [an oxford freshman ] on the same side of the wagon, but at its upper and safer end, was seated mr. bouncer, who was not slow to perceive that a very slight ~accident~ would destroy mr. poletiss's equilibrium; and the little gentleman's fertile brain speedily concocted a plan, which he forthwith communicated to miss fanny green, who sat next to him. it was this:- that when they were plunging through the brook, and every one was swaying to and fro, and was thrown off their balance, mr. bouncer should take advantage of the critical moment, and (by accident, of course!) give miss fanny green a heavy push; this would drive her against her next neighbour, miss patty honeywood; who, from the recoil, would literally be precipitated into the arms of mr. verdant green, who would be pushed against miss letitia jane morkin, who would be driven against her sister, who would be propelled against mr. poletiss, and thus give him that ~coup de grace~, which, as mr. bouncer hoped, would have the effect of quietly tumbling him out of the wagon, and partially ducking him in the brook. "it won't hurt him," said the little gentleman; "it'll do him good. the brook ain't deep, and a bath will be pleasant such a day as this. he can dry his clothes at the inn, and get some steaming toddy, if he's afraid of catching cold. and it will be such a lark to see him in the water. perhaps miss morkin will take a header, and plunge in to save him; and he will promise her his hand, and a medal from the humane society! the wagon will be sure to give a heavy lurch as we come up out of the brook, and what so natural as that we should all be jolted, against each other?" it is not necessary to state whether or no miss fanny green seconded or opposed mr. bouncer's motion; suffice it to say that it was carried out. they had reached the brook. miss morkin was exclaiming, "oh, dear! here's another of those dreadful brooks - the last, i hope, for i always feel so timid at water, and i never bathe at the sea-side without shutting my eyes and being pushed into it by the old woman - and, my goodness! here we are, and i feel convinced that we shall all be thrown in by those dreadful wagoners, who are quite tipsy i'm sure - don't you think so, mr. poletiss?" but, ere mr. poletiss could meekly respond, the horses had been quickened into a trot, the wagon had gone down into the brook - through it - and was bounding up the opposite side - everybody was holding tightly to anything that came nearest to hand - when, at that fatal moment, little mr. bouncer gave the preconcerted push, which was passed on, unpremeditatedly, from one to another, until it had gained its electrical climax in the person of miss morkin, who, with a shriek, was propelled against mr. poletiss, and gave the necessary momentum that [ adventures of mr. verdant green] toppled him from the wagon into the brook. but, dreadful to relate, mr. bouncer's practical joke did not terminate at this fixed point. mr. poletiss, in the suddenness of his fall, naturally struck out at any straw that might save him; and the straw that he caught was the dress of miss morkin. she being at that moment off her balance, and the wagon moving rapidly at an angle of °, was unable to save herself from following the example of mr. poletiss, and she also toppled over into the brook. a third victim would have been added to mr. bouncer's list, had not mr. verdant green, with considerable presence of mind, plucked miss letitia jane morkin from the violent hands that her sister was laying upon her, in making the same endeavours after safety that had been so futilely employed by the luckless mr. poletiss. no sooner had he fallen with a splash into the brook, than miss eleonora morkin was not only after but upon him. this was so far fortunate for the lady, that it released her with only a partial wetting, and she speedily rolled from off her submerged companion on to the shore; but it rendered the ducking of mr. poletiss a more complete one, and he scrambled from the brook, dripping and heavy with wet, like an old ewe emerging from a sheep-shearing tank. the wagon had been immediately stopped, and mr. bouncer and the other gentlemen had at once sprung down to miss morkin's assistance. being thus surrounded <vg .jpg> by a male bodyguard, the young lady could do no less than go into hysterics, and fall into the nearest gentleman's arms, and as this gentleman was little mr. bouncer he was partially punished for his practical joke. indeed, he afterwards declared that a severe cold which troubled him for the next fortnight was attributable to his having held in his arms the damp form of the dishevelled naiad. on her recovery - which was effected by mr. bouncer giving way under his burden, and lowering it to the ground - she utterly refused to be again carried in the wagon; and, as walking was perhaps better for her under the circumstances, she and [an oxford freshman ] mr. poletiss were escorted in procession to the inn hard by, where dry changes of costume were provided for them by the landlord and his fair daughter. as this little misadventure was believed by all, save the privileged few, to have been purely the result of accident, it was not permitted, so mr. bouncer said, to do as miss morkin had done by him - throw a damp upon the party; and as the couple who had taken a watery bath met with great sympathy, they had no reason to complain of the incident. especially had the fair miss morkin cause to rejoice therein, for the mild mr. poletiss had to make her so many apologies for having been the innocent cause of her fall, and, as a reparation, felt <vg .jpg> bound to so particularly devote himself to her for the remainder of the evening, that miss morkin was in the highest state of feminine gratification, and observed to her sister, when they were preparing themselves for rest, "i am quite sure, letitia jane, that the gipsy woman spoke the truth, and could read the stars and whatdyecallems as easy as ~a b c~. she told me that i should be married to a man with light whiskers and a soft voice, and that he would come to me from over the water; and it's quite evident that she referred to mr. poletiss and his falling into the brook; and i'm sure if he'd have had a proper opportunity he'd have said something definite to-night." so miss eleonora morkin laid her head upon her pillow, and dreamt of bride-cake and wedding-favours. perhaps another young lady under the same roof was dreaming the same thing! a ball at honeywood hall terminated the pleasures of the day. the guests had brought with them a change of garments, and were therefore enabled to make their reappearance in evening costume. this quiet interval for dressing was the first moment that verdant could secure for sitting down by himself to think over the events of the day. as yet the time was too early for him to reflect calmly on the step he had taken. his brain was in that kind of delicious stupor which we experience when, having been aroused from sleep, we again shut our eyes for a moment's doze. past, present, and future were [ adventures of mr. verdant green] agreeably mingled in his fancies. one thought quickly followed upon another; there was no dwelling upon one special point, but a succession of crowding feelings chased rapidly through his mind, all pervaded by that sunny hue that shines out from the knowledge of love returned. he could not rest until he had told his sister mary, and made her a sharer in his happiness. he found her just without the door, strolling up and down the drive with charles larkyns, so he joined them; and, as they walked in the pleasant cool of the evening down a shady walk, he stammered out to them, with many blushes, that patty honeywood had promised to be his wife. "cousin patty is the very girl for you!" said charles larkyns, "the very best choice you could have made. she will trim you up and keep you tight, as old tennyson hath it. for what says 'the fat-faced curate edward bull?' "'i take it, god made the woman for the man and for the good and increase of the world. a pretty face is well, and this is well, to have a dame indoors, that trims us up and keeps us tight.' "verdant, you are a lucky fellow to have won the love of such a good and honest-hearted girl, and if there is any room left to mould you into a better fellow than what you are, miss patty is the very one for the modeller." at the same time that he was thus being congratulated on his good fortune and happy prospects, miss patty was making a similar confession to her mother and sister, and receiving the like good wishes. and it is probable that mrs. honeywood made no delay in communicating this piece of family news to her liege lord and master; for when, half an hour afterwards, mr. verdant green had screwed up his courage sufficiently to enable him to request a private interview with mr. honeywood in the library, the squire most humanely relieved him from a large load of embarrassment, and checked the hems and hums and haws that our hero was letting off like squibs, to enliven his conversation, by saying, "i think i guess the nature of your errand - to ask my consent to your engagement with my daughter martha? am i right?" and so, by this grateful helping of a very lame dog over a very difficult stile, the diplomatic relations and circumlocutions that are usually observed at horrible interviews of this description were altogether avoided, and the business was speedily brought to a satisfactory termination. when mr. verdant green issued from the library, he felt himself at least ten years older and a much more important person than when he had entered it, so greatly is our bump of self- [an oxford freshman ] esteem increased by the knowledge that there is a being in existence who holds us dearer than aught else in the whole wide world. but not even a misogynist would have dared to assert that, in the present instance, love was but an excess of self-love; for if ever there was a true attachment that honestly sprang from the purest feelings of the heart, it was that which existed between miss patty honeywood and mr. verdant green. what need to dwell further on the daily events of that happy time? what need to tell how the several engagements of the two miss honeywoods were made known, and how, with miss mary green and mr. charles larkyns, there were thus three ~bona fide~ "engaged couples" in the house at the same time, to say nothing of what looked like an embryo engagement between miss fanny green and mr. bouncer? but if this last-named attachment should come to anything, it would probably be owing to the severe aggravation which the little gentleman felt on continually finding himself ~de trop~ at some scene of tender sentiment. if, for example, he entered the library, its tenants, perhaps, would be verdant and patty, who would be discovered, with agitated expressions, standing or sitting at intervals of three yards, thereby endeavouring to convey to the spectator the idea that those positions had been relatively maintained by them up to the moment of his entering the room, an idea which the spectator invariably rejected. when mr. bouncer had retired with figurative eastern apologies from the library, he would perhaps enter the drawing-room, there to find that frederick delaval and miss kitty honeywood had sprung into remote positions (as certain bodies rebound upon contact), and were regarding him as an unwelcome intruder. thence, with more apologies, he would betake himself to the breakfast-room, to see what was going on in that quarter, and there he would flush a third brace of betrotheds, a proceeding that was not much sport to either party. it could hardly be a matter of surprise, therefore, if mr. bouncer should be seized with the prevailing epidemic, and, from the circumstances of his position, should be driven more than he might otherwise have been into miss fanny green's society. and though the little gentleman had no serious intentions in all this, yet it seemed highly probable that something might come of it, and that mr. alfred brindle (whose attentions at the christmas charade-party at the manor green had been of so marked a character) would have to resign his pretensions to miss fanny green's hand in favour of mr. henry bouncer. but it is needless to describe the daily lives of these betrothed couples - how they rode, and sketched, and walked, and talked, and drove, and fished, and shot, and visited, and pic-nic'd - [ adventures of mr. verdant green] how they went out to sea in frederick delaval's yacht, and were overtaken by rough weather, and became so unromantically ill that they prayed to be put on shore again - how, on a chosen day, when the sea was as calm as a duckpond, they sailed from bamborough to the longstone, and nevertheless took provisions with them for three days, because, if storms should arise, they might have found it impossible to put back from the island to the shore; but how, nevertheless, they were altogether fortunate, and had not to lengthen out their pic-nic to such an uncomfortable extent - and how they went over the lighthouse, and talked about the brave and gentle grace darling; and how that handsome, grey-headed old man, her father, showed them the presents that had been sent to his daughter by queen, and lords, and commons, in token of her deed of daring; and how he was garrulous about them and her, with the pardonable pride of a "fond old man, fourscore and upward," who had been the father of such a daughter. it is needless to detail all this; let us rather pass to the evening of the day preceding that which should see the group of visitors on their way back to warwickshire. mr. verdant green and miss patty honeywood have been taking a farewell after-dinner stroll in the garden, and have now wandered into the deserted breakfast-room, under the pretence of finding a water-colour drawing of honeywood hall, that the young lady had made for our hero. "now, you must promise me," she said to him, "that you will take it to oxford." "certainly, if i go there again. but -" "~but~, sir! but i thought you had promised to give up to me on that point. you naughty boy! if you already break your promises in this way, who knows but what you will forget your promise to remember me when you have gone away from here?" mr. verdant green here did what is usual in such cases. he kissed the young lady, and said, "you silly little woman! as though i ~could~ forget you!" ~et cetera~, ~et cetera~. "ah! i don't know," said miss patty. mr. verdant green repeated the kiss and the ~et ceteras~. "very well, then, i'll believe you," at length said miss patty. "but i won't love you one bit unless you'll faithfully promise that you will go back to oxford. whatever would be the use of your giving up your studies?" "a great deal of use; we could be married at once." "oh no, we couldn't. papa is quite firm on this point. you know that he thinks us much too young to be married." [an oxford freshman ] "but," pleaded our hero, "if we are old enough to fall in love, surely we must <vg .jpg> be old enough to be married." "oxford logic again, i suppose," laughed miss patty, "but it won't persuade papa, nevertheless. i am not quite nineteen, you know, and papa has always said that i should never be married until i was one-and-twenty. by that time you will have done with college and taken your degree, and i should so like to know that you have passed all your examinations, and are a bachelor of arts." "but," said verdant, "i don't think i shall be able to pass. examinations are very nervous affairs, and suppose i should be plucked. you wouldn't like to marry a man who had disgraced himself." "do you see that picture?" asked miss patty; and she directed verdant's attention to a small but exquisite oil-painting by maclise. it was in illustration of one of moore's melodies, "come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!" the lover had fallen upon one knee at his mistress's feet, and was locked in her embrace. with a look of fondest love she had pillowed his head upon her bosom, as if to assure him, "though the herd have all left thee, thy home it is here." "do you see that picture?" asked miss patty. "i would do as she did. if all others rejected you yet would i never. you would still find your home here," and she nestled fondly to his side. "but," she said, after one of those delightful pauses which lovers know so well how to fill up, "you must not conjure up such silly fancies. charles has often told me how easily you [ adventures of mr. verdant green] passed your - little-go, isn't it called? - and he says you will have no trouble in obtaining your degree." "but two years is such a tremendous time to wait," urged our hero, who, like all lovers, was anxious to crown his happiness without much delay. "if you are resolved to think it long," said miss patty; "but it will enable you to tell whether you really like me. you might, you know, marry in haste, and then have to repent at leisure." and the end of this conversation was, that the fair special-pleader gained her cause, and that mr. verdant green consented to return to oxford, and not to dream of marriage until two years had passed over his head. the next night he slept at the manor green, warwickshire. chapter x. mr. verdant green is made a mason. <vg .jpg> mr. verdant green and mr. bouncer were once more in oxford, and on a certain morning had turned into the coffee-room of "the mitre" to "do bitters," as mr. bouncer phrased the act of drinking bitter beer, when said the little gentleman, as he dangled his legs from a table, "giglamps, old feller! you ain't a mason." "a mason! of course not." "and why do you say 'of course not'?" "why, what would be the use of it?" "that's what parties always say, my tulip. be a mason, and then you'll soon see the use of it." "but i am independent of trade." "trade? oh, i twig. my gum, giglamps! you'll be the death of me some fine day. i didn't mean a mason with a hod of mortar; he'd be a hod-fellow, don't you see? - there's a fine old crusted joke for you - i meant a mason with a petticut, a freemason." "oh, a freemason. well, i really don't seem to care much about being one. as far as i can see, there's a great deal of mystery and very little use in it." "oh, that's because you know nothing about it. if you were a mason you'd soon see the use of it. for one thing, when you go abroad you'd find it no end of a help to you. if you'll stand another tankard of beer i'll tell you an ~apropos~ tale." so when a fresh supply of the bitter beverage had been [an oxford freshman ] ordered and brought, little mr. bouncer, perched upon the table, and dangling his legs, discoursed as follows:- "last long, billy blades went on to the continent, and in the course of his wanderings he came across some gentlemen who turned out to be bandits, although they weren't dressed in tall hats and ribbons, and scarves, and watches, and velvet sit-upons, like you see them in pictures and at theatres; but they were rough customers for all that, and they laid hands upon master billy, and politely asked him for his money or his life. <vg .jpg> billy wasn't inclined to give them either, but he was all alone, with nothing but his knapsack and a stick, for it was a frequented road, and he had no idea that there were such things as banditti in existence. well, as you're aware, giglamps, billy's a modern hercules, with an unusual development of biceps, and he not only sent out left and right, and gave them a touch of hammer lane and the putney pet combined, but he also applied his shoemaker to another gentleman's tailor with considerable effect. however, this didn't get him kudos, or mend matters one bit; and, after being knocked about much more than was agreeable to his feelings, he was forced to yield to superior numbers. they gagged and blindfolded him, formed him into a procession, and marched him off; and when in about half-an-hour they again let him have the use of his eyes and tongue, he found himself in a rude hut, with his banditti friends around him. they had pistols, and poniards, and long knives, with which they made threatening demonstrations. they had cut open his knapsack and tumbled out its contents, but not a ~sou~ could they find; for billy, i should [ adventures of mr. verdant green] have told you, had left the place where he was staying, for a few days' walking tour, and he had only taken what little money he required; of this he had one or two pieces left, which he gave them. but it wouldn't satisfy the beggars, and they signified to him - for you see, giglamps, billy didn't understand a quarter of their lingo - that he must fork out with his tin unless he wished to be forked into with their steel. pleasant position, wasn't it?" "extremely." "well, they searched him, and when they found that they really couldn't get anything more out of him, they made him understand that he must write to some one for a ransom, and that he wouldn't be released until the money came. pleasant again, wasn't it?" "excessively. but what has all this to do with freemasonry?" "giglamps, you're as bad as a girl who peeps at the end of a novel before she begins to read it. drink your beer, and let me tell my tale in my own way. well, now we come to volume the third, chapter the last. master billy found that there was nothing for it but to obey orders, so he sent off a note to his banker, stating his requirements. as soon as this business was transacted, the amiable bandits turned to pleasure, and produced a bottle of wine, of which they politely asked billy to partake. he thought at first that it might be poison, and he wasn't very far wrong, for it was most villainous stuff. however, the other fellows took to it kindly, and got more amiable than ever over it; so much so that they offered billy one of his own weeds, and they all got very jolly, and were as thick as thieves. billy made himself so much at home - he's a beggar that can always adapt himself to circumstances - that at last the chief bandit proposed his health, and then they all shook hands with him. well, now comes the moral of my story. when the captain of the bandits was drinking billy's health in this flipper-shaking way, it all at once occurred to billy to give him the masonic grip. i must not tell you what it was, but he gave it, and, lo and behold! the bandit returned it. both billy and the bandit opened their eyes pretty considerably at this. the bandit also opened his arms and embraced his captive; and the long and short of it was that he begged billy's pardon for the trouble and delay they had caused him, returned him his money and knapsack, and all the weeds that were not smoked, set aside the ransom, and escorted him back to the high road, guaranteeing him a free and unmolested passage if he should come that way again. and all this because billy was a mason; so you see, giglamps, what use it is to a feller. but," said mr. bouncer, as he ended his tale, "talking's mon- [an oxford freshman ] strously dry work. so, i looks to-wards you, giglamps! to which, if you wish to do the correct thing, you should reply 'i likewise bows!'" and, little mr. bouncer, winking affably to his friend, raised the silver tankard to his lips, and kept it there for the space of ten seconds. "i suppose," said verdant, "that the real moral of your story is, that i must become a freemason, because i might travel abroad and be attacked by a scamp who was also a freemason. now, i think i had better decline joining a society that numbers banditti among its members." "oh, but that was an exceptional case. i dare say, if the truth was known, billy's friend had once been a highly respectable party, and had paid his water-rate and income-tax like any other civilized being. but all masons are not like billy's friend, and the more you know of them the more you'll thank me for having advised you to join them. but it isn't altogether that. every oxford man who is really a man is a mason, and that, giglamps, is quite a sufficient reason why ~you~ should be one." so verdant said, very well, he had no objection; and little mr. bouncer promised to arrange the necessary preliminaries. what these were will be seen if we advance the progress of events a few days later. messrs. bouncer, blades, foote, and flexible shanks - who were all masons, and could affix to their names more letters than members of far more learned societies could do - had undertaken that mr. verdant green's initiation into the mysteries of the craft should be altogether a private one. verdant felt that this was exceedingly kind of them; for, if it must be confessed, he had adopted the popular idea that the admission of members was in some way or other connected with the free use of a red-hot poker, and though he was reluctant to breathe his fears on this point, yet he looked forward to the ceremony with no little dread. he was therefore immensely relieved when he found that, by the kindness of his friends, his initiation would not take place in the presence of the assembled members of the lodge. for a week mr. verdant green was benevolently left to ponder and speculate on the ceremonial horrors that would attend his introduction to the mysteries of freemasonry, and by the appointed day he had worked himself into such a state of nervous excitement that he was burning more with the fever of apprehension than that of curiosity. there was no help for him, however; he had promised to go through the ordeal, whatever it might be, and he had no desire to be laughed at for having abandoned his purpose through fear. the lodge of cemented bricks, of which messrs. bouncer and [ adventures of mr. verdant green] co. had promised to make mr. verdant green a member, occupied spacious rooms in a certain large house in a certain small street not a hundred miles from the high street. the ascent to the lodge-room, which was at the top of the house, was by a rather formidable flight of stairs, up which mr. verdant green tremblingly climbed, attended by mr. bouncer as his ~fidus achates~. the little gentleman, in that figurative oriental language to which he was so partial, considerately advised his friend to keep up his pecker and never say die; but his exhortation of "now, don't you be frightened, giglamps, we shan't hurt you more than we can help," only increased the anguish of our hero's sensations; and when at the last he found himself at the top of the stairs, and before a door which was guarded by mr. foote, who held a drawn sword, and was dressed in unusually full masonic costume, and looked stern and unearthly in the dusky gloom, he turned back, and would have made his escape had he not been prevented by mr. "footelights' " naked weapon. mr. bouncer had previously cautioned him that he must not in any way evince a recognition of his friends until the ceremonies of the initiation were completed, and that the infringement of this command would lead to his total expulsion from his friends' society. mr. bouncer had also told him that he must not be surprised at anything that he might see or hear; which, under the circumstances, was very seasonable as well as sensible advice. mr. verdant green, therefore, submitted to his fate, and to mr. footelights' drawn sword. "the first step, giglamps," whispered mr. bouncer, "is the blindfolding; the next is the challenge, which is in coptic, the original language, you know, of the members of the first lodge of cemented bricks. swordbearer and deputy past pantile foote will do this for you. i must go and put my things on. remember, you musn't recognize me when you come into the lodge. adoo, samiwel! keep your pecker up." mr. verdant green wrung his friend's hand, pocketed his spectacles, and submitted to be blindfolded. mr. footelights then took him by the hand, and knocked three times at the door. a voice, which verdant recognized as that of mr. blades, inquired, "kilaricum luricum tweedlecum twee?" to which mr. footelights replied, "astrakansa siphonia bostrukizon!" and laid the cold steel blade against mr. verdant green's cheek in a way which made that gentleman shiver. mr. blades' voice then said, "swordbearer and deputy past pantile, pass in the neophyte who seeks to be a cemented brick"; and mr. verdant green was thereupon guided into the room. "gropelos toldery lol! remove the handkerchief," said the voice of mr. blades. [an oxford freshman ] the glare from numerous wax-lights, reflected as it was from polished gold, silver, and marble, affected mr. verdant green's bandaged eyes, and prevented him for a time from seeing anything distinctly, but on mr. foote motioning to him that he might resume his spectacles, he was soon enabled by their aid to survey the scene. around him stood mr. bouncer, mr. blades, mr. flexible shanks, and mr. foote. each held a drawn and gleaming sword; each wore aprons, scarves, or mantles; each was decorated with mystic masonic jewellery; each was silent and preternaturally serious. the room was large and was furnished with the greatest splendour, but its contents seemed strange and mysterious to our hero's eyes. "advance the neophyte! oodiny dulipy sing!" said mr. blades, who walked to the other end of the room, stepped upon a dais, ascended his throne, and laid aside the sword for a sceptre. mr. foote and mr. flexible shanks then took mr. verdant green by either shoulder, and escorted him up the room with their drawn swords turned towards him, while mr. bouncer followed, and playfully prodded him in the rear. in the front of mr. blades' throne there was a species of altar, of which the chief ornaments were a large sword, a skull and cross-bones, illuminated by a great wax light placed in a tall silver candlestick. silver globes and pillars stood upon the dais on either side of the throne; and luxuriously-velveted chairs and rows of seats were ranged around. before the altar-like erection a small funereal black and white carpet was spread upon the black and white lozenged floor; and on this carpet were arranged the following articles:- a money chest, a ballot box (very like miss bouncer's camera), two pairs of swords, three little mallets, and a skull and cross-bones - the display of which emblems of mortality confirmed mr. verdant green in his previously-formed opinion, that the lodge-room was a veritable chamber of horrors, and he would willingly have preferred a visit to that "lodge in some vast wilderness," for which the poet sighed, and to have forgone all those promised benefits that were to be derived from freemasonry. but wishing could not save him. he had no sooner arrived in front of the skull and cross-bones than the procession halted, and mr. blades, rising from his throne, said, "let the sword-bearer and deputy past pantile, together with the provincial grand mortar-board, do their duty! ramohun roy azalea tong! produce the poker! past grand hodman, remain on guard!" mr. foote and mr. flexible shanks removed their hands and swords from mr. verdant green, and walked solemnly down the room, leaving little mr. bouncer standing beside our hero, and holding the drawn sword above his head. mr. foote and mr. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] flexible shanks returned, escorting between them the poker. it was cold! that was a relief. but how long was it to remain so? "past grand hodman!" said mr. blades, "instruct the neophyte in the primary proceedings of the cemented bricks." at mr. bouncer's bidding, mr. verdant green then sat down upon the lozenged floor, and held his knees with his hands. mr. flexible shanks then brought to him the poker, and said, "tetrao urogallus orygometra crex!" the poker was then, <vg .jpg> by the assistance of mr. foote, placed under the knees and over the arms of mr. verdant green, who thus sat like a trussed fowl, and equally helpless. "recite to the neophyte the oath of the cemented bricks!" said mr. blades. "ramphastidinae toco scolopendra tinnunculus cracticornis bos!" exclaimed mr. flexible shanks. "do you swear to obey through fire and water, and bricks and mortar, the words of this oath?" asked mr. blades from his throne. "you must say, i do!" whispered mr. bouncer to mr. verdant green, who accordingly muttered the response. "let the oath be witnessed and registered by swordbearer and deputy past pantile, provincial grand mortar-board, and past grand hodman!" said mr. blades; and the three gentlemen thus designated stood on either side of and behind mr. verdant green, and, with theatrical gestures, clashed their swords over his head. "keemo kimo lingtum nipcat! let him rise," said mr. [an oxford freshman ] blades; and the poker was thereupon withdrawn from its position, and mr. verdant green, being untrussed, but somewhat stiff and cramped, was assisted upon his legs. he hoped that his troubles were now at an end; but this pleasing delusion was speedily dispelled, by mr. blades saying - "the next part of the ceremonial is the delivery of the red-hot poker. let the poker be heated!" mr. verdant green went chill with dread as he watched the terrible instrument borne from the room by mr. foote and mr. flexible shanks, while mr. bouncer resumed his guard over him with the drawn sword. all was quiet save a smothered sound from the other side of the door, which, under other circumstances, verdant would have taken for suppressed laughter; but, the solemnity of the proceedings repelled the idea. at length the poker was brought in, red-hot and smoking, whereupon mr. blades left his throne and walked to the other end of the room, and there took his seat upon a second throne, before which was a second altar, garnished - as mr. verdant green soon perceived, to his horror and amazement - with a human head (or the representation of one) projecting from a black cloth that concealed the neck, and, doubtless, the marks of decapitation. its ghastly features were clearly displayed by the aid of a wax light placed in a tall silver candlestick by its side. mr. blades received the poker from mr. foote, and commanded the neophyte to advance. mr. verdant green did so, and took up a trembling position to the left of the throne, while mr. foote and mr. flexible shanks proceeded to the organ, which was to the right of the entrance door. mr. blades then delivered the poker to mr. verdant green, who, at first, imagined that he was required to seize it by its red-hot end, but was greatly relieved in his mind when he found that he had merely to take it by the handle, and repeat (as well as he could) a form of gibberish that mr. blades dictated. having done this he was desired to transfer the poker to the past grand hodman - mr. bouncer. he had just come to the joyful conclusion that the much dreaded poker portion of the business was now at an end, when [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mr. blades ruthlessly cast a dark cloud over his gleam of happiness, by saying - "the next part of the ceremony will be the branding with the red-hot poker. let the organist call in the aid of music to drown the shrieks of the victim!" and, thereupon, mr. foote struck up (with the full swell of the organ) a heart-rending air that sounded like "the cries of the wounded" from ~the battle of prague~. now, it happened that little mr. bouncer - like his sister - was subject to uncontrollable fits of laughter at improper seasons. for the last half-hour he had suffered severely from the torture of suppressed mirth, and now, as he saw mr. verdant green's climax of fright at the anticipated branding, human nature could not longer bear up against an explosion of merriment, and mr. bouncer burst into shouts of laughter, and, with convulsive sobs, flung himself upon the nearest seat. his example was contagious; mr. blades, mr. foote, and mr. flexible shanks, one after another, joined in the roar, and relieved their pent-up feelings with a rush of uproarious laughter. at the first mr. verdant green looked surprised, and in doubt whether or no this was but a part of the usual proceedings attendant upon the initiation of a member into the lodge of cemented bricks. then the truth dawned upon him, and he blushed up to his spectacles. "sold again, giglamps!" shouted little mr. bouncer. "i didn't think we could carry out the joke so far, i wonder if this will be hoax the last for mr. verdant green?" "i hope so indeed!" replied our hero; "for i have no wish to continue a freshman all through my college life. but i'll give you full liberty to hoax me again - if you can." and mr. verdant green joined good-humouredly in the laughter raised at his own expense. not many days after this he was really made a mason; although the lodge was not that of the cemented bricks, or the forms of initiation those invented by his four friends. [an oxford freshman ] chapter xi. mr. verdant green breakfasts with mr. bouncer, and enters for a grind. <vg .jpg> little mr. bouncer had abandoned his intention of obtaining a ~licet migrare~ to "the tavern," and had decided (the dons being propitious) to remain at brazenface, in the nearer neighbourhood of his friends. he had resumed his reading for his degree; and, at various odd times, and in various odd ways, he crammed himself for his forthcoming examination with the most confused and confusing scraps of knowledge. he was determined, he said, "to stump the examiners." one day, when mr. verdant green had come from morning chapel, and had been refreshed by the perusal of an unusually long epistle from his charming northumbrian correspondent, he betook himself to his friend's rooms, and found the little gentleman - notwithstanding that he was expecting a breakfast party - still luxuriating in bed. his curly black wig reposed on its block on the dressing table, and the closely shaven skull that it daily decorated shone whiter than the pillow that it pressed; for although mr. bouncer considered that night-caps might be worn by "long-tailed babbies," and by "old birds that were as bald as coots," yet, he, being a young bird - though not a baby - declined to ensconce his head within any kind of white covering, after the fashion of the portraits of the poet cowper. the smallness of mr. bouncer's dormitory caused his wash-hand-stand to be brought against his bed's head; and the little gentleman had availed himself of this conveniency, to place within the basin a blubbering, bubbling, gurgling hookah, from which a long stem curled in vine-like tendrils, until it found a resting place in mr. bouncer's mouth. the little gentleman lay comfortably propped on pillows, with his hands tucked under his head, and his knees crooked up to form a rest for a manuscript book of choice "crams," that had been gleaned by him from those various fields of knowledge from which the true labourer reaps so rich and ripe a store. huz and buz reposed on the counterpane, to complete this picture of reading for a pass. "the top o' the morning to you, giglamps!" he said, as he saluted his friend with a volley of smoke - a salute similar as to the smoke, but superior, in the absence of noise and slightness [ adventures of mr. verdant green] of expense, to that which would have greeted mr. verdant green's approach had he been of the royal blood - "here i am! sweating away, as usual, for that beastly examination." <vg .jpg> (it was a popular fallacy with mr. bouncer, that he read very hard and very regularly.) "i thought i'd cut chapel this morning, and coach up for my divinity paper. do you know who hadassah was, old feller?" "no! i never heard of her." "ha! you may depend upon it, those are the sort of questions that pluck a man;" said mr. bouncer, who thought - as others like him have thought - that the getting up of a few abstruse proper names would be proof sufficient for a thorough knowledge of the whole subject. "but i'm not going to let them gulph me a second time; though, they ought not to plough a man who's been at harrow, ought they, old feller?" "don't make bad jokes." "so i shall work well at these crams, although, of course, i shall put on my examination coat, and trust a good deal to my cards, and watch papers, and shirt wristbands, and so on." "i should have thought," said verdant, "that after those sort of crutches had broken down with you once, you would not fly to their support a second time." "oh, i shall though! - i must, you know!" replied the infatuated mr. bouncer. "the mum cut up doosid this last time; you've no idea how she turned on the main, and did the briny! and, i must make things sure this time. after all, i believe it was those second aorists that ploughed me." it is remarkable, that, not only in mr. bouncer's case, but in many others, also, of a like nature, gentlemen who have been plucked can always attribute their totally-unexpected failures to a second aorist, or a something equivalent to "the salmon," or "the melted butter," or "that glass of sherry," which are recognized as the causes for so many morning reflections. this curious circumstance suggests an interesting source of inquiry for the speculative. "well!" said mr. bouncer meditatively; "i'm not so sorry, after all, that they cut up rough, and ploughed me. it's enabled me, you see, to come back here, and be jolly. i [an oxford freshman ] shouldn't have known what to do with myself away from oxford. a man can't be always going to feeds and tea-fights; and that's all that i have to do when i'm down in the country with the mum - she likes me, you know, to do the filial, and go about with her. and it's not a bad thing to have something to work at! it keeps what you call your intellectual faculties on the move. i don't wonder at thingumbob crying when he'd no more whatdyecallems to conquer! he was regularly used up, i dare say." mr. bouncer, upon this, rolled out some curls of smoke from the corner of his mouth, and then observed, "i'm glad i started this hookah! 'the judicious hooker,' ain't it, giglamps? it is so jolly, at night, to smoke oneself to sleep, with the tail end of it in one's mouth, and to find it there in the morning, all ready for a fresh start. it makes me get on with my coaching like a house on fire." here there was a rush of men into the adjacent room, who hailed mr. bouncer as a disgusting sybarite, and, flinging their caps and gowns into a corner, forthwith fell upon the good fare which mr. robert filcher had spread before them; at the same time carrying on a lively conversation with their host, the occupant of the bed-room. "well! i suppose i must turn out, and do tumbies!" said mr. bouncer. so he got up, and went into his tub; and presently, sat down comfortably to breakfast, in his shirt-sleeves. when mr. bouncer had refreshed his inner man, and strengthened himself for his severe course of reading by the consumption of a singular mixture of coffee and kidneys, beef-steaks and beer; and when he had rested from his exertions, and had resumed his pipe - which was not "the judicious hooker," but a short clay, smoked to a swarthy hue, and on that account, as well as from its presumed medicatory power, called "the black doctor," - just then, mr. smalls, and a detachment of invited guests, who had been to an early lecture, dropped in to breakfast. huz and buz, setting up a terrific bark, darted towards a minute specimen of the canine species, which, with the aid of a powerful microscope, might have been discovered at the feet of its proud proprietor, mr. smalls. it was the first dog of its kind imported into oxford, and it was destined to set on foot a fashion that soon bade fair to drive out of the field those long-haired skye-terriers, with two or three specimens of which species, he entered the room. "kill 'em, lympy!" said mr. smalls to his pet, who, with an extreme display of pugnacity, was submitting to the curious and minute inspection of huz and buz. "lympy" was a black and tan terrier, with smooth hair, glossy coat, bead-like eyes, cropped ears, pointed tail, limbs of a cobwebby structure, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] and so diminutive in its proportions, that its owner was accustomed to carry it inside the breast of his waistcoat, as a precaution, probably, against its being blown away. and it was called "lympy," as an abbreviation of "olympus," which was the name derisively given to it for its smallness, on the ~lucus a non lucendo~ principle that miscalls the lengthy "brief" of the barrister, the "living" - not-sufficient-to-support-life - of the poor vicar, the uncertain "certain age," the unfair "fare" and the son-ruled "governor." "lympy" was placed upon the table, in order that he might be duly admired; an exaltation at which huz and buz and the skye-terriers chafed with jealousy. "be quiet, you beggars! he's prettier than you!" said mr. smalls; whereupon, a mild punster present propounded the canine query, "did it ever occur to a cur to be lauded to the skyes?" at which there was a shout of indignation, and he was sconced by the unanimous vote of the company. "lympy ain't a bad style of dog," said little mr. bouncer, as he puffed away at the black doctor. "he'd be perfect, if he hadn't one fault." "and what's his fault, pray?" asked his anxious owner. "there's rather too much of him!" observed mr. bouncer, gravely. "robert!" shouted the little gentleman to his scout; "robert! doose take the feller, he's always out of the way when he's wanted." and, when the performance of a variety of octaves on the post-horn, combined with the free use of the speaking-trumpet, had brought mr. robert filcher to his presence, mr. bouncer received him with objurgations, and ordered another tankard of beer from the buttery. in the meantime, the conversation had taken a sporting turn. "do you meet drake's to-morrow?" asked mr. blades of mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke. "no! the old berkshire," was the reply. "where's the meet?" "at buscot park. i send my horse to thompson's, at the farringdon-road station, and go to meet him by rail." "and, what about the grind?" asked mr. smalls of the company generally.' "oh yes!" said mr. bouncer, "let us talk over the grind. giglamps, old feller, you must join." "certainly, if you wish it," said mr. verdant green, who, [an oxford freshman ] however, had as little idea as the man in the moon what they were talking about. but, as he was no longer a freshman, he was unwilling to betray his ignorance on any matter pertaining to college life; so he looked much wiser than he felt, and saved himself from saying more on the subject, by sipping a hot spiced draught from a silver cup that was pushed round to him. <vg .jpg> "that's the very cup that four-in-hand fosbrooke won at the last grind," said mr. bouncer. "was it indeed!" safely answered mr. verdant green, who looked at the silver cup (on which was engraven a coat of arms with the words "brazenface grind.- fosbrooke,"), and wondered what "a grind" might be. a medical student would have told [him] that a "grind" meant the reading up for an examination [under] the tuition of one who was familiarly termed "a grinder" - a process which mr. verdant green's friends would phrase as "coaching" under "a coach;" but the conversation that followed upon mr. smalls' introduction of the subject, made our hero aware, that, to a university man, a grind did not possess any reading signification, but a riding one. in fact, it was a steeple-chase, slightly varying in its details according to the college that patronized the pastime. at brazenface, "the grind" was usually over a known line of country, marked out with flags by the gentleman (familiarly known as anniseed) who attended to this business, and full of leaps of various kinds, and various degrees of stiffness. by sweepstakes and subscriptions, a sum of from ten to fifteen pounds was raised for the purchase of a silver cup, wherewith to grace the winner's wines and breakfast parties; but, as the winner had occasionally been known to pay as much as fifteen pounds for the day's hire of the blood horse who was to land him first at the goal, and as he had, moreover, to discharge many other little expenses, including the by no means little one of a dinner to the losers, the conqueror for the cup usually obtained more glory than profit. "i suppose you'll enter ~tearaway~, as before?" asked mr. smalls of mr. fosbrooke. "yes! for i want to get him in condition for the aylesbury steeple-chase," replied the owner of ~tearaway~, who was rather too fond of vaunting his blue silk and black cap before the eyes of the sporting public. "you've not much to fear from this man," said mr. bouncer, indicating (with the black doctor) the stalwart form of mr. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] blades. "billy's too big in the westphalias. giglamps, you're the boy to cook fosbrooke's goose. don't you remember what old father-in-law honeywood told you, - that you might, would, should, and could, ride like a shafto? and lives there a man with soul so dead, - as shikspur or some other cove observes - who wouldn't like to show what stuff he was made of? i can put you up to a wrinkle," said the little gentleman, sinking his voice to a whisper. "tollitt has got a mare who can lick ~tearaway~ into fits. she is as easy as a chair, and jumps like a cat. all that you have to do is to sit back, clip the pig-skin, and send her at it; and, she'll take you over without touching a twig. he'd promised her to me, but i intend to cut the grind altogether; it interferes too much, don't you see, with my coaching. so i can make tollitt keep her for you. think how well the cup would look on your side-board, when you've blossomed into a parient, and changed the adorable patty into mrs. verdant. think of that, master giglamps!" mr. bouncer's argument was a persuasive one, and mr. verdant green consented to be one of the twelve gentlemen, who cheerfully paid their sovereigns to be allowed to make their appearance as amateur jockeys at the forthcoming grind. after much debate, "the wet ensham course" was decided upon; and three o'clock in the afternoon of that day fortnight was fixed for the start. mr. smalls gained ~kudos~ by offering to give the luncheon at his rooms; and the host of the red lion, at ensham, was ordered to prepare one of his very best dinners, for the winding up of the day's sport. "i don't mind paying for it," said verdant to mr. bouncer, "if i can but win the cup, and show it to patty, when she comes to us at christmas." "keep your pecker up, old feller! and put your trust in old beans," was mr.bouncer's reply. chapter xii. mr. verdant green takes his degree. during the fortnight that intervened between mr. bouncer's breakfast party and the grind, mr. verdant green got himself into training for his first appearance as a steeple-chase rider, by practising a variety of equestrian feats over leaping-bars and gorse stuck hurdles; in which he acquitted himself with tolerable success, and came off with fewer bruises than might have been expected. at this period of his career, too, he strengthened his bodily powers by practising himself in those varieties of the "manly exercises" that found most favour in oxford. [an oxford freshman ] the adoption of some portion of these was partly attributable to his having been made a mason; for, whenever he attended the meetings of his lodge, he had to pass the two rooms where mr. maclaren conducted his fencing-school and gymnasium. the fencing-room - which was the larger of the two, and was of the same dimensions as the lodge-room above it - was usually tenanted by the proprietor and his assistant (who, as mr. <vg .jpg> bouncer phrased it, "put the pupils through their paces,") and re-echoed to the sounds of stampings, and the cries of "on guard! quick! parry! lunge!" with the various other terms of defence and attack, uttered in french and english. at the upper end of the room, over the fire-place, was a stand of curious arms, flanked on either side by files of single-sticks. the centre of the room was left clear for the fencing; while the lower end was occupied by the parallel bars, a regiment of indian clubs, and a mattress apparatus for the delectation of the sect of jumpers. here mr. verdant green, properly equipped for the purpose, was accustomed to swing his clubs after the presumed indian manner, to lift himself off his feet and hang suspended between the parallel bars, to leap the string on to the mattress, to be rapped and thumped with single-sticks and boxing-gloves by any one else than mr. blades (who had developed his muscles in a most formidable manner), and to go through his parades of ~quarte~ and ~tierce~ with the flannel- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] clothed assistant. occasionally he had a fencing bout with <vg .jpg> the good-humoured mr. maclaren, who - professionally protected by his padded leathern ~plastron~ - politely and obligingly did his best to assure him, both by precept and example, of the truth of the wise old saw, "mens sana in corpore sano." the lower room at maclaren's presented a very different appearance to the fencing-room. the wall to the right hand, as well as a part of the wall at the upper end, was hung around - not "with pikes, and guns, and bows," like the fine old english gentleman's, - but nevertheless, "with swords, and good old cutlasses," and foils, and fencing masks, and fencing gloves, and boxing gloves, and pads, and belts, and light white shoes. opposite to the door, was the vaulting-horse, on whose wooden back the gymnasiast sprang at a bound, and over which the tyro (with the aid of the spring-board) usually pitched himself headlong. then, commencing at the further end, was a series of poles and ropes - the turning pole, the hanging poles, the rings, and the ~trapeze~, - on either or all of which the pupil could exercise himself; and, if he had the skill so to do, could jerk himself from one to the other, and finally hang himself upon the sloping ladder, before the momentum of his spring had passed away. mr. bouncer, who could do most things with his hands and feet, was a very distinguished pupil of mr. maclaren's; for the little gentleman was as active as a monkey, and - to quote his own remarkably figurative expression - was "a great deal livelier than ~the bug and butterfly~."* mr. bouncer, then, would go through the full series of gymnastic performances, and finally pull himself up the rounds of the ladder, with the greatest apparent ease, much to the envy of mr. verdant green, who, bathed in perspiration, and nearly dislocating every bone in his body, would vainly struggle (in --- * a name given to mr. hope's entomological museum. -=- [an oxford freshman ] attitudes like to those of "the perspiring frog" of count smorltork) to imitate his mercurial friend, and would finally drop exhausted on the padded floor. and, mr. verdant green did not confine himself to these indoor amusements; but studied the oxford book of sports in various out-of-door ways. besides his grinds, and cricketing, and boating, and hunting, he would paddle down to wyatt's <vg .jpg> for a little pistol practice, or to indulge in the exciting amusement of rifle-shooting at empty bottles, or to practise, on the leaping and swinging poles, the lessons he was learning at maclaren's, or to play at skittles with mr. bouncer (who was very expert in knocking down three out of the four); or to kick football until he became (to use mr. bouncer's expression) "as stiff as a biscuit." or, he would attend the shooting parties given by william brown, esquire, of university house; where blue-rocks and brown rabbits were turned out of traps for the sport of the assembled bipeds and quadrupeds. the luckless pigeons and rabbits had but a poor chance for their lives; for, if the gentleman who paid for the privilege of the shot missed his rabbit (which was within the bounds of probability) the other guns were at once discharged, and the dogs of [ adventures of mr. verdant green] town and gown let slip. and, if any rabbit was nimble and <vg - .jpg> fortunate enough to run this gauntlet with the loss of only a tail or ear, and, galatea-like, "fugit ad salices," and rushed into the willow-girt ditches, it speedily fell before the clubs of the "cads," who were there to watch, and profit by the sports of their more aristocratic neighbours.* mr. verdant green would also study the news of the day, in the floating reading-room of the university barge; and, from these comfortable quarters, indite a letter to miss patty, and look out upon the picturesque river with its moving life of eights and four-oars sweeping past with measured stroke. a great feature of the river picture, just about this time, was the crowd of newly introduced canoes; their occupants, in every variety of bright-coloured shirts and caps, flashing up and down a double paddle, the ends of which were painted in gay colours, or emblazoned with the owner's crest. but mr. verdant green, with a due regard for his own preservation from drowning, was content with looking at these cranky canoes, as they flitted, like gaudy dragon-flies, over the surface of the water. fain would the writer of these pages linger over these memoirs of mr. verdant green. fain would he tell how his hero <vg - .jpg> did many things that might be thought worthy of mention, besides those which have been already chronicled; but, this narrative has already reached its assigned limits, and, even a historian must submit to be kept within reasonable bounds. the dramatist has the privilege of escaping many difficulties, and passing swiftly over confusing details, by the simple intimation that "an interval of twenty years is supposed to take place between the --- * "the vice-chancellor, by the direction of the hebdomadal council, has issued a notice against the practice of pigeon-shooting, &c., in the neighbourhood of the university." - ~oxford intelligence~, decr. . -=- [an oxford freshman ] acts." suffice it, therefore, for mr. verdant green's historian, to avail himself of this dramatic art, and, in a very few sentences, to pass over the varied events of two years, in order that he may arrive at a most important passage in his hero's career. the grind came off without mr. verdant green being enabled to communicate to miss patty honeywood, that he was the winner of a silver cup. indeed, he did not arrive at the winning post until half an hour after it had been first reached by mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke on his horse ~tearaway~; for, after narrowly escaping a blow from the hatchet of an irate agriculturist who professed great displeasure at any one presuming to come a galloperin' and a tromplin' over his fences, mr. verdant green finally "came to grief," by being flung into a disagreeably-moist ditch. and though, for that evening, he forgot his troubles, in the jovial dinner that took place at ~the red lion~, yet, the next morning, they were immensely aggravated, when the tutor told them that he had heard of the steeple-chase, and should expel every gentleman who had taken part in it. the tutor, however, relented, and did not carry out his threat; though mr. verdant green suffered almost as much as if he had really kept it. the infatuated mr. bouncer madly persisted (despite the entreaties and remonstrances of his friends) in going into the schools clad in his examination coat, and padded over with a host of crams. his fate was a warning that similar offenders should lay to heart, and profit by; for the little gentleman was again plucked. although he was grieved at this on "the mum's" account, his mercurial temperament enabled him to thoroughly enjoy the christmas vacation at the manor green, where were again gathered together the same party who had met there the previous christmas. the cheerful society of miss fanny green did much, probably, towards restoring mr. bouncer to his usual happy frame of mind; and, after christmas, he gladly returned to his beloved oxford, leaving brazenface, and migrating ("through circumstances over which he had no control," as he said) to "the tavern." but when the time for his examination drew on, the little gentleman was seized with such trepidation, and "funked" so greatly, that he came to the resolution not to trouble the examiners again, and to dispense with the honours of a degree. and so, at length, greatly to mr. verdant green's sorrow, and "regretted by all that knew him," mr. bouncer sounded his final octaves and went the complete unicorn for the last time in a college quad, and gave his last wine (wherein he produced some "very old port, my teacakes! - i've had it since last term!") and then, as an undergraduate, bade his last farewell to oxford, with the parting declaration, that, though he had not taken his [ adventures of mr. verdant green] degree, yet that he had got through with great ~credit~, for that he had left behind him a heap of unpaid bills. by this time, or shortly after, many of mr. verdant green's earliest friends had taken their degrees, and had left college; and their places were occupied by a new set of men, among whom our hero found many pleasant companions, whose names and titles need not be recorded here. when june had come, there was a "grand commemoration," and this was quite a sufficient reason that the miss honeywoods should take their first peep at oxford, at so favourable an opportunity. accordingly there they came, together with the squire, and were met by a portion of mr. verdant green's family, and by mr. bouncer; and there were they duly taken to all the lions, and initiated into some of the mysteries of college life. miss patty was enchanted with everything that she saw - even carrying her admiration to verdant's undergraduate's gown - and was proudly escorted from college to college by her enamoured swain. "pleasant it was, when woods were green, and winds were soft and low," when in a house-boat, and in four-oars, they made an expedition ("a wine and water party," as mr. bouncer called it) to nuneham, and, after safely passing through the perils of the pound-locks of iffley and sandford, arrived at the pretty thatched cottage, and pic-nic'd in the round-house, and strolled through the nut plantations up to carfax hill, to see the glorious view of oxford, and looked at the conduit, and bab's-tree, and <vg .jpg> paced over the little rustic bridge to the island, where verdant and patty talked as lovers love to talk. then did mr. verdant green accompany his lady-love to northumberland; from whence, after spending a pleasant month that, all too quickly, came to an end, he departed (~via~ warwickshire) for a continental tour, which he took in the company of mr. and [an oxford freshman ] mrs. charles larkyns (~nee~ mary green), who were there for the honeymoon. then he returned to oxford; and when the month of may had again come round, he went in for his degree examination. he passed with flying colours, and was duly presented with that much-prized shabby piece of paper, on which was printed and written the following brief form:- green verdant e coll. aen. fac. ~die ° mensis~ maii ~anni~ - ~examinatus, prout statuta requirunt, satisfecit nobis examinatoribus.~ {j. smith. } ita testamur {gul. brown. } examinatores in {jac. l. jones. } literis humanio- {r. robinson. } ribus owing to mr. verdant green having entered upon residence at the time of his matriculation, he was obliged, for the present, to defer the putting on of his gown, and, consequently, of arriving at the ~full~ dignity of a bachelor of arts. nevertheless, he had taken his degree ~de facto~, if not ~de jure~; and he, therefore - for reasons which will appear - gave the usual degree dinner, on the day of his taking his testamur. he also cleared his rooms, giving some of his things away, sending others to richards's sale-rooms, and resigning his china and glass to the inexorable mr. robert filcher, who would forthwith dispose of these gifts (much over their cost price) to the next freshman who came under his care. moreover, as the adorning of college chimney-pieces with the photographic portraits of all the owner's college friends, had just then come into fashion, mr. verdant green's beaming countenance and spectacles were daguerreotyped in every variety of ethiopian distortion; and, being enclosed in miniature frames, were distributed as souvenirs among his admiring friends. then, mr. verdant green went down to warwickshire; and, within three months, travelled up to northumberland on a special mission. chapter the last. mr. verdant green is married and done for. lasthope's ruined church, since it had become a ruin - which was many a long year ago - had never held within its mouldering walls so numerous a congregation as was assembled therein on one particular september morning, [ adventures of mr. verdant green] somewhere about the middle of the present century. it must be confessed that this unusual assemblage had not been drawn together to see and hear the officiating clergyman (who had never, at any time, been a special attraction), although that ecclesiastical ruin was present, and looked almost picturesque in the unwonted glories of a clean surplice and white kid gloves. but, this decorative appearance of the ruin, coupled with the fact that it was made on a week-day, was a sufficient proof that no ordinary circumstance had brought about this goodly assemblage. at length, after much expectant waiting, those on the outside of the church discerned the figure of small jock muir mounted on his highly trained donkey, and galloping along at a tearing pace from the direction of honeywood hall. it soon became evident that he was the advance guard of two carriages that were being rapidly whirled along the rough road that led by the rocky banks of the swirl. before small jock drew rein, he had struggled to relieve his own excitement, and that of the crowd, by pointing to the carriages and shouting, "yon's the greums, wi' the t'other priest!" the correctness of which assertion was speedily manifested by the arrival of the "grooms" in question, who were none other than mr. verdant green and mr. frederick delaval, accompanied by the rev. mr. larkyns (who was to "assist" at the ceremony) and their "best men," who were mr. bouncer and a cousin of frederick delaval's. which quintet of gentlemen at once went into the church, and commenced a whispered conversation with the ecclesiastical ruin. these circumstances, taken in conjunction with the gorgeous attire of the gentlemen, their white gloves, their waistcoats "equal to any emergency" (as mr. bouncer had observed), and the bows of white satin ribbon that gave a festive appearance to themselves, their carriage-horses, and postilions - sufficiently proclaimed the fact that a wedding - and that, too, a double one - was at hand. the assembled crowd had now sufficient to engage their attention, by the approach of a very special train of carriages, that was brought to a grand termination by two travelling-carriages, respectively drawn by four greys, which were decorated with flowers and white ribbons, and were bestridden by gay postilions in gold-tasseled caps and scarlet jackets. no wonder that so unusual a procession should have attracted such an assemblage; no wonder that old andrew graham (who was there with his well-favoured daughters) should pronounce it "a brae sight for weak een." as the clatter of the carriages announced their near approach to lasthope church, mr. verdant green - who had been in the highest state of excitement, and had distractedly occupied him- [an oxford freshman ] self in looking at his watch to see if it was twelve o'clock; in arranging his oxford-blue tie; in futilely endeavouring to button his gloves; in getting ready, for the fiftieth time, the gratuity that should make the ruin's heart to leap for joy; in longing for brandy and water; and in attending to the highly-out-of-place advice of mr. bouncer, relative to the sustaining of his "pecker" - mr. verdant green was thereupon seized with the fearful apprehension that he had lost the ring; and, after an agonizing and trembling search in all his pockets, was only relieved by finding it in his glove (where he had put it for safety) just as the double bridal procession entered the church. of the proceedings of the next hour or two, mr. verdant green never had a clear perception. he had a dreamy idea of seeing a bevy of ladies and gentlemen pouring into the church, in a mingled stream of bright-coloured silks and satins, and dark-coloured broadcloths, and lace, and ribbons, and mantles, and opera cloaks, and bouquets; and, that this bright stream, followed by a rush of dark shepherd's-plaid waves, surged up the aisle, and, dividing confusedly, shot out from their centre a blue coat and brass buttons (in which, by the way, was mr. honeywood), on the arms of which were hanging two white-robed figures, partially shrouded with honiton-lace veils, and crowned with orange blossoms. mr. verdant green has a dim remembrance of the party being marshalled to their places by a confused clerk, who assigned the wrong brides to the wrong bridegrooms, and appeared excessively anxious that his mistake should not be corrected. mr. verdant green also had an idea that he himself was in that state of mind in which he would passively have allowed himself to be united to miss kitty honeywood, or to miss letitia jane morkin (who was one of miss patty's bridesmaids), or to mrs. hannah more, or to the hottentot venus, or to any one in the female shape who might have thought proper to take his bride's place. mr. verdant green also had a general recollection of making responses, and feeling much as he did when in for his ~viva voce~ examination at college; and of experiencing a difficulty when called upon to place the ring on one of the fingers of the white hand held forth to him, and of his probable selection of the thumb for the ring's resting place, had not the bride considerately poked out the proper finger, and assisted him to place the golden circlet in its assigned position. mr. verdant green had also a misty idea that the service terminated with kisses, tears, and congratulations; and, that there was a great deal of writing and signing of names in two documentary-looking books; and that he had mingled feelings that it was all over, that he was made very happy, and that he wished he could forthwith project himself into the middle of the next week. [ adventures of mr. verdant green] mr. verdant green had also a dozy idea that he was guided into a carriage by a hand that lay lovingly upon his arm; and, that he shook a variety of less delicate hands that there were thrust out to him in hearty northern fashion; and, that the two cracked old bells of lasthope church made a lunatic attempt to ring a wedding peal, and only succeeded in producing music like to that which attends the hiving of bees; and, that he jumped into the carriage, amid a burst of cheering and god-blessings; and, that he heard the carriage-steps and door shut to with a clang; and that he felt a sensation of being whirled on by moving figures, and sliding scenery; and, that he found the carriage tenanted by one other person, and that person, his wife. "my darling wife! my dearest wife! my own wife!" it was all that his heart could find to say. it was sufficient, for the present, to ring the tuneful changes on that novel word, and to clasp the little hand that trembled under its load of happiness, and to press that little magic circle, out of which the necromancy of marriage should conjure such wonders and delights. the wedding breakfast - which was attended, among others, by mr. and mrs. poletiss (~nee~ morkins), and by charles larkyns and his wife, who was now "the mother of the sweetest little maid that ever crow'd for kisses,"- the wedding breakfast, notwithstanding that it was such a substantial reality, appeared to mr. verdant green's bewildered mind to resemble somewhat the pageant of a dream. there was the usual spasmodic gaiety of conversation that is inherent to bridal banquets, and toasts were proclaimed and honoured, and speeches were made - indeed, he himself made one, of which he could not recall a word. sufficient let it be for our present purpose, therefore, to briefly record the speech of mr. bouncer, who was deputed to return thanks for the duplicate bodies of bridesmaids. mr. bouncer (who with some difficulty checked his propensity to indulge in oriental figurativeness of expression) was understood to observe, that on interesting occasions like the present, it was the custom for the youngest groomsman to return thanks on behalf of the bridesmaids; and that he, not being the youngest, had considered himself safe from this onerous duty. for though the task was a pleasing one, yet it was one of fearful responsibility. it was usually regarded as a sufficiently difficult and hazardous experiment, when one single gentleman attempted to express the sentiments of one single lady; but when, as in the present case, there were ten single ladies, whose unknown opinions had to be conveyed through the medium of one single gentleman, then the experi- [an oxford freshman ] ment became one from which the boldest heart might well shrink. he confessed that he experienced these emotions of timidity on the present occasion. (~cries of "oh!"~) he felt, that to adequately discharge the duties entrusted would require the might of an engine of ten-bridesmaid power. he would say more, but his feelings overcame him. (~renewed cries of "oh!"~) under these circumstances he thought that he had better take his leave of the subject, convinced that the reply to the toast would be most eloquently conveyed by the speaking eyes of the ten blooming bridesmaids. (~mr. bouncer resumes his seat amid great approbation.~) then the brides disappeared, and after a time made their re-appearance in travelling dresses. then there were tears and "doubtful joys," and blessings, and farewells, and the departure of the two carriages-and-four (under a brisk fire of old shoes) to the nearest railway station, from whence the happy couples set out, the one for paris, the other for the cumberland lakes; and it was amid those romantic lakes, with their mountains and waterfalls, that mr. verdant green sipped the sweets of the honeymoon, and realized the stupendous fact that he was a married man. * * * * * * * the honeymoon had barely passed, and november had come, when mr. verdant green was again to be seen in oxford - a bachelor only in the university sense of the term, for his wife was with him, and they had rooms in the high street. mr. bouncer was also there, and had prevailed upon verdant to invite his sister fanny to join them and be properly chaperoned by mrs. verdant. for, that wedding-day in northumberland had put an effectual stop to the little gentleman's determination to refrain from the wedded state, and he could now say with benedick, "when i said i would die a bachelor, i did not think i should live till i were married." but miss fanny green had looked so particularly charming in her bridesmaid's dress, that little mr. bouncer was inspired with the notable idea, that he should like to see her playing first fiddle, and attired in the still more interesting costume of a bride. on communicating this inspiration (couched, it must be confessed, in rather extraordinary language) to miss fanny, he found that the young lady was far from averse to assisting him to carry out his idea; and in further conversation with her, it was settled that she should follow the example of her sister helen (who was "engaged" to the rev. josiah meek, now the rector of a worcestershire parish), and consider herself as "engaged" to mr. bouncer. which facetious idea of the little gentleman's was rendered the more amusing from its being accepted and agreed to by the [ adventures of mr. verdant green] young lady's parents and "the mum." so here was mr. bouncer again in oxford, an "engaged" man, in company with the object of his affections, both being prepared as soon as possible to follow the example of mr. and mrs. verdant green. before verdant could "put on his gown," certain preliminaries had to be observed. first, he had to call, as a matter of courtesy, on the head of his college, to whom he had to show his testamur, and whose formal permission he requested that he might put on his gown. "oh yes!" replied dr. portman, in his monosyllabic tones, as though he were reading aloud from a child's primer; "oh yes, cer-tain-ly! i was de-light-ed to know that you had pass-ed and that you have been such a cred-it to your col-lege. you will o-blige me, if you please, by pre-sent-ing your-self to the dean of arts." and then dr. portman shook hands with verdant, wished him good morning, and resumed his favourite study of the greek particles. then, at an appointed hour in the evening, verdant, in company with other men of his college, went to the dean of arts, who heard them read through the thirty-nine articles, and dismissed them with this parting intimation - "now, gentlemen! <vg .jpg> i shall expect to see you at the divinity school in the morning at ten o'clock. you must come with your bands and gown, and fees; and be sure, gentlemen, that you do not forget the fees!" so in the morning verdant takes patty to the schools, and commits her to the charge of mr. bouncer, who conducts her and miss fanny to one of the raised seats in the convocation house, from whence they will have a good view of the conferring of degrees. mr. verdant green finds the [an oxford freshman ] precincts of the schools tenanted by droves of college butlers, porters, and scouts, hanging about for the usual fees and old gowns, and carrying blue bags, in which are the new gowns. then - having seen that mr. robert filcher is in attendance with his own particular gown - he struggles through the pig-market,* thronged with bustling bedels and university marshals, and other officials. then, as opportunity offers, he presents himself to the senior squire bedel in arts, george valentine cox, esq., who sits behind a table, and, in his polite and scholarly manner, puts the usual questions to him, and permits him, on the due payment of all the fees, to write his name in a large book, and to place "fil. gen."+ after his autograph. then he has to wait some time until the superior degrees are conferred, and the doctors and masters have taken their seats, and the proctors have made their apparently insane promenade.++ then the deans come into the ante-chamber to see if the men of their respective colleges are duly present, properly dressed, and have faithfully paid the fees. then, when the deans, having satisfactorily ascertained these facts, have gone back again into the convocation house, the yeoman bedel rushes forth with his silver "poker," and summons all the bachelors, in a very precipitate and far from impressive manner, with "now, then, gentlemen! please all of you to come in! you're wanted!" then the bachelors enter the convocation house in a troop, and stand in the area, in front of the vice-chancellor and the two proctors. then are these young men duly quizzed by the strangers present, especially by the young ladies, who, besides noticing their own friends, amuse themselves by picking out such as they suppose to have been reading men, fast men, or slow men - taking the face as the index of the mind. we may be sure that there is a young married lady present who does not indulge in futile speculations of this sort, but fixes her whole attention on the figure of mr. verdant green. then the bedel comes with a pile of testaments, and gives one to each man; dr. bliss, the registrar of the university, administers to them the oath, and they kiss the book. then the deans present them to the vice-chancellor in a short latin form; and then the vice-chancellor, standing up uncovered, with the proctors standing on either side, addresses them in these words: "domini, ego admitto vos ad lectionem cujuslibet libri logices aristotelis; et insuper earum artium, quas et quatenus per statuta audivisse tenemini; insuper autoritate mea et totius universitatis, do vobis potestatem intrandi --- [* the derivation of this word has already been given. see part i, p. .] + ~i.e.~, filius generosi - the son of a gentleman of independent means. ++ see note, part i, p. . -=- [ adventures of mr. verdant green] scholas, legendi, disputandi, et reliqua omnia faciendi, quae ad gradum baccalaurei in artibus spectant." when the vice-chancellor has spoken these remarkable words which, after three years of university reading and expense, grant so much that has not been asked or wished for, the newly-made bachelors rush out of the convocation house in wild confusion, and stand on one side to allow the vice-chancellarian procession to pass. then, on emerging from the pig-market, they hear st. mary's bells, which sound to them sweeter than ever. <vg .jpg> mrs. verdant green is especially delighted with her husband's voluminous bachelor's gown and white-furred hood (articles which mr. robert filcher, when helping to put them on his master in the ante-chamber, had declared to be "the most becomingest things as was ever wore on a gentleman's shoulders"), and forthwith carries him off to be photographed while the gloss of his new glory is yet upon him. of course, mr. verdant green and all the new bachelors are most profusely "capped;" and, of course, all this servile homage - although appreciated at its full worth, and repaid by shillings and quarts of buttery beer - of course it is most grateful to the feelings, and is as delightfully intoxicating to the imagination as any incense of flattery can be. what a pride does mr. verdant green feel as he takes his bride through the streets of his beautiful oxford! how complacently he conducts her to lunch at the confectioner's who had supplied ~their~ wedding-cake! how he escorts her (under the pretence of making purchases) to every shop at which he has [an oxford freshman ] dealt, that he may gratify his innocent vanity in showing off his charming bride! how boldly he catches at the merest college acquaintance, solely that he may have the proud pleasure of introducing "my wife!" but what said mrs. tester, the bed-maker? "law bless you, sir!" said that estimable lady, dabbing her curtseys where there were stops, like the beats of a conductor's ~baton~ - "law bless you, sir! i've bin a wife meself, sir. and i knows your feelings." and what said mr. robert filcher? "mr. verdant green," said he, "i'm sorry as how you've done with oxford, sir, and that we're agoing to lose you. and this i ~will~ say, sir! if ever there was a gentleman i were sorry to part with, it's you, sir. but i hopes, sir, that you've got a wife as'll be a good wife to you, sir; and make you ten times happier than you've been in oxford, sir!" and so say we. the end. <vg .jpg> this ebook was produced by philip h hitchcock about the online edition. italics are represented as /italics/. the charm of oxford by j. wells, m.a. warden of wadham college, oxford illustrated by w. g. blackall second edition (revised) simpkin, marshall, hamilton kent & co., ltd., stationers' hall court : : london, e.c. copyright first published second edition "'home of lost causes'--this is oxford's blame; 'mother of movements'--this, too, boasteth she; in the same walls, the same yet not the same, she welcomes those who lead the age-to-be." "much have ye suffered from time's gnawing tooth, yet, o ye spires of oxford domes and towers, gardens and groves, your presence overpowers the soberness of reason." wordsworth. [plate . christ church : the cathedral from the garden] the charm of oxford preface there are many books on oxford; the justification for this new one is mr. blackall's drawings. they will serve by their grace and charm pleasantly to recall to those who know oxford the scenes they love; they will incite those who do not know oxford to remedy that defect in their lives. my own letterpress is only written to accompany the drawings. it is intended to remind oxford men of the things they know or ought to know; it is intended still more to help those who have not visited oxford to understand the drawings and to appreciate some of the historical associations of the scenes represented. i have written quite freely, as this seemed the best way to create the "impression" wished. i have to acknowledge some obligations to messrs. seccombe & scott's /praise of oxford/, a book the pages of which an oxford man can always turn over with pleasure, and to mr. j. b. firth's /minstrelsy of isis/; it is not his fault that the poetic merit of so much of his collection is poor. oxford has not on the whole been fortunate in her poets. my own quotations are more often chosen for their local colour than for their poetic merit. i have unavoidably had to borrow a good deal from my own /oxford and its colleges/, but the aim of the two books is very different. wadham college, oxford, april . contents introduction radcliffe square the broad street balliol college merton college merton library oriel college queen's college new college: ( ) founder and buildings new college: ( ) history lincoln college magdalen college: ( ) site and buildings magdalen college: ( ) history brasenose college corpus christi college christ church: ( ) the cathedral christ church: ( ) the hall staircase christ church: ( ) "tom" tower st. john's college wadham college: ( ) the buildings wadham college: ( ) history hertford college st. edmund hall iffley mill list of illustrations i christ church, the cathedral from the garden ii st. mary's spire iii view in radcliffe square iv sheldonian theatre, etc., broad street v balliol college, broad street front vi merton college, the tower vii merton college, the library interior viii oriel college and st. mary's church ix high street x new college, the entrance gateway xi new college, the tower xii lincoln college, the chapel interior xiii magdalen tower xiv magdalen college, the open air pulpit xv brasenose college, quadrangle and the radcliffe library xvi corpus christi college, the first quadrangle xvii christ church, the cathedral from the meadow xviii christ church, the hall staircase xix christ church, the hall interior xx christ church, "tom" tower xxi st. john's college garden front xxii wadham college, the chapel from the garden xxiii wadham college, the hall interior xxiv hertford college, the bridge xxv st. peter-in-the-east church and st. edmund hall xxvi iffley, the old mill oxford from the east [end papers] introduction in what does the charm of oxford consist? why does she stand out among the cities of the world as one of those most deserving a visit? it can hardly be said to be for the beauty of her natural surroundings. in spite of the charm of her "rivers twain of gentle foot that pass through the rich meadow-land of long green grass," in spite of her trees and gardens, which attract a visitor, especially one from the more barren north, oxford must yield the palm of natural beauty to many english towns, not to mention those more remote. but she has every other claim, and first, perhaps, may be mentioned that of historic interest. an englishman who knows anything of history is not likely to forget of how many striking events in the development of his country oxford has been the scene. the element of romance is furnished early in her story by the daring escape of the empress-queen, matilda, from oxford castle. the provisions of oxford ( ) were the work of one of the most famous parliaments of the thirteenth century, the century which saw the building of the english constitution, and the students of the university fought for the cause which those provisions represented. the burning of the martyr bishops in the sixteenth century is one of the greatest tragedies in the story of our church. the seventeenth century saw oxford the capital of royalist england in the civil war, and though there was no actual fighting there, charles' night march in from oxford to the west, between the two enclosing armies of essex and waller, is one of the most famous military movements ever carried out in our comparatively peaceful island. the parliamentary history, too, of oxford in the seventeenth century is full of interest, for it was there that in charles' first parliament met in the divinity school. and fifty years later, his son, charles ii, triumphed over the whig parliament at oxford, which was trying by factious violence to force the exclusion bill on a reluctant king and nation. few towns beside london have been the scene of so many great historical events; yet any one who looks below the surface will attach less importance to these than to the great changes in thought which have found in oxford their inspiration, and which make it a city of pilgrimage for those interested in the development of england's real life. matthew arnold's famous description, hackneyed though it is by quotation, gives one aspect of oxford, an aspect which will appeal to many beside the scholar poet: "beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene! 'there are our young barbarians, all at play.' and yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering' from her towers the last enchantments of the middle ages, who will deny that oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection--to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another side?" but this is not the real intellectual charm of oxford, which has been ever the centre of strenuous life, rather than of dilettante dreamings. from the very beginning, she has been a city of "movements." some visitors, then, will come to oxford as the home and the burial-place of roger bacon, representing as he does the franciscan order, with its christ-like sympathy for the poor and its early attempts to develop the knowledge of natural science; oxford was in the thirteenth century the great centre of the friars' movement in england. others will remember that in the next century it produced, in john wycliffe, the great opponent of the friars, the man who, as the first of the reformers, is to many the most interesting figure in mediaeval english religious history. in the sixteenth century, oxford plays no great part in the actual revolution in the english church; yet it will be a place attractive to many who cherish the memory of the "oxford reformers," the members of erasmus' circle --john colet, thomas more, william grocyn, and other scholars--who hoped by sound learning to amend the church without violent change. some, on the other hand, will see in the sixteenth-century oxford, the school which trained men for the counter-reformation, such as the heroic jesuit, campion, or cardinal alien, the founder of the english college at douai. the anglican "via media" found its special representatives in oxford in jewel and hooker, and in laud, the practical genius who carried out its principles in the church administration of his day. it was fitting that the movement for the revival of church teaching in england in the nineteenth century should be an oxford movement, and newman's pulpit at st. mary's and the chapel of oriel college are sacred in the eyes of anglicans all over the world. in the interval between laud and newman, church principles had found a different development in another oxford man; john wesley's character and spiritual life were built up in oxford, till he went forth to do the work of an evangelist during more than half of the eighteenth century. wycliffe, more, hooker, laud, wesley, newman, these are not the names of men who have affected the religious history of the world as did luther, calvin or ignatius loyola; but they have affected profoundly the religious life of the english-speaking race, and oxford must ever be a sacred place for their sakes. and oxford has been the starting-point of other than religious movements. no place in england has such a claim on the englishmen of the new world as has oxford. it was there that richard hakluyt taught geography, and collected in part his wonderful store of the tales of enterprise beyond the sea. sir humphrey gilbert and his half-brother, sir walter raleigh, both oxford men, were the founders of english colonization. by their failures they showed the way to success later, and calvert in maryland, penn in pennsylvania, john locke in the carolinas, and oglethorpe in georgia are all oxford men who rank as founders of states in the great union of the west. and in our own day, cecil rhodes has once more proved that the academic dreamer can go out and advance the development of a great continent. by his magnificent foundation of scholarships at oxford, he showed that he considered his old university a formative influence of the greatest importance in world history. oxford with reason puts up one tablet to mark his lodgings in the city, and another to commemorate him in her stately examination schools. [plate ii, st. mary's spire] but there are many to whom the past, whether in the realm of action or in the realm of ideas, does not appeal, whether it be from lack of knowledge or from lack of sympathy. to some of these oxford makes a different appeal as perhaps the best place in england for studying the development of english architecture. the early norman work of the castle and st. michael's, the transition work of the cathedral, the very early lancet windows of st. giles' church (consecrated by the great st. hugh of lincoln himself), the decorated style as seen in st. mary's spire and in merton chapel, the glories of the specially english style, the perpendicular, in wykeham's work at new college and in magdalen tower, the tudor magnificence of wolsey's work at christ church, the last flower of gothic at wadham and at st. john's, the triumph of wren's genius, alike in the classical style at the sheldonian and in "gothic" as in tom tower, the classical work of hawkesmore at queen's and of gibbs in the radcliffe, the wonderful beauty of mr. bodley's modern gothic in st. swithun's quad at magdalen, and the skilful adaptation of old english tradition to modern needs by sir thomas jackson at trinity and at hertford--what other city can show such a series of architectural beauties? and it must not be forgotten that oxford disputes with york the honour of having the most representative sequence of painted glass windows in england. oxford, indeed, is a paradise for the student of art. nowhere, except at cambridge, can the series of architectural works be paralleled, and at both universities the charm of their ancient buildings is enhanced by their beautiful setting in college gardens. it is not an accident that in the old universities more than anywhere else, so much of beauty has survived, nor is it to be put down as a happy piece of academic conservatism. it is rather the natural result of their constitution and endowment. what has been so fatal to the beauty of old england elsewhere has been material prosperity. the buildings inherited from the past had to go, at least so it was thought, because they were not suited to modern methods, or because the site they occupied was worth so much more for other purposes. but the colleges at oxford and cambridge could not carry on their work on different sites; "residence" was an essential of academic arrangements; and there was no temptation to the fellows of a college to make money by parting with their old buildings, for their incomes were determined by statute, and any great increase of wealth would not advantage individual fellows. hence, while great nobles and great merchants sold their splendid houses and grounds, and grew rich on the unearned increment, and while non-residential universities moved bodily from their old positions to new and more fashionable quarters, oxford and cambridge colleges went on working and living in the same places. much the same reasons have preserved, in many old towns, picturesque alms-houses, to show the modern world how beautiful buildings once could be, while all around them reigns opulent ugliness. certain it is that only in one instance, in recent times, has an oxford college contemplated selling its old site and buildings and migrating to north oxford, and then the sacrilegious attempt was outvoted. hence, as has been said, the two old english universities possess in an unique degree the "strange enchantments of the past and memories of the days of old." the charms of oxford for the historical student and for the lover of art have been spoken of. but a large part of the world comes under neither head; to it the charm of oxford consists in the young lives that are continually passing through it. oxford and cambridge present ever attractive contrasts between their young students and their old buildings, between the first enthusiasm of ever new generations, and customs and rules which date back to mediaeval times. but apart from the charm of contrast, oxford has everything to make life attractive for young men. it is true that the old buildings combine with a dignity a millionaire could not surpass a standard of material comfort which in some respects is below that of an up-to- date workhouse. an amusing instance has occurred of this during the war. the students of one of the women's colleges, expelled from their own modern buildings, which had been turned into a hospital, became tenants of half of one of the oldest colleges. it was very romantic thus to gain admission to the real oxford, but the students soon found that it was very uncomfortable to have their baths in an out- of-the-way corner of the college. and baths themselves are but a modern institution at oxford; at one or two colleges still the old "tub in one's room" is the only system of washing. perhaps this instance may be thought frivolous, but it is typical of oxford, which has been described, with some exaggeration in both words, as a home of "barbaric luxury." but after all, comfort in the material sense is the least important element in completeness of life. oxford has everything else, except, it is true, a bracing climate. she has society of every kind, in which a man ranks on his merits, not on his possessions; he is valued for what he is, not for what he has; she gives freedom to her sons to live their own life, with just sufficient restraint to add piquancy to freedom, and to restrain those excesses which are fatal to it; she has intellectual interests and traditions, which often really affect men who seem indifferent to them; life in her, as a rule, is not troubled by financial cares--for her young men, most of them, either through old endowments or from family circumstances, have for the moment enough of this world's goods. in view of all this, and much more, is it not natural that oxford has a charm for her sons? and this is enhanced with many by all the force of hereditary tradition; the young man is at his college because his father was there before him; the pleasure of each generation is increased by the reflection of the other's pleasure. what traditional feeling in oxford means may, perhaps, be illustrated by the story of an old english worthy, though one only of the second rank. jonathan trelawney, one of the seven bishops who defied james ii, was a stout whig, but when it was proposed to punish oxford for her devotion to the pretender, the government found they could not reckon on his vote, though he was usually a safe party man. "i must be excused from giving my vote for altering the methods of election into christ church, where i had my bread for twenty years. i would rather see my son a link boy than a student of christ church in such a manner as tears up by the roots that constitution." but the days of hereditary tradition are over, and trelawney belongs to an age long past; oxford now is exposed to an influence compared to which the arbitrary proceedings of a king are feeble. a democratic parliament with a growing labour party has far more power to change oxford than the stuarts ever had, and even at this moment ( ) a third royal commission is beginning to sit. will it modify, will it-- transform oxford? the first answer seems to be that the very stones of oxford are charged with her traditions. during the war the colleges have been full of officer-cadets; they were men of all ranks of life and of every kind of education; they came from all parts of the world; they were of all ages, from eighteen to forty, at least. their training was a strenuous one by strict rule, a complete contrast to the free and easy life of academic oxford. yet in their few months of residence, most of them became imbued with the college spirit; they considered themselves members of the place they lived in; they tried to do most of the things undergraduates do. if oxford thus, to some extent, moulded to her pattern men who, welcome as they were, were only accidental, surely the college spirit may be trusted to assimilate whatever material the changed conditions of social or of political life furnish to it. the hope of many at oxford is that there will be a great development and a great change. on one side it will be good if oxford becomes to a much greater extent not only an all-british, but also a world university; on another side it is to be hoped that far more than ever before men of all classes in england will come to oxford. it would surprise many of the university's critics to find how much had already been done in these directions. it is certainly not true now that, as one of oxford's critics wrote, "too long, too long men saw thee sit apart from all the living pulses of the hour." on the contrary, the oxford of the last generation has already become markedly more cosmopolitan, and she has been drawing to her an ever- increasing number of able men of every class. but these developments, thus begun, will certainly be carried much further in the near future. oxford will be altered. some of her customs will be changed. this may well issue in great and lasting good, though there will be loss as well as gain. but an oxford man may be pardoned if he believes and hopes that his university will remain the university he has loved. there is a saying current in oxford about oxford men, which may not be out of place here--"if you meet a stranger, and if after a time you say to him, 'i think you were at oxford,' he accepts it, as a matter of course, and is pleased. if you do the same to a cambridge man, he indignantly replies, 'how do you know that?'" no doubt the saying is turned the other way round at cambridge, and no doubt it is equally true and equally false of both universities, i.e. it is positively true and negatively false, like so many other statements. but it is positively true; the oxford man is proud of having been at oxford; the past and the present alike, his political and his religious beliefs, his traditions and his social surroundings, all endear oxford to him. may it ever be so. radcliffe square "like to a queen in pride of place, she wears the splendour of a crown in radcliffe's dome." l. johnson. [plate iii. view of radcliffe square] the visitor to oxford often asks--"where is the university?" the proper answer is: "the university is everywhere," for the colleges are all parts of it. but if a distinction must be made, and some buildings must be shown which are especially "university buildings," then it is undoubtedly in the square, of which this picture shows one side, that they must be found. immediately on the right is the bodleian library, the domed building in the centre is the radcliffe library, and in the background rises the spire of st. mary's. of this last building the tower and spire go back nearly to the beginnings of oxford; they date from the time of edward i; but for a century, at least, before they were erected, the students of oxford had met for worship and for business in the earlier church, which stood on the site of the present st. mary's. the bodleian library occupies the old examination schools, which were built, in the reign of james i, for the reformed university of archbishop laud; within the memory of men who do not count themselves old, the university examinations were still held in this building. finally, the shapely dome between the bodleian and st. mary's is the work of james gibbs, the greatest english architect of the eighteenth century, to whom cambridge owes its senate house, and london the noble church of st. martin's in the fields. the dome was built for a separate library, the foundation of dr. john radcliffe, queen anne's physician, the most munificent of oxford benefactors; it is still managed by his trustees, a body independent of the university, but since they have lent it to the bodleian library for a reading- room. it is fitting that the oldest public library in the modern world, a title the bodleian can proudly claim, should have the finest reading-room, where students can have each his separate desk, and where, if so minded and so physically enduring, they can put in twelve hours' work in a day. no other great library in europe allows such privileges. round these three university buildings are grouped three colleges: hertford, the youngest of oxford foundations, the re-creation of an old hall by a victorian financial magnate. sir thomas baring; all souls', standing a little beyond, of which the part here shown is the corner of the great law library, founded by sir william codrington in the days of good queen anne; while on the other side of the radcliffe is brasenose college (for pictures of which see plates ii and xv). no non-academic building fronts on the square; the one or two houses facing on the south-west corner are occupied by college tutors. the academic influence has spread even under the earth, for between the bodleian and the radcliffe there is a great subterranean chamber of two stories, excavated - , which, when full, will contain , , books. it is refreshing to turn from the thought of so much dead industry, as these multitudes of unread books will represent, to the inspiration of the buildings. they are the very epitome of oxford. the classic symmetry of gibbs' dome looks across at the soaring spire of the mediaeval university church, while the bodleian is one of the best examples of the jacobean gothic, which still held its own in oxford when the classical style was triumphing elsewhere. such contrasts are typical of oxford. the university had a european reputation in the days when it was one of the two great centres of mediaeval scholasticism. roger bacon, the most famous name in mediaeval science, no doubt saw the tower of st. mary's beginning to rise. the university welcomed the classical revival, it survived the storms of the reformation, it was the great centre of the building up of anglican theology under the laudian rule, it was one of the inspirations of english science in the seventeenth century, though dr. radcliffe's generous benefactions are a little later, and have hardly begun to yield their full fruit till our own day. such are the learned traditions of the radcliffe square, while it has also been the centre of the young lives which, for seven centuries at least, have enjoyed their happiest years in oxford. the view from the radcliffe roof is undoubtedly the best in oxford. it has been thus described by the worst of the many poets who have celebrated the university: "spire, tower and steeple, roofs of radiant tile, the costly temple and collegiate pile, in sumptuous mass of mingled form and hue, await the wonder of thy sateless view." but robert montgomery is more likely to be remembered for macaulay's merciless but well-deserved chastisement than for his praises of oxford. even their utter bathos cannot degrade a group of buildings so wonderful. the broad street "ye mossy piles of old munificence, at once the pride of learning and defence." j. warton, /triumph of isis/ the east side of the university buildings proper was shown in the last picture (plate iii); in the following (plate iv), the north side of the same block is seen. the old university "schools" lay just inside the city wall, and broad street, which is there represented, occupies the site of the ditch, which ran on the north of the wall. this picture is a fitting supplement to the last, for the sheldonian theatre on the right of it and the clarendon building in the background may claim rank even with the bodleian and the radcliffe as the university's special buildings. the sheldonian celebrated its two hundred and fiftieth anniversary only last year ( ), when the music which had been performed at its opening was performed once more. it is a building interesting from many points of view. architecturally it marks the first complete flowering of the genius of sir christopher wren. he was only thirty- seven when it was completed, and had been previously known rather as a man of science than as an architect; he was oxford's professor of astronomy; but archbishop sheldon chose him to build a worthy meeting place for his university, even as at the same time he was being called by the king to prepare plans for rebuilding london after the great fire. the very existence of the sheldonian marks the development of university ideas. the simple piety--or was it the worldliness?--of pre-reformation oxford had seen nothing unsuitable in the ceremonies of graduate oxford and the ribaldries of undergraduate oxford taking place in the consecrated building of st. mary's; but the more sober genius of anglicanism was shocked at these secular intrusions, and sheldon provided his university with a worthy home, where its great functions have been performed ever since. the building is a triumph of construction; it is doubtful if so large an unsupported roof can be found elsewhere; but wren is not to be held responsible for the outside ugly flat roof, which was put on years ago, because it was said, quite falsely, that wren's roof was unsafe. that architect had set himself the problem of getting the greatest number of people into the space at his disposal, and he managed to fit in a building that will hold , . it was also intended for the printing press of the university, but was only used in that way for a short time, as in sir john vanbrugh put up the clarendon building, to house this department of university activity. the "heaviness" of vanbrugh's buildings was a jest even in his own time; someone wrote as an epitaph for him "lie heavy on him. earth, for he laid many a heavy load on thee." blenheim palace, his greatest work, is indeed a "heavy load." but the same criticism can hardly be brought against the columned portico, which forms a fine ending for the broad street. vanbrugh's building was superseded in its turn, when the increasing business of the oxford printing press was moved to the present building in . [plate iv. sheldonian theatre, etc., broad street] since then, all kinds of university business have been carried on in the old printing press. the university registrar and the university treasurer (his style is "secretary of the university chest") have their offices there; the proctors exercise discipline from there; the various university delegacies and committees meet there. and another side of oxford life, not yet (in january ) fully recognized as belonging to the university, has found a home there; the top floor has been for twenty years past the centre of women's education in oxford, a position elevated indeed, for it is up more than fifty stairs, but commodious and dignified when reached at last. perhaps the clarendon building has gained in lightness of effect by being contrasted with the clumsy mass of the indian institute, which forms the background of our picture. the nineteenth century proudly criticized the taste of the eighteenth; but it may well be doubted if any building in oxford of the earlier and much-abused century is more inartistic and inappropriate than "jumbo's joss house," which used to rouse the scorn and anger of the late professor of history, edward a. freeman. no oxford colleges are in this picture, though a small part of exeter, one of sir gilbert scott's least happy erections in oxford, appears on the right, and a little piece of trinity on the left; the last-named is the college of professor sir arthur quiller-couch, better known as "q," one of the most delightful of oxford's minor poets. the opening lines of his poem, "alma mater," "know ye her secret none can utter, hers of the book, the tripled crown? still on the spire the pigeons flutter, still by the gateway flits the gown, still in the street from corbel and gutter faces of stone look down," may well have been inspired by this very scene in the broad, for the grim faces of stone that surround the sheldonian are one of the features and the puzzles of oxford. are they the roman emperors, or the greek philosophers, or neither? it does not matter, for they are unlike anything in heaven or in earth, and yet they are loved by all true oxford men for their uncompromising ugliness, which has been familiar to so many generations. balliol college "for the house of balliol is builded ever by all the labours of all her sons, and the great deed wrought and the grand endeavour will be hers as long as the isis runs." f. s. boas the story is told of the old greek admirals, after their victory at salamis over the persian king, that, when invited to name the two most deserving commanders, they each put their own name first, and then one and all put the athenian themistocles second. if a vote, on these principles, were taken in oxford as to which was the best college, there is little doubt that balliol would secure most of the second votes. it is one of the three oldest colleges, and actually has been in occupation of its present site longer than any other of our oxford foundations--for more than six centuries and a half. yet its greatness is but a thing of yesterday compared to the antiquity of oxford, and it is fitting that a college which has come to the front in the nineteenth century should be mainly housed in nineteenth century buildings. balliol has indeed ceased to be the "most satisfactory pile and range of old lowered and gabled edifices," which nathaniel hawthorne saw in the "fifties" of the last century. the painful imitation of a french chateau, the work of sir alfred waterhouse, which forms the main part of our picture, was put up about (mainly by the munificence of miss hannah brackenbury), and only the old hall and the library, which lie behind, remain of pre-reformation balliol. in the background of our picture (plate v) can be seen the fisher building, known to all balliol men for the still existing inscription, "verbum non amplius fisher," which tradition says was put up at the dying request of the eighteenth-century benefactor. while it is true that the pre-eminence of balliol is a growth of the nineteenth century, yet the college can count among its worthies one of the greatest names in english mediaeval history, that of john wycliffe. he was probably a scholar of balliol, and certainly master for some years about . but he left the college for a country living, and his time at balliol is not associated with either of his most important works--his translation of the bible or his order of "poor preachers." while at balliol, he was rather "the last of the schoolmen" than "the first of the reformers." the modern greatness of balliol is due to the fact that the college awoke more rapidly from the sleep of the eighteenth century than most of oxford, and as early as threw open its scholarships to free competition. hence even as early as the time of dr. arnold at rugby, a "balliol scholarship" had become "the blue riband of public-school education." it has now passed into popular phraseology to such an extent that lady novelists, unversed in academic niceties, confer a "balliol scholarship" on their heroes, even when entering cambridge. balliol has known how to take full advantage of its opportunity. governed by a series of eminent masters, especially dr. scott of greek dictionary fame, and professor jowett, the translator of plato and the hero of more oxford stories than any other man, it has been ready to adapt itself to every new movement. while the governing bodies of other colleges in the middle of the last century were too often looking only to raising their own fellowships to the highest possible point, the balliol dons were denying their own pockets to enrich and strengthen their college. hence, undoubtedly, balliol for a long time past has had a lion's share of oxford's great men; two archbishops of canterbury, tait and temple, the present archbishop of york, cardinal manning, a prime minister in mr. asquith, a speaker in lord. peel, two viceroys of india in lord lansdowne and lord curzon, poets like clough, matthew arnold and swinburne, these are only some of the more outstanding names. it is this which makes balliol hall so particularly interesting to the ordinary man; knowledge of present-day affairs, not of history, is all that is needed to appreciate its array of portraits. nor has balliol been unmindful of the social movements of our time. it is the chosen home of the workers' educational association in oxford, and in arnold toynbee it produced one of the pioneers and martyrs of modern social progress. truly balliol has much more to show to the visitor than its ultra-modern front on the broad would promise. the street, on which balliol looks out, is associated with the most famous scene of oxford history; the stone with a cross in the middle of the road marks the traditional site of the burning of the bishops, cranmer, ridley, and latimer, although their memorial has been erected yards further north in st. giles', and though antiquarians argue (probably correctly) that the actual pyre was a little further south, in fact, behind the present row of broad street houses. but it is the living activity of the college, not the sad memories of the street in front, that gives the interest to the picture. the intellectual life of the balliol men has been well described by professor j. c. shairp, whose verses on "balliol scholars" are likely to be remembered by oxford in long days to come for their associations, if not for their poetic merits. he describes what a privilege it is "to have passed," with men who became famous afterwards, "the threshold of young life, where the man meets, not yet absorbs, the boy, and ere descending to the dusky strife, gazed from clear heights of intellectual joy that an undying image left enshrined." this will come home to many, as they think on their happy oxford days when they had life all before them, even though their contemporaries have not become archbishops like temple or poets like matthew arnold. [plate v. balliol college, broad street front] merton college "i passed beside the reverend walls in which of old i wore the gown." tennyson. [plate vi. merton college : the tower] merton is not only the oldest college in oxford, it is also, as is claimed on the monument of the founder, walter de merton, in his cathedral of rochester, the model of "omnium quotquot extant collegiorum." peterhouse, the first college at cambridge, which was founded ( ) seven years later than merton, had its statutes avowedly copied from those of its oxford predecessor. so important a new departure in education calls for special notice. it is interesting to see how the english college system grew out of the long rivalry between the regular and the secular clergy which was so prominent in the mediaeval church. the secular clergy, who had in their ranks all the "professional men" of the day, civil servants, architects, physicians, as well as, those devoted to religious matters in the strict sense, were always jealous of the monks and the friars, who, living by a "rule" in their communities, were much less in sympathy with english national feelings than the seculars, who lived among the laity. hence the growing influence of the regular orders, especially of the franciscans and the dominicans, in thirteenth-century oxford, excited the alarm of a far-seeing prelate like walter de merton. there was a real danger that the most prominent and best of the students might be drawn into the great new communities, which were rapidly adding to their learning and their piety the further attractions of great buildings and splendid ceremonial. the founder of merton had the same purpose as the founder of the college of the sorbonne at paris, a slightly earlier institution ( ). he intended that his college should rival the houses of the dominicans and the franciscans. these friaries were in the southern part of oxford, and have completely perished, leaving behind only the names of two or three mean streets; but the college system which walter de merton founded has grown with the growth of oxford and of england, and is to-day as vigorous and as useful as ever. walter de merton provided his fellows with noble buildings, at once for their common life and for their own private accommodation, and also with endowments sufficient to enable them to live in comfort, free from anxiety; most important of all, he gave them powers of self-government, so that they might recruit their own numbers and carry out for themselves the objects prescribed by him in his statutes. in this great foundation then the three characteristic features of a college are found--a common life, powers of self-government, with the right of choosing future members, and endowments that enable religion and learning to flourish, free from more pressing cares. it is these features which distinguish the colleges of oxford and cambridge, and which have determined their history. walter de merton definitely prescribed that none of the fellows who benefited by his foundation should be monks or friars; to take the vows involved forfeiture of a fellowship. he also especially urged on the members of his society that, when any of them rose to "ampler fortune" /(uberior fortuna)/, they should not forget their /alma mater/. the founder died in , so that none of the college buildings were complete in his time, except perhaps the treasury, which, with its high-pitched roof of stone, lies in the opposite corner of the mob quad to that shown in our picture. why the quad is called "the mob quad," nobody knows. as was fitting, the chapel was the first part of the college to be finished--about --and it is a splendid specimen of early geometrical gothic; it retains a little of the old glass, given by one of the early fellows. the north side of the mob quad, which is shown in our picture, is very little later than the chapel, and the whole of the quad was finished before ; the rooms in it have been the homes of oxford men for more than five centuries. it is sad to think that so unique a building was almost destroyed in the middle of the nineteenth century, by the zeal of "reformers"; it was actually condemned to be pulled down, to make way for modern buildings, but, fortunately, there was an irregularity in the voting. mr. g. c. brodrick, then a young fellow, later the warden of the college, insisted on the matter being discussed again at a later meeting, and at this the mob quad was saved by a narrow majority. "he will go to heaven for it," as corporal trim said of the english guards, who saved his broken regiment at steinkirk. the "reformers" of merton had to be content with cutting down their beautiful "grove" and spoiling the finest view in oxford by erecting the ugliest building which mid-victorian taste inflicted on the university. in the old buildings which so narrowly escaped destruction may have lived john wycliffe, who is claimed as a fellow of merton in an almost contemporary list; his activity in oxford belongs rather to the later time, when he was master of balliol. his is one of the outstanding names in english history; the success of merton in producing great men of a more ordinary kind can be judged from the fact that between and six out of the seven archbishops of canterbury were merton men. in the great period of the seventeenth century, merton had the distinction of being one of the few colleges which were parliamentarian in sympathy. hence the warden was deposed by king charles, who installed in his place a really great man, william harvey, the discoverer of the circulation of the blood. but the king did more harm than good to the college; it was turned into lodgings for queen henrietta maria and her court, and ladies were intruded and children born within college walls. these proceedings were respectable, though unusual; but the college was even more humiliated by the visit of charles ii, who installed there, among other court ladies, the notorious duchess of cleveland. the college, however, with the revolution, returned to less courtly views, and its whig connection found an honourable representative in richard steele, the founder of the /tatler/. it is not surprising that so cheerful a gentleman left oxford without a degree, but "with the love of the whole society." the college register specially notes his gift of his /tatler/; he was acting on the sound rule, by no means so universally followed as it ought to be, that oxford authors should present their books to their college library. merton, as has been said, is the "type" college, if one may thus apply a scientific term; hence it is fitting that to it belong the two men to whom perhaps oxford owes most. thomas bodley was a fellow and lecturer in greek there, before he left oxford for diplomacy, and accumulated that wealth which he used to endow the oldest and the most fascinating, if not the largest, of british libraries. and among the men who have gained from "the rare books in the public library" a way to a "perfect elysium," none better deserves remembrance than the mertonian, antony wood, whose monument stands in merton chapel, but who has raised /monumentum aere perennius/ to himself, in his /history of the university of oxford/ and his /athenae oxonienses/. [plate vii. merton college : the library interior] merton library "hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit; which well dost in the midst of paradise arise, oxford, the muses' paradise, from which may never sword the blest expel. hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie to enrich, with interest, posterity." cowley. "the appearance of the library" (at merton), says the great cambridge scholar, j. willis clark, in his /care of books/, "is so venerable, so unlike any similar room with which i am acquainted, that it must always command admiration." he classes it with the libraries at oxford of corpus, st. john's, jesus, and magdalen, and he regretfully adds that no college library in his own university has retained the same old features as these have done. but none of the four can compare with merton, either in antiquarian interest or in picturesqueness; it stands in a class by itself. the library was built by the munificence of bishop reed of chichester between and ; the dormer windows, however (seen in plate vii), are later in date. the bookcases in the larger room were made in ; one of the original half cases, however, was spared, that nearest to the entrance on the north side, and this is the most interesting single feature in the whole library. it need hardly be said that the reading-desk in early times was actually attached to the bookcase; the library then was a place to read in, not one from which books were taken to be read. the books were to be kept "in some common and secure place," and they were "chained in the library chamber for the common use of the fellows" (j. w. clark). the old case that has been retained still has its chained books, and traces of the arrangement for chains can be seen in the other cases. merton was one of the last libraries in oxford to keep its books in chains; these were only removed in ; in the bodleian the work had been begun a generation earlier (in ). not all books, however, were chained; by special arrangements in old college statutes, some of them were allowed out to the fellows. the register of merton contains interesting entries as to how the books were distributed, e.g. on august , , "choice was made of the books on philosophy; it was found there were in all books, which were then distributed." this was a large number: at king's, cambridge, less than half a century before, there were only books on all subjects, and in the cambridge university library in , only . if a book was borrowed, great precautions were taken; the warden of merton in had to obtain the leave of the college to take out a book which he wanted; then, "in the presence of the four seniors," he received his book, depositing two volumes of st. jerome's commentaries as pledges for its safe return. a similar ceremony, with a similar entry in the register, marked the replacement of the book in the library. though printing was already beginning to multiply books, yet then, and for long after, a book was a most valuable possession. the features of these venerable tomes are well described by crabbe: "that weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid, those ample clasps, of solid metal made, the close pressed leaves, unclosed for many an age, the dull red edging of the well-filled page, on the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled, where yet the title shines in tarnished gold, these all a sage and laboured work proclaim, a painful candidate for lasting fame." such books are numbered by hundreds in every college library, and it is only too true of them that: "hence in these times, untouched the pages lie and slumber out their immortality." the reception of such a book in a library was an event, and the record of one gift occupies six whole lines in the merton register; its donors are named as "two venerable men," and the entry sweetly concludes, "let us, therefore, pray for them." the library, problem, acute everywhere, is perhaps especially so in a college library. how can it keep pace with the multiplicity of studies? how should it deal with books indispensable for a short time, perhaps for one generation, and then superseded? even apart from the question of the cost of purchase, the amount of space available is small, considering modern needs. these problems and such as these have not yet been solved by college librarians; but the college library, quite apart from the books in it, is an education in itself. the old days of neglect are past, the days reflected in the scandalous story--told of more than one college--about the old fellow who was missing for two months, and, after being searched for high and low, was found hanging dead in the college library. now the libraries everywhere are being used continually, and men can realize in them, perhaps better than anywhere else, how great the past of oxford has been, and can form some idea of the labours of forgotten generations, which have made the university what it was and what it is. every library has its treasures, to show the present generation how beautiful an old book can be which was produced in days when its production was not a mere publisher's speculation, but the work of a scholar seeking to promote knowledge and advance the cause of truth. and it does not require much imagination for a student, in a building like merton library, to conjure up the picture of his mediaeval predecessor, sitting on his hard wooden bench, with his chained mss. volume on the shelf above, and poring over the crabbed pages in the unwarmed, half-lighted chamber. if the picture brings with it the thought of the transitoriness of human endeavour, and if the words of the teacher seem doubly true, "of making of books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh," yet in the fresh life of young oxford, such reflections are only salutary; pessimism, despair of humanity, are not vices likely to flourish among undergraduates in the healthy society of modern colleges. those only, it might be said, can properly reform the present who understand the past, and it is perhaps the spirit of the merton library, at once old and new, which has inspired the statesmen whom merton has sent to take part in the government of britain during the last half-century. lord randolph churchill, the founder of tory democracy, his present-day successor in the same role, lord birkenhead, and the ever young lord halsbury are men of the type which walter de merton wished to train, "for the service of god in church and state," men who champion the existing order, but who are willing to develop and improve it on the old lines. oriel college "here at each coign of every antique street a memory hath taken root in stone, here raleigh shone." l. johnson. [plate viii. oriel college and st. mary's church] it is a curious coincidence that three of the most troubled reigns of english history have been marked by double college foundations in oxford. that of henry vi, in spite of constant civil war, threatening or actual, saw the beginnings of all souls' and of magdalen; the short and sad reign of mary tudor restored to oxford trinity and st. john's; and in an earlier century the ministers of edward ii, the most unroyal of our plantagenet kings, gave to oxford exeter and oriel. the king himself was graciously pleased to accept the honour of the latter foundation, and his statue adorns the college quad, along with that of charles i, in whose day the whole college was rebuilt. the front may be compared architecturally with those of wadham and of university, which date from about the same period (the first part of the seventeenth century), when, under the fostering care of archbishop laud, oxford increased greatly in numbers, in learning, and in buildings. though oriel has neither the bold sweep of university nor the perfect proportions of wadham, it yet is a pleasing building, at least in its front. like new college, oriel is dedicated to the blessed virgin, and, also like new college, the name of "st. mary's" early gave way to a popular nickname. the college at once on its foundation received the gift of a tenement called "l'oriole," which occupied its present site, and its name has displaced the real style of the college in general use. it is only fitting that, as in our picture, st. mary's church should be combined with oriel, for the founder was vicar of st. mary's, and the presentation to that living has ever since been in the hands of the college. it was as a fellow of oriel that newman became, in , vicar of st. mary's, from the pulpit of which, during thirteen years, he moulded all that was best in the religious life of oxford. the glorious spire of the church was still new when the college was founded. oriel and its chapel are among the places for religious pilgrimage in oxford. as lincoln draws from all parts of the world those who reverence the name of john wesley, so the oxford movement and the anglican revival had their starting-point, and for some time their centre, in oriel. the connection of the college with the movement was not in either case a mere accident; the oxford revival, at any rate, was profoundly influenced by the personality of newman, and newman, both by attraction and by repulsion, was largely what oriel made him. among those who were with him at the college were archbishop whately, whose liberalism repelled him, hawkins, the provost, whose views on "tradition" began to modify the evangelicalism in which he had been brought up, keble, whose /christian year/ did more for church teaching in england than countless sermons, pusey, already famous for his learning and his piety, who was to give his name to the movement, and, slightly later, church, afterwards dean of st. paul's, the historian of the movement, and samuel wilberforce, who, as bishop of oxford, was to show how profoundly it would increase the influence of the english church. such a combination of famous names at one time is hardly found in the history of any other college, and it would be easy to add others hardly less known, who were also members of the same body at that famous time. hero-worshippers can still see the rooms where these great men lived, and the common room in which they met and argued, in the days when oxford did less teaching and had more time for talking and for thinking than the busy, hurrying ways of the twentieth century allow. but oriel has many other associations besides those of the oxford movement. walter raleigh, the most fascinating of elizabethans, was a student there, and probably in oxford met the great historian of travel and discovery, richard hakluyt (a christ church man), whose influence did so much to bring home to oxford the wonders of the strange worlds beyond the seas. it was probably also through his connection with oriel that raleigh made the acquaintance of harriot, who shared in his colonial ventures in virginia, and who became the historian of that foundation, so full of importance as the beginning of the new england across the atlantic. it was only fitting that the raleigh of the nineteenth century, cecil john rhodes, should also be an oriel man, who was never weary of acknowledging what he owed to oxford, and who showed his faith in her by his works. the rhodes' foundation expends his millions in bringing scholars to oxford from the whole world; already its influence has been great during its twenty years of existence; what it will be in the future, only the future can show. if mr. rhodes gave his millions to the university, he gave his tens of thousands to his old college. the result on the high street is--to put it gently--not altogether happy; but perhaps time may soften the lines of mr. champney's somewhat uninspired front, though it is not likely to quicken interest in the statues of the obscure provosts which adorn it. queen's college "the building, parent of my young essays, asks in return a tributary praise; pillars sublime bear up the learned weight, and antique sages tread the pompous height." tickell. queens's is one of the six oldest colleges in oxford, and is far on to celebrating its sexcentenary, but it has purged itself of the gothic leaven in its buildings more completely than any other oxford foundation. it does not even occupy its own old site, for the building originally lay well back from the high street. it was only the "civilities and kindnesses" of provost lancaster which induced the mayor and corporation of oxford, in , to grant to queen's college "for , years," "so much ground on the high street as shall be requisite for making their intended new building straight and uniform." and so the most important of "the streamlike windings of the glorious street" was in part determined by a corrupt bargain between "a vile whig" (as hearne calls this hated provost) and a complaisant mayor. but much of the credit for the beauty of this part of the high must also be given to the architect of university college (seen in plate ix on the left), who, whether by skill or by accident, combined at a most graceful angle the two quads, erected with an interval of some eighty years between them ( and ). a man must, indeed, be a gothic purist who would wish away the stately front quadrangle of queen's, designed by wren's favourite pupil, hawkmoor, while the master himself is said to be responsible for the chapel of the college, the most perfect basilican church in oxford. if queen's has been revolutionary in its buildings, it has been singularly tenacious of old customs. its members still assemble at dinner to the sound of the trumpet (blown by a curious arrangement /after/ grace has been said); it still keeps up the ancient and honoured custom of bringing in the boar's head--"the chief service of this land"--for dinner on christmas day; while on new year's day, the bursar still, as has been done for nearly years, bids his guests "take this and be thrifty," as he hands each a "needle and thread," wherewith to mend their academic hoods; the /aiguille et fil/ is probably a pun on the name of the founder, robert eglesfield. the college at these festivities uses the loving, cup, given it by its founder, perhaps the oldest piece of plate in constant use anywhere in great britain; five and a half centuries of good liquor have stained the gold-mounted aurochs' horn to a colour of unrivalled softness and beauty. robert eglesfield was almoner of the good queen philippa, wife of edward iii, and, like adam de brome, the founder of oriel, he, too, commended his college to a royal patron. ever since his time, the "queen's college" has been under the patronage of the queen's consort of england, and the connection has been duly acknowledged by many of them, especially by henrietta maria, the evil genius of charles i, and by queen caroline, the good genius of george ii. her present gracious majesty, too, has recognized the college claim. the queens regnant have no obligations to the college, but queen elizabeth gave it the seal it still uses, and good queen anne was a liberal contributor to the rebuilding of the college in her day; her statue still adorns the cupola on the front to the high. [plate ix. high street] no doubt it was the royal connection which brought to queen's, if tradition may be trusted, two famous warrior princes, the black prince and henry v; though it is at least doubtful whether the queen's poet, thomas tickell, addison's flattering friend, had any authority for the picture he gives of their college life. he describes them as: "sent from the monarch's to the muses' court, their meals were frugal and their sleeps were short; to couch at curfew time they thought no scorn, and froze at matins every winters morn." the college has an interesting portrait of the great henry, which may be authentic; but that of the black prince, which adorns the college hall, is known to have been painted from a handsome oxford butcher's boy, in the eighteenth century. while we condemn the lack of historic sense in the provost and fellows of that day, we may at least acquit them of any intention of pacificist irony in their choice of a model. queen's has had better poets than tickell on its rolls, but, by a curious chance, the two most eminent--joseph addison and william collins--were both tempted away from their first college by the superior wealth and attractions of magdalen. the old local connections which were such a marked feature in the statutes of founders, and which so profoundly influenced oxford down to the commission of , have been almost swept away at other colleges; but at queen's they have always been strongly maintained. it has been, and is, emphatically, a north-country college. not the least important factor in maintaining this tradition has been the great benefaction of lady elizabeth hastings, fondly and familiarly known to all queen's men as "lady betty." steele wrote of her when young, that to "love her was a liberal education"; this may have been flattery, but her bounty, at any rate, has given a "liberal education" to hundreds of north-country men, who come up from the twelve schools of her foundation to her college at oxford. it is interesting to note in modern oxford, attempts to re-establish those local connections, which the wisdom of our ancestors established, and which the self-complacency of victorian reformers "vilely cast away." new college ( ) founder and buildings "there the kindly fates allowed me too room, and made me proud, prouder name i have not wist, with the name of wykehamist." l. johnson. [plate x. new college : the entrance gateway] among the "founders" of oxford colleges, three stand out pre-eminent --all three bishops of winchester and great public servants. if wolsey has undisputed claims for first place, there can be little doubt that, in spite of the great public services of bishop foxe, the founder of corpus, the second place must be assigned to william of wykeham, "sometime lord high chancellor of england, the sole and munificent founder of the two st. mary winton colleges." others, beside wykehamists, hear with pleasure the magnificent roll of the titles of the founder of new college, when one of his intellectual sons occupies the university pulpit, and gives thanks for "founders and benefactors, such as were william of wykeham." in oxford, without doubt, his great claim to be remembered will be held to be his college with the school at winchester, which he linked to it. but he was also a reformer and a champion of parliamentary privilege in the days when the "good parliament" set to work to check the misgovernment of edward iii in his dotage, and, as an architect, he is equally famous as having given to windsor castle its present shape, and as having secured the final triumph of the perpendicular style by his glorious nave at winchester. william of wykeham is a very striking instance of what is too often forgotten--viz., that in the mediaeval church all professional men, and not simply spiritual pastors, found their work and their reward in the ranks of the clergy. as "supervisor of the king's works," he earned the royal favour, which, after sixteen years of service, rewarded him with the rich bishopric of winchester. such a career and such a reward seem to modern ideas incongruous, even as they did to john wycliffe, his great contemporary, who complained of men being made bishops because they were "wise in building castles." but many forms of service were needed to create england; wykeham and wycliffe both have a place in the roll of its "makers." at all events, if wykeham obtained his wealth by secular service, he spent it for the promoting of the welfare of the church, as he conceived it. the purpose of his two colleges was to remedy the shortness of clergy in his day, and to assist the /militia clericalis/, which had been grievously reduced /pestilentiis, guerris et aliis mundi miseriis/ (an obvious reference to the black death). new college was planned on a scale of magnificence which far exceeded any of the earlier colleges. it was emphatically the "new college," [ ] and its foundation (it was opened in ) marks the final triumph of the college system. [ ] the popular name has entirety displaced its official style. rather more than a generation ago, an historically minded wykehamist tried to revive the proper style of his college, and headed all his letters "the college, of st. mary of winchester, oxford." the result was disastrous for him; the replies came to the vicar of st. mary's, to st. mary's hall, to winchester, anywhere but to him; and very soon practical necessity overcame antiquarian, propriety. its warden was to have a state corresponding to that of the great mitred abbots; the stables, where he kept his six horses, on the south side of new college lane (to be seen in plate x on the right), show, by their perfect masonry, how well the architect-bishop chose his materials and how skilfully they were worked. the entrance tower, in the centre of the picture, with its statues of the blessed virgin and of the founder in adoration below on her left, was the abode of the warden; but his lodgings, still the most magnificent home in oxford, extended in both directions from the tower. behind this front lay wykeham's quad, nestling under the shadow of the towering chapel and hall on the north side. here also, as in the stables, the technical knowledge of the founder is seen; his "chambers," after more than years, have still their old stone unrenewed; while the third story, added years later on ( - ), has had to be entirely refaced. but it is in the public buildings, and especially in the chapel, that the greatness of wykeham, as an architect, is best seen. in spite of the destructive fanaticism of the reformation, and the almost equally destructive "restorations" of the notorious wyatt, and of sir gilbert scott (who inexcusably raised the height of the roof), the chapel still is indisputably the finest in oxford. and its glass may challenge a still wider field. the eight great windows in the ante- chapel, dating from the founder's time, rival the glories of the french cathedrals; the windows of the chapel proper, whatever be thought of their artistic success, are a unique instance of what english glass-makers could do in the eighteenth century; and sir joshua reynolds' west window (the outside of which is seen in the centre of the next picture) has at all events the suffrages of the majority, who agree with horace walpole that it is "glorious," and that "the sun shining through the transparencies has a magic effect." it must be added, however, that walpole soon changed his mind, and was very severe on sir joshua's "washy virtues," which have been compared to "seven chambermaids." not the least interesting feature of the founder's chapel is its detached bell-tower, seen in the next picture, on the north side of the cloisters. he obtained leave to place this on the city wall, a large section of which the college undertook to maintain-thus adding a permanent charm to their own garden. the magnificence of the founder bishop is well seen in his splendid crozier, bequeathed to him by his college, and still preserved on the north side of the chapel. the results of his work, for oxford and for learning, will be briefly told of in the next chapter. [plate xi. new college : the tower] new college ( ) history "round thy cloisters, in moonlight, branching dark, or touched with white: round old chill aisles, where, moon-smitten, blanches the orate, written under each worn old-world face." l. johhson. william of wykeham's college had other marked features besides its magnificent scale. previous colleges had grown; at new college everything was organized from the first. as the great architectural history of cambridge says: "for the first time, chapel, hall, library, treasury, the warden's lodgings, a sufficient range of chambers, the cloister, the various domestic offices, are provided for and erected without change of plan." the chapel especially gave the model for the t shape, a choir and transepts without a nave, which has become the normal form in oxford. the influence of wykeham's building plan may be traced elsewhere also--at cambridge and even in scotland. in these well-planned buildings, definite arrangements were made for college instruction, as opposed to the general teaching open to the whole university; special /informafores/ were provided, who were to supervise the work of all scholars up to the age of sixteen. this marks the beginning of the tutorial system, which has ever since played so great a part in the intellectual life of england's two old universities. wykeham's scholars all came from winchester, and were supposed to be /pauperes/, but as one of the first, henry chichele, afterwards henry v's archbishop of canterbury and the founder of all souls', was a son of the lord mayor of london, it is obvious that the qualification of "poverty" was interpreted with some laxity. it was not until the middle of the nineteenth century that others than wykehamists were admitted as scholars. the fact that a mere boy was elected to a position which provided for him for life was not calculated to stimulate subsequent intellectual activity, and wykehamists themselves have been among the first to say that the intellectual distinction of the great bishop's beneficiaries has by no means corresponded to the magnificence of the foundation or the noble intentions of the founder. antony wood records in the seventeenth century that there was already an "ugly proverb" as to new college men--"golden scholars, silver bachelors, leaden masters, wooden doctors," "which is attributed," he goes on, "to their rich fellowships, especially to their ease and good diet, in which i think they exceed any college else." the nineteenth century has changed all this; the small and close college of pre-commission days has become one of the largest and most intellectual in the university; but winchester men in their oxford college fully hold their own in every way against the scholars from the world outside, who are now admitted to share with them the advantages of wykeham's foundation. the bishop's careful provision, however, of good teaching at his school and in his college bore good fruit at first, whatever may have been the result later. if corpus is especially the college of the revival of learning, new college had prepared the way, and the first englishman to teach greek in oxford was the new college fellow, william grocyn, whom erasmus called the "most upright and best of all britons." from the same college, about the same time, came the patron of erasmus, archbishop warham, of whose saintly simplicity and love of learning he gives so attractive a picture. warham was not forgetful of his old college, and presented the beautiful "linen fold" panelling which still adorns the hall. at the time of the reformation, new college was especially attached to the old form of the faith, and it has been maintained that the dangerous lowness of the wicket entrance in the gate tower was due to the deliberate purpose of the governing body, who resolved that everyone who entered the college, however protestant his views, should bow his head under the statue of the blessed virgin above. at any rate, one new college man in the seventeenth century attributed his perversion to "the lively memorials of popery in statues and pictures in the gates and in the chapel of new college." certain it is that under elizabeth, after the purging of the college from its recusant fellows, who contributed a large share of the roman controversialists to the colleges of louvain and douai, wykeham's foundation sank, as has been said, into inglorious ease for two centuries. yet, during this period, it had the honour of producing two of the seven bishops who resisted king james ii's attack on the english constitution--one of them the saintly hymn writer, thomas ken. and to the darkest days of the eighteenth century belongs the most famous picture of the ideal oxford life: "i spent many years, in that illustrious society, in a well-regulated course of useful discipline and studies, and in the agreeable and improving commerce of gentlemen and of scholars; in a society where emulation without envy, ambition without jealousy, contention without animosity, incited industry and awakened genius; where a liberal pursuit of knowledge and a genuine freedom of thought was raised, encouraged, and pushed forward by example, by commendation, and by authority." these were the words of bishop lowth, whose great work on /the poetry of the hebrews/ was delivered as lectures for the chair of poetry at oxford. the spirit of oxford has never been better described, and even that bitter critic, the great historian gibbon, admits that lowth practised what he preached, and that he was an ornament to the university in its darkest period. of the days of reform a forerunner was found in sydney smith, the witty canon of st. paul's. the names of new college men famous for learning or for political success, during the last half-century, are too recent to mention, but it is fitting to put on record that to new college belongs the sad distinction of having the longest roll of honour in the late war. it has lost about of its sons, including four of the most distinguished young tutors in oxford; history and philosophy, scholarship and natural science are all of them the poorer for the premature loss of cheesman and heath, hunter and geoffrey smith; their names are familiar to everyone in oxford, and they would have been familiar some day to the world of scholars everywhere. /dis aliter visum est/. lincoln college "this is the chapel; here, my son, thy father dreamed the dreams of youth, and heard the words, which, one by one, the touch of life has turned to truth." newbolt. [plate xii. lincoln college : the chapel interior] the name of lincoln college recalls a fact familiar to all students of ecclesiastical history, though surprising to the ordinary man-- viz., that oxford, till the reformation, was in the great diocese of lincoln, which stretched right across the midlands from the humber to the thames. this fact had an important bearing on the history of the university; its bishop was near enough to help and protect, but not near enough to interfere constantly. hence arose the curious position of the oxford chancellor, the real head of the mediaeval university and still its nominal head; though an ecclesiastical dignitary, and representing the bishop, the oxford chancellor was not a cathedral official, but the elect of the resident masters of arts. how important this arrangement was for the independence of the university will be obvious. the ecclesiastical position of oxford is responsible also for the foundation of four of its colleges; both lincoln and brasenose, colleges that touch each other, were founded by bishops of lincoln; foxe and wolsey, too, though holding other sees later, ruled over the great midland diocese. richard fleming, the bishop of lincoln, who founded the college that bears the name of his see, was in some ways a remarkable man. when resident in oxford, he had been prominent among the followers of john wycliffe and had shared his reforming views; but he was alarmed at the development of his master's teaching in the hands of disciples, and set himself to oppose the movement which he had once favoured. he founded his "little college" with the express object of training "theologians" "to defend the mysteries of the sacred page against those ignorant laics, who profaned with swinish snouts its most holy pearls." it is curious that lincoln's great title to fame--and it is a very great one--is that its most distinguished fellow was john wesley, the wycliffe of the eighteenth century. the connection of oxford and lincoln college with wesley and his movement is no accidental one, based merely on the fact that he resided there for a certain time. humanly speaking, wesley's connection with lincoln was a determining factor in his spiritual and mental development, and it was while he was there that his followers received the name of "methodists," a name given in scorn, but one which has become a thing of pride to millions. wesley was a fellow of lincoln for nine years, from to . during the most impressionable years of a man's life--he was only twenty-three when he was elected fellow--he was developing his mental powers by an elaborate course of studies, and his spiritual life by the careful use of every form of religious discipline which the church prescribed. a college, with its daily services and its life apart from the world, rendered the practice of such discipline possible. it was because wesley and his followers, his brother charles, george whitefield and others, observed this discipline so carefully that they obtained their nickname. it is with good reason that lincoln chapel is visited by his disciples from all parts of the world; it has been little altered since his time, his pulpit is still here, and the glass and the carving which make it very interesting, if not beautiful, are those which he saw daily. the chapel is the memorial of the devotion to lincoln of another churchman, more successful than wesley from a worldly point of view, but now forgotten by all except professed students of history. john williams, bishop of lincoln from to , was the last ecclesiastic who "kept" the great seal of england. he had the misfortune to differ from laud on the church question of the day, and was prosecuted before the star chamber for subornation of perjury, and heavily fined. there seems no doubt that he was guilty; but it was to advocacy of moderation and to his dislike of the king's arbitrary rule that he owed the severity of his punishment. whatever his moral character, at all events he gave his college a beautiful little chapel, which is often compared to the slightly older one at wadham; that of lincoln is much the less spacious of the two, but in its wood carvings, at any rate, it is superior. lincoln had the ill-fortune, in the nineteenth century, to produce the writer of one of those academic "memoirs," which reveal, with a scholar's literary style, and also with a scholar's bitterness, the intrigues and quarrels that from time to time arise within college walls. mark pattison is likely to be remembered by the world in general because he is said to have been the original of george eliot's "mr. casaubon"; in oxford he will be remembered not only for the "memoirs," but also as one who upheld the highest ideal of "scholarship" when it was likely to be forgotten, and who criticized the neglect of "research." the personal attacks were those of a disappointed man; the criticisms, one-sided as they were, were certainly not unjustified. a university should certainly exist to promote learning, and mark pattison, with all his unfairness, certainly helped its cause in oxford. but a university exists also for the promotion of friendships among young men, and for the development of their social life. of this duty, oxford has never been unmindful, and perhaps it is in small colleges like lincoln that the flowers of friendship best flourish. it is needless to make comparisons, for they flourish everywhere; but it is appropriate to quote, when writing of one of the smaller oxford colleges, the verses on this subject of a recent lincoln poet (now dead); they will come home to every oxford man: "city of my loves and dreams, lady throned by limpid streams; 'neath the shadow of thy towers, numbered i my happiest hours. here the youth became a man; thought and reason here began. ah! my friends, i thought you then perfect types of perfect men: glamour fades, i know not how, ye have all your failings now," but oxford friendships outlast the discovery that friends have "failings"; as lord morley, who went to lincoln in , writes: "companionship (at oxford) was more than lectures"; a friend's failure later (he refers to his contemporary, cotter morison's /service of man/) "could not impair the captivating comradeship of his prime." magdalen college ( ) site and buildings "where yearly in that vernal hour the sacred city is in shades reclining, with gilded turrets in the sunrise shining: from sainted magdalene's aerial tower sounds far aloof that ancient chant are singing, and round the heart again those solemn memories bringing." isaac williams. macaulay was too good a cambridge man to appreciate an oxford college at its full worth; but he devotes one of his finest purple patches to the praise of magdalen, ending, as is fitting, "with the spacious gardens along the river side," which, by the way, are not "gardens." antony wood praises magdalen as "the most noble and rich structure in the learned world," with its water walks as "delectable as the banks of eurotas, where apollo himself was wont to walk." to go a century further back, the elizabethan, sir john davies, wrote: "o honeyed magdalen, sweete, past compare of all the blissful heavens on earth that are." such praises could be multiplied indefinitely, and they are all deserved. the good genius of magdalen has been faithful to it throughout. the old picturesque buildings on the high street, taken over ( ) by the founder, william of waynflete, from the already existing hospital of st. john, were completed by his munificence in the most attractive style of english fifteenth century domestic architecture; chapel and hall, cloisters and founder's tower, all alike are among the most beautiful in oxford. when classical taste prevailed, the architectural purists of the eighteenth century were for sweeping almost all this away, and had a plan prepared for making a great classic quad; but wiser counsels, or lack of funds, thwarted this vandalistic design, and only the north side of the new quad was built, to give magdalen a splendid specimen of eighteenth century work, without prejudice to the old. and in our own day, the genius of bodley has raised in st. swithun's quad a building worthy of the best days of oxford, while the hideous plaster roof, with which the mischievous wyatt had marred the beauty of the hall, was removed, and a seemly oak roof put in its place. it is a great thing to be thankful for, that one set of college buildings in oxford, though belonging to so many periods, has nothing that is not of the best. but the great glory of magdalen has not yet been mentioned. this is, without doubt, its bell tower, which, standing just above the river cherwell, is worthily seen, whether from near or far. a most curious and interesting custom is preserved in connection with it. every may morning, at five o'clock (in antony wood's time the ceremony was an hour earlier), the choir mounts the tower and sings a hymn, which is part of the college grace; in the eighteenth century, however, the music was of a secular nature and lasted two hours. the ceremony has been made the subject of a great picture by holman hunt, and has been celebrated in many poems; the sonnet of sir herbert warren, the present president, may be quoted as worthily expressing something of what has been felt by many generations of magdalen men: "morn of the year, of day and may the prime, how fitly do we scale the steep dark stair, into the brightness of the matin air, to praise with chanted hymn and echoing chime, dear lord of light, thy sublime, that stooped erewhile our life's frail weeds to wear! sun, cloud and hill, all things thou fam'st so fair, with us are glad and gay, greeting the time. the college of the lily leaves her sleep, the grey tower rocks and trembles into sound, dawn-smitten memnon of a happier hour; through faint-hued fields the silver waters creep: day grows, birds pipe, and robed anew and crowned, green spring trips forth to set the world aflower." the tower was put to a far different use when, in the civil war, it was the fortress against an attack from the east, and stones were piled on its top to overwhelm any invader who might force the bridge. tradition connects this tower with the name of magdalen's greatest son, thomas wolsey, who took his b.a. about , at the age of fifteen, as he himself in his old age proudly told his servant and biographer, cavendish. certainty he was first junior and then senior bursar for a time, while the tower was building, - . but the scandal that he had to resign his bursarship for misappropriation of funds in connection with the tower may certainly be rejected. on the right of magdalen bridge, looking at the tower, as we see it in the picture, stretches magdalen meadow, round which run the famous water walks. the part of these on the north-west side is especially connected with joseph addison, who was a fellow at magdalen from to . he was elected "demy" (at magdalen, scholars bear this name) the first year ( ) after the revolution, when the fellows of magdalen had been restored to their rights, so outrageously invaded by king james. this "golden" election was famous in magdalen annals, at once for the number elected--seventeen--and for the fame of some of those elected. besides the greatest of english essayists, there were among the new "demies," a future archbishop, a future bishop, and the high tory, henry sacheverell, whose fiery but unbalanced eloquence overthrew the great whig ministry, which had been the patron of his college contemporary. magdalen meadow preserves still the well-beloved oxford fritillaries, which are in danger of being extirpated in the fields below iffley by the crowds who gather them to sell in the oxford market. of the part of the college on the high street, the most interesting portion is the old stone pulpit (shown in plate xiv). the connection of this with the old hospital of st. john is still marked by the custom of having the university sermon here on st. john the baptist's day; this was the invariable rule till the eighteenth century, and the pulpit (hearne says) was "all beset with boughs, by way of allusion to st. john baptist's preaching in the wilderness." even as early as heame's time, however, a wet morning drove preacher and audience into the chapel, and open-air sermons were soon given up altogether, only to be revived (weather permitting) in our own day. the chapel lies to the left of the pulpit, and is known all the world over for its music; there are three famous choirs in oxford-- those of the cathedral, of new college, and of magdalen, and to the last, as a rule, the palm is assigned. it is to oxford what the choir of king's is to cambridge; but the chapel of magdalen has not "the high embowed roof with antique pillars massy proof, and storied windows richly dight, casting a dim religious light" of the "royal saint's" great chapel at cambridge. magdalen college ( ) history "sing sweetly, blessed babes that suck the breast of this sweet nectar-dropping magdalen, their praise in holy hymns, by whom ye feast, the god of gods and waynflete, best of men, sing in an union with the angel's quires, sith heaven's your house." sir j. davies. magdalen college was founded by william of waynflete, bishop of winchester, who had been a faithful minister of henry vi. he had served as both master and provost of the king's own college at eton (and also as master of winchester college before), and from eton he brought the lilies which still figure in the magdalen shield. as a member of the lancastrian party, he fell into disgrace when the yorkists triumphed, but he made his peace with edward iv, whose statue stands over the west door of the chapel, with those of st. mary magdalene, st. john the baptist, st. swithun (bishop of winchester), and the founder. and the tudors were equally friendly to the new foundation; prince arthur, henry viii's unfortunate elder brother, was a resident in magdalen on two occasions, and the college has still a splendid memorial of him in the great contemporary tapestry, representing his marriage with catharine of aragon. to the very early days of magdalen belongs its connection with the oxford reform movement and the revival of learning. both fox and wolsey, successively bishops of winchester, and the munificent founders of corpus and of cardinal (i.e. christ church) colleges, were members of waynflete's foundation, and so probably was john colet, dean of st. paul's, whose learning and piety so impressed erasmus. "when i listen to my beloved colet," he writes in , "i seem to be listening to plato himself"; and he asks--why go to italy when oxford can supply a climate "as charming as it is healthful" and "such culture and learning, deep, exact and worthy of the good old times ?" erasmus' praise of oxford climate is unusual from a foreigner; the more usual view is that of his friend vives, who came to oxford soon after as a lecturer at the new college of corpus christi; he writes from oxford: "the weather here is windy, foggy and damp, and gave me a rough reception." colet's lectures on the epistle to the romans, perhaps delivered in magdalen college, marked an epoch in the way of the interpretation of holy scripture, by their freedom from traditional methods and by their endeavour to employ the best of the new learning in determining the real meaning of the apostle. to the same school as colet in the church belonged reginald pole, archbishop in the gloomy days of queen mary, the only magdalen man who has held the see of canterbury. elizabeth visited the college, and gently rebuked the puritan tendencies of the then president, dr. humphrey, who carried his scruples so far as to object to the academical scarlet he had to wear as a doctor of divinity, because it savoured of the "scarlet woman." "dr. humphrey," said the queen, with the tact alike of a tudor sovereign and of a true woman, "methinks this gown and habit become you very well, and i marvel that you are so strait-laced on this point--but i come not now to chide." this president complained that his headship was "more payneful than gayneful," a charge not usually brought against headships at oxford. in the seventeenth century, magdalen was, for a short time, the very centre of england's interest. james ii, in his desire to force roman catholicism on oxford, tried to fill the vacant presidency with one of his co-religionists. his first nominee was not only disqualified under the statutes, but was also a man of so notoriously bad a character that even the king had to drop him. meanwhile, the fellows, having waited, in order to oblige james, till the last possible moment allowed by the statutes, filled up the vacancy by electing one of their own number, john hough. when the king pronounced this election irregular and demanded the removal of the president and the acceptance of his second nominee, the fellows declared themselves unable thus to violate their statutes, even at royal command, and were accordingly driven out. the "demies," who were offered nominations to the fellowships thus rendered vacant, supported their seniors, and, in their turn, too, were driven out; they had showed their contempt for james' intruded fellows by "cocking their hats" at them, and by drinking confusion to the pope. when the landing of william of orange was threatening, james revoked all these arbitrary proceedings, but it was too late; he had brought home, by a striking example, to oxford and to england, that no amount of past services, no worthiness of character, no statutes, however clear and binding, were to weigh for a moment with a royal bigot, who claimed the power to "dispense" with any statutes. the "restoration" of the fellows on october , , is still celebrated by a college gaudy, when the toast for the evening is /jus suum cuique/. hough remained president for thirteen years, during most of which time he was bishop--first of oxford and then of lichfield. he finally was translated to worcester, where he died at the age of ninety- three, after declining the archbishopric of canterbury. his monument, in his cathedral, records his famous resistance to arbitrary authority. magdalen in the eighteenth century has an unenviable reputation, owing to the memoirs of its most famous historian, edward gibbon, who matriculated, in , and who describes the fourteen months which elapsed before he was expelled for becoming a roman catholic, "as the most idle and unprofitable of my whole life." the "monks of magdalen," as he calls the fellows, "decent, easy men," "supinely enjoyed the gifts of the founder." it should be added that gibbon was not quite fifteen when he entered the college, and that his picture of it is no doubt coloured by personal bitterness. but its substantial justice is admitted. certainly, nothing could be feebler than the /vindication of magdalen college/, published by a fellow james hurdis, the professor of poetry; his intellectual calibre may perhaps be gauged from the exquisite silliness of his poem, "the village curate," of which the following lines, addressed to the oxford heads of houses, are a fair specimen: "ye profound and serious heads, who guard the twin retreats of british learning, give the studious boy his due indulgence. let him range the field, frequent the public walk, and freely pull the yielding oar. but mark the truant well, and if he turn aside to vice or folly, show him the rod, and let him feel you prize the parent's happiness, the public good." magdalen might fairly claim that a place so beautiful as it is, justifies itself by simply existing, and the perfection of its buildings and the beauty of its music must appeal, even to our own utilitarian age. but it has many other justifications besides its beauty; its great wealth is being continually applied to assist the university by the endowment of new professorships, especially for the natural sciences, and to aid real students, whether those who have made, or those who are likely to make, a reputation as researchers. it is needless to mention names: every oxford man and every lover of british learning knows them. [plate xiv. magdalen college : the open-air pulpit] for the world in general, which cares not for research, the success of the college under its present president, sir herbert warren, himself at once a poet and an oxford professor of poetry, will be evidenced by its increase in numbers and by its athletic successes. they will judge as our king judged when he chose magdalen for the academic home of the prince of wales. the prince, unlike other royal persons at magdalen and elsewhere, lived ( - ) not in the lodgings of the president, or among dons and professors, but in his own set of rooms, like any ordinary undergraduate. he showed, in oxford, that power of self-adaptation which has since won him golden opinions in the great dominion and the greater republic of the west. brasenose college "of the colleges of oxford, exeter is the most proper for western, queen's for northern, and brasenose for north-western men." fuller, /worthies/. [plate xv. bresenose college, quadrangle and radcliffe library] brasenose college is in the very centre of the university, fronting as it does on radcliffe square, where gibbs' beautiful dome supplies the bodleian with a splendid reading-room. and this site has always been consecrated to students; where the front of brasenose now stands ran school street, leading from the old /scholae publicae/, in which the disputations of the mediaeval university were held, to st. mary's church. it was from this neighbourhood that some oxford scholars migrated to stamford in , in order to escape one of the many town and gown rows, which rendered mediaeval oxford anything but a place of quiet academic study. they seem to have carried with them the emblem of their hall, a fine sanctuary knocker of brass, representing a lion's head, with a ring through its nose; this knocker was installed at a house in stamford, which still retains the name it gave, "brasenose hall." the knocker itself was there till , when the college recovered the relic (it now hangs in the hall). the students were compelled by threats of excommunication to return to their old university, and down to the beginning of the nineteenth century, oxford men, when admitted to the degree of m.a., were compelled to swear "not to lecture at stamford." the old "king's hall," which bore the name of "brasenose," was transformed into a college in by the munificence of our first lay founder, sir richard sutton; he shared his benevolence, however, with bishop smith, of lincoln. the college celebrated, in , its quatercentenary in an appropriate way, by publishing its register in full, with a group of most interesting monographs on various aspects of the college history. the buildings are a good example of the typical oxford college; the front quad, shown in our picture, belongs to the time of the founders, but the picturesque third story of dormer windows, which give it a special charm, dates from the reign of james i, when all colleges were rapidly increasing their numbers and their accommodation. of the rest of the buildings of brasenose, the chapel deserves special notice, for it was the last effort of the gothic style in oxford, and it was actually finished in the days of cromwell, not a period likely to be favourable to the erection of new college chapels. brasenose (or b.n.c., as it is universally called) has produced a prime minister of england in henry addington, whom the college record kindly describes as "not the most distinguished" statesman who has held that position: but a much better known worthy is john foxe, the martyrologist, whose chained works used to add a grim charm of horror to so many parish churches in england; the experiences of the young macaulay, at cheddar, are an example which could be paralleled by those of countless young readers of foxe, who, however, did not become great historians and are forgotten. somewhat junior to foxe, at b.n.c., was robert burton, the author of the /anatomy of melancholy/, who found both his lifework as a parish vicar, and his burial-place in oxford. but these names, and the names of many other b.n.c. worthies, hardly attain to the first rank in the annals of england's life. the distinguishing features of the college have long been its special connection with the palatine counties, lancashire and cheshire, and its prominence in the athletic life which is so large a part of oxford's attraction. to the connection with lancashire, b.n.c. owes the name of its college boat, "the child of hale"; for john middleton, the famous, giant, who is said to have been ft. in. high (perhaps measurements were loose when james i was king), was invited by the members of his county to visit the college, where he is said to have left a picture of his hand; this the ever curious pepys paid s. to see. a more profitable connection between lancashire and b.n.c. is the famous hulmeian endowment, which is almost a record instance of the value of the unearned increment of land to a learned foundation. the rowing men of brasenose are as famous as the scholars of balliol. the poet parodist, half a century ago, described her as: "queen of the isis wave, who trains her crews on beef and beer, competitors to brave," and the lines written in jest were a true compliment. the young manhood of england had maintained its vigour by its love of athletics, and has learned, in the discipline of the athletic club, how to obey and also how to command. hence it was fitting that to b.n.c. should fall the honour of giving to britain her greatest soldier in the great war; lord haig of bemerside was an undergraduate member of the college in the 'eighties of the last century, and the college has honoured him and itself by making him an honorary fellow. most oxford colleges have their quaint and distinctive customs; that of brasenose was certainly not inappropriate to the character that has just been sketched. every shrove tuesday some junior member of the college presented verses to the butler in honour of brasenose ale, and received a draught in return. the custom is recorded by hearne more than two hundred years ago, and may well be older, though, as the poet of the quatercentenary sadly confessed, its attribution to king alfred-- "our woven fantasy of alfred's ale, by conclusive cut of critic dry, is shredded clean away." the most distinguished poet who thus commemorated the special drink of england and of b.n.c. was reginald heber, bishop and hymn-writer, who composed the verses in ; the compositions have been collected and published at least three times. when the old brew-house was pulled down to make room for the new quad, the college gave up brewing its own beer, and its poets ceased to celebrate it; but the custom was revived, as has been said, in . it may be permitted to a non-brasenose man to quote and echo the patriotic expressions of the versifier of : "shall brasenose, therefore, fail to hold her own? she nerves herself, anew, for coming strife, her vigorous pulses beat with strength and life. courage, my brothers! troubles past forget! on to fresh deeds! the gods love brasenose yet." corpus christi college "but still the old quadrangle keeps the same, the pelican is here; ancestral genius of the place, whose name all corpus men revere." j. j. c., in "/the pelican record/," . [plate xvi. corpus christi college : the first quadrangle] corpus is emphatically, before all other colleges in oxford, the college of the revival of learning; its very foundation marked the change from the old order of things to the new. its founder, bishop foxe, of winchester, was one of the great statesman-prelates to whom mediaeval england owed so much, and he had a leading share in arranging the two royal marriages which so profoundly affected the history of our country, that of henry vii's daughter, margaret, with the king of scotland, and that of his son, afterwards henry viii, with catharine of aragon. after a life spent "in the service of god" "in the state," rather than "in the church," foxe resolved to devote some of his great wealth to a foundation for the strengthening of the church. his first intention was to found a college for monks, but, fortunately for his memory and for oxford, he followed the advice of his friend, bishop oldham, of exeter, who told him, in words truly prophetic, that the days of monasteries were past: "what, my lord, shall we build housed for a company of buzzing monks, whose end and fall we ourselves may live to see? no, no, it is more meet a great deal that we should have care to provide for the increase of learning." in the next generation the monasteries were all swept away, while foxe's college remains a monument of the founder's pious liberality and of his friend's wise prescience. corpus was the first institution in england where definite provision was made for a teacher of the greek language, and erasmus hailed it with enthusiasm; in a letter to the first president of the new college, he definitely contrasts the conciliatory methods of reformers in england with the more violent methods of those in germany, and counts foxe's foundation, which he compares to the pyramids of egypt or the colossus of rhodes, among "the chief glories of britain." foxe, however, did not confine his benefactions to classical studies, important as these were. he imported a german to teach his scholars mathematics, and the scientific tastes of his students are well illustrated by the picturesque and curious dial, still in the centre of his college quad, which was constructed by one of them in the reign of elizabeth. it is well shown in our picture, as are also foxe's charming low buildings, almost unaltered since the time of their founder. but it has been on the humanistic, rather than on the scientific, side that corpus men have specially distinguished themselves. the first century of the college existence produced the two great elizabethan champions of anglicanism. bishop jewel, whose "apology" was for a long period the great bulwark of the english church against jesuit attacks, had laid the foundations of his great learning in the corpus library, still--after that of merton--the most picturesque in oxford; he often spent whole days there, beginning an hour before early mass, i.e. at a.m., and continuing his reading till p.m. "there were giants on the earth in those days." even more famous is the "judicious hooker," who resided in the college for sixteen years, and only left it when, by the wiles of a woman, he, "like a true nathanael who feared no guile" (as his biographer, isaac walton, writes), was entrapped into a marriage which "brought him neither beauty nor fortune." the first editor of his great work, /the ecclesiastical polity/, was a corpus man, and it was only fitting that the anglican revival of the nineteenth century should receive its first impulse from the famous assize sermon (in ) of another corpus scholar, john keble. corpus has been singularly fortunate in its history, no doubt because its presidents have been so frequently men of mark for learning and for character. even in the dark period of the eighteenth century it recovered sooner than the rest of the university, and one of its sons records complacently that "scarcely a day passed without my having added to my stock of knowledge some new fact or idea." a charming picture of the life of the scholars of corpus at the beginning of the last century is given in stanley's /life of arnold/; for the famous reformer of the english public-school system was at the college immediately after john keble, whom he followed as fellow to oriel, on the other side of the road. it need hardly be added that in those days an oriel fellowship was the crown of intellectual distinction in oxford. bishop foxe had set up his college as a "ladder" by which, "with one side of it virtue and the other knowledge," men might, while they "are strangers and pilgrims in this unhappy and dying world," "mount more easily to heaven." changing his metaphor he goes on, "we have founded and raised up in the university of oxford a hive wherein scholars, like intelligent bees, may, night and day, build up wax to the glory of god, and gather honeyed sweets for their own profit and that of all christian men." so far as it is given to human institutions to succeed, his college has fulfilled his aims. christ church ( ) the cathedral [plate xvii. christ church : the cathedral from the meadows] "those voiceless towers so tranquil seem, and yet so solemn in their might, a loving heart could almost deem that they themselves might conscious be that they were filled with immortality." f. w. faber. the east end of oxford cathedral, shown both in the frontispiece (plate i) and plate xvii, probably contains the oldest buildings, above ground, in oxford. inside the cathedral can clearly be seen traces of three round arches, which may well be part of the church founded by st. frideswyde in the eighth century. that princess, according to the tradition, the details of which are all pictured by burne-jones in the east window of the latin chapel, having escaped by a miracle the advances of too ardent a suitor, founded a nunnery at oxford. the nunnery, which was later transferred to canons, was undoubtedly the earliest institution in oxford, and in its cloisters, in the second decade of the twelfth century, we hear of students gathering for instruction. it was this old monastery, which wolsey, with his reforming zeal, chose as the site of his great cardinal college, and the chapel of the old foundation was to serve for his new one, until such time as a great new chapel, rivalling in splendour that of king's college at cambridge, had been built on the north side of tom quad. this new chapel never got beyond the stage of foundations; and hence the old building has continued to serve the college till this day, having been made also the cathedral of the new diocese of oxford, which was founded by king henry viii. wolsey may, perhaps, be credited with the fine fan tracery of the choir roof, but he certainly swept away three bays of the nave in order to carry out his ambitious building plans, and only one of these three bays has been restored in the nineteenth century. wolsey's action at christ church was significant. men felt that the days of monasteries were past, and the church was ready to welcome and to extend the new learning. but his changes were a dangerous precedent; as fuller says with his usual quaintness: "all the forest of religious foundations in england did shake, justly fearing the king would finish to fell the oaks, seeing the cardinal began to cut the underwood." henry, however, when he swept away the monasteries, spared his great minister's work; modifying it, however, as has just been said, by associating the newly-founded college with the diocese of oxford, now formed out of the unwieldy see of lincoln. the cathedral is the smallest in england, but contains many features of special interest; its most marked peculiarity is the great breadth of the choir, due to the addition of two aisles on the north side; these were built to gain more room for the worshippers at the shrine of st. frideswyde. another feature of architectural interest is the spire, which is one of the earliest in england. but perhaps even more interesting is the wonderful series of glass windows, which give good examples of almost every english style from the fourteenth to the nineteenth century. and for once the moderns can hold their own; the burne-jones windows of the choir (not, however, the frideswyde window, already mentioned) are particularly beautiful. the hand of the "restorer" has been active at christ church, as elsewhere in oxford; gilbert scott took on himself to remove a fine fourteenth-century window from the east end of the choir, and to substitute the norman work shown in plate i. the effect is admittedly good, but it may be questioned whether it be right to falsify architectural history in this way. oxford cathedral has great associations apart from the college to which it belongs. it was to it that cranmer was brought to receive the pope's sentence of condemnation, and in the cloisters the ceremony of his degradation from the archbishopric was carried out. almost a century later the cathedral was the centre of the religious life of the royalist party; when charles i made his capital in oxford and his home in christ church, and when the cavaliers fought to the war-cry of "church and king." it is not surprising that, when the parliamentarians entered oxford, the windows of the cathedral were much "abused"; that so much old glass was spared was probably due to the local patriotism of old oxford men. in the next century it was to christ church that bishop berkeley, the greatest of british philosophers, retired to end his days, and to find a burial-place; and, during the long life of dr. pusey, the cathedral of oxford was a place of pilgrimage, as the living centre of the oxford movement. in the back of the picture (plate xvii), behind the cathedral, rises the square tower, put up by mr. bodley to contain the famous christ church peal of bells (now twelve in number), familiar through dean aldrich's famous round, "hark, the bonny christ church bells." when the tower was erected, it was the subject of much criticism, especially from the witty pen of c. l. dodgson, the world-famous creator of /alice in wonderland/. the opening paragraph is a fair specimen: "of the etymological significance of the new belfry, christ church. "the word 'belfry' is derived from the french '/bel/-- beautiful, meet,' and from the german '/frei/--free, unfettered, safe.' thus the word is strictly equivalent to 'meat-safe,' to which the new belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amount to coincidence." others saw in the uncompromising squareness of the new tower a subtle compliment to the greek lexicon of liddell, who then was dean. but in spite of the wits, who resented any innovation in so famous a group of buildings, bodley's tower is a fine one, and really enhances the effect of tom quad. christ church ( ) the hall staircase "and love the high-embowed roof with antique pillars massy proof." milton [plate xviii. christ church : the hall staircase] when wolsey began to build what he intended to be the most splendid college in the world, the first part to be finished was the dining- hall, with the kitchen. the wits of the time made very merry at this: their epigram /egregium opus! cardinalis iste instituit collegium et absolvit popinam/ may be rendered: "here's a fine piece of work! your cardinal a college plans, completes a guzzling-hall." certainly the hall of christ church is the finest "popina" which has ever been abused by envious critics; its size and magnificence place it easily first among the halls of oxford, and its great outline stands conspicuous in all views of oxford from the south, whether by day, or when by night, to quote m. arnold's "thyrsis": "the line of festal light in christ church hall" shines afar. and the kitchen, a perfect cube in shape, is worthy of the hall which it feeds, and is, perhaps, more appreciated by many of oxford's visitors; for the taste for meringues is more common than that for masterpieces of portraiture. the report to wolsey, in , by his agent, the warden of new college, is still true; the kitchen is "substantially and goodly done, in such manner as no two of the best colleges in oxford have rooms so goodly and convenient." the approach to the hall, seen in plate xviii, is later than wolsey's work, but is fully worthy of him. the beautiful fan tracery, which hardly suffers by being compared with henry vii's chapel at westminster, was put up, extraordinary as it may seem, in the middle of the seventeenth century, by the elder dean fell; all we know of its origin is that it was the work of "smith, an artificer of london," surely the most modest architect who ever designed a masterpiece. the staircase itself is later, the work of the notorious wyatt, who for once meddled with a great building without spoiling it. the history of christ church is very largely the history of the university of oxford. it is still our wealthiest and largest foundation, although the disproportion between it and other colleges is by no means so great as it once was; and, thanks to its having been ruled by a series of famous and energetic deans, its periods of inglorious inactivity have been fewer than those of most other colleges. the roll of deans contains such names as those of john owen, the most famous of puritan preachers, john fell, theologian and founder of the greatness of the oxford press, henry aldrich, universally accomplished as scholar, logician, musician, architect, francis atterbury, jacobite and plotter, cyril jackson, who ruled christ church with a rod of iron, and who ranks first among the creators of nineteenth-century oxford, thomas gaisford and henry george liddell, great greek scholars. it seems that a college gains something by having its head appointed from outside; the dean at christ church is appointed by the crown. the importance of christ church is especially seen in its hall, through its collection of portraits. it is not only that this is superior to that of any one other college; it may well be doubted if the combined efforts of all the colleges could produce a collection equal to that of christ church in artistic merit, or superior to it in historical importance. the prime ministers of england, of whom christ church claims twelve (nine of them in the last century), are represented among others by george grenville, the unfortunate author of the stamp act, george canning, who called "the new world into existence to redress the balance of the old," and w. e. gladstone; among the eight christ church men who have been governor-generals of india, the marquess wellesley stands out pre-eminent; christ church has sent five archbishops to canterbury and nine to york; there is a portrait in the hall of wake, the most famous of the holders of the see of canterbury. lord mansfield's picture worthily represents the learning and impartiality of the english bench. but even more interesting than any of those already mentioned are the portraits of john locke, who was philosopher enough to forgive christ church for obeying james ii and expelling him, of william penn, presented, as was fitting, by the american state that bears his name, of john wesley and of dr. pusey, whose names will be for ever associated with the two greatest of oxford's religious movements. and it may well be hoped that c. l. dodgson ("lewis carroll") will delight children for many generations to come, as he has delighted those of the last half- century, by his alice and her "adventures." an interest, rather historical than personal, attaches to the group portrait that occupies a position of honour over the fireplace; it represents the three oxford divines--john fell (already mentioned), dolben, who later was archbishop of york, and allestree, afterwards provost of eton, who braved the penal law against churchmen by reading the forbidden church service daily all through the time of the commonwealth. nowhere, so much as in christ church, is the poet's description of oxford appropriate; her students may: "stand, in many an ancient hall, where england's greatest deck the wall, prelate and statesman, prince and poet; who hath an ear, let him hear them call." [plate xix. christ church : the hall interior] christ church ( ) "tom" tower "those twins of learning, which he raised in you, ipswich and oxford, one of which fell with him; the other, though unfinished, yet so famous, so excellent in art, and still so rising, that christendom shall ever speak his virtue." shakespeare, /henry viii/. oxford is described by matthew amold as, "beautiful city, with her dreaming spires," yet it is for her towers, especially, that she is famous. glorious as st. mary's is, it certainly does not surpass magdalen tower; and it may well be doubted whether the genius of wren has not excelled both magdalen and st. mary's in "tom" tower. gothic purists, of course, do not like it. there is a well-authenticated story of a really great architect who, in the early days of the twentieth century, was asked to submit a scheme for its repair; after long delay he sent in a plan for an entirely new tower on correct gothic lines, because (as he wrote) no one would wish to preserve "so anomalous a structure" as tom tower. the world, however, does not agree with the minute critics; it is easy to find fault with the details of "tom," but in proportion, in dignity, in suitability to his position, the greatest qualities that can be required in any building, "tom" is pre-eminent. this is the more to be wondered at, as the tower was erected a century and a half after the great gateway which it crowns. the genius of wolsey had planned a magnificent front, but only a little more than half of it was completed when henry viii ended the career of his greatest servant, and altered the plans of the most glorious college in europe. it was not till the period just before the civil war that the northern part of the front of christ church was built by the elder dean fell, and the work was only completed when his son, the famous dr. fell, doomed to eternal notoriety by the well-known rhymes about his mysterious unpopularity, employed wren to build the gate tower. yet the whole presents one harmonious design, worthy of the most famous of oxford founders and of the greatest of british architects. it is fitting that it should be wolsey's statue which adorns the gate--a statue given by stout old jonathan trelawny, one of the seven bishops, whose name is perpetuated by the refrain of hawker's spirited ballad, which deceived even macaulay as to its authenticity: "and must trelawny die? then thirty thousand cornish men will know the reason why." tom tower appeals to oxford men through more than one of their senses; it is a most conspicuous object in every view; and in it is hung the famous bell, "great tom," the fourth largest bell in england, weighing over seven tons. this once belonged to osney abbey, when it was dedicated to st. thomas of canterbury, and bore the legend: "in thomae laude resono bim bom sine fraude." it was transplanted to christ church in the reign of queen mary, and at the time it was proposed to rechristen it "pulcra maria," in honour at once of the queen and of the blessed virgin; but the old name prevailed. every night but one, from may , , until the great war silenced him, tom has sounded out, after p.m., his strokes, as a signal that all should be within their college walls; the number is the number of the members of the foundation of christ church in , when the tower was finished. during the war tom was forbidden to sound, along with all other oxford bells and clocks, for might not his mighty voice have guided some zeppelin or german aeroplane to pour down destruction on oxford? few things brought home more to oxford the meaning of the armistice than hearing tom once more on the night of november , . [plate xx. christ church: "tom" tower] a patriotic tradition claims for tom the honour of having inspired milton's lines in "il penseroso": "hear the far-off curfew sound over some wide-watered, shore, swinging slow with sullen roar." but it is difficult to believe this; milton's connection with oxford does not get nearer than forest hill, and blow the west wind as hard as it would, it could scarcely make tom's voice reach so far. and the "wide-watered shore" is only appropriate to oxford in flood time, the very last season when a poet would wish to remember it. the view in plate xx of the tower is taken from the front of pembroke, and must have been often admired by oxford's devoted son, samuel johnson, when, as a poor scholar of pembroke, "he was generally to be seen (says his friend. bishop percy) lounging at the college gate, with a circle of young students round him, whom he was entertaining with his wit and keeping from their studies." st. john's college [plate xxi. st. john's college : garden front] "an english home--gray twilight poured on dewy pastures, dewy trees, softer than sleep, all things in order stored, the haunt of ancient peace." tennyson, palace of art. st. john's shares with trinity and hertford the distinction of having been twice founded. as the cistercian college of st. bernard, it owed its origin to archbishop chichele, the founder of all souls', and it continued to exist for a century as a monastic institution. at the reformation it was swept away with other monastic foundations by the greed of henry viii, but it was almost immediately refounded, in the reign of mary, by sir thomas white, one of the greatest of london's lord mayors. in all these respects it has an exact parallel in trinity, which had existed as a benedictine foundation, being then called "durham college," and which was refounded, in the same dark period of english history, by another eminent londoner, sir thomas pope. it is characteristic of england and of the english reformation that men, who were undoubtedly in sympathy with the old form of the faith, yet gave their wealth and their labours to found institutions which were to serve english religion and english learning under the new order of things. for the first generation after the founder, st. john's was torn by the quarrels between those who wished to undo the work of the reformation altogether, and those who wished to carry it further and to destroy the continuity of english church tradition. the final triumph of the anglican "via media" was the work, above all others, of william laud, who came up as scholar to st. john's in , and who, for most of the half century that followed, was the predominant influence in the life of the university. first in his own college and then in oxford generally, he secured the triumph of his views on religious doctrine and order. of these, it is not the place to speak here, nor yet of laud's services to oxford as the restorer of discipline, the endower and encourager of learning, the organizer of academic life, whose statutes were to govern oxford for more than two centuries; but it is indisputable that laud takes one of the highest places on the roll of benefactors, both to the university as a whole and to his own college. it was fitting that one who did so much for st. john's should leave his mark on its buildings; the inner quadrangle was largely built by him, and it owes to him its most characteristic features, the two classic colonnades on its east and west sides, and the lovely garden front, one of the three most beautiful things in oxford: the north- east corner of this is shown in plate xxi. laud's building work was done between and , and in charles i and his queen visited oxford and were entertained in the newly-finished college. much bad verse was written on this event, two lines of which as a specimen may be quoted from the quaintly-named poem, "parnassus biceps": "was i not blessed with charles and mary's name, names wherein dwells all music? 'tis the same." the part of the entertainment to royalty on which the archbishop specially prided himself was the play of the hospital of lovers, which was performed entirely by st. john's men, without "borrowing any one actor." laud goes on to observe that, when the queen borrowed the dresses and the scenery, and had it played over again by her players at hampton court, it was universally acknowledged that the professionals did not come up to the amateurs--a truly surprising and somewhat incredible verdict. st. john's, however, was always strong in dramatic ability; shirley, the last great representative of the elizabethan tradition, was a student there, and the library has the rare distinction of having possessed longest the same copy of the works of shakespeare; it still has the second folio, presented in , by one of the fellows. st. john's connection with the lighter side of literature has lasted to our own day; the most famous of oxford parodies is still the oxford spectator, which has not been surpassed by any of its many imitators in the last half century. other colleges, however, might challenge the supremacy of st. john's in the humours of literature.. in the richness and beauty of its garden it stands unrivalled, whether quantity or quality be the basis of comparison. it is not only that before the east front, seen in plate xxi, stretches the largest garden in oxford; thanks to the skill and the care of the present garden-master, the rev. h. j. bidder, this shows from month to month, as the pageant of summer goes on, what wealth of colour and variety of bloom the english climate can produce. it may be said to be laid out on bacon's rule: "there ought to be gardens for all months in the year, in which severally things of beauty may be then in season"; only for "year" we naturally must read "academic year." if bacon is right, that a garden is the "purest of human pleasures," then, indeed, st. john's should be the oxford paradise. wadham college ( ) the buildings "here did wren make himself a student home, or e'er he made a name that england loves; i wonder if this straying shadow moves, adown the wall, as then he saw it roam." a. upson. [plate xxii. wadham college : the chapel from the garden] the buildings of wadham college have been pronounced by some good judges to be the most beautiful in oxford. this is not, however, the usual opinion, nor is it my own, though, perhaps, it might be accepted if modified into the statement that wadham is the most complete and perfect example of the ordinary type of college. however that may be, there are three points as to these buildings which are indisputable, and which are also most interesting to any lover of english architecture. they are: ( ) wadham is less altered than any other college in oxford. ( ) it is the finest illustration of the fact that the gothic style survived in oxford when it was being rapidly superseded elsewhere. ( ) no building in oxford (very few buildings anywhere) owe their effect so completely to their simplicity and their absence of adornment. these three points must be illustrated in detail. wadham is the youngest college in oxford, for all those that have been founded since are refoundations of older institutions (but, as its first stone was laid in , it has a respectable antiquity); yet the front quad is completely unaltered in design, and of the actual stonework, hardly any has had to be renewed. could the foundress return to life, she would find the college, which was to her as a son, completely familiar. the second point is a more important one. in the reign of elizabeth, classical architecture was being rapidly introduced; gothic was giving way before the style of palladio, even as the new learning was banishing the schoolmen from the schools. this change is markedly seen in the elizabethan buildings at cambridge, especially in dr. caius' work, so far as it has been allowed to survive in the college that bears his name. but in oxford the old style went on for half the following century; in the great building period of the first two stuarts the old models were still faithfully copied. it was the genius of wren, which, by its magnificent success in the sheldonian, ultimately caused the new style to prevail over the late gothic, of which his own college, wadham, is so striking an example. in wadham the conservative oxford workmen were inspired by the presence of somerset masons, whom the foundress brought up from her own county, so rich in the splendid gothic of the fifteenth century. hence the chapel of wadham (shown in plate xxii) is to all intents and purposes the choir of a great somerset church. so marked is the old style in its windows that some of the best authorities on architecture have maintained that the stonework of these could not have been made in the seventeenth century, but must have survived from some older building; ferguson, the historian of architecture, when confronted with the fact that the college has still the detailed accounts showing how, week by week, the jacobean masons worked, swept this evidence aside with the dictum--"no amount of documents could prove what was impossible." but here the "impossible" really happened. the permanence of gothic in oxford is a point for professional students; the studied simplicity, which is the great secret of wadham's beauty, concerns everyone. the effect of the garden front is produced simply by the long lines of the string-courses and by the procession of the beautifully proportioned gables. neither here nor in any part of the college is there a piece of carved work, except in the classical screen, which marks the entry to the hall. it may be noted that at wadham and at clare, cambridge, the same effect is produced by the same means; different as the two colleges are, the one gothic, the other classical, they have a restful and complete beauty which makes them specially attractive. and this is due more than anything else to the unbroken lines of the stonework, to which everything is kept in due subordination. clare was building during half a century; wadham was finished in three years; but both have been fortunate in being left alone; they have not been "improved" by later additions. the chapel at wadham has another feature of great interest for those who visit it; the glass in it (not that in the ante-chapel) is all contemporary with the college, and is a first-rate example of the taste of early stuart times. the apostles and the prophets of the side windows have few merits, except their age, and the fact that they illustrate what local craftsmen could do in the reign of james i; but the big east window is of a very different rank. the college authorities quarrelled with the local workmen, and introduced a foreign craftsman, bernard van ling from london. in our day he would have been called a "blackleg," and mobbed: perhaps, even in the seventeenth century, he needed protection, for the college built him a furnace in their garden, and he there produced the finest specimen of seventeenth century glass that oxford can show. even for those who are not students of glass, the wadham windows are attractive with their two jonahs and two whales, "the big one that swallowed jonah, and the little one that jonah swallowed" (to quote an old college jest). the gardens at wadham are famous; they have not the magnificence of st. john's or the antiquarian charm of the old walls at new college or merton; but, for the variety and fine growth of their trees, they are unsurpassed, though the glory of these is passing. warden wills planted them in the days of the french revolution, and trees have their time to fall at last, even though they long survive their planters. wadham college ( ) history "but these were merciful men, whose righteousness hath not been forgotten. . . . their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore." /ecclesiasticus/, xliv. , . the collection of pictures in wadham hall is probably the best of any college in oxford--always, of course, excepting christ church. it has no single picture to be compared with the "thomas warton" at trinity, or the "dr. johnson" at pembroke (both excellent works of reynolds), nor does it give so many fine examples of the work of recent artists as do trinity or balliol; but it makes up for these deficiencies by the number and the variety of its pictures. two only of the men they represent can be said to attain to the first rank among england's worthies--robert blake, second as an admiral only to nelson and oxford's greatest fighting man until the present war, and christopher wren, "that prodigious young scholar" (as john evelyn calls him), who, as has been well said, would have been second only to newton among english mathematicians had he not chosen rather to be indisputably the first of british architects. it is interesting to note that wadham shares with all souls' two of the greatest names in the scientific revival of the seventeenth century: both wren and thomas sydenham, the physician, migrated from wadham to fellowships at all souls'. their connection with wadham is part of what is probably the most interesting single episode in the college history. when the parliament triumphed, and the king's partisans were turned out of oxford, the lodgings at wadham were given to the most distinguished of her wardens, john wilkins, who, no doubt, owed his promotion to the fact that he was the brother-in-law of oliver cromwell. in his own day everyone knew him; he was a moderate man, who interceded for royalist scholars under the commonwealth, and tempered the penal laws to non-conformists, when later he was bishop of chester. he was even better known to the "philosophers" as the inventor of a universal language and as curious for every advance in natural science. but, in our day, he is only remembered for his connection with the royal society; that most illustrious body grew out of the meetings held weekly at his lodgings and the similar meetings held in london; when later these two movements were united, wilkins was secretary of the committee which drew up the rules for their future organization, and thus prepared the way for the royal charter, given to the society in . when the royal society celebrated its th anniversary in , many of its members made a pilgrimage to "its cradle" (or what was, at any rate, "/one/ of its cradles"). wadham also produced, among other early members of the royal society, its historian, thomas sprat, bishop of rochester, who somehow, as "pindaric sprat" (he was the friend and also the editor of /abraham cowley/), found his way into johnson's /lives of the poets/; he is, however, more likely to be remembered because his subserviency, when he was dean of westminster to james ii, has earned him an unenviable place in macaulay's gallery of revolution worthies and unworthies. sprat, it should be added, was an exception to the prevailing whig tradition of wadham, which found a worthy exponent in arthur onslow, the greatest speaker of the house of commons, who ruled over that august body for a record period, thirty-four years ( - ), and formed its rules and traditions in the period when it was first asserting its claim to govern. [plate xxiii. wadham college : the hall interior] two centuries later than the royal society days at wadham, another group of philosophers was trained there, who thought that the views of their master, auguste comte, were going to make as great a revolution in human thought as the views of a bacon or a newton. all the leading english positivists were at wadham--congreve, beesley, bridges, frederic harrison, of whom the last alone survives, to fight with undiminished vigour for the causes which he championed in mid- victorian days. positivism had less influence than its adherents expected, but it powerfully affected for a time the political and the religious thought of england. forty years later another famous group of young men were at wadham together. as they are all alive, it is impossible, and would be unbecoming, to estimate what their influence on english life and thought will be; but it was a curious coincidence that sent to wadham together, in the 'nineties, lord birkenhead, who reached the woolsack at the earliest age on record; sir john simon, who, if he had wished, could have lowered that record still further, and c. b. fry, once a household name as the greatest of british athletes. three groups of wadham men have been spoken of; one other name must be mentioned of one who stood alone at college, and for a long time in the world outside, in his attitude to the social problems of our day. whatever may be the future of the settlement movement, its leader, samuel barnett, "barnett of whitechapel," is not to be forgotten, for his name is associated as a pioneer and an inspiring force with every movement of educational and social advance in the latter half of the nineteenth century. m. clemenceau, no friendly judge of the ministers of any religious body, pronounced him one of the three greatest men he had met in england. certainly he was great, if greatness means to anticipate the problems of the future before the rest of the world sees their urgency, and to make real contributions to their solution. it has been a feature of the history of oxford that every college has, from time to time, come to the front as the special home and source of some movement. there has never been the overshadowing concentration of men and of wealth, which has given a more one-sided direction to the history of cambridge. hence the strength of the college system; every college has its traditions to live up to, its great names to cherish, and wadham is, certainly, by no means last or least in these respects. hertford college "outspake the (warden) roundly: 'the bridge must straight go down; for if they once should get the bridge ...'" macaulay, /horatius/, adapted. academic bridges, over the cam or elsewhere, are a great feature at cambridge. at oxford they were unknown till this century, when university first of all threw its modest little arch over logic lane; later, in . the "bridge of sighs," which forms the subject of plate xxiv, was completed. there was a hard struggle before leave could be obtained from the city council for thus bridging a public thoroughfare; university only maintained their claim to a bridge by a long lawsuit, in which the college rights were firmly established by the production of charters, which went back to the reign of king john. the great opposition to the hertford bridge was said to be due to regard for the feelings of the old warden of new college, who considered that it would injure the view of his college bell-tower. whether this story be true or not, hertford obtained its permission at last, and sir thomas jackson added a new attraction to oxford's buildings. his genius has been especially shown in triumphing over the difficulties of the hertford site, for it was no easy thing to unite into a harmonious whole, buildings so various; his new chapel-- opened in --is worthy to rank with the best classic architecture in oxford. the variety of the hertford buildings only reflects the chequered history of the foundations that have occupied them. as early as the thirteenth century hart hall stood on this site. in the eighteenth century this old hall was turned into a college by an oxford reformer, dr. newton. but unfortunately newton's endowments were not equal to his ambition, and the first hertford /college/ fell into such decay that finally its buildings were transferred to an entirely different foundation, magdalen hall. almost immediately afterwards, old magdalen hall, which stood close to magdalen college, was burned down, and the society sold their site, thus made empty, to their wealthy namesake, and migrated, in , to what had formerly been hertford college. finally, in , magdalen hall was re-endowed by the head of the great financial house of baring as "hertford college" once more. this college then unites the traditions of two old halls, and of its own predecessor, and from all of them it derives some famous names. hart hall was the home of john selden, one of the greatest of english scholars; hertford college had an undistinguished english prime minister in henry pelham, and a most distinguished leader of opposition in charles james foxe; while magdalen hall was even more rich in traditions, as being the home of the translator of the bible, william tyndale, as the centre of puritan strength in the laudian days, when from its ranks were filled the vacancies all over oxford caused by the expulsions of royalists, and finally as having trained lord clarendon, famous as charles ii's minister, still more famous as the historian, whose monumental work was one of the first endowments of the oxford press. all these traditions are now concentrated in the one college, and, as has been said, the buildings have been greatly extended to meet the needs of the new foundation. when hertford college is completed according to the plans already drawn by sir thomas jackson, it will reach from all souls' to holywell. this last northern part of its front has been delayed by the european war. the new--or, rather, the revived--college has, as yet, hardly had time to make oxford history, but the influence of its second principal. dr. boyd, whose long reign, happily not yet over, began in , has had the result of finding for oxford new benefactors in one of the wealthiest of the london city companies; the drapers' magnificent gifts of the new science library and of the electrical laboratory are good instances to show that the days of the "pious founder" are not yet over. [plate xxiv. hertford college : the bridge] st. edmund hall "or wander down an ancient street where mingling ages quaintly meet, tower and battlement, dome and gable mellowed by time to a picture sweet." a. g. butler. the group of buildings, shown in plate xxv, is not only picturesque-- it also illustrates oxford history from more than one point of view. the apse of the chapel of queen's on the left belongs to a building already spoken of, which is the most perfect example of a small basilican church in oxford. the church tower in the centre, though itself dating from the fourteenth century, is the most modern part of one of the oldest churches in oxford, st. peter in the east. the crypt and the chancel of this church go back to the time of the conquest, and are probably the work of robert d'oili, to whom william the conqueror gave the city of oxford; he was first an oppressor and then a benefactor; in the former character, he built the castle keep, still standing near the station; in the latter, he was the builder, besides st. peter, of the churches of st. michael and of the holy cross; parts of his work survive in all three. the churchyard, at all events, of st. peter in the east, deserves a visit, lying as it does between the beautiful garden of new college and the picturesque buildings of st. edmund hall. before this last foundation is spoken of, a word must be said as to the road round which these three buildings are grouped--queen's lane. it survives, almost unaltered, from pre-reformation oxford, and, winding as it does its narrow way between high walls, it is an interesting specimen of the "lanes" which threaded mediaeval oxford, a city in which the high street and, to a smaller extent, cornmarket street were the only real thoroughfares; the rest of the city was a network of narrow ways. but from the historic point of view, the most interesting part of the picture is its right side, where stand the buildings of st. edmund hall. this is the only survival of the system of residence in the earliest university, of the oxford which knew not the college system. before the days of "pious founders," the students had to provide their own places of residence, and very early the custom grew up of their living together in "halls," sometimes managed by a non-academic owner, but often under the superintendence of some resident master of arts, who was responsible, not for the teaching, but, at any rate in part, for the discipline of the inmates of his hall. these halls had at first no endowments and no permanent existence; they depended for their continuity on the person of their head. gradually they became more organized; but when once the college system had been introduced, it tended, by its superior wealth and efficiency, to render the "halls" less and less important. they lost even the one element of self-government which they had once had, the right of their members to elect their own principal; this right was usurped by the chancellor. hence, though five of the halls were surviving at the time of the university commission (of ), all of them but st. edmund hall have now disappeared. in theory, "hall" and "college" have much in common; one cambridge college indeed has retained the name of "hall," and two of the women's colleges in oxford have preferred to keep the old style. in practice, their difference lies in the two facts that colleges are wealthier, with more endowments, and that they are self-governing, with fellows who co-opt to vacancies in their own body and elect their head. st. edmund hall has its head appointed by the fellows of queen's, with which institution it has long been connected. [plate xxv. st. peter-in-the-east church and st. edmund hall] the origin of this hall is an unsolved problem: it derives its name according to one theory from edmund rich, the last archbishop of canterbury to be canonized, and probably the first recorded doctor of divinity at oxford. but this theory is very doubtful, and hearne, most famous of oxford antiquarians, and probably the best known member of st. edmund hall, did not believe it. in any case, most of the buildings of the hall date long after st. edmund, and belong to the middle of the seventeenth century. hearne himself is sufficient to give interest to any foundation. he was a great scholar and a careful editor of the early english chroniclers in days when learning was decaying in oxford; even now his work as an editor is not altogether superseded. but it is not to this that he owes his fame; it is rather to the fact that he has high rank among the diarists of england, and the first place among those of oxford. for thirty years ( - ) in which latter year he died, he poured into his diary everything that interested him--scholarly notes, political rumours, personal scandal, remarks on manners and customs. the volumes came into the possession of his fellow jacobite, richard rawlinson, the greatest of the benefactors of the bodleian, and only now are they being fully edited; ten volumes have been issued by the oxford historical society, and still there are a few more years of his life to cover. as a specimen of hearne's style may be quoted his remarks, when the sermon on christmas day, , was postponed till a.m. "the true reason is that people might lie in bed the longer. . . . the same reason hath made them, in almost all places in the university, alter the times of prayer, and the hour of dinner (which used to be o'clock) in almost every place (christ church must be excepted); which ancient discipline and learning and piety strangely decay." hearne was critical rather of past history than of present- day rumour; he records complacently (in ) that at whitchurch, when the dissenters had prepared a great quantity of bricks "to erect a capacious conventicle, a destroying angel came by night and spoyled them all, and confounded their babel." hearne would by no means have approved of the methodist principles of six members of his hall in the next generation, who were expelled for their religious views ( ). a furious controversy, with many pamphlets, raged over them, and the public orator of the university wrote a bulky indictment of them, which was answered by another pamphlet with the picturesque title of "goliath slain." pamphleteers were more free in their language in those days than they are now. the hall has always been a strong religious centre, and plays a very useful part in the university--by giving to poor men, seeking holy orders, a real oxford education, based on the true oxford principle of community of life. iffley mill "thames, the best loved of all old ocean's sons, of his old sire, to his embraces runs . . . though deep, yet clear, through gentle yet not dull, strong without rage, without o'erflowing full." sir j. denham. [plate xxvi. iffley : the old mill] the subject of plate xxvi is no longer in existence; it was burned to the ground some years ago, and has never been rebuilt--for steam has rendered unprofitable the old-fashioned water mills such as it was. yet the very fact that iffley mill is no more perhaps renders it the more appropriate subject for a series of oxford pictures. it claims a place among them, not for its beauty, picturesque though it was, but as a symbol of the open-air pursuits of oxford, which play so large a part in the lives of her sons. and as those pursuits are so diverse, and cannot all be directly pictured, it is fitting that they should be represented by a picture which is a symbol of them all, by a picture of something no longer existing, not introduced for itself, but suggesting whole fields of varied activity, different and yet all akin. this may be fanciful, but the part played by open-air sports in the life of oxford is a great reality. yet, in their present organized form, they are a feature of quite, modern times. fifty years ago, football as a college sport in oxford was only beginning; the men are still living, and not octogenarians, who introduced their "school games"--"rugby," "eton wall game," etc.--at oxford. golf was left to scotchmen, hockey to small boys, la crosse had not yet come from beyond the atlantic. cricket and rowing were the only organized games, and even in these the inter-university contests are comparative novelties; the first boat race against cambridge was rowed in , and it has only been an annual fixture since . several results followed from this. in the first place, the very sense of the word "sportsman" was different. now it means a man who can play well some, one at least, of the games that all men play; then, it had its old meaning of a man who could shoot, or ride, or fish, or do all these. again, as cricket is always a game for the few, and as the rowing authorities, by the time the summer term begins, had selected their chosen followers and left the rest of the world free, there was far more walking, and consequently more knowledge of the country round the city, than is the rule now. the long rambles which play so prominent a part in oxford biographies, such as stanley's /life of arnold/, were still the fashion, while of those who could afford to ride, certainly many more availed themselves of the privilege than do now. so far as games themselves were concerned, their cost was far less. college matches away from oxford were almost unknown; college grounds, which were still quite a new thing in the middle of last century, were nearly all concentrated on cowley marsh, and the somewhat heavy contribution from all undergraduates, now generally collected by the college authorities in "battels" and become semi- official, was not dreamed of. those who played paid, and the rest of the college got off easily. and games were much more games than they are now, and less of institutions; the "professional amateur," who comes up with a public school reputation to get his "blue," was almost unknown, and certainly, so far as rowing was concerned, any powerful man with broad shoulders and a sound heart was a likely candidate for the university boat. the days were not dreamed of when the fortunes of oxford and cambridge on the river depended largely on the choice of a university by members of the eton eight. but there is of course another side to the development of oxford athletics. perhaps the most important point is that play is the greatest social leveller. it is easy to attend the same lectures as a man, and even to sit at the same table with him in hall, and not to know him well, because his clothes and his accent are not quite correct. but in these days when so many games are played, and when competition is so keen, any man who can do anything gets his chance; and many are the instances every year of men who would never have made friends in their colleges outside a small circle, had not their quickness as half-backs, or their ability as slow bowlers, brought their contemporaries to recognize their merits. you cannot play with a man without knowing him, and young oxford is democratic at heart, and when once it knows a man, it does not trouble about the non- essentials of wealth and fashion. and again, though it may seem a paradox to say it, the amount of play in oxford has increased the amount of work. organized games mean physical fitness, and physical fitness means ability to get intellectual work done. perhaps it may be argued that the absorption in athletics deadens all intellectual life, and that many oxford men read only and discuss only the sporting news in the papers; this no doubt has a strange fascination, even for men who do not play; one of the most distinguished of oxford statesmen of the last generation, himself so blind that he could not hit a ball, confessed to me that he always, in the summer, read the cricket news in /the times/ before he read anything else. but he and many other oxford men read something else, too. and it may be maintained without question that the hard exercise, which is the fashion in oxford, tends to keep men's bodies healthy and to raise the moral tone of the place. oxford and cambridge may not be what they should be in morals, but they compare very favourably in this respect with other towns. all this seems a far cry from iffley mill; but iffley means to an oxford man, not so much the picturesque village, nor even its gem of a norman church that towers above the lock, but the place where eights and torpids start for the races. and the boating, which is so associated with the name of iffley, is still--and long may it be so-- the queen of oxford sports. to succeed as an oar, a man has to learn to sacrifice the present to the future, to scorn delights and live laborious days, to work together with others, and to sink his individuality in the common cause. these are great qualities, and therefore in any book on oxford, the picture, which recalls them and is their symbol, has a right to a place. printed in great britain. letterpress by turnbull & spears, edinburgh. plates engraved and printed by henry stone & son, ltd., banbury. [oxford from the east (end papers)] oxford and her colleges [illustration] [illustration: radcliffe library.] oxford and her colleges a view from the radcliffe library by goldwin smith, d.c.l. author of "the united states: an outline of political history," etc. with illustrations reproduced from photographs new york macmillan and co. and london _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by macmillan and co. norwood press: j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith. norwood, mass., u.s.a. preface. the writer has seldom enjoyed himself more than in showing an american friend over oxford. he has felt something of the same enjoyment in preparing, with the hope of interesting some american visitors, this outline of the history of the university and her colleges. he would gladly believe that oxford and cambridge, having now, by emancipation and reform, been reunited to the nation, may also be reunited to the race; and that to them, not less than to the universities of germany, the eyes of americans desirous of studying at a european as well as at an american university may henceforth be turned. it was once the writer's duty, in the service of a royal commission of inquiry, to make himself well acquainted with the archives of the university and its colleges. but he has also availed himself of a number of recent publications, such as the series of the oxford historical society, the history of the university by mr. maxwell lyte, and the volume on the colleges of oxford and their traditions, edited by mr. andrew clark, as well as of the excellent little guide published by messrs. james parker and co. [illustration] oxford and her colleges. to gain a view of oxford from a central point, we mount to the top of the radcliffe library. we will hope that it is a fine summer day, that, as we come out upon the roof, the old city, with all its academical buildings lying among their gardens and groves, presents itself to view in its beauty, and that the sound of its bells, awakening the memories of the ages, is in the air. the city is seen lying on the spit of gravel between the isis, as the thames is here called, which is the scene of boat races, and the cherwell, famed for water-lilies. it is doubtful whether the name means the ford of the oxen, or the ford of the river (_oxen_ being a corruption of _ousen_). flat, sometimes flooded, is the site. to ancient founders of cities, a river for water carriage and rich meads for kine were prime attractions. but beyond the flat we look to a lovely country, rolling and sylvan, from many points of which, wytham, hinksey, bagley, headington, elsfield, stowe wood, are charming views, nearer or more distant, of the city. turner's view is taken from bagley, but it is rather a turner poem than a simple picture of oxford. * * * * * there is in oxford much that is not as old as it looks. the buildings of the bodleian library, university college, oriel, exeter, and some others, mediæval or half mediæval in their style, are stuart in date. in oxford the middle ages lingered long. yon cupola of christ church is the work of wren, yon towers of all souls' are the work of a still later hand. the headington stone, quickly growing black and crumbling, gives the buildings a false hue of antiquity. an american visitor, misled by the blackness of university college, remarked to his host that the buildings must be immensely old. "no," replied his host, "their colour deceives you; their age is not more than two hundred years." it need not be said that palladian edifices like queen's, or the new buildings of magdalen, are not the work of a chaplain of edward iii., or a chancellor of henry vi. but of the university buildings, st. mary's church and the divinity school, of the college buildings, the old quadrangles of merton, new college, magdalen, brasenose, and detached pieces not a few are genuine gothic of the founders' age. here are six centuries, if you choose to include the norman castle, here are eight centuries, and, if you choose to include certain saxon remnants in christ church cathedral, here are ten centuries, chronicled in stone. of the corporate lives of these colleges, the threads have run unbroken through all the changes and revolutions, political, religious, and social, between the barons' war and the present hour. the economist goes to their muniment rooms for the record of domestic management and expenditure during those ages. till yesterday, the codes of statutes embodying their domestic law, though largely obsolete, remained unchanged. nowhere else in england, at all events, unless it be at the sister university, can the eye and mind feed upon so much antiquity, certainly not upon so much antique beauty, as on the spot where we stand. that all does not belong to the same remote antiquity, adds to the interest and to the charm. this great home of learning, with its many architectures, has been handed from generation to generation, each generation making its own improvements, impressing its own tastes, embodying its own tendencies, down to the present hour. it is like a great family mansion, which owner after owner has enlarged or improved to meet his own needs or tastes, and which, thus chronicling successive phases of social and domestic life, is wanting in uniformity but not in living interest or beauty. * * * * * oxford is a federation of colleges. it had been strictly so for two centuries, and every student had been required to be a member of a college when, in , non-collegiate students, of whom there are now a good many, were admitted. the university is the federal government. the chancellor, its nominal head, is a non-resident grandee, usually a political leader whom the university delights to honour and whose protection it desires. only on great state occasions does he appear in his gown richly embroidered with gold. the acting chief is the vice-chancellor, one of the heads of colleges, who marches with the bedel carrying the mace before him, and has been sometimes taken by strangers for the attendant of the bedel. with him are the two proctors, denoted by their velvet sleeves, named by the colleges in turn, the guardians of university discipline. the university legislature consists of three houses,--an elective council, made up equally of heads of colleges, professors, and masters of arts; the congregation of residents, mostly teachers of the university or colleges; and the convocation, which consists of all masters of arts, resident or non-resident, if they are present to vote. congregation numbers four hundred, convocation nearly six thousand. legislation is initiated by the council, and has to make its way through convocation and congregation, with some chance of being wrecked between the academical congregation, which is progressive, and the rural convocation, which is conservative. the university regulates the general studies, holds all the examinations, except that at entrance, which is held by the colleges, confers all the degrees and honours, and furnishes the police of the academical city. its professors form the general and superior staff of teachers. * * * * * each college, at the same time, is a little polity in itself. it has its own governing body, consisting of a head (president, master, principal, provost, or warden) and a body of fellows. it holds its own estates; noble estates, some of them are. it has its private staff of teachers or tutors, usually taken from the fellows, though the subjects of teaching are those recognised by the university examinations. the relation between the tutors teaching and that of the professor is rather unsettled and debatable, varying in some measure with the subjects, since physical science can be taught only in the professor's lecture-room, while classics and mathematics can be taught in the class-room of the tutor. before the professorial system of teaching had long lain in abeyance, and the tutorial system had prevailed alone. each college administers its domestic discipline. the university proctor, if he chases a student to the college gates, must there halt and apply to the college for extradition. to the college the student immediately belongs; it is responsible for his character and habits. the personal relations between him and his tutor are, or ought to be, close. oxford life hitherto has been a college life. to his college the oxford man has mainly looked back. here his early friendships have been formed. in these societies the ruling class of england, the lay professions and landed gentry mingling with the clergy, has been bred. it is to the college, generally, that benefactions and bequests are given; with the college that the rich and munificent _alumnus_ desires to unite his name; in the college hall that he hopes his portrait will hang, to be seen with grateful eyes. the university, however, shares the attachment of the _alumnus_. go to yonder river on an evening of the college boat races, or to yonder cricket ground when a college match is being played, and you will see the strength of college feeling. at a university race or match in london the oxford or cambridge sentiment appears. in an american university there is nothing like the college bond, unless it be that of the secret, or, to speak more reasonably, the greek letter societies, which form inner social circles with a sentiment of their own. * * * * * the buildings of the university lie mainly in the centre of the city close around us. there is the convocation house, the hall of the university legislature, where, in times of collision between theological parties, or between the party of the ancient system of education and that of the modern system, lively debates have been heard. in it, also, are conferred the ordinary degrees. they are still conferred in the religious form of words, handed down from the middle ages, the candidate kneeling down before the vice-chancellor in the posture of mediæval homage. oxford is the classic ground of old forms and ceremonies. before each degree is conferred, the proctors march up and down the house to give any objector to the degree--an unsatisfied creditor, for example--the opportunity of entering a _caveat_ by "plucking" the proctor's sleeve. adjoining the convocation house is the divinity school, the only building of the university, saving st. mary's church, which dates from the middle ages. a very beautiful relic of the middle ages it is when seen from the gardens of exeter college. here are held the examinations for degrees in theology, styled, in the oxford of old, queen of the sciences, and long their tyrant. here, again, is the sheldonian theatre, the gift of archbishop sheldon, a primate of the restoration period, and as readers of pepys's "diary" know, of restoration character, but a patron of learning. university exercises used, during the middle ages, to be performed in st. mary's church. in those days the church was the public building for all purposes, that of a theatre among the rest. but the anglican was more scrupulous in his use of the sacred edifice than the roman catholic. in the sheldonian theatre is held the annual commemoration of founders and benefactors, the grand academical festival, at which the doctorate appears in its pomp of scarlet, filing in to the sound of the organ, the prize poems and essays are read, and the honorary degrees are conferred in the presence of a gala crowd of visitors drawn by the summer beauty of oxford and the pleasures that close the studious year. in former days the ceremony used to be enlivened and sometimes disgraced by the jests of the _terræ filius_, a licensed or tolerated buffoon whose personalities provoked the indignation of evelyn, and in one case, at least, were visited with expulsion. it is now enlivened, and, as visitors think, sometimes disgraced, by the uproarious joking of the undergraduates' gallery. this modern license the authorities of the university are believed to have brought on themselves by encouraging political demonstrations. the sheldonian theatre is also the scene of grand receptions, and of the inauguration of the chancellor. that flaunting portrait of george iv. in his royal robes, by lawrence, with the military portraits of the emperor of russia and the king of prussia by which it is flanked and its gorgeousness is rebuked, mark the triumphs of the monarchs, whose cause had become that of european independence, over napoleon. perhaps the most singular ceremony witnessed by these walls was the inauguration of the iron duke as chancellor of the university. this was the climax of oxford devotion to the tory party, and such was the gathering as to cause it to be said that if the roof of the sheldonian theatre had then fallen in, the party would have been extinguished. the duke, as if to mark the incongruity, put on his academical cap with the wrong side in front, and in reading his latin speech, lapsed into a thundering false quantity. [illustration: divinity school, from exeter gardens.] [illustration: interior of sheldonian theatre.] the clarendon was built with the proceeds of the history written by the minister of the early restoration, who was chancellor of the university, and whose touching letter of farewell to her, on his fall and flight from england, may be seen in the bodleian library. there, also, are preserved documents which may help to explain his fall. they are the written dialogues which passed between him and his master at the board of the privy council, and they show that clarendon, having been the political tutor of charles the exile, too much bore himself as the political tutor of charles the king. in the clarendon are the university council chamber and the registry. once it was the university press, but the press has now a far larger mansion yonder to the north-west, whence, besides works of learning and science, go forth bibles and prayer-books in all languages to all quarters of the globe. legally, as a printer of bibles the university has a privilege, but its real privilege is that which it secures for itself by the most scrupulous accuracy and by infinitesimal profits. [illustration: the bodleian.] close by is the university library, the bodleian, one of those great libraries of the world in which you can ring up at a few minutes' notice almost any author of any age or country. this library is one of those entitled by law to a copy of every book printed in the united kingdom, and it is bound to preserve all that it receives, a duty which might in the end burst any building, were it not that the paper of many modern books is happily perishable. a foundation was laid for a university library in the days of henry vi., by the good duke humphrey of gloucester, who gave a collection of books. but in the rough times which followed, the duke's donation perished, only two or three precious relics being saved from the wreck. sir thomas bodley, a wealthy knight and diplomatist of the time of james i., it was who reared this pile, severely square and bare, though a skilful variation of the string course in the different stories somewhat relieves its heaviness. in the antique reading-room, breathing study, and not overthronged with readers, the bookworm finds a paradise. over the library is the university gallery, the visitor to which is entreated to avert his eyes from the fictitious portraits of founders of early colleges, and to fix them, if he will, on the royal portraits which painfully attest the loyalty of the university, or, as a relief from these, on guy fawkes's lantern. beneath the library used to be the schools or examination-rooms of the university, scenes of youthful hopes and fears; perhaps, as the aspirants to honours were a minority, of more fears than hopes; and at those doors formerly gathered the eager crowd of candidates and their friends to read the class lists which were posted there. but the examination system has outgrown its ancient tenement and migrated to yonder new-built pile in high street, more fitted, perhaps, by its elaborate ornamentation for the gala and the dance, than for the torture of undergraduates. in the quadrangle of the bodleian sits aloft, on the face of a tower displaying all the orders of classical architecture, the learned king and royal theologian. the bible held in his hand is believed to have fallen down on the day that mr. gladstone lost his election as member for the university of oxford and set forth on a career of liberalism which has since led him to the disestablishment of the church. we stand on the radcliffe, formerly the medical and physical library, now a supplement and an additional reading-room of the bodleian, the gift of dr. radcliffe, court physician and despot of the profession in the times of william and anne, of whose rough sayings, and sayings more than rough, some are preserved in his "life." he it was who told william iii. that he would not have his majesty's two legs for his three kingdoms, and who is said to have punished the giver of a niggardly fee by a prediction of death, which was fulfilled by the terrors of the patient. close at hand is the ashmolean, the old university museum, now only a museum of antiquities, the most precious of which is king alfred's gem. museum and medical library have together migrated to the new edifice on the north side of the city. but of all the university buildings the most beautiful is st. mary's church, where the university sermons are preached, and from the pulpit of which, in the course of successive generations and successive controversies, a changeful and often heady current of theology has flowed. there preached newman, pusey, and manning; there preached hampden, stanley, and the authors of "essays and reviews." [illustration: the high street. university college. st. mary's church. queen's college.] oxford and cambridge were not at first universities of colleges. the colleges were after-growths which for a time absorbed the university. the university of oxford was born in the twelfth century, fully a century before the foundation of the first college. to recall the oxford of the thirteenth century, one must bid vanish all the buildings which now meet our eyes, except yonder grim castle to the west of the city, and the stern tower of st. michael's church, at once the bell tower of the church and a defence of the city gate facing the dangerous north. the man-at-arms from the castle, the warder from the gate, looks down upon a city of five or six thousand inhabitants, huddled for protection under the castle, and within those walls of which a fine remnant is seen bounding the domain of new college. in this city there is a concourse of students brought together to hear a body of teachers who have been led, we know not how, to open their mart of knowledge here. printing not having been invented, and books being scarce, the fountain of knowledge is the lecture-room of the professor. it is the age of an intellectual revival so remarkable as to be called the mediæval renaissance. after the migrations and convulsions, by which the world was cast in a new mould, ensues a reign of comparative peace and settled government, under which the desire of knowledge has been reawakened. universities have been coming out all over europe like stars in the night; paris, famous for theology and philosophy, perhaps being the brightest of the constellation, while bologna was famed for law and salerno for medicine. it was probably in the reign of henry i. that the company of teachers settled at oxford, and before the end of the thirteenth century students had collected to a number which fable exaggerates to thirty thousand, but which was really large enough to crowd the little city and even the bastions of its walls. a light had shone on youths who sat in the shadow of feudal servitude. there is no more romantic period in the history of human intellect than the thirteenth century. the teachers, after the fashion of that age, formed themselves into a guild, which guarded its monopoly. the undergraduate was the apprentice; the degree was a license to teach, and carried with it the duty of teaching, though in time it became a literary title, unconnected with teaching, and coveted for its own sake. the university obtained a charter, elected its chancellor, formed its academical legislature of graduates, obtained jurisdiction over its own members. in time it marshalled its teachers and students into regular faculties of theology, law, and medicine, with arts, or general and liberal culture, if the name can be applied to anything so rudimentary as the literature and science of that day, forming the basis of all. at first the professors taught where they could; in the cloisters, perhaps, of st. frydeswide's monastery, subsequently absorbed by christ church; in the porches of houses. a row of lecture-rooms, called the schools, was afterwards provided in school street, which ran north and south just under the radcliffe. so little anchored was the university by buildings, that when maltreated at oxford it was ready to pack up its literary wares and migrate to another city such as northampton or stamford. many of the undergraduates at first were mere boys, to whom the university was a grammar school. for the real university students the dominant study was that of the school philosophy, logical and philosophical, with its strange metaphysical jargon; an immense attempt to extract knowledge from consciousness by syllogistic reasoning, instead of gathering it from observation, experience, and research, mocking by its barrenness of fruit the faith of the enthusiastic student, yet training the mind to preternatural acuteness, and perhaps forming a necessary stage in the mental education of the race. the great instrument of high education was disputation, often repeated, and conducted with the most elaborate forms in the tournaments of the schools, which might beget readiness of wit and promptness of elocution, but could hardly beget habits of calm investigation or paramount love of truth. the great event in the academical life was inception, when the student performed exercises which inaugurated his teachership; and this was commonly celebrated by a feast, the expenditure on which the university was called upon to restrain. oxford produced some of the greatest schoolmen: duns scotus, the "subtle," who had written thirteen folio volumes of arid metaphysics before his early death; bradwardine, the "profound," and ockham, the "invincible and unmatched." the idol was aristotle, viewed mainly as the metaphysician, and imperfectly understood through translations. to reconcile aristotelian speculation with orthodox theology was a hard task, not always successfully performed. theology was, of course, first in dignity of the faculties, but the most lucrative was the civil and canon law practised in the ecclesiastical courts and, as roman, misliked by the patriotic parliament. philosophy complained that it had to trudge afoot while the liegemen of justinian rode high in the car of preferment. of physical science the hour was not yet come, but before its hour came its wonderful and almost miraculous precursor, roger bacon, who anticipated the invention of gunpowder and the telescope, and whose fabled study stood over folly bridge, till, with carfax's monument and cranmer's prison, it was cleared away by an improving city corporation. roger bacon was, of course, taken for a dealer in black arts; an astrologer and an alchemist he was, and at the same time an illustrious example of the service indirectly rendered by astrology and alchemy in luring to an investigation of nature which led to real discoveries, just as columbus, seeking a western passage to the golden cities of the east, discovered america. * * * * * all the universities belonged not to one nation but to latin christendom, the educated population of which circulated among them. at one time there was a migration to oxford from the university of paris, which had got into trouble with the government. of all the universities alike, ecclesiastical latin was the language. the scholars all ranked with the clerical order, so that at oxford, scholar and clerk, townsman and layman, were convertible terms. in those days all intellectual callings, and even the higher mechanical arts, were clerical. the student was exempted by his tonsure from lay jurisdiction. the papacy anxiously claimed the universities as parts of its realm, and only degrees granted by the pope's authority were current throughout christendom. when, with edward iii., came the long war between england and france, and when the confederation of latin christendom was beginning to break up, the english universities grew more national. * * * * * incorporated with the buildings of worcester college are some curious little tenements once occupied by a colony from different benedictine monasteries. these, with the church of st. frydeswide, now christ church cathedral, and the small remains of osney abbey, are about the only relics of monastic oxford which survived the reformation. but in the middle ages there were houses for novices of the great orders, benedictines, cistercians, carmelites, augustinians, and most notable and powerful of all, the two great mendicant orders of dominicans and franciscans. the mendicants, who came into the country angels of humility as well as of asceticism, begging their bread, and staining the ground with the blood from their shoeless feet, soon changed their character, and began in the interest of holy church to grasp power and amass wealth. the franciscans especially, like the jesuits of an after day, strove to master the centres of intellectual influence. they strove to put the laws of the university under their feet. struggles between them and the seculars, with appeals to the crown, were the consequence. attraction of callow youth to an angelic life seems to have been characteristic of the brethren of st. francis, and it is conjectured that in this way bacon became a monk. faintly patronised by a liberal and lettered pope, he was arraigned for necromancy by his order, and ended his days in gloom, if not in a monastic prison. the church of the middle ages with one hand helped to open the door of knowledge, with the other she sought to close it. at last she sought to close it with both hands, and in her cruel panic established the inquisition. * * * * * tory in its later days, the university was liberal in its prime. it took the part of the barons and de montfort against henry iii., and a corps of its students fought against the king under their own banner at northampton. instead of being the stronghold of reaction, it was the focus of active, even of turbulent aspiration, and the saying ran, that when there was fighting at oxford there was war in england. oxford's hero in the thirteenth century was its chancellor, grosseteste, the friend of de montfort and the great reformer of his day, "of prelates the rebuker, of monks the corrector, of scholars the instructor, of the people the preacher, of the incontinent the chastiser, of writings the industrious investigator, of the romans the hammer and contemner." if grosseteste patronised the friars, it was in their first estate. * * * * * at first the students lodged as "chamberdekyns" with citizens, but that system proving dangerous to order, they were gathered into hostels, or, to use the more dignified name, halls (_aulæ_) under a principal, or master of the university, who boarded and governed them. of these halls there were a great number, with their several names and signs. till lately a few of them remained, though these had lost their original character, and become merely small colleges, without any foundation except a principal. the students in those days were mostly poor. their indigence was almost taken for granted. some of them begged; chests were provided by the charitable for loans to them. a poor student's life was hard; if he was earnest in study, heroic. he shared a room with three or four chums, he slept under a rug, his fare was coarse and scanty, his garment was the gown which has now become merely an academical symbol, and thankful he was to be provided with a new one. he had no fire in his room, no glass in his window. as his exercises in the university schools began at five in the morning, it is not likely that he read much at night, otherwise he would have to read by the light of a feeble lamp flickering with the wind. his manuscript was painful to read. the city was filthy, the water polluted with sewage; pestilence often swept through the crowded hive. * * * * * mediæval students were a rough set; not less rough than enthusiastic; rougher than the students of the quartier latin or heidelberg, their nearest counterparts in recent times. they wore arms, or kept them in their chambers, and they needed them not only in going to and from the university over roads beset with robbers, but in conflicts with the townspeople, with whom the university was at war. with the townspeople the students had desperate affrays, ancient precursors of the comparatively mild town and gown rows of this century. the defiant horns of the town were answered by the bells of the university. arrows flew; blood was shed on both sides; halls were stormed and defended; till royalty from abingdon or woodstock interfered with its men-at-arms, seconded by the bishop with bell, book, and candle. a papal legate, an italian on whom national feeling looks with jealousy, comes to oxford. scholars crowd to see him. there is a quarrel between them and his train. his cook flings a cauldron of boiling broth over an irish student. the scholars fly to arms. the legate is ignominiously chased from oxford. excommunications, royal thunders, and penitential performances follow. jews settle in oxford, ply their trade among the scholars, and form a quarter with invidiously wealthy mansions. there is a royal edict, forbidding them to exact more than forty-three per cent interest from the student. wealth makes them insolent; they assault a religious procession, and with them also the students have affrays. provincial feeling is strong, for the students are divided into two nations, the northern and the southern, which are always wrangling, and sometimes fight pitched battles with bows and arrows. the two proctors, now the heads of university police, were appointed as tribunes of the two nations to settle elections and other matters between them without battle. amusements as well as everything else were rude. football and other rough games were played at beaumont, a piece of ground to the north of the city; but there was nothing like that cricket field in the parks, nor like the sensation now created by the appearance of a renowned cricketer in his paddings before an admiring crowd, to display the fruit of his many years of assiduous practice in guarding his stumps. the crown and local lords had to complain of a good deal of poaching in bagley, woodstock, shotover, and stowe wood. * * * * * to this oxford, with its crowd of youth thirsting for knowledge, its turbulence, its vice, its danger from monkish encroachment, came walter de merton, one of the same historic group as grosseteste and grosseteste's friend, adam de marisco, the man of the hour, with the right device in his mind. merton had been chancellor of henry iii. amidst the political storms of the time, from which he would gladly turn aside to a work of peaceful improvement. it was thus that violence in those ages paid with its left hand a tribute to civilisation. merton's foundation is the first college, though university and balliol come before it in the calendar in deference to the priority of the benefactions out of which those colleges grew. yonder noble chapel in the decorated style, with its tower and the old quadrangle beneath it, called, nobody knows why, mob quad, are the cradle of college life. merton's plan was an academical brotherhood, which combined monastic order, discipline, and piety with the pursuit of knowledge. no monk or friar was ever to be admitted to his house. the members of the house are called in his statutes by the common name of scholars, that of fellows (_socii_), which afterwards prevailed here and in all the other colleges, denoting their union as an academical household. they were to live like monks in common; they were to take their meals together in the refectory, and to study together in the common library, which may still be seen, dark and austere, with the chain by which a precious volume was attached to the desk. they had not a common dormitory, but they must have slept two or three in a room. probably they were confined to their quadrangle, except when they were attending the schools of the university, or allowed to leave it only with a companion as a safeguard. they were to elect their own warden, and fill up by election vacancies in their own number. the warden whom they had elected, they were to obey. they were to watch over each other's lives, and hold annual scrutinies into conduct. the archbishop of canterbury was to visit the college and see that the rule was kept. but the rule was moral and academical, not cloistral or ascetic. the mediæval round of religious services was to be duly performed, and prayers were to be said for the founder's soul. but the main object was not prayer, contemplation, or masses for souls; it was study. monks were permanently devoted to their order, shut up for life in their monastery, and secluded from the world. the scholars of merton were destined to serve the world, into which they were to go forth when they had completed the course of preparation in their college. they were destined to serve the world as their founder had served it. in fact, we find wardens and fellows of merton employed by the state and the church in important missions. a scholar of merton, though he was to obey the college authorities, took no monastic vow of obedience. he took no monastic vow of poverty; on the contrary, it was anticipated that he would gain wealth, of which he was exhorted to bestow a portion on his college. he took no monastic vow of celibacy, though, as one of the clerical order, he would of course not be permitted to marry. he was clerical as all scholars in those days were clerical, not in the modern and professional sense of the term. the allowances of the fellow were only his commons, or food, and his livery, or raiment, and there were to be as many fellows as the estate could provide with these. instruction was received not in college, but in the schools of the university, to which the scholars of merton, like the other scholars, were to resort. a sort of grammar school, for boys of the founder's kin, was attached to the college. but otherwise the work of the college was study, not tuition, nor did the statutes contemplate the admission of any members except those on the foundation. [illustration: merton college, from fields.] * * * * * merton's plan, meeting the need of the hour, found acceptance. his college became the pattern for others both at oxford and cambridge. university, balliol, exeter, oriel, and queen's were modelled after it, and monastic orders seem to have taken the hint in founding houses for their novices at oxford. university college grew out of the benefaction of william of durham, an ecclesiastic who had studied at paris, and left the university a sum of money for the maintenance of students of divinity. the university lodged them in a hall styled the great hall of the university, which is still the proper corporate name of the college. in after days, this hall, having grown into a college, wished to slip its neck out of the visitorial yoke of the university, and on the strength of its being the oldest foundation at oxford, claimed as founder alfred, to whom the foundation of the university was ascribed by fable, asserting that as a royal foundation it was under the visitorship of the crown. courts of law recognised the claim; a hanoverian court of law probably recognised it with pleasure, as transferring power from a tory university to the king; and thus was consecrated a fiction in palliation of which it can only be said, that the earliest of our literary houses may not improperly be dedicated to the restorer of english learning. oriel was founded by a court almoner, adam de brome, who displayed his courtliness by allowing his scholars to speak french as well as latin. queen's was founded by a court chaplain, robert egglesfield, and dedicated to the honour of his royal mistress, queen philippa. it was for a provost and twelve fellows who were to represent the number of christ and his disciples, to sit at a table as egglesfield had seen in a picture the thirteen sitting at the last supper, though in crimson robes. egglesfield's building has been swept away to make room for the palladian palace on its site. but his name is kept in mind by the quaint custom of giving, on his day, a needle (_aiguille_) to each member of the foundation, with the injunction, take that and be thrifty. yonder stone _eagles_ too on the building recall it. exeter college was the work of a political bishop who met his death in a london insurrection. as the fashion of founding colleges grew, that of founding monasteries decreased, and the more as the mediæval faith declined, and the great change drew near. that change was heralded by the appearance of wycliffe, a genuine off-spring of the university, for while he was the great religious reformer, he was also the great scholastic philosopher of his day. to what college or hall his name and fame belong is a moot point among antiquaries. we would fain imagine him in his meditations pacing the old mob quadrangle of merton. his teaching took strong and long hold of the university. his reforming company of "poor priests" drew with it the spiritual aspiration and energy of oxford youth. but if his movement has left any traces in the shape of foundations, it is in the shape of foundations produced by the reaction against it, and destined for its overthrow. [illustration: new college, cloisters and tower.] [illustration: new college chapel.] yonder rises the bell tower of new college over a famous group of buildings, with ample quadrangle, rich religious chapel, a noble hall and range of tranquil cloisters, defaced only by the addition of a modern upper story to the quadrangle and vandalic adaptation of the upper windows to modern convenience. this pile was the work of william of wykeham, bishop of winchester, a typical character of the middle ages, prelate, statesman, and court architect in one, who negotiated the peace of bretigny and built windsor castle. the eye of the great architect as well as of the pious founder must have ranged with delight over his fair creation. it is likely that new college, as a foundation highly religious in its character, was intended to counteract wycliffism as well as to replenish the clergy which had been decimated by the black death. wykeham was a reformer in his way, and one of the party headed by the black prince which strove to correct the abuses of the court in the dark decline of edward iii. but he was a conservative, religious after the orthodox fashion, and devoted to the worship of the virgin, to whom his college was dedicated, after whom it was named, and whose image surmounts its gate. the college of st. mary of winton his foundation was entitled. in its day it might well be called new college. new it was in its scale, having seventy fellows and scholars besides ten chaplains, three clerks, and sixteen choristers for the services of the chapel, which is still famous for its choir. new it was in the extent and magnificence of its buildings. new it was in the provision made for solemn services in its chapel, for religious processions round its cloisters, for the daily orisons of all its members. new it was in the state assigned to its warden, who was not to be like the warden of merton, only the first among his humble peers, living with them at the common board, but to resemble more a great abbot with a separate establishment of his own, keeping a sumptuous hospitality and drawn by six horses when he went abroad. new it was in having undergraduates as well as graduates on the foundation, and providing for the training of the youth during the whole interval between school and the highest university degree. even further back than the time of admittance to the university, stretched the care of the reformer of education. the most important novelty of all, perhaps, in his creation, was the connection between his college and the school which he founded at winchester, his cathedral city, to feed his college with a constant supply of model scholars. this was the first of those great public schools which have largely moulded the character of the ruling class in england. the example was followed by henry vi. in connecting king's college, cambridge, with eton, and would have been followed by wolsey had he carried out his design of connecting cardinal college with his school at ipswich. from the admission of an undergraduate element into the college it naturally followed that there should be instruction of the juniors by the seniors, and superintendence of study within the college walls. this was yet another novelty, and wykeham seems to have had an additional motive for adopting it in the low condition of the university schools, from the exercises of which attention had perhaps been diverted by the religious movement. in the careful provision for the study of grammatica, that is, the elements of latin, we perhaps see a gleam of the renaissance, as the style of the buildings belonging to the last order of mediæval architecture indicates that the middle age was hastening to its close. but it was one of wykeham's objects to strengthen the orthodox priesthood in a time of revolutionary peril. ten of his fellows were assigned to the study of civil, ten to that of canon, law. two were permitted to study medicine. all the rest were to be theologians. the founder was false to his own generous design in giving a paramount and perpetual preference in the election of fellows to his own kin, who, being numerous, became at length a fearful incubus on his institution. it is not likely that his own idea of kinship was unlimited, or extended beyond the tenth degree. all the fellows and scholars were to be poor and indigent. this was in unison with the mediæval spirit of alms-giving as well as with the mediæval theory of poverty as a state spiritually superior, held, though not embodied, by wealthy prelates. study, not teaching, it is always to be remembered, was the principal duty of those who were to eat the founder's bread. * * * * * [illustration: magdalen college, from street.] the statutes of new college are elaborate, and were largely copied by other founders. they present to us a half-monastic life, with the general hue of asceticism which pervades everything mediæval. here, as in the case of merton, there are no vows, but there is strict discipline, with frugal fare. the commons, or allowances for food, are not to exceed twelve pence per week, except in the times of dearth. once a year there is an allowance of cloth for a gown. there is a chest for loans to the very needy, but there is no stipend. the warden rules with abbatial power, though in greater matters he requires the consent of the fellows, and is himself under the censorship of the visitor, the bishop of winchester, who, however, rarely interposed. every year he goes on "progress" to view the college estates, there being in those days no agents, and is received by tenants with homage and rural hospitality. the fellows and scholars are lodged three or four in a room, the seniors as monitors to the juniors. each scholar undergoes two years of probation. as in a baronial hall the nobles, so in the college hall the seniors, occupy the dais, or high table, while the juniors sit at tables arranged down the hall. in the dining-hall the fellows and scholars sit in silence, and listen to the reading of the bible. in speaking they must use no tongue but the latin. there is to be no lingering in the hall after dinner, except when in winter a fire is lighted on some church festival. then it is permitted to remain awhile and rehearse poems, or talk about the chronicles of the kingdom, the wonders of the world, and other things befitting clerical discourse. this seems to be the principal concession made to the youthful love of amusement. as a rule, it appears that the students were confined to the college and its cloisters when they were not attending the schools of the university. they are forbidden to keep hounds or hawks, as well as to throw stones or indulge in any rough or noisy sports. the injunctions against spilling wine and slops in the upper rooms, or beer on the floor of the hall, to the annoyance of those who lodged beneath, betoken a rough style of living and rude manners. the admission of strangers is jealously restricted, and on no account must a woman enter the college, except a laundress, who must be of safe age. there were daily prayers for the founder's soul, daily masses, and fifty times each day every member of the college was to repeat the salutation to the virgin. the founder's obit was to be celebrated with special pomp. self-love in a mediæval ascetic was not annihilated by humility, though it took a religious form. thrice every year are held scrutinies into life and conduct, at which the hateful practice of secret denunciation is admitted, and the accused is forbidden to call for the name of his accuser. every cloistered society, whether monastic or academic, is pretty sure to seethe with cabals, suspicions, and slanders. leave of absence from the college was by statute very sparingly allowed, and seldom could the young scholar pay what, in the days before the letter post, must have been angel's visits to the old people on the paternal homestead. the ecclesiastical and ascetic system of the middle ages had little regard for domestic affection. it treated the boy as entirely a child of the church. in times of pestilence, then common, the inmates of the colleges usually went to some farm or grange belonging to the college in the neighbourhood of oxford, and those were probably pleasant days for the younger members. oaths of fearful length and stringency were taken to the observation of the statutes. they proved sad traps for conscience when the statutes had become obsolete, a contingency of which the founders, ignorant of progress and evolution, never dreamed. * * * * * in the interval between the foundation of new college and the revolution, religious and intellectual, which we call the reformation, were founded lincoln, all souls', magdalen, and brasenose. lincoln, all souls', and brasenose lie immediately round us, close to what was the centre of academical life. magdalen we recognise in the distance by the most beautiful of towers. lincoln was theological, and was peculiar in being connected with two of the churches of oxford, which its members served, and the tithes and oblations of which formed its endowment. its founder, fleming, bishop of lincoln, had as a graduate resident at oxford been noted for sympathy with the wycliffites. but when he became bishop of lincoln, the fact dawned upon him that the scriptures too freely interpreted were dangerous. he went over to the reaction, burned wycliffe's body, and determined to found a little college of true students in theology, who would "defend the mysteries of the sacred page against those ignorant laics who profaned with swinish snouts its most holy pearls." his successor, bishop rotherham, being of the same mind, carried forward the work, and gave the college statutes enjoining the expulsion of any fellow convicted of favouring in public or in private heretical tenets, and in particular the tenets of "that heretical sect lately sprung up which assails the sacraments, diverse orders and dignities, and properties of the church." rotherham had evidently a keen and just sense of the fact, that with the talismanic sacraments of the church were bound up its dignity and wealth. the two orthodox prelates would have stood aghast if they could have foreseen that their little college of true theologians would one day number among its fellows john wesley, and that methodism would be cradled within its walls. they would not less have stood aghast if they could have foreseen that such a chief of liberals as mark pattison, would one day be its rector. the history of these foundations is full of lessons for benefactors who fancy that they can impress their will upon posterity. all souls' was designed by its founder, archbishop chicheley, _ad orandum_ as well as _ad studendum_; it was to serve the purpose of a chantry not less than of a college. the sculptured group of souls over the gateway in high street denotes that the warden and fellows were to pray for the souls of all christian people. but particularly were they to pray for the souls of "the illustrious prince henry, late king of england, of thomas, duke of clarence, and of all the dukes, earls, barons, knights, esquires, and others who fell in the war for the crown of france." of that unhappy war chicheley had been the adviser; and seeing the wreck which his folly, or, if the suspicion immortalised by shakespeare is true, his selfish policy, as the head of a bloated establishment threatened with depletion, had wrought, he may well have felt the sting of conscience in his old age. the figures in the new reredos of the chapel tell the story of the foundation. * * * * * [illustration: st. john's pulpit. magdalen college, first quadrangle.] magdalen was the work of waynflete, bishop of winchester and chancellor of henry vi., another statesman-prelate who turned from the political storm to found a house of learning. of all the houses of learning in england, perhaps of any country, that which waynflete founded is the loveliest, as he will say who stands in its cloistered and ivy-mantled quadrangle, either beneath the light of the summer's sun or that of the winter's moon. some american architect, captivated by the graces of magdalen, has reproduced them in his plan for a new university in california. those courts, when newly built, were darkened by the presence of richard iii. waynflete came to oxford to receive the king; and this homage, paid by a saintly man, seems to show that in those fierce times of dynastic change, richard, before the murder of his nephews, was not regarded as a criminal usurper, perhaps not as a usurper at all. the tyrant was intellectual. in him, as still more notably in tiptoft, earl of worcester, nicknamed for his cruelty the butcher, but literary and a benefactor to the university, was something like an english counterpart of the mixture in the italian renaissance of culture with licentiousness and crime. but as he sat beside waynflete in the hall wooing popularity by apparent attention to the exercises, richard's thoughts probably were far away. a red rose among the architectural ornaments is found to have been afterwards painted white. it changed, no doubt, with fortune, when she left the red for the white rose. a new relation between college and university is inaugurated by the institution at magdalen of three readers to lecture to the university at large. * * * * * the old quadrangle of brasenose remains much as it was left by its co-founders, a munificent bishop and a pious knight. it is of no special historic interest, and its importance belongs to later times. it absorbed several halls, the sign of one of which was probably the brazen nose which now adorns its gate, and so far it marks an epoch. * * * * * the quiet and sombre old quadrangle of corpus christi lies yonder, by the side of merton, much as its founder left it. now we have come to the real dawn of the english renaissance, a gray dawn which never became a very bright day; for in england, as in germany and other teutonic countries, reawakened and emancipated intellect turned to the pursuit of truth rather than of beauty, and the great movement was less a birth of literature and of art than of reformation in religion. this is the age of grocyn, the teacher of greek; of linacre, the english hippocrates; of colet, the regenerator of education; of sir thomas more, who carried culture to the chancellorship of the realm, and whose "utopia" proclaims the growth of fresh aspirations and the opening of a new era in one way, as rabelais did in another. duke humphrey of gloucester, uncle of henry vi., had perhaps opened the epoch at oxford by his princely gift of books, in which the renaissance literature was strongly represented, and which was the germ of the university library. soon erasmus will visit oxford and chant in elegant latin the praises of the classical and cultured circle which he finds there. now rages the war between the humanists of the new classical learning, called the greeks, and its opponents, the trojans, who desired to walk in the ancient paths, and who, though bigoted and grotesque, were, after all, not far wrong in identifying heresy with greek, since the study of the new testament in the original was subversive of the mediæval faith. again, as in the cases of merton, wykeham, and waynflete, a statesman-prelate turns in old age from the distractions of state to found a house of learning. foxe, bishop of winchester, was the chief counsellor and diplomatist of henry vii., in whose service he had no doubt passed anxious hours and trodden dark paths. it may have been partly for the good of his soul that he proposed to found a house in oxford for the reception of young monks from st. swithin's priory in winchester while studying in oxford. he was diverted from that design, and persuaded to found a college instead, by his friend hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, who is represented as saying, "what, my lord, shall we build houses and provide livelihoods for a company of bussing monks whose end and fall we ourselves may live to see? no, no. it is more meet, a great deal, that we should have care to provide for the increase of learning and for such as by their learning shall do good in the church and commonwealth." supposing the prognostication embodied in these words genuine, they show that to an enlightened bishop the dissolution of the monasteries seemed inevitable. the statutes of foxe's college are written in a style which affects the highest classical elegance. they elaborate throughout the metaphor of a bee-hive with its industrious insects and its store of intellectual honey. they embody the hopes of the renaissance and depict a college of the humanities. there is to be a reader in greek, and for the subjects of his lectures a long list of great greek authors is assigned. there is to be a reader of latin, for whose lectures a similar list of latin authors is given, and who is to keep "barbarism," that mortal sin in the eyes of a devotee of the renaissance, out of the hive. theology is not forgotten. the founder pays a due, possibly somewhat conventional, tribute to its surpassing importance. of this, also, there is a professor, but its guides in interpreting scripture are not to be the mediæval textbooks, such as aquinas and the master of the sentences, but the greek and latin fathers, including the daring origen and augustine the favourite of luther. the readers are to lecture not to the college only, but to the university at large, a new provision, connecting the college with the university, which hardly took effect till very recent times. one of the first readers was the learned spaniard, juan luis vives, whose appointment bespoke the cosmopolitan character of the humanist republic of letters. the statutes were signed by the founder with a trembling hand eight months before his death, so that only in imagination did he see his literary bees at work. * * * * * yonder to the south is tom tower, where hangs the great bell, which, "swinging slow with sullen roar," was heard by milton at forest hill. it was tolled a hundred and one times for the hundred and one students of wolsey's house. the tower, or cupola, was the work, not of wolsey but of wren. around the great quadrangle over which it rises are seen the lines for cloisters which were never built. the balustrade on the top of the quadrangle is an alien work of modern times. the church of st. frydeswide's monastery does duty as the college chapel, in place of the grand chapel in the perpendicular style, which, had the founder's plan taken effect, would have stood there. moreover, that which should have been wholly a college is made to serve and to expend a part of its power as the chapter of the diocese of oxford, lending its chapel as the cathedral, a niggardly arrangement which has been productive of strained relations between occupants of the see and heads of the college. ample and noble are the courts of wolsey. worthy of his magnificence is the great hall, the finest room, barring westminster hall, in england, and filled with those portraits of _alumni_, which, notwithstanding the frequency of pudding sleeves, form the fairest tapestry with which hall was ever hung. but it all falls short of wolsey's conception. had wolsey's conception been fulfilled, ipswich would have been a nursery of scholars for cardinal college, as winchester was for new college, and eton for king's college, cambridge. the cardinal was an english leo x. in morals, tastes, perhaps in beliefs; a true prince, not of the church but of the renaissance. for him, perhaps, as for foxe, it was a refreshment to turn from public life, full, as it must have been, of care and peril for the vizier of a headstrong and capricious despot, to the calm happiness of seeing his great college rise, and gathering into it the foremost of teachers and the flower of students. but in the midst of his enterprise the sky of the renaissance became overcast with clouds, and the storm of religious revolution, which had long been gathering, broke. forewarnings of the storm wolsey had received, for he had found that in opening his gates to the highest intellectual activity he had opened them to free inquiry and to heterodoxy. himself, too, had set the example of suppressing monasteries, though he did this not for mere rapine or to gorge his parasites, but to turn useless and abused endowments to a noble use. wolsey all but drew his foundation down with him in his fall. the tyrant and his minions were builders of nothing but ruin. christ church, as at last it was called, was threatened with confiscation and destruction, but was finally spared in its incomplete condition, appropriated by henry as his own foundation, and dedicated to the honour of the king, whose portrait, in its usual attitude of obtrusive self-conceit, occupies in the hall the central place, where the portrait of the cardinal should be. the cardinal's hat, on the outer wall of the house, is left to speak of the true founder. that the college was to be called after its founder's name, not, like the colleges of wykeham and waynflete, after the name of a saint, seems a symptom of the pride which went before wolsey's fall. * * * * * now come upon the hapless university forty years of religious revolution, the monuments of which are traces of destruction and records of proscription. all the monastic houses and houses for monastic novices were forfeited to the crown, and their buildings were left desolate, though, from the ruins of some of them, new colleges were afterwards to rise. libraries which would now be priceless, were sacked and destroyed because the illumination on the manuscripts was popish. it was the least to be deplored of all the havoc, that the torn leaves of the arid tomes of duns scotus were seen flying about the quadrangle of new college, while a sporting gentleman of the neighbourhood was picking them up to be used in driving the deer. there is a comic monument of the religious revolution in the coffer shrine at christ church, in which the dust of catherine, wife of the protestant doctor, peter martyr, is mingled with that of the catholic saint, frydeswide. catholicism, in its hour of triumph under mary, had dug up the corpse of the heretic's concubine and buried it under a dung-hill. protestantism, once more victorious, rescued the remains, and guarded against a repetition of the outrage, in case fortune should again change, by mingling them with those of the catholic saint. a more tragic memorial of the conflict is yonder recumbent cross in broad street, close to the spot, then a portion of the town ditch, where cranmer, latimer, and ridley died. bocardo, the prison over the neighbouring gate of the city, from the window of which cranmer, then confined there, witnessed the burning of latimer and ridley, was pulled down at the beginning of this century. the divinity school, christ church cathedral, and st. mary's church witnessed different scenes of the drama. st. mary's witnessed that last scene, in which cranmer filled his enemies with fury and confusion by suddenly recanting his recantation, and declaring that the hand which had signed it should burn first. college archives record the expulsion, readmission, and re-expulsion of heads and fellows, as victory inclined to the protestant or catholic side. so perished the english renaissance. for the cultivation of the humanities there could be no room in a centre of religious strife. * * * * * fatal bequests of the religious war were the religious tests. leicester, as chancellor, introduced subscription to the thirty-nine articles to keep out romanists; king james, that to the three articles of the thirty-sixth canon to keep out puritans. these tests, involving scores of controverted propositions in theology, were imposed on the consciences of mere boys. the universities were thus taken from the nation and given to the state church, which, in the course of time, as dissent from its doctrines gained ground, came to be far from identical with the nation. * * * * * [illustration: st. john's college--garden front.] in the first lull, however, new colleges arose, partly out of the ruins of the monastic houses of the past. trinity college, of which the quiet old quadrangle is curiously mated with a fantastic chapel of much later date, was founded out of the ruin of durham college, a benedictine house. its founder, sir thomas pope, was one of that group of highly educated lay statesmen, eminent both in the councils of kings and among the patrons of learning, which succeeded the great prelates of the middle ages. he was a catholic, as his statutes show; but a liberal catholic, not unfriendly to light, though little knowing perhaps whither it would lead him. among his friends was sir nicholas bacon, who bequeathed to him the splendid whistle, then used to call servants, which is seen round his neck in his portrait. another of his friends was pole, who showed his intellectual liberality by recommending him to enjoin in his statutes the study of greek. st. john's college, again, rose out of the wreck of a bernardine house. the founder was not a statesman or a prelate, but a great citizen, sir thomas white, sometime lord mayor of london, who had amassed wealth in trade, and made a noble use of it. white also was of the olden faith. that the storm was not over when his college was founded is tragically shown by the fate of campion, who, when white was laid in the college chapel, preached the funeral sermon, and afterwards becoming a jesuit and an emissary of his order, was brought to the rack and to the scaffold. there was also a great secession of fellows when the final rupture took place between rome and elizabeth. in the group of cultivated knights and statesmen, who patronised learning and education, may be placed sir william petre, the second founder of exeter college, whose monument is its old quadrangle, and sir thomas bodley, whose monument is the bodleian library. if petre and bodley were protestants, while pope and white were catholics, the difference was rather political than religious. in religion the public men changed with the national government, little sharing the passions of either theological party. * * * * * jesus, whose old quadrangle, chapel, and hall belong to early stuart times, was the first distinctly protestant college. this its name, in contrast with colleges named after saints, denotes. the second protestant college was wadham, the buildings of which stand in their pristine beauty, vying with magdalen, perhaps even excelling it in the special air of a house of learning, and proving that to be interesting and impressive it is not necessary to be mediæval. at the same time wadham shows how long the spirit of the middle ages clung to oxford; for the style of the chapel is anterior by a century and a half to the date. here we have a conscious desire, on the part of the architect, to recall the past. the founder, sir nicholas wadham, was a wealthy western land-owner. we may dismiss the tradition that his first design was to found a college of roman catholic priests in italy, and his second to found a protestant college at oxford, as at most significant of the prolonged wavering of the religious balance in the minds of a number of the wealthier class. the statutes were, in the main, like those of the mediæval colleges, saving in making the fellowship terminable after about twenty-two years, thus more clearly designating the college as a school for active life. the prohibition of marriage was retained, not as an ascetic ordinance, but as a concomitant of the college system. in the mediæval colleges it was not necessary to extend the prohibition to the heads, who, being priests, were bound to celibacy by the regulations of their order; but marriage being now permitted to the clergy generally, the prohibition was in the statutes of wadham expressly extended, in the interest of the college system, to the head. hence it is an aspersion on the reputation of dame dorothy wadham, who, after her husband's death, carried out his design, and whose effigy kneels opposite that of her loving lord in the old quadrangle, to say that she was in love with the first warden, and because he would not marry her, forbade him by statute to marry any other woman. [illustration: wadham college--garden front.] * * * * * these foundations, followed by that of pembroke and the building of the south quadrangle of merton, of the south quadrangle of lincoln, of the west front of st. john's, of the quadrangle and hall of exeter, of part of the quadrangle of oriel, of the west quadrangle of university college, as well as of the bodleian library, the schools' quadrangle, the convocation house, and of the gateway of the botanic garden, prove that, though the old university system, with its scholastic exercises, had become hollow, there was life in oxford, and the interest of patrons of learning was attracted to it during the period between the reformation and the rebellion. it was also felt to be a centre of power. elizabeth twice visited it, once in the heyday of her youthful glory, and again in her haggard decline. on the first occasion she exerted with effect those arts of popularity which were the best part of her statesmanship. on both occasions she was received with ecstatic flattery and entertained with academical exercises at tedious length, and plays, to our taste not less tedious, performed in college halls. her successor could not fail to exhibit himself in a seat of learning, where he felt supreme, and, to do him justice, was not unqualified, to shine. to his benignity the university owes the questionable privilege of sending two members to the house of commons, whereby it became entangled in political as well as in theological frays. * * * * * great changes, however, had by this time passed or were passing over the university. as in former days the halls had absorbed the chamberdekyns, so the colleges had now almost absorbed the halls. they did this, not by any aggression, but by the natural advantages of wealth, their riches always increasing with the value of land, and by their reputation. most of them, in addition to the members on the foundation, took students as boarders, and they got the best and wealthiest. universities, losing their pristine character as marts of available knowledge, and becoming places of general education, ceased, by a process equally natural, to be the heritage of the poor and became the resort of the rich. the mediæval statutes of the colleges still limited the foundations to the poor, but even these in time, by cunning interpretation, were largely evaded. already in the later middle ages oxford had received, and, it seems, too complacently received, young scions of the aristocracy and gentry, the precursors of the noblemen and the silk-gowned gentleman-commoners of a later day. the black prince had been for a short time at queen's college. in the reign of henry vi., george neville, the brother of the king-maker, had celebrated the taking of his degree, a process which was probably made easy to him, with banquets which lasted through two days on a prodigious scale. at the same time and for the same causes the system of college instruction grew in importance and gradually ousted the lectures of university professors. fellows of colleges were not unwilling to add to their commons and livery the tutor's stipend. thus the importance of the college waxed while that of the university waned, and the college statutes became more and more collectively the law of the university. these statutes were mediæval and obsolete, but they were unalterable, the heads and fellows being sworn to their observance, and there being no power of amendment, since the visitor could only interpret and enforce. thus the mediæval type of life and study was stereotyped and progress was barred. the fellowships having been originally not teacherships or prizes, but aids to poor students, the founders deemed themselves at liberty in regulating the elections to give free play to their local and family partialities, and the consequence was a mass of preferences to favoured counties or to kin. with all these limitations, the teaching body of the university was now practically saddled. even the restrictions to particular schools--as to winchester in the case of new college, to westminster, which had been substituted for wolsey's ipswich, in the case of christ church, and to merchant tailors' school in the case of st. john's--were noxious, though in a less degree, albeit their bad influence might be redeemed by some pleasant associations. worst of all, however, in their effect were the restrictions to the clerical order. this meant little in the middle ages, when all intellectual callings were clerical, when at oxford gownsman and clerk, townsman and laic, were convertible terms. wykeham, foxe, and wolsey themselves were thorough laymen in their pursuits and character, though they had received the tonsure, were qualified, if they pleased, to celebrate mass, and derived their incomes from bishoprics and abbeys. but the reformation drew a sharp line between the clerical and the other professions. the clergyman was henceforth a pastor. the resident body of graduates and the teaching staff of oxford belonging almost exclusively to the clerical profession, the studies and interests of that profession now reigned alone. whatever life remained to the university was chiefly absorbed in theological study and controversy. this was the more deplorable as theology, in the mediæval sense, was a science almost as extinct as astrology or alchemy. oxford was turned into the cock-pit of theological party. at the same time she was bound hand and foot to a political faction, because her clergymen belonged to the episcopal and state church, the patrons and upholders of which, from political motives, were the kings and the cavaliers, or, as they were afterwards called, the tories. cambridge suffered like oxford, though with some abatement, because there, owing to the vicinity of a great puritan district, high anglicanism did not prevail, and, for reasons difficult to define, the clergy altogether were less clerical. newton was near forfeiting his fellowship and the means of prosecuting his speculations because he was not in holy orders. luckily, a lay fellowship fell just in time. let founders, and all who have a passion for regulating the lives of other people, for propagating their wills beyond the reach of their foresight, and for grasping posterity, as it were, with a dead hand, take warning by a disastrous example. * * * * * as the colleges became the university, their heads became the governors of the university. they formed a board called the hebdomadal council, which initiated all legislation, while the executive was the vice-chancellorship, which, though legally elective, was appropriated by the heads, and passed down their list in order. with a single exception, the headships were all clerical, and they were almost always filled by men of temperament, to say the least, eminently conservative. thus academical liberty and progress slept. * * * * * [illustration: st. mary's church.] on the eve of another great storm we have a pleasant glimpse of oxford life and study in clarendon's picture of falkland's circle, at great tew, within ten miles of oxford, whither, he says, "most polite and accurate men of that university resorted, dwelling there as in a college situated in a purer air, so that his was a university bound in a less volume, whither his intellectual friends came not so much for repose as study, and to examine and refine those grosser propositions which laziness and consent made current in conversation." this indicates that, while study was going on, liberal inquiry was also on foot. but clouds again gathered, the storm again came, and once more from the ecclesiastical quarter. the triumph of the reformation, the accession of a protestant queen, and the chancellorship of leicester, who, for politic purposes, played the puritan, had been attended by a general expulsion or secession of the romanising party, which left the university for a time in the hands of the calvinists and low churchmen. hooker, the real father of anglicanism, had, for a time, studied church antiquity in the quiet quadrangle of corpus, but he had come into collision with puritanism, and had, for a time, been driven away by it. perhaps its prevalence may have ultimately inclined him to exchange the university for a far less congenial sphere. the clergy, however, of an episcopal church, and one which laid claim to apostolical succession, was sure in time to come round to high church doctrine. to high church doctrine the clergy of oxford did come round under the leadership of laud, university preacher, proctor, president of st. john's college, and afterwards chancellor of the university. of laud there are several memorials at oxford. one is the inner quadrangle of st. john's college, ornamented in the style of inigo jones, where the archbishop and chancellor, in the noontide of his career, received with ecstasies of delight, ecclesiastical, academical, and political, his doomed king and master with the fatal woman at charles's side. another is a fine collection of oriental books added to the bodleian library. a third and more important is the new code of statutes framed for the reformation of the university by its all-powerful chancellor. a fourth is the statue of the virgin and child over the porch of st. mary's church, which, as proof of a romanising tendency, formed one of the charges against the archbishop, though it was really put up by his chaplain. the fifth is the headless corpse which lies buried in the chapel of st. john's college, whither pious hands conveyed it after the restoration. laud was a true friend of the university and of learned men, in whom, as in hales, he respected the right of inquiry, and to whom he was willing to allow a freedom of opinion which he would not allow to the common herd. he was not so much a bigot as a martinet. it was by playing the martinet in ecclesiastical affairs that he was brought into mortal collision with the nation. in the code of statutes which by his characteristic use of autocratic power he imposed on oxford the martinet is betrayed; so is the belief in the efficacy of regulation. we see the man who wrecked a kingdom for the sake of his forms. nor had laud the force to deliver university education from the shackles of the middle ages and the scholastic system. but the code is dictated by a genuine spirit of reform, and might have worked improvement had it been sustained by a motive power. * * * * * the period of the civil war is a gap in academical history. its monuments are only traces of destruction, such as the defacement of papistical images and window paintings by the puritan soldiery, and the sad absence of the old college plate, of which two thousand five hundred ounces went to the royal mint in new inn hall, only a few most sacred pieces, such as the founder's drinking-horn at queen's, and the covered cup, reputed that of the founder, at corpus, being left to console us for the irreparable loss. exeter college alone seems to have shown compunction; perhaps there had remained in her something of the free spirit for which in the days of wycliffe she had been noted. art and taste may mourn, but the university, as a centre of episcopalianism, had little cause to complain; for the war was justly called the bishops' war, and by the episcopal church and the queen, between them, charles was brought to the block. oxford was bound by her ecclesiasticism to the royal cause, and she had the ill luck to be highly available as a place of arms from her position between the two rivers, while she formed an advanced post to the western country in which the strength of the king's cause lay. during those years the university was in buff and bandolier, on the drill ground instead of in the schools, while the colleges were filled with the exiled court and its ghost of a parliament. traces of works connecting the two rivers were not long ago to be seen, and tradition points to the angle in the old city wall under merton college as the spot where windebank, a royalist officer, was shot for surrendering his post. there was a reign of garrison manners as well as of garrison duties, and to the few who still cared for the objects of the university, even if they were royalists, the surrender of the city to the parliament may well have been a relief. * * * * * then came parliamentary visitation and the purge, with the inevitable violence and inhumanity. heads and fellows, who refused submission to the new order of things, were turned out. mrs. fell, the wife of the dean of christ church, deposed for royalism, refused to quit the deanery, and at last had to be carried out of the quadrangle, venting her wrath in strong language as she went, by a squad of parliamentary musketeers. but the puritans put in good men: such as owen, who was made dean of christ church; conant, who was made rector of exeter; wilkins, who was made warden of wadham; and seth ward, the mathematician, who was made president of trinity college. owen and conant appear to have been model heads. the number of students increased. evelyn, the anglican and royalist, visiting oxford, seems to find the academical exercises, and the state of the university generally, satisfactory to his mind. he liked even the sermon, barring some presbyterian animosities. nor did he find much change in college chapels. new college was "in its ancient garb, notwithstanding the scrupulosity of the times." the chapel of magdalen college, likewise, was "in pontifical order," and the organ remained undemolished. the protectorate was tolerant as far as the age allowed. evelyn was cordially received by the puritan authorities and hospitably entertained. puritanism does not seem to have been so very grim, whatever the satirist in "the spectator" may say. tavern-haunting and swearing were suppressed. so were may-poles and some innocent amusements. but instrumental music was much cultivated, as we learn from the royalist and high church antiquary anthony wood, from whom, also, we gather that dress, though less donnish, was not more austere. cromwell, having saved the universities from fanatics who would have laid low all institutions of worldly learning, made himself chancellor of oxford, and sought to draw thence, as well as from cambridge, promising youths for the service of the state. even clarendon admits that the restoration found the university "abounding in excellent learning," notwithstanding "the wild and barbarous depopulation" which it had undergone; a miraculous result, which he ascribes, under god's blessing, to "the goodness and richness of the soil, which could not be made barren by all the stupidity and negligence, but choked the weeds, and would not suffer the poisonous seeds, which were sown with industry enough, to spring up." puritanism might be narrow and bibliolatrous, but it was not obscurantist nor the enemy of science. we see this in puritan oxford as well as in puritan harvard and yale. in puritan oxford the scientific circle which afterwards gave birth to the royal society was formed. its chief was warden wilkins, and it included boyle, wallis, seth ward, and wren. it met either in wilkins's rooms at wadham, or in those of boyle. evelyn, visiting wilkins, is ravished with the scientific inventions and experiments which he sees. on the stones of oxford, puritanism has left no trace; there was hardly any building during those years. there were benefactions not a few, among which was the gift of selden's library. upon the restoration followed a royalist proscription, more cruel, and certainly more lawless, than that of the puritans had been. all the good heads of the commonwealth era were ejected, and the colleges received back a crowd of royalists, who, during their exclusion, had probably been estranged from academical pursuits. anthony wood himself is an unwilling witness to the fact that the change was much for the worse. "some cavaliers that were restored," he says, "were good scholars, but the majority were dunces." "before the war," he says in another place, "we had scholars who made a thorough search in scholastic and polemical divinity, in humane learning and natural philosophy, but now scholars study these things not more than what is just necessary to carry them through the exercises of their respective colleges and the university. their aim is not to live as students ought to do, temperate, abstemious, and plain in their apparel, but to live like gentry, to keep dogs and horses, to turn their studies into places to keep bottles, to swagger in gay apparel and long periwigs." into the rectorship of exeter, in place of the excellent conant, was put joseph maynard, of whom wood says, "exeter college is now much debauched by a drunken governor; whereas, before, in doctor conant's time, it was accounted a civil house, it is now rude and uncivil. the rector is good-natured, generous, and a good scholar, but he has forgot the way of college life, and the decorum of a scholar. he is much given to bibbing, and when there is a music meeting in one of the fellow's chambers, he will sit there, smoke, and drink till he is drunk, and has to be led to his lodgings by the junior fellows." this is not the only evidence of the fact that drinking, idling, and tavern-haunting were in the ascendant. study as well as morality, having been the badge of the puritan, was out of fashion. wilkins's scientific circle took its departure from oxford to london, there to become the germ of the royal society. the hope was gone at oxford of a race of "young men provided against the next age, whose minds, receiving the first impressions of sober and generous knowledge, should be invincibly armed against all the encroachments of enthusiasm." the presence of the merry monarch, with his concubines, at oxford, when his parliament met there, was not likely to improve morals. oxford sank into an organ of the high church and tory party, and debased herself by servile manifestos in favour of government by prerogative. non-conformists were excluded by the religious tests, the operation of which was more stringent than ever since the passing of the act of uniformity. the love of liberty and truth embodied in locke was expelled from christ church; not, however, by the act of the college or of the university, but by royal warrant, though fell, dean of christ church, bowed slavishly to the tyrant's pleasure; so that christ church may look with little shame on the portrait of the philosopher, which now hangs triumphant in her hall. the cavaliers did not much, even in the way of building. the sheldonian theatre was given them by the archbishop, to whom subscriptions had been promised, but did not come in, so that he had to bear the whole expense himself. he was so deeply disgusted that he refused ever to look upon the building. * * * * * over the gateway of university college stands the statue of james ii. that it should have been left there is a proof both of the ingrained toryism of old oxford, and of the mildness of the revolution of . obadiah walker, the master of the colleges, was one of the political converts to roman catholicism, and it was in ridicule of him that "old obadiah, ave maria," was sung by the oxford populace. a set of rooms in the same quadrangle bears the trace of its conversion into a roman catholic chapel for the king. it faces the rooms of shelley. reference was made the other day, in an ecclesiastical lawsuit, to the singular practice which prevails in this college, of filing out into the ante-chapel after the sacrament to consume the remains of the bread and wine, instead of consuming them at the altar or communion table. this probably is a trace of the protestant reaction which followed the transitory reign of roman catholicism under obadiah walker. all are familiar with the magdalen college case, and with the train of events by which the most devoutly royalist of universities was brought, by its connection with the anglican church and in defence of the church's possessions, into collision with the crown, and arrayed for the moment on the side of constitutional liberty. after the revolution the recoil quickly followed. oxford became the stronghold of jacobitism, the scene of treasonable talk over the wine in the common room, of riotous demonstrations by pot-valiant undergraduates in the streets, of jacobite orations at academical festivals, amid frantic cheers of the assembled university, of futile plotting and puerile conspiracies which never put a man in the field. "the king to oxford sent a troop of horse." but the troop of horse was not called upon to act. there was a small hanoverian and constitutional party, and now and then it scored a point against its adversaries, who dared not avow their disloyalty to the reigning dynasty. a jacobite proctor, having intruded into a convivial meeting of whigs, they tendered him the health of king george, which, for fear of the treason law, he was fain to drink upon his knees. * * * * * [illustration: staircase, christ church.] in the early part of the eighteenth century there was some intellectual life in christ church, to which westminster still sent up good scholars, and which was the resort of the nobility, in whom youthful ambition and desire for improvement might be stirred by the influences of political homes, and the prospects of a public life. dean aldrich was a scholar and a virtuoso. the spire of all saints' church is a soaring monument of his taste, if not of his genius, for architecture. in the controversy with bentley about the epistles of phalaris, christ church, though she was hopelessly in the wrong, showed that she had some learning and some interest in classical studies. otherwise the eighteenth century is a blank, or worse than a blank, in the history of the university. the very portraits on the college walls disclose the void of any but ecclesiastical eminence. that tendency to torpor, which, as adam smith and turgot have maintained, is inherent in the system of endowments, fell upon oxford in full measure. the colleges had now, by the increase in value of their estates, become rich, some of them very rich. the estates of magdalen, gibbon tells us, were thought to be worth thirty thousand pounds a year, equivalent to double that sum now. instead of being confined to their original commons and livery, the heads and fellows, as administrators of the estate, were now dividing among themselves annually large rentals, though they failed to increase in equal proportion the stipends of the scholars and others who had no share in the administration. the statutes of mediæval founders had become utterly obsolete, and were disregarded, notwithstanding the oath taken to observe them, or observed only so far as they guarded the interest of sinecurists against the public. nor were any other duties assumed. a few of the fellows in each college added to their income by holding the tutorships, the functions of which they usually performed in the most slovenly way, each tutor professing to teach all subjects, while most of them knew none. in the common room, with which each of the colleges now provided itself, the fellows spent lives of trulliberian luxury, drinking, smoking, playing at bowls, and, as gibbon said, by their deep but dull potations excusing the brisk intemperance of youth. even the obligation to residence was relaxed, and at last practically annulled, so that a great part of the fellowships became sinecure stipends held by men unconnected with the university. about the only restriction which remained was that on marriage. out of this the heads had managed to slip their necks, and from the time of elizabeth downwards there had been married heads, to the great scandal of anthony wood and other academical precisians, to whom, in truth, one lady, at least, the wife of warden clayton of merton, seems to have afforded some grounds for criticism by her usurpations. but in the case of the fellows, the statute, being not constructive, but express, could not be evaded except by stealth, and by an application of the aphorism then current, that he might hold anything who would hold his tongue. the effect of this, celibacy being no longer the rule, was to make all the fellows look forward to the benefices, of a number of which each college was the patron, and upon which they could marry. thus devotion to a life of study or education in college, had a fellow been inclined to it, was impossible, under the ordinary conditions of modern life. idleness, intemperance, and riot were rife among the students, as we learn from the novels and memoirs of the day. especially were they the rule among the noblemen and gentlemen-commoners, who were privileged by their birth and wealth, and to whom by the servility of the dons every license was allowed. some colleges took only gentlemen-commoners, who paid high fees and did what they pleased. all souls' took no students at all, and became a mere club which, by a strange perversion of a clause in their statutes, was limited to men of high family. the university as a teaching and examining body had fallen into a dead swoon. few of the professors even went through the form of lecturing, and the statutory obligation of attendance was wholly disregarded by the students. the form of mediæval disputations was kept up by the farcical repetition of strings of senseless syllogisms, which were handed down from generation to generation of students. the very nomenclature of the system had become unmeaning. candidates for the theological degree paced the divinity school for an hour, nominally challenging opponents to disputation, but the door was locked by the bedel, that no opponent might appear. examinations were held, but the candidates, by feeing the university officer, were allowed to choose their own examiners, and they treated the examiner after the ordeal. the two questions, "what is the meaning of golgotha?" and "who founded university college?" comprised the examination upon which lord eldon took his degree. a little of that elegant scholarship, with the power of writing latin verses, of which addison was the cynosure, was the most of which oxford could boast. even this there could hardly have been had not the learned languages happened to have formed an official part of the equipment of the clerical profession. of science, or the mental habit which science forms, there was none. such opportunities for study, such libraries, such groves, a livelihood so free from care could scarcely fail, now and then, to give birth to a learned man, an addison, a lowth, a thomas warton, an elmsley, a martin routh. * * * * * the universities being the regular finishing schools of the gentry and the professions, men who had passed through them became eminent in after life, but they owed little or nothing to the university. only in this way can oxford lay claim to the eminence of bishop butler, jeremy bentham, or adam smith, while gibbon is her reproach. the figures of lord eldon and lord stowell, whose ponderous twin statues sit side by side in the library of university college, were more academical, especially that of lord stowell, who was tutor of his college, and held a lectureship of ancient history. here and there a tutor of the better stamp, no doubt, would try to do his duty by his pupils. a rather pathetic interest attaches to richard newton, who tried to turn hart hall into a real place of education, and had some distinguished pupils, among them charles fox. but the little lamp which he had kindled went out in the uncongenial air. on the site, thanks to the munificence of mr. baring, now stands hertford college. johnson's residence at pembroke college was short, and his narrative shows that it was unprofitable, though his high church principles afterwards made him a loyal son and eulogist of the university. one good effect the interdiction of marriage had. it kept up a sort of brotherhood, and saved corporate munificence from extinction by the private interest of fathers of families. as the college revenues increased, building went on, though after the false classical fashion of the times and mostly for the purpose of college luxury. now rose the new quadrangle of queen's, totally supplanting the mediæval college, and the new buildings at magdalen and corpus. a plan is extant, horrible to relate, for the total demolition of the old quadrangle of magdalen, and its replacement by a modern palace of idleness in the italian style. to this century belong peckwater and canterbury quadrangles, also in the classical style, the first redeemed by the library which fills one side of the square, and which has a heavy architectural grandeur as well as a noble purpose. to the eighteenth century we also mainly owe the college gardens and walks as we see them; and the gardens of st. john's, new college, wadham, worcester, and exeter, with the lime walk at trinity and the broadwalk--now unhappily but a wreck--at christ church, may plead to a student's heart for some mitigation of the sentence on the race of clerical idlers and wine-bibbers, who, for a century, made the university a place, not of education and learning, but of dull sybaritism, and a source, not of light, but of darkness, to the nation. it is sad to think how different the history of england might have been had oxford and cambridge done their duty, like harvard and yale, during the last century. * * * * * [illustration: christ church--front.] at the end of the last or beginning of the present century came the revival. at the end of the last century christ church had some brilliant classical scholars among her students, though the great scene of their eminence was not the study but the senate. the portraits of wellesley and canning hang in her hall. in the early part of the present century the general spirit of reform and progress, which had been repressed during the struggle with revolutionary france, began to move again over the face of the torpid waters. eveleigh, provost of oriel, led the way. at his college and at balliol the elections to fellowships were free from local or genealogical restrictions. they were now opened to merit, and those two colleges, though not among the first in wealth or magnificence, attained a start in the race of regeneration which balliol, being very fortunate in its heads, has since in a remarkable manner maintained. the examination system of laud had lacked a motive power, and had depended, like his policy, on his fiat instead of vital force. there was no sufficient inducement for the examiner to be strict or for the candidate to excel. the motive power was now supplied by a list of honours in classics and mathematics, and among the earliest winners in the first class in both schools was robert peel. * * * * * scarcely, however, had the university begun to awake to a new life, when it was swept by another ecclesiastical storm, the consequence of its unhappy identification with clericism and the state church. the liberal movement which commenced after the fall of napoleon and carried the reform bill, threatened to extend to the religious field, and to withdraw the support of the state from the anglican church. this led the clergy to look out for another basis, which they found in the reassertion of high church and sacerdotal doctrines, such as apostolical succession, eucharistical real presence, and baptismal regeneration. presently the movement assumed the form of a revival of the church of the middle ages, such as high church imagination pictured it, and ultimately of secession to rome. oxford, with her mediæval buildings, her high church tradition, her half-monastic colleges, and her body of unmarried clergy, became the centre of the movement. the romanising tendencies of tractarianism, as from the "tracts for the times" it was called, visible from the first, though disclaimed by the leaders, aroused a fierce protestant reaction, which encountered tractarianism both in the press and in the councils of the university. the armageddon of the ecclesiastical war was the day on which, in a gathering of religious partisans from all sections of the country which the convocation house would not hold, so that it was necessary to adjourn to the sheldonian theatre, ward, the most daring of the tractarian writers, after a scene of very violent excitement, was deprived of his degree. this was the beginning of the end. newman, the real leader of the movement, though pusey, from his academical rank, was the official leader, soon recognised the place to which his principles belonged, and was on his knees before a roman catholic priest, supplicating for admission to the church of rome. a ritualistic element remained, and now reigns, in the church of england; but the party which newman left, bereft of newman, broke up, and its relics were cast like drift-wood on every theological or philosophical shore. newman's poetic version of mediæval religion, together with the spiritual graces of his style and his personal influence, had for a time filled the imaginations and carried away the hearts of youth, while the seniors were absorbed in the theological controversy, renounced lay studies, and disdained educational duty except as it might afford opportunities of winning youthful souls to the neo-catholic faith. academical duty would have been utterly lost in theological controversy, had it not been for the class list, which bound the most intellectual undergraduates to lay studies by their ambition, and kept on foot a staff of private teachers, "coaches," as they were called, to prepare men for the examinations, who did the duty which the ecclesiastical fellows of the university disdained. the oxford movement has left a monument of itself in the college founded in memory of keble, the gentle and saintly author of "the christian year." it has left an ampler monument in the revival of mediæval architecture at oxford, and the style of new buildings which everywhere meet the eye. the work of the oxford architectural society, which had its birth in the neo-catholic movement, may prove more durable than that movement itself. of the excess to which the architectural revival was carried, the new library at university college, more like a mediæval chapel than a library, is a specimen. it was proposed to give neo-catholicism yet another monument by erecting close to the spot where cranmer, latimer, and ridley died for truth, the statue of cardinal newman, the object of whose pursuit through life had been, not truth, but an ecclesiastical ideal. of the reaction against the tractarian movement the monument is the memorial to the protestant martyrs cranmer, latimer, and ridley, the subscription for which commenced among the protestants who had come up to vote for the condemnation of ward, and which tractarians scornfully compared to the heap of stones raised over the body of achan. * * * * * [illustration: gate tower and cloisters, magdalen.] here ended the reign of ecclesiasticism, of the middle ages, and of religious exclusion. the collision into which romanising oxford had been brought with the protestantism of the british nation, probably helped to bring on the revolution which followed, and which restored the university to learning, science, and the nation. the really academical element in the university invoked the aid of the national government and legislature. a royal commission of inquiry into the state of the university and its colleges was appointed, and though some colleges closed their muniment rooms, and inquiry was obstructed, enough was revealed in the report amply to justify legislative reform and emancipation. an act of parliament was passed which set free the university and colleges alike from their mediæval statutes, restored the university professoriate, opened the fellowships to merit, and relaxed the religious tests. the curriculum, the examination system, and the honour list were liberalised, and once more, as in early times, all the great departments of knowledge were recognised and domiciled in the university. science, long an exile, was welcomed back to her home at the moment when a great extension of her empire was at hand. strictly professional studies, such as practical law and medicine, could not be recalled from their professional seats. elections to fellowships by merit replaced election by local or school preferences, by kinship, or by the still more objectionable influences which at one time had been not unfelt. colleges which had declined the duty of education, which had been dedicated to sinecurism and indolence, and whose quadrangles had stood empty, were filled with students, and once more presented a spectacle which would have gladdened the heart of the founder. a commission, acting on a still more recent act of parliament, has carried the adaptation of oxford to the modern requirements of science and learning further than the old commission, which acted in the penumbra of mediæval and ecclesiastical tradition, dared. the intellectual oxford of the present day is almost a fresh creation. its spirit is new; it is liberal, free, and progressive. it is rather too revolutionary, grave seniors say, so far as the younger men are concerned. this is probably only the first forward bound of recovered freedom, which will be succeeded in time by the sober pace of learning and scientific investigation. again, as in the thirteenth century, the day of grosseteste and simon de montfort, oxford is a centre of progress, instead of being, as under the later stuarts, the stronghold of reaction. of the college revival, the monuments are all around in the new buildings, for which increasing numbers have called, and which revived energy has supplied. christ church, new college, magdalen, merton, balliol, trinity, university have all enlarged their courts, and in almost every college new life has been shown by improvement or restoration. of the reign of mediævalism the only trace is the prevalence in the new buildings of the mediæval style, which architectural harmony seemed to require, though the new buildings of christ church and trinity are proofs of a happy emancipation from architectural tradition. the university revival has its monument in the new examination schools in high street, where the student can no longer get his degree by giving the meaning of golgotha and the name of the founder of university college. there are those who, like mark pattison, look on it with an evil eye, regarding the examination system as a noxious excrescence and as fatal to spontaneous study and research; though they would hardly contend that spontaneous study and research flourished much at oxford before the revival of examinations, or deny that since the revival oxford has produced the fruits of study and research, at least to a fair extent. the restoration of science is proclaimed by the new museum yonder; a strange structure, it must be owned, which symbolises, by the unfitness of its style for its purpose, at once the unscientific character of the middle ages, and the lingering attachment of oxford to the mediæval type. of the abolition of the religious tests, and the restoration of the university to the nation, a monument is mansfield college for congregationalists, a vision of which would have thrown an orthodox and tory head of a college into convulsions half a century ago. even here the mediæval style of architecture keeps its hold, though the places of catholic saints are taken by the statues of wycliffe, luther, john knox, whitefield, and wesley. by the side of mansfield college rises also manchester college for independents, in the same architectural style. neither of them, however, is in the oxford sense a college; both are places of theological instruction. * * * * * on the north of the city, where fifty years ago stretched green fields, is now seen a suburb of villas, all of them bespeaking comfort and elegance, few of them overweening wealth. these are largely the monuments of another great change, the removal of the rule of celibacy from the fellowships, and the introduction of a large body of married teachers devoted to their profession, as well as of the revival of the professorships, which were always tenable by married men. fifty years ago the wives of heads of houses, who generally married late in life if they married at all, constituted, with one or two officers of the university, the whole female society of oxford. the change was inevitable, if education was to be made a profession, instead of being, as it had been in the hands of celibate fellows of colleges, merely the transitory occupation of a man whose final destination was the parish. those who remember the old common room life, which is now departing, cannot help looking back with a wistful eye to its bachelor ease, its pleasant companionship, its interesting talk and free interchange of thought, its potations neither "deep" nor "dull." nor were its symposia without important fruits when such men as newman and ward, on one side, encountered such men as whately, arnold, and tait, on the other side, in common room talk over great questions of the day. but the life became dreary when a man had passed forty, and it is well exchanged for the community that fills those villas, and which, with its culture, its moderate and tolerably equal incomes, permitting hospitality but forbidding luxury, and its unity of interests with its diversity of acquirements and accomplishments, seems to present the ideal conditions of a pleasant social life. the only question is, how the college system will be maintained when the fellows are no longer resident within the walls of the college to temper and control the younger members, for a barrack of undergraduates is not a good thing. the personal bond and intercourse between tutor and pupil under the college system was valuable as well as pleasant; it cannot be resigned without regret. but its loss will be compensated by far superior teaching. half a century ago conservatism strove to turn the railway away from oxford. but the railway came, and it brings, on summer sundays, to the city of study and thought not a few leaders of the active world. oxford is now, indeed, rather too attractive; her academical society is in danger of being swamped by the influx of non-academical residents. * * * * * [illustration: the river--boats racing.] the buildings stand, to mark by their varying architecture the succession of the changeful centuries through which the university has passed. in the libraries are the monuments of the successive generations of learning. but the tide of youthful life that from age to age has flowed through college, quadrangle, hall, and chamber, through university examination-rooms and convocation houses, has left no memorials of itself except the entries in the university and college books; dates of matriculation, which tell of the bashful boy standing before the august vice-chancellor at entrance; dates of degrees, which tell of the youth putting forth, from his last haven of tutelage, on the waves of the wide world. hither they thronged, century after century, in the costume and with the equipments of their times, from mediæval abbey, grange, and hall, from tudor manor-house and homestead, from mansion, rectory, and commercial city of a later day, bearing with them the hopes and affections of numberless homes. year after year they departed, lingering for a moment at the gate to say farewell to college friends, the bond with whom they vowed to preserve, but whom they were never to see again, then stepped forth into the chances and perils of life, while the shadow on the college dial moved on its unceasing round. if they had only left their names in the rooms which they had occupied, there would be more of history than we have in those dry entries in the books. but, at all events, let not fancy frame a history of student life at oxford out of "verdant green." there are realities corresponding to "verdant green," and the moral is, that many youths come to the university who had better stay away, since none get any good and few fail to get some harm, saving those who have an aptitude for study. but the dissipation, the noisy suppers, the tandem-driving, the fox-hunting, the running away from proctors, or, what is almost as bad, the childish devotion to games and sports as if they were the end of existence, though they are too common a part of undergraduate life in the university of the rich, are far from being the whole of it. less than ever are they the whole of it since university reform and a more liberal curriculum have increased, as certainly they have, industry and frugality at the same time. of the two or three thousand lamps which to-night will gleam from those windows, few will light the supper-table or the gambling-table; most will light the book. youthful effort, ambition, aspiration, hope, college character and friendship have no artist to paint them,--at least as yet they have had none. but whatever of poetry belongs to them is present in full measure here. index. addison, joseph, . aldrich, henry, . alfred (king), , . all souls' college, _et sq._ amusements, mediæval, . antiquity, apparent, of the buildings, . architectural revival at oxford, , . aristotle, . ashmolean museum, . augustinians, . _aulæ_, . bacon, roger, , , . bacon, sir nicholas, . balliol college, ; intellectual revival in, . baring, t. c., . benedictines, . bentham, jeremy, . bentley, richard, . black prince, the, . bocardo, . bodleian library, , , , . bodley, sir thomas, , . bologna, university of, . botanic garden, . boyle, charles, . bradwardine, thomas, . brasenose college, _et sq._, , . broadwalk, the, . brome, adam de, . buildings, dates of, _et sq._ butler, bishop, . cardinal college, . carmellites, . celibacy enjoined on heads of colleges, ; effects of its withdrawal, , . chamberdekyns, , . charles i. at oxford, , . charles ii. at oxford, . chicheley, archbishop, , . christ church cathedral, . christ church college, _et sq._; intellectual revival in, , , , . cistercians, . civil war, oxford in the time of the, _et sq._ clarendon, earl of, , . clarendon building, , . clarendon press, . class lists, . clayton, thos., wife of, . clerical profession, dominance of, . colet, john, . college life, _et sq._ colleges, administration and government of, _et sq._; growing importance of, _et sq._; the present intellectual revival in the, _et sq._ commemoration, . common room life, . commons, . commonwealth, oxford in the time of the, _et sq._ conant, john, . congregation, . convocation, . convocation house, , , . corpus christi college, . cranmer, archbishop, , . cromwell, oliver, chancellor of oxford, . degrees, manner of conferring, . disputation, stress laid upon, . divinity school, . dominicans, . duns scotus, . durham college, . egglesfield, robert, . eldon, lord, , . elizabeth (queen), . elmsley, peter, . erasmus, d., . "essays and reviews," authors of, . eton, . eveleigh, john, . evelyn, john, , . examinations, , . examination system, the, , . examination-rooms. _see_ schools. exeter college, , _et sq._ faculties, . falkland, viscount, . fawkes's (guy) lantern, . fell, john, . fellows, . fellowships, . fleming, bishop, . founders, portraits of, . foxe, bishop, . franciscans, . frydeswide, st., . gibbon, edward, . gladstone, w. e., . graduation. _see_ degrees. great hall of the university, the, . great tew, . grocyn, william, . grosseteste, robert, , . halls, , , . hart hall, . hebdomadal council, . hertford college, . high church traditions at oxford, _et sq._ hooker, richard, . houses, monastic, . humanists, the, . humphrey, duke of gloucester, , . inception, . jacobitism at oxford, , . james i., , . james ii., statue of, . jesus college, . jews at oxford in the middle ages, . johnson, samuel, at oxford, . keble, john, . keble college, . laud, archbishop, _et sq._ leicester, earl of, . lime walk at trinity college, the, . linacre, thomas, . lincoln college, _et sq._ livery, . locke, john, . lowth, robert, . magdalen college, _et sq._, _et sq._, . magdalen college case, . manchester college, . manning, h. e., . mansfield college, . marisco, adam de, . martyr, catherine, . maynard, joseph, . mendicant orders, . merton, walter de, , . merton college, _et sq._ mob quad, . monastic orders, . monastic oxford, . monasteries, , , , . montfort, simon de, , . more, sir thomas, . museum, the ashmolean. _see_ ashmolean. museum, the university, , . neo-catholicism. _see_ tractarianism. neville, george, . newman, j. h., , , , . new college, _et sq._ newton, isaac, . newton, richard, . non-conformists excluded, . ockham, . oldham, hugh, . oriel college, , . osney abbey, . owen, john, . oxford (the name), derivation of, . oxford architectural society, . oxford (the city), situation of, ; environs of, , ; of the th century, _et sq._ oxford (the university), administration and government of, _et sq._, _et sq._; origin and growth of, _et sq._; political proclivities of, , , ; in the th century, _et sq._; in the th century, _et sq._; intellectual revival of, in the present day, . oxford movement, the. _see_ tractarianism. oxford university commissions ( and ), , . papacy, the, and the universities, , . paris, university of, , . pattison, mark, . pembroke college, . peel, robert, . petre, sir william, . philippa, queen, . philosophy, scholastic, early addiction to, . pope, cardinal, . pope, sir thomas, . portraits of founders, . press, the university (_see also_ clarendon press), . proctors, , , . professors, . protectorate, the. _see_ commonwealth. puritanism and oxford, _et sq._ pusey, e. b., , . queen's college, , . radcliffe, dr. john, . radcliffe library, . reformation, influence of, on oxford, , . religious tests, . renaissance, the mediæval, . restoration, the, and oxford, _et sq._ revolution, the ( ), and oxford, , . richard iii. at oxford, , . rotheram, bishop, . routh, martin, . royal commissions. _see_ oxford university commissions. royal society, the, _et sq._ st. frydeswide's church, . st. john's college, . st. mary of winton, college of, . st. mary's church, , . st. michael's church, . salerno, university of, . scholars, _et sq._ schools, the, . schools, the new examination, . sermons, university, . sheldon, archbishop, . sheldonian theatre, , , , . smith, adam, . _socii_, . sports, . statutes, fettering influence of, , ; disregarded, . stowell, lord, . student life, mediæval, _et sq._, _et sq._ students, mediæval, , _et sq._; their affrays with the townspeople, , ; their amusements, . suburbs of oxford, _et sq._ teachers, the first, at oxford, . tests. _see_ religious tests. theology, . tiptoft, earl of worcester, . tom tower, . tractarianism, _et sq._ trinity college, . "trojans, the," . turner's picture of oxford, . tutors, . undergraduate life, modern, , . universities, rise of, in europe, . university college, . university gallery, . "verdant green," . vice-chancellorship, the, . vives, juan luis, . wadham, dorothy, . wadham, sir nicholas, . wadham college, . walker, obadiah, . ward, seth, . ward, w. g., . warton, thomas, . waynflete, bishop, , . wellington, duke of, his inauguration as chancellor, . wesley, john, . white, sir thomas, , . wilkins, john, , , . william of durham, . william of wykeham, _et sq._ winchester school, . windebank, thos., . wolsey, cardinal, , , _et sq._ wood, anthony (_quoted_), , . worcester college, . wren, christopher, , . wycliffe, john, . wykeham. _see_ william of wykeham. the new warden by mrs. david g. ritchie author of "two sinners," etc. london john murray, albemarle street, w. first edition, _nov., _. _reprinted ... march, _. _all rights reserved_ contents chapter page i. the warden's lodgings ii. moral support iii. passionate pity iv. the unforeseen happens v. waiting vi. more than one conclusion vii. men marching past viii. the lost letter ix. the luncheon party x. parental effusions xi. no escape xii. the ghost xiii. the effect of suggestion xiv. different views xv. mrs. potten's carelessness xvi. seeing christ church xvii. a tea party xviii. the moral claims of an umbrella xix. honour xx. shopping xxi. the soul of mrs. potten xxii. mr. boreham's proposal xxiii. by moonlight xxiv. a cause and impediment xxv. confessions xxvi. the anxieties of louise xxvii. the forgiveness of the fates xxviii. alma mater xxix. dinner xxx. the end of belinda and co. xxxi. a farewell xxxii. the warden hurries the new warden chapter i the warden's lodgings the founders and the benefactors of oxford, princes, wealthy priests, patriotic gentlemen, noble ladies with a taste for learning; any of these as they travelled along the high road, leaving behind them pastures, woods and river, and halted at the gates of the grey sacred city, had they been in melancholy mood, might have pictured to themselves all possible disasters by fire and by siege that could mar this garnered glory of spiritual effort and pious memory. fire and siege were the disasters of the old days. but a new age has it own disasters--disasters undreamed of in the old days, and none of these lovers of oxford as they entered that fair city, ever could have foretold that in time to come oxford would become enclosed and well-nigh stifled by the peaceful encroachment of an endless ocean of friendly red brick, lapping to its very walls. the wonder is that oxford still exists, for the free jerry-builder of free england, with his natural right to spoil a landscape or to destroy the beauty of an ancient treasure house, might have forced his cheap villas into the very heart of the city; might have propped his shameless bricks, for the use of don and of shopkeeper, against the august grey college walls: he might even have insulted and defaced that majestic street whose towers and spires dream above the battlemented roofs and latticed windows of a more artistic age. but why didn't he? why didn't he, clothed in the sanctity of cheapness, desecrate the inner shrine? the wardens and the bursars of colleges could tell us much, but the stranger and the pilgrim, coming to worship, feel as if there must have flashed into being some sudden hand from nowhere and a commanding voice saying--"thus far shalt thou come and no farther," so that the accursed jerry-builder (under the impression that he was moved by some financial reasons of his own) must have obediently picked up his little bag of tools and trotted off to destroy some other place. anyhow the real oxford has been spared--but it is like a fair mystic gem in a coarse setting. no green fields and no rustling woods lead the lover of oxford gently to her walls. the beauty of england lies there--ringed about with a desolation of ugliness--for ever. still she is there. oxford has never been merely a city of learning, it has been a fighting city. in the twelfth century it sheltered matilda in that terrible, barbaric struggle of young england. in the seventeenth century it was a city in arms for the stuarts. but these were civil wars. now in the twentieth century oxford has risen like one man, like galahad--youthful and knightly--urgent at the call of freedom and the rights of nations. and this oxford is filled with the "sound of the forging of weapons," the desk has become a couch for the wounded, the air is full of the wings of war. * * * * * in this oxford where the black gown has been laid aside and young men hurry to and fro in the dress of the battle-field--in this oxford no man walked at times more heavily, feeling the grief that cannot be made articulate, than did the warden of king's college as he went about his work, a lonely man, without wife or child and with poignant memories of the very blossom of young manhood plucked from his hand and gone for ever. and of the men who passed under his college gates and through the ivy-clad quadrangles, most were strangers--coming and going--learning the arts of war--busy under orders, and the few, a poor remnant of academic youth--foreigners or weaklings. and he, the warden himself, felt himself almost a stranger--for into his life had surged new thoughts, anxious fears and ambitious hopes--for england, the england of the years to come--an england rising up from her desolation and her mourning and striving to become greater, more splendid and more spiritual than she had been before. it was a late october afternoon in and the last rays of autumn sunshine fell through the drawing-room windows of the warden's lodgings. these rays of sunshine lit up a notable portrait over the stone fireplace. the portrait was of a warden of the eighteenth century; a fine fleshy face it was, full of the splendid noisy paganism of his time. you can stand where you will in the room, but you cannot escape the sardonic stare that comes from his relentless, wide-open, luminous eyes. he seems as if he challenged you to stop and listen to the secret of his double life--the life of a scholar and divine of easy morals. words seemed actually upon his lips, thoughts glowing in his eyes--and yet--there is silence. there was only one person in the room, a tall vigorous woman, still handsome in spite of middle age, and she was looking up at the portrait with her hands clasped behind her back. she was not thinking of the portrait--her thoughts were too intent on something else. her thoughts indeed had nothing to do with the past--they were about the future, the future of the new warden, dr. middleton, the future of this only brother of hers whom she loved more than anyone in the world--except her own husband; a brother more than ten years younger than herself, to whom she had been a mother till she married and who remained in her eyes a sort of son, all the more precious to her because children had been denied her. she had come at her brother's call to arrange his new home for him. she had arranged everything with sober economy, because oxford was mourning. she had retained all that she found endurable of the late warden's. and now she turned round and looked on her handiwork. the room wore an air of comfort, it was devoid of all distressful knick-knacks and it was arranged as were french "salons" of the time of mademoiselle de lespinasse for conversation, for groups of talkers, for books and papers; the litter of culture. it was a drawing-room for scholars in their leisure moments and for women to whom they could talk. but there was no complaisance in lady dashwood's face as she looked at her brother's drawing-room, just because her thoughts were deeply occupied with his future. what was his future to be like? what was in store for him? and these thoughts led her to give expression to a sudden outspoken remark--unflattering to that future. "and now, what woman is going to become mistress of this room?" lady dashwood's voice had a harshness in it that startled even herself. "what woman is going to reign here?" she went on, as if daring herself to be gentle and resigned. after she had looked round the room her eye rested upon the portrait over the mantelpiece. he looked as if he had heard her speak and stared back at her with his large persistent selfish eyes--full of cynical wonder. but he remained silent. these were times that he did not understand--but he observed! "it's on jim's conscience that he _must_ marry, now that men are so scarce. he's obsessed with the idea," continued lady dashwood, thinking to herself. "and being like all really good and great men--absolutely helpless--he is prepared to marry any fool who is presented to him." then she added, "any fool--or worse!" "and," she went on, speaking angrily to herself, "knowing that he is helpless--i stupidly go and introduce into this house, a silly girl with a pretty face whose object in coming is to be--mrs. middleton." lady dashwood was mentally lashing herself for this stupidity. "i go and actually put her in his way--at least," she added swiftly, "i allow her mother to bring her and force her upon us and leave her--for the purpose of entrapping him--and so--i've risked his future! and yet," she went on as her self-accusation became too painful, "i never dreamt that he would think of a girl so young--as eighteen--and he forty--and full of thoughts about the future of oxford--and the new world. somehow i imagined some pushing female of thirty would pretend to sympathise with his aspirations and marry him: i never supposed----but i ought to have supposed! it was my business to suppose. here have i left my husband alone, when he hates being alone, for a whole month, in order to put jim straight--and then i go and 'don't suppose'--i'm more than a fool--i'm----" the right word did not come to her mind. here lady dashwood's indignation against herself made the blood tingle hotly in her hands and face. she was by nature calm, but this afternoon she was excited. she mentally pictured the warden--just when there was so much for him to do--wasting his time by figuring as a sacrifice upon the altar of a foolish marriage. she saw the knife at his throat--she saw his blood flow. at this moment the door opened and the old butler, who had served other wardens and who had been retained along with the best furniture as a matter of course, came into the room and handed a telegram to lady dashwood. she tore open the envelope and read the paper: "arrive this evening--about seven. may." "thank----!" exclaimed lady dashwood--and then she suddenly paused, for she met the old thoughtful eye of robinson. "yes!" she remarked irrelevantly. then she folded the paper. "there is no answer," she said. "when you've taken the tea away--please tell mrs. robinson that quite unexpectedly mrs. jack dashwood is arriving at seven. she must have the blue room--there isn't another one ready. don't let in any callers for me, robinson." all that concerned the warden's lodgings concerned robinson. oxford--to robinson meant king's college. he had "heard tell" of "other colleges"; in fact he had passed them by and had seen "other college" porters standing about at their entrance doors as if they actually were part of oxford. robinson felt about the other colleges somewhat as the old-fashioned evangelical felt about the godless, unmanageable, tangled, nameless rabble of humanity (observe the little "h") who were not elected. the "elect" being a small convenient body of which he was a member. king's was the "elect" and robinson was an indispensable member of it. robinson went downstairs with his orders, which, dropping like a pebble into the pool of the servants' quarters, started a quiet expanding ripple to the upper floor, reaching at last to the blue bedroom. alone in the drawing-room lady dashwood was able to complete her exclamatory remark that robinson's solemn eye had checked. "thank heaven!" she said, and she said it again more than once. she laughed even and opened the telegram again and re-read it for the pure pleasure of seeing the words. "arrive this evening." "i've risked jim's life--and now i've saved it." then lady dashwood began to think carefully. there was no train arriving at seven from malvern--but there was one arriving at six and one at seven fifteen. anyhow may was coming. lady dashwood actually laughed with triumph and said--"may is coming--_that_ for 'belinda and co.'!" "did you speak to me, lady dashwood?" asked a girlish voice, and lady dashwood turned swiftly at the sound and saw just within the doorway a girlish figure, a pretty face with dark hair and large wandering eyes. "no, gwen!" said lady dashwood. "i didn't know you were there----" and again she folded the telegram and her features resumed their normal calm. with that folded paper in her hand she could look composedly now at that pretty face and slight figure. if she had made a criminal blunder she had--though she didn't deserve it--been able to rectify the blunder. may dashwood was coming! again: "_that_ for belinda and co.!" the girl came forward and looked round the room. she held two books in her hand, one the warden had lent her on her arrival--a short guide to oxford. she was still going about with it gazing earnestly at the print from time to time in bird-like fashion. "mrs. jack dashwood is arriving this afternoon," said lady dashwood as she moved towards the door. "oh," said gwen, and she stood still in the glow of the windows, her two books conspicuous in her hand. she looked at the nearest low easy-chair and dropped into it, propped one book on her knee and opened the other at random. then she gazed down at the page she had opened and then looked round the room at lady dashwood, keenly aware that she was a beautiful young girl looking at an elderly woman. "mrs. dashwood is my husband's niece by marriage," said lady dashwood. "oh, yes," said gwen, who would have been more interested if the subject of the conversation had been a man and not a woman. "you don't happen to know if the warden has come back?" asked lady dashwood as she moved to the door. "he is back," said gwen, and a slightly deeper colour came into her cheeks and spread on to the creamy whiteness of her slender neck. "in his library?" asked lady dashwood, stopping short and listening for the reply. "yes!" said gwen, and then she added: "he has lent me another book." here she fingered the book on her knee. "a book about the--what-you-may-call-'ems of king's, i'm sorry but i can't remember. we were talking about them at lunch--a word like 'jumps'!" if a man had been present gwen would have dimpled and demanded sympathy with large lingering glances; she would have demanded sympathy and approbation for not knowing the right word and only being able to suggest "jumps." one thing gwen had already learned: that men are kinder in their criticism than women! it was priceless knowledge. "founders, i suppose you mean," said lady dashwood and she opened the door. "never mind," she said to herself as she closed the door behind her. "never mind--may is coming--'jumps!' what a self-satisfied little monkey the girl is!" at the head of the staircase it was rather dark and lady dashwood put on the lights. immediately at right angles to the drawing-room door two or three steps led up to a corridor that ran over the premises of the college porter. in this corridor were three bedrooms looking upon the street, bedrooms occupied by lady dashwood and by gwendolen scott, and the third room, the blue room, about to be occupied by mrs. dashwood. lady dashwood passed the corridor steps, passed the head of the staircase, and went towards a curtained door. this was the warden's bedroom. beyond was his library door. at this door beyond, she knocked. an agreeable voice answered her knock. she went in. the library was a noble room. opposite the door was a wide, high latticed window, hung with heavy curtains and looking on to the entrance court. to the right was a great fireplace with a small high window on each side of it. on the left hand the walls were lined with books--and a great winged book-case stood out from the wall, like a screen sheltering the door which lady dashwood entered. over the door was the portrait of a cardinal once a member of king's. over the mantelpiece was a large engraving of king's as it was in the sixteenth century. at a desk in the middle of the room sat the warden with his back to the fire and his face towards the serried array of books. he was just turning up a reading-lamp--for he always read and wrote by lamplight. "robinson hasn't drawn your curtains," said lady dashwood. "i am going to draw them--he came in too soon," said the warden, without moving from his seat. his face was lit up by the flame of the lamp which he was staring at intently. there was just a faint sprinkling of grey in his brown hair, but on the regular features there was almost no trace of age. "you have given gwen another book to read," said lady dashwood coming up to the writing-table. the warden raised his eyes very slowly to hers. his eyes were peculiar. they were very narrow and blue, seeming to reflect little. on the other hand, they seemed to absorb everything. he moved them very slowly as if he were adjusting a photographic apparatus. "yes," he said. "you might just as well, my dear, hand out a volume of the _encyclopædia britannica_ to the sparrows in your garden," said his sister. the warden made no reply, he merely moved the lamp very slightly nearer to the writing pad in front of him. he had a stored-up memory of pink cheeks, a pure curve of chin and neck, a dark curl by the ear; objects young and graceful and gradually absorbed by those narrow eyes and stored in the brain. he also had memories less pleasant of the slighting way in which once or twice his sister had spoken of "belinda and co.," meaning by that the mother of this pretty piece of pretty girlhood, and the girl herself. "she tries hard to read because we expect her to," continued lady dashwood. "if she had her own way she would throw the books into the fire, as tiresome stodge." the warden was listening with an averted face and now he remarked-- "did you come in, lena, to tell me this?" when the warden was annoyed there was in his voice and in his manner a "something" which many people called "formidable." as lady dashwood stood looking down at him, there flashed into her mind a scene of long ago, where the warden, then an undergraduate, had (for a joke at a party in his rooms) induced by suggestion a very small weak man with peaceful principles to insist on fighting the stroke of the college eight, a man over six feet and broad in proportion. she remembered how she had laughed, and yet how she made her brother promise not to exercise that power again. probably he had completely forgotten the incident. why! it was nearly eighteen years ago, nearly nineteen; and here was james middleton no longer an undergraduate but the warden! lady dashwood bent over him smiling and laid her solid motherly hand upon his head. "oh, dear, how time passes!" she said. "jim, you are such a sweet lamb. no, i didn't come to tell you that. i came to ask you if you were going to dine with us this evening?" "yes," said the warden. "why?" and he now looked round at his sister without a trace of irritability and smiled. "because mrs. jack dashwood is coming here. i didn't mention it before. well, the fact is she happens to have a few days' rest from her work in london. she is with some relative in malvern and coming on here this afternoon." "mrs. jack dashwood!" repeated the warden with evident indifference. "jack dashwood's widow. you remember my john's nephew jack? poor jack who was killed at mons!" yes, the warden remembered, and his face clouded as it always did when war was mentioned. "may and he were engaged as boy and girl--and i think she stuck to it--because she thought she was in honour bound. some women are like that--precious few; and some men." the warden listened without remark. "and i am just going to telephone to mr. boreham," said lady dashwood, "to ask him to come in to dinner to meet her!" "boreham!" groaned the warden, and he took up his pen from the table. "i'm so sorry," said lady dashwood, "but he used to know may dashwood, so we must ask him, and i thought it better to get him over at once and have done with it." "perhaps so," said the warden, and he stretched out his left hand for paper. "only--one never has done--with boreham." "poor old jim!" said lady dashwood, "and now, dear, you can get back to your book," and she moved away. "book!" grumbled the warden. "it's business i have to do; and anyhow i don't see how anyone can write books now! except prophecies of the future, admonitions, sketches of possible policies, heart-searchings." lady dashwood moved away. "well, that's what you're doing, dear," she said. "i don't know," said the warden gloomily, and he reached out his hand, pulling towards him some papers. "one seems to be at the beginning of things." lady dashwood closed the door softly behind her. "he's perplexed," she said to herself. "he is perplexed--not merely because we are at 'the beginning of things,' but because--i have been a fool and----" she did not finish the sentence. she went up early to her room and dressed for dinner. it was impossible to be certain when may would come, so it would be better to get dressed and have the time clear. may's arrival was serious business--so serious that lady dashwood shuddered at the mere thought that it was by a mere stroke of extraordinary luck that she could come and would come! if may came by the six train she would arrive before seven. but seven o'clock struck and may had not arrived. she might arrive about eight o'clock. lady dashwood, who was already dressed, gave orders that dinner was to be put off for twenty minutes, and then she telephoned this news to mr. boreham and sent in a message to the warden. but she quite forgot to tell gwen that dinner was to be later. gwen had gone upstairs early to dress for dinner, for she was one of those individuals who take a long time to do the simplest thing. this omission on the part of lady dashwood, trifling as it seemed, had far-reaching consequences--consequences that were not foreseen by her. she sat in the drawing-room actively occupied in imagining obstacles that might prevent may dashwood from keeping the promise in her telegram: railway accidents, taxi accidents, the unexpected sudden deaths of relatives. as she sat absorbed in these wholly unnecessary and exhausting speculations, the door opened and she heard robinson's quavering voice make the delicious announcement, "mrs. dashwood!" chapter ii moral support may dashwood's features were not faultless. for instance, her determined little nose was rather short and just a trifle retroussé and her eyebrows sometimes looked a little surprised. her great charm lay not in her clear complexion and her bright brown hair, admirable as they were, but in her full expressive grey eyes, and when she smiled, it was not the toothy smile of professional gaiety, but a subtle, archly animated and sympathetic smile; so that both men and women who were once smiled at by her, immediately felt the necessity of being smiled at again! may was still dressed in mourning, very plainly, and she wore no furs. she came into the room and looked round her. "may!" exclaimed lady dashwood. "i thought you were ill, aunt lena!" said may amazed at the sight of lady dashwood, dressed for dinner and apparently in robust health. "i _am_ ill," exclaimed lady dashwood, and she tapped her forehead. "i'm ill here," and she advanced to meet her niece with open arms. "oh!" exclaimed mrs. dashwood, hastening up to her aunt. "i'm still partially sane, may--but--if you hadn't come!" said lady dashwood, kissing her niece on both cheeks. she did not finish her sentence. mrs. dashwood put both hands on her aunt's shoulders and examined her face carefully. "yes, i see you're quite sane, aunt lena." "will you minister to a mind--not actually diseased but oppressed by a consuming worry?" asked lady dashwood earnestly. "don't think i'm a humbug--i need you much more, just now, than if i'd been merely ill--with a bilious attack, say. you've saved my life! i wish i could explain--but it is difficult to explain--sometimes." "i'm glad i've saved your life," said may, and she smiled her peculiar smile. "i see victory--the battle won--already," said lady dashwood, looking at her intently. "i wish i could explain----" "let it ooze out, aunt lena. i can stay for three days--if you want--if i can really do anything for you----" "can't you stay a week?" asked lady dashwood. "may, i'm not joking. i want your presence badly--can't you spare the time? relieve my mind, dear, at once, by telling me you can!" lady dashwood's face suddenly became puckered and her voice was so urgent that may's smile died away. "if it is really important i'll stay a week. nothing wrong about you--or--uncle john?" may looked into her aunt's eyes. "no!" said lady dashwood. "john doesn't like my being away. an old soldier has much to make him sad now, but no----" then she added in an undertone, "jim ..." and she stared into her niece's face. under the portrait of that bold, handsome, unscrupulous warden of king's a faithful clock ticked to the passing of time. the time it showed now was twenty minutes to eight. both ladies in silence had turned to the fire and they were now both standing each with one foot on the fender and were looking up at the portrait and not at the clock. neither of them, however, thought of the portrait. they merely looked at it--as one must look at something. "jim," sighed lady dashwood. "you don't know him, may." "is it he who is ill?" asked may. "he's not ill. he is terribly depressed at times because so many of his old pupils are gone--for ever. but it's not that, not that that i mean. you know what learned men are, may?" lady dashwood did not ask a question, she was making an assertion. may dashwood still gazed at the portrait but now she lowered her eyelids, looking critically through the narrowed space with her grey eyes. "no, i don't know what learned men are," she replied very slowly. "i have met so few." "jim has taken----" and again lady dashwood hesitated. "not to eau perrier?" almost whispered mrs. dashwood. "certainly not," exclaimed lady dashwood. "i don't think he has touched alcohol since the war. it's nothing so elementary as that. i feel as if i were treacherous in talking about it--and yet i must talk about it--because you have to help me. a really learned man is so----" "do you mean that he knows all about julius cæsar," said may, "and nothing about himself?" "i shouldn't mind that so much," said the elder lady, grasping eagerly at this introduction to an analysis of the learned man. "i had better blurt it all out, may. well--he knows nothing about women----" lady dashwood spoke with angry emphasis, but in a whisper. "ah!" said mrs. dashwood, and now she stared deeply at one particular block of wood that was spitting quietly at the attacking flames. she raised her arm and laid her hand on her aunt lena's shoulder. then she squeezed the shoulder slightly as if to gently squeeze out a little more information. "jim is--i'm not sure--but i'm suspicious--on the verge of getting into a mess," said her aunt still in a low voice. "ah!" said may again. "with some woman?" "all perfectly proper," said lady dashwood, "but--oh, may--it's so unspeakably dreary and desolating." "much older than he is?" asked may softly, with an emphasis on "much." "very much younger," said lady dashwood. "only eighteen!" "not nice then?" asked may again softly. "not anything--except pretty--and"--here lady dashwood had a strident bitterness in her voice--"and--she has a mother." "ah!" said may. "you know lady belinda scott?" asked lady dashwood. may dashwood moved her head in assent. "not having enough money for everything one wants is the root of all evil?" she said imitating somebody. "belinda exactly! and all that you and i believe worth having in life--is no more to her--than to--to a monkey up a tree!" mrs. dashwood spoke thoughtfully. "we've come from monkeys and lady belinda thinks a great deal of her ancestry." "then you understand why i'm anxious? you can imagine----" may moved her head in response, and then she suddenly turned her face towards her aunt and said in the same voice in which she had imitated belinda before-- "if dull people like to be dull, it's no credit to 'em!" lady dashwood laughed, but it was a hard bitter laugh. "oh, may, you understand. well, for the twenty-four hours that belinda was here, she was on her best behaviour. you see, she had plans! you know her habit of sponging for weeks on people--she finds herself appreciated by the 'nouveaux riches.' her title appeals to them. well, belinda has never made a home for her one child--not she!" mrs. dashwood's lips moved. "poor child!" she said softly, and there was something in her voice that made lady dashwood aware of what she had momentarily forgotten in her excitement, that the arm resting on her shoulder was the arm of a woman not yet thirty, whose home had suddenly vanished. it had been riddled with bullets and left to die at the retreat from mons. lady dashwood fell into a sudden silence. "go on, dear aunt lena," said may dashwood. "well, dear," said lady dashwood, drawing in a deep breath, "linda got wind of my coming here to put jim straight and she pounced down upon me like a vulture, with gwen, asked herself for one night, and then talked of 'old days, etc.,' and how she longed for gwen to see something of our 'old-world city.' so she simply made me keep the child for 'a couple of days,' then 'a week,' and then 'ten days'--and how could i turn the child out of doors? and so--i gave in--like a fool!" then, after a pause, lady dashwood exclaimed--"imagine belinda as jim's mother-in-law!" "but why should she be?" asked may. "that's the point. belinda would prefer an american wall street man as a son-in-law or a scotch whisky merchant, but they're not so easily got--it's a case of get what you can. so jim is to be sacrificed." "but why?" persisted may quietly. "why, because--although jim has seen belinda and heard her hard false voice, he doesn't see what she is. he is too responsible to imagine belindas and too clever to imagine gwens. gwen is very pretty!" may looked again into the fire. "now do you see what a weak fool i've been?" asked lady dashwood fiercely. "lady belinda will bleed him," said may. "when belinda is jim's mother-in-law, he'll have to pay for everything--even for her funeral!" "wouldn't her funeral expenses be cheap at any price?" asked may. "they would," said lady dashwood. "how are we to kill her off? she'll live--for ever!" then mrs. dashwood seemed to meditate briefly but very deeply, and at the end of her short silence she asked-- "and where do i come in, aunt lena? what can i do for you?" lady dashwood looked a little startled. what may had actually got to do was: well, not to do anything but just to be sweet and amusing as she always was. she had got to show the warden what a charming woman was like. and the rest, he had to do. he had to be fascinated! lady dashwood could see a vision of gwen and her boxes going safely away from oxford--even the name of scott disappearing altogether from the warden's recollection. but after that, what would happen? may too would have to go away. she was still mourning for her husband--still dreaming at night of that awful sudden news from france. may would, of course, go back to her work and leave the warden to--well--anything in the wide world was better than "belinda and co." and it was this certainty that anything was better than belinda and co., this passionate conviction, that had filled lady dashwood's mind--to the exclusion of all other things. it had not occurred to her that may would ask the definite question, "what am i to do?" it was an awkward question. "what i want you to do," said lady dashwood, speaking slowly, while she swiftly sought in her mind for an answer that would be truthful and yet--inoffensive. "why, may, i want you to give me your moral support." may looked away from the fire and contemplated the point of her boot, and then she looked at the point of lady dashwood's shoe--they were both on the fender rim side by side--may's right boot, lady dashwood's left shoe. "your moral support," repeated lady dashwood. "well, then you stay a week. many, many thanks. to-night i shall sleep well." lady dashwood was conscious that "moral support" did not quite serve the purpose she wanted, she had not quite got hold of the right words. may's profile was absolutely in repose, but lady dashwood could feel that she was pondering over that expression "moral support." so lady dashwood was driven to repeat it once more. "moral support," she said very firmly. "your moral support is what i want, dear may." they had not heard the drawing-room door open, but they heard it close although it was done softly, and both ladies turned away from the fire. gwendolen scott had come in and was walking towards them, dressed in white and looking very self-conscious and pretty. "but you haven't told me," said mrs. dashwood tactfully, as if merely continuing their talk, "who that portrait represents?" "oh, an old warden," replied lady dashwood indifferently. "moral support" or not--the compact had been made. may was pledged for the week. all was well! lady dashwood could look at gwen now with an easy, even an affectionate smile. "gwen, let me introduce you to mrs. jack dashwood," she said. gwen had expected mrs. dashwood to be an elderly relative of the family who would not introduce any new element into the warden's little household. she had not for a moment anticipated _this_! it was disconcerting. gwen was very much afraid of clever women, they moved and looked and spoke as if they had been given a key "to the situation," though what that key was and what that situation exactly was gwen did not quite grasp. even the way in which mrs. dashwood put her hand out for a scarf she had thrown on to a chair; the way she moved her feet, moved her head; the way her plain black dress and the long plain coat hung about her, her manner of looking at gwen and accepting her as a person whom she was about to know, all this mysterious "cachet" of her personality--made gwen uneasy. besides this elegant woman was not exactly elderly--about twenty-eight perhaps. gwen was very much disconcerted at this unexpected complication at the lodgings--her life had been for the last few months since she left school in july, crowded with difficulties. "i don't think i want that man to speak," said mrs. dashwood, turning her head to look back at the portrait. "what a funny thing to say!" thought gwen, about a mere portrait, and she sniggled a little. "he's got a ghost," she said aloud. "hasn't he, lady dashwood?" "no," said lady dashwood briefly. "he hasn't got a ghost. the college has got a ghost----" "oh, yes," said gwen, "i mean that, of course." "if the ghost is--all that remains of the gentleman over the fireplace," said mrs. dashwood, "i hope he doesn't appear often." she was still glancing back at the portrait. "isn't it exciting?" said gwen. "the ghost appears whenever anything is going to happen----" "my dear gwen," said lady dashwood, "in that case the ghost might as well bring his bag and baggage and remain here." "what sort of ghost?" asked mrs. dashwood. "oh, only an eighteenth-century ghost--the ghost of the college barber," said lady dashwood. "when that man was warden, the college barber went and cut his throat in the warden's library." "what for?" asked mrs. dashwood simply. "because the warden insisted on his doing the fellows' hair in the new elaborate style of the period--on his old wages." mrs. dashwood pondered, still looking at the portrait. "i should have cut the warden's throat--not my own," she said, "if i had, on my old wages, to curl and crimp instead of merely putting a bowl on the gentlemen's heads and snipping round." "but he had his revenge," said gwen eagerly, "he comes and shows himself in the library when a warden dies." lady dashwood had not during these last few minutes been really thinking of the warden or of the college barber, nor of his ghost. she was thinking that it was characteristic of gwen to be excited by and interested in a silly ghost story--and it was equally characteristic of her to be unable to tell the story correctly. "he is supposed to appear in the library when anything disastrous is going to happen to a warden," she said, and no sooner were the words out of her mouth than she paused and began thinking of what she was saying. "anything disastrous to a warden!" she had not thought of the matter before--jim was now warden! anything disastrous! a marriage may be a disaster. death is not so disastrous as utter disappointment with life and the pain of an empty heart! "come along, may," she said, trying to suppress a shiver that went through her frame. "come along, may. goodness gracious, it's nearly eight o'clock and we are going to dine at eight fifteen!" "i can dress in two shakes," said may dashwood. "i've asked mr. boreham," said lady dashwood, pushing her niece gently before her towards the door and blessing her--in her under-thoughts ("bless you, may, dear dear may!"). "he talked so much about you the other day," she went on aloud, "that when i got your wire--i felt bound to ask him--i hope you don't mind." "nobody does mind mr. boreham," said may. "i haven't seen him--for years." "you know his aunt left him chartcote, so he has taken to haunting oxford for the last three months. talk of ghosts----" then the door closed behind the two ladies and gwen was left alone in the drawing-room. she went up to the clock. it was striking eight. fifteen minutes and nothing to do! she would go and see if there were any letters. she went outside. letters by the first post and by the last post were all placed on a table at the head of the staircase. gwen went and looked at the table. letters there were, all for the warden! no! there was one for her, from her mother. she opened it nervously. was it a scolding about losing that umbrella? gwen began to read: "my dear gwen, "i hope you understand that lady dashwood will keep you till the rd. you don't mention the warden! does that mean that you are making no progress in that direction? perhaps taking no trouble! "the question is, where you will go on the rd?" here gwen's heart gave a thump of alarm and dismay. "it is all off with your cousin bridget. she writes that she can't have you, because she has to be in town unexpectedly. this is only an excuse. i am disappointed but not surprised, after that record behaviour to me when the war broke out and after promising that i should be in her show in france, and then backing out of it. exactly why, i found out only yesterday! you remember that general x. had actually to separate two of the 'angels' that were flitting about on their work of mercy and had come to blows over it. well, one of the two was your cousin bridget. that didn't get photographed in the papers. it would have looked sweet. but now i'm going to give you a scolding. bridget did get wind of your muddling about at the ringwood's little hospital this summer, and spending all your time and energy on a man who i told you was no use. what's the good of talking any more about it? i've talked till i'm blue--and yet you will no doubt go and do the same thing again. "i ought not to have to tell you that if you do come across any stray undergraduates, don't go for them. nothing will come of it. try and keep this in your noddle. go for dr. middleton--men of that age are often silliest about girls--and don't simply go mooning along. then why did you go and lose your umbrella? you have nothing in this wide world to think of but to keep yourself and your baggage together. "it's the second you have lost this year. i can't afford another. you must 'borrow' one. your new winter rig-out is more than i can afford. i'm being dunned for bills that have only run two years. why can't i make you realise all this? what is the matter with you? give the maid who waits on you half a crown, nothing to the butler. lady d. is sure to see you off--and you can leave the taxi to her. leave your laundry bill at the back of a drawer--as if you had mislaid it. i will send you a p.o. for your ticket to stow." here gwen made a pause, for her heart was thumping loudly. "there's nothing for it but to go to nana's cottage at stow for the moment. i know it's beastly dull for you--but it's partly your own fault that you are to have a dose of stow. i'm full up for two months and more, but i'll see what i can do for you at once. i am writing to mrs. greenleafe potten, to ask her if she will have you for a week on monday, but i'm afraid she won't. at stow you won't need anything but a few stamps and a penny for sunday collection. i've written to nana. she only charges me ten shillings a week for you. she will mend up your clothes and make two or three blouses for you into the bargain. don't attempt to help her. they must be done properly. get on with that flannelette frock for the serb relief. address me still here. "your very loving, "mother." nana's cottage at stow! thatch smelling of the november rains; a stuffy little parlour with a smoky fire. forlorn trees outside shedding their last leaves into the ditch at the side of the lane. her old nurse, nearly stone deaf, as her sole companion. gwen felt her knees trembling under her. her eyes smarted and a great sob came into her throat. she had no home. nobody wanted her! chapter iii passionate pity a tear fell upon the envelope in her hand, and one fell upon the red carpet under her feet. she must try and not cry, crying made one ugly. she must go to her room as quickly as she could. then came noiselessly out from the curtained door at gwen's right hand the figure of dr. middleton. he was already dressed for dinner, his face composed and dignified as usual, but preoccupied as if the business of the day was not over. there were these letters waiting for him on the table. he came on, and gwen, blinded by a big tear in each eye, vaguely knew that he stooped and swept up the letters in his hand. then he turned his face towards her in his slow, deliberate way and looked. she closed her eyes, and the two tears squeezed between the lids, ran down her cheeks leaving the delicate rosy skin wet and shining under the electric light. tears had rarely been seen by the warden: never--in fact--until lately! he was startled by them and disconcerted. "has anything happened?" he asked. "anything serious?" it would need to be something very serious for tears! the gentleness of his voice only made the desolation in gwen's heart the more poignant. in a week's time she would have to leave this beautiful kindly little home, this house of refuge. the fear she had had before of the warden vanished at his sudden tenderness of tone; he seemed now something to cling to, something solid and protective that belonged to the world of ease and comfort, of good things; things to be desired above all else, and from which she was going to be cruelly banished--to stow. she made a convulsive noise somewhere in her young throat, but was inarticulate. there came sounds of approaching steps. the warden hesitated but only for a moment. he moved to the door of the library. "come in here," he said, a little peremptorily, and he turned and opened it for gwen. gwen slid within and moving blindly, knocked herself against the protruding wing of his book-shelves. that made the warden vexed with somebody, the somebody who had made the child cry so much that she couldn't see where she was going. he closed the door behind her. "you have bad news in that letter?" he asked. "your mother is not ill?" gwen shook her head and stared upon the floor, her lips twitching. "anything you can talk over with lady dashwood?" he asked. "no," was the stifled answer with a shake of the dark head. "can you tell me about it? i might be able to advise, help you?" "no!" this time the sound was long drawn out with a shrill sob. what was to be done? "try not to cry!" he said gently. "tell me what it is all about. if you need help--perhaps i can help you!" so much protecting sympathy given to her, after that letter, made gwen feel the joy of utter weakness in the presence of strength, of saving support. "shall i read that letter?" he asked, putting out his hand. gwen clutched it tighter. no, no, that would be fatal! he laid his hand upon hers. gwen began to tremble. she shook from head to foot, even her teeth chattered. she held tight on to that letter--but she leaned nearer to him. "then," said the warden, without removing his hand, "tell me what is troubling you? it is something in that letter?" gwen moved her lips and made a great effort to speak. "it's--it's nothing!" she said. "nothing!" repeated the warden, just a little sternly. this was too much for gwen, the tears rose again swiftly into her eyes and began to drop down her cheeks. "it's only----" she began. "yes, tell me," said the warden, coaxingly, for those tears hurt him, "tell me, child, never mind what it is." "it's only--," she began again, and now her teeth chattered, "only--that nobody cares what happens to me--i've got no home!" that this pretty, inoffensive, solitary child had no home, was no news to the warden. his sister had hinted at it on the day that gwen was left behind by her mother. but he had dismissed the matter, as not concerning the college or the reconstruction of national education. since then whenever it cropped up again, he again dismissed it, because--well, because his mind was not clear. now, suddenly, he seemed to be more certain, his thoughts clearer. each tear that gwen dropped seemed to drop some responsibility upon him. his face must have betrayed this--perhaps his hands also. how it happened the warden did not quite know, but he was conscious that the girl made a movement towards him, and then he found himself holding her in his arms. she was weeping convulsively into his shirt-front--weeping out the griefs of her childhood and girlhood and staining his shirt front with responsibility for them all, soaking him with petty cares, futile recollections, mean subterfuges, silly triumphs, sordid disappointments, all the small squalid moral muddle that belinda scotts call "life." all this smothered the warden's shirt-front and trickled sideways into the softer part of that article of his dress. for the first few moments his power of thinking failed him. he was conscious only of his hands on her waist and shoulder, of the warmth of her dark hair against his face. he could feel her heart thumping, thumping in her slender body against his. a knock came at the door. the warden came to himself. he released the weeping girl gently and walked to the door. he opened it, holding it in his hand. "what is it, robinson?" he asked, for he had for the moment forgotten that it was dinner time, and that a guest was expected. "mr. boreham is in the drawing-room, sir," said the old servant very meekly, for he met the narrow eyes fixed coldly upon him. "very well," said the warden, and he closed the door again. then he turned round and looked at gwendolen scott. she was standing exactly where he had left her, standing with her hands clutching at a little pocket-handkerchief and her letter. she was waiting. her wet eyelashes almost rested on her flushed cheeks. her lips were slightly swollen. she was not crying, she was still and silent. she was waiting--her conceit for the moment gone--she was waiting to know from him what was going to become of her. her whole drooping attitude was profoundly humble. the humility of it gave middleton a strange pang of pain and pleasure. the way in which the desire for power expresses itself in a man or woman is the supreme test of character. the weak fritter away on nothings the driving force of this priceless instinct; this instinct that has raised us from primeval slime to the mastery of the world. the weak waste it, it seems to slip through their fingers and vanish. only the strong can bend this spiritual energy to the service of an important issue, and the strongest of all do this unconsciously, so that he, who is supreme master of the souls of men, could say, "why callest thou _me_ good?" the warden in his small sphere of academic life showed himself to be one of the strong sort. his mind was analytical rather than constructive, but among all the crowded teaching staff of oxford only one other man--and he, too, now the head of a famous college--had given as much of himself to his pupils. indeed, so much had the warden given, that he had left little for himself. his time and his extraordinarily wide knowledge, materials that he had gathered for his own use, all were at the service of younger men who appealed to him for guidance. he grasped at opportunities for them, found gaps that they could fill, he criticised, suggested, pushed; and so the years went on, and his own books remained unwritten. only now, when a new world seemed to him to be in the making--he sat down deliberately to give his own thoughts expression. men like middleton are rare in any university; a man unselfish enough and able enough to spend himself, sacrifice himself in "making men." and even this outstanding usefulness, this masterly hold he had of the best men who passed through king's would not have forced his colleagues to elect him as warden. they made him warden because they couldn't help themselves, because he was in all ways the dominating personality of the college, and even the book weary, the dull, the frankly cynical among the fellows could not escape from the conviction that king's would be safe in middleton's hands, so there was no reason to seek further afield. but women and sentiment had played a very small part in the warden's life. his acquaintance with women had been superficial. he did not profess to understand them. gwendolen scott had for several days sat at his table, looking like a flower. that her emotions were shallow and her mind vacant did not occur to the warden. she was like a flower--that was all! his business had been with men--young men. and just now, as one by one, these young men, once the interest and pride of his college, were stricken down as they stood upon the very threshold of life, the warden's heart had become empty and aching. and now, on this autumn evening, this sobbing girl seemed, somehow, all part of the awful tragedy that was being enacted, only in her case--he had the power to help. he need not let her wander alone into the wilderness of life. for the first time in his life, his sense of power betrayed him. it was in his own hands to mould the future of this helpless girl--so he imagined! he experienced two or three delicious moments as he walked towards her, knowing that she would melt into his arms and give up all her sorrows into his keeping. she was waiting on his will! but was this love? the warden was well aware that it was not love, such as a man of his temperament conceived love to be. but his youth was passed. the time had gone when he could fall in love and marry a common mortal under the impression that she was an angel. was it likely that now, in middle life, he would find a woman who would rouse the deepest of his emotions or satisfy the needs of his life? why should he expect to find at forty, what few men meet in the prime of youth? all that he could expect now--hope for--was standing there waiting for him. waiting with blushes, timid, dawning hope; full of trust and so pathetically humble! he took her into his arms and spoke, and his voice was steady but very low and a little husky. "there is no time to talk now. but you shall not go out into the wilderness of life, if you are afraid." she pressed her face closer to him--in answer. "if you want to, if you care to--come to me, i shall not refuse you a home. you understand?" she did fully understand. her mother's letter had made it clearer than ever to her that marriage with somebody sufficiently well off is a haven of refuge for a woman, a port to be steered for with all available strength. suddenly and unexpectedly gwen had found herself in harbour, and the stormy sea passed. "run up to your room now," he said, "and bathe your face and come down to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened." he did not kiss her. a thought, such as only disturbs a man of scrupulous honour, came to him. he was so much older than she was that she must have time to think--she must come to him and ask for what he could give her--not, as she was just now--convulsed with grief; she must come quietly and confidently and with her mind made up. there must be no working upon her emotions, no urgency of his own will over a weaker will; no compulsion such as a strong man can exercise over a weak woman. he pushed her gently away, and she raised her head, smiling through her tears and murmuring something: what was it? was it "thanks;" but she did not look him in the face, she dare not meet those narrow blue eyes that were bent upon her. he stood watching her as she moved lightly to the door. there she turned back, and even then she did not raise her eyes to his face, but she smiled a strange bewildered smile into the air and fled. it was really _she_ who had conquered, and with such feeble weapons. she had gone. the door was closed. the warden was alone. he looked round the room, at the book-lined walls, at his desk strewn with papers, and then the whole magnitude and meaning of what he had done--came to him! he took out his watch. it was twenty past eight--all but a minute. in less than twenty minutes he had disposed of and finally settled one of the most important affairs of life. was this the action of a sane man? during the last few days he had gradually been drifting towards this, just drifting. he had been dreaming of it all the time, dreaming in that part of his brain where the mind works out its problems underground, waiting until the higher world of consciousness calls for them, and they are flung out into the open daylight--solved. a solution found without real solid premeditation. was the solution to his life's problem a good one, or a bad one? was it true to his past life, or was it false? can a man successfully live out a plan that he has only dimly outlined in a dream and swiftly finished in a passion of pity? it was middleton's duty as host to go into the drawing-room. he must go at once and think afterwards. and yet he lingered. she might not claim him. she too might have been moved only by a momentary emotion! but what right had he to be speculating on the chance of release? it was a bad beginning! on the floor lay a letter. the warden had not noticed it before. he picked it up. it was the letter that she had held in her trembling hands. he stood holding it, and then suddenly he opened the flap and pulled the sheet from its cover. he unfolded it and looked at the signature. yes, it was from her mother. he folded the paper again and put it back in the envelope. then as he stood for a moment, with the letter in his hand, he perceived that his shirt-front was stained--with her tears. he left the library and went towards his bedroom behind the curtained door. he had the letter in his hand. he caught sight of louise, lady dashwood's maid, near the drawing-room door. the warden held the letter out to her. "please put this letter in miss scott's room," he said. "i found it lying on the floor;" and he went back into his room. louise had gone to the drawing-room with a handkerchief forgotten by lady dashwood. she took the letter and went upstairs to her mistress's room, gazing at the letter as she walked. now louise was not a french woman for nothing. a letter--even an open letter--passing between a male and a female, must relate to an affair of the heart. this was interesting--exciting! louise felt the necessity of thinking the matter out. here was a pretty young lady, miss scott, and here was the warden, not indeed very young, but _très très bien, très distingué_! very well, if the young lady was married, then well, naturally something would happen! but she was "miss," and that was quite other thing. young unmarried girls must be protected--it is so in _la belle france_. louise pulled the envelope apart and drew out the contents. she opened the letter, and searched for the missive between its folds which was destined for the hands of "miss." there was none. louise spread out the letter. her knowledge of english as a spoken language was limited, and as a written language it was an unending puzzle. she could, however, read the beginning and the end. "dear gwen" ... and "mother." _hein!_ the reason why the letter had been put into her hands was just because she could not read it. what cunning! without doubt, there were some additions added by the warden here and there to the maternal messages, which would have their significance to "miss." again, what cunning! and the warden, so dignified and so just as he ought to be! ah, my god, but one never knows! louise folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope. doubtless my lady dashwood was in the dark. oh, completely! that goes without saying. louise had already tidied the room. there was nothing more for her to do. she had been on the point of going down to the servants' quarters. should she take the letter as directed to the room occupied by "miss"? that was the momentous question. now louise was bound hand and foot to the service of lady dashwood. only for the sake of that lady would louise have endured the miseries of oxford and the taciturnity of robinson, and the impertinence of robinson's grandson, robinson aged fifteen, and the stupid solemnity of mrs. robinson, the daughter-in-law of robinson and the widowed mother of the young robinson. louise loved lady dashwood. lady dashwood was munificent and always amiable, things very rare. also louise was a widow and had two children in whom lady dashwood took an interest. that monsieur, the head of the college, should secretly communicate with a "miss" was a real scandal. _propos d'amour_ are not for young ladies who are unmarried. the warden ought to have known better than that---- ah, poor lady dashwood! torn between the desire to participate in an interesting affair and her duty not to assist scandals in the family of my lady dashwood, louise stood for some time plunged in painful argument with herself. at last her sense of duty prevailed! she would not deliver the letter. no, not if her life depended on it. the question was---- ah, this would be what she would do. a brilliant idea had struck her. louise went to the dressing-table. it was covered with lady dashwood's toilet things, all neatly arranged. on the top of the jewel drawers at one side lay two envelopes, letters that had come by the last post and had been put aside hurriedly by lady dashwood. louise lifted these two letters and underneath them placed the letter addressed to miss gwendolen scott. "good!" exclaimed louise to the empty room. "the letter is now in the disposition of the good god! and the warden! all that there is of the most as it ought to be! ah, but it is incredible!" louise went to the door and put out the lights. then she closed the door softly behind her and went downstairs. chapter iv the unforeseen happens before his maternal aunt had left him chartcote, the honourable bernard boreham's income had been just sufficient to enable him to live without making himself useful. the boreham estate in ireland was burdened with obligations to female relatives who lived in various depressing watering-places in england. bernard, the second son, had not been sent to a public school or university. he had struggled up as best he might, and like all the members of his family, he had left his beloved country as soon as he possibly could, and had picked up some extra shillings in london by writing light articles of an inflammatory nature for papers that required them. boreham had had no real practical acquaintance with the world. he had never been responsible for any one but himself. he was a floating cloudlet. ideas came to him easily--all the more easily because he was scantily acquainted with the mental history of the past. he did not know what had been already thought out and dismissed, nor what had been tried and had failed. the world was new to him--new--and full of errors. from the moment that chartcote became his and he was his own master, it occurred to him that he might write a really great book. a book that would make the world conscious of its follies. he felt that it was time that some one--like himself--who could shed the superstitions and the conventions of the past and step out a new man with new ideas, uncorrupted by kings or priests (or oxford traditions), and give a lead to the world. it was, of course, an unfortunate circumstance that oxford was now so military, so smitten by the war and shorn of her pomp, so empty of academic life. but after the war boreham meant among other things to study oxford, and if perfectly frank criticism could help her to a better understanding of her faults in view of the world's requirements--well, it should have that criticism. boreham had considerable leisure, for apart from his big book which he began to sketch, he found nothing to do. every sort of work that others were doing for the war he considered radically faulty, and he had no scheme of his own--at the moment. besides, he felt that england was not all she ought to be. he did not love england--he only liked living in england. boreham had arrived punctually for dinner on that october evening; in fact, he had arrived too early; but he told lady dashwood that his watch was fast. "all the clocks in oxford are wrong," he said to her, as he stood on the hearthrug in the drawing-room, "and mine is wrong!" boreham was tall and fair and wore a fair pointed beard. his features were not easy to describe in detail, they gave one the impression that they had been cut with insufficient premeditation by the hand of his creator, from some pale fawn-coloured material. he wore a single eyeglass which he stuck into a pale blue eye, mainly as an aid to conversation. with boreham conversation meant an exposition of his own "ideas." he was disappointed at finding only lady dashwood in the drawing-room; but she had been really good natured in asking him to come and meet may dashwood, so he was "conversing" freely with her when the door opened and gwendolen scott came in. boreham started and put his eyeglass in the same eye again, instead of exercising the other eye. he was agitated. when he saw that it was not may dashwood who had come in, but a youthful female unknown to him and probably of no conversational significance, he dropped his glass on to his shirt-front, where it made a dull thud. gwen's face was flushed, and her lips still a little swollen; but there was nothing that betrayed tears to strangers, though lady dashwood saw at once that she had been crying. as soon as the introduction was over gwen sank into a large easy-chair where her slight figure was almost obliterated. she had got back her self-control. it had not, after all, been so difficult to get it back--for the glow of a new excitement possessed her. for the first time in her life she had succeeded. until to-day she had had no luck. at a cheap school for the "education of daughters of officers" gwen had not learnt more than she could possibly help. her first appearance in the world, this last summer, had been, considering her pretty face, on the whole a disappointment. but now she was successful. gwen tingled with the comfortable warmth of self-esteem. she looked giddily round the spacious room--was it possible that all this might be hers? it was amazing that luck should have just dropped into her lap. boreham had turned again to lady dashwood as soon as he had been introduced and had executed the reverential bow that he considered proper, however contemptuously he might feel towards the female he saluted. "as we were saying," he went on, "middleton--except to-day--has always been punctual to the minute, by that i mean punctual to the fastest oxford time. he is the sort of man who is born punctual. punctually he came into the world. punctually he will go out of it. he has never been what i call a really free man. in other words, he is a slave to what's called 'duty.'" here the door opened again, and again boreham was unable to conceal his vivid curiosity as he turned to see who it was coming in. this time it was the warden--the warden in a blameless shirt-front. he had changed in five minutes. he walked in composed as usual. there was not a trace in his face that in the library only a few minutes ago he had been disposing of his future with amazing swiftness. "go on, boreham," said the warden, giving his guest, along with the glance that serves in oxford as sufficient greeting to frequenters of common room, a slight grasp of the hand because he was not a member of common room. the warden had not heard boreham's remarks, he merely knew that he had interrupted some exposition of "ideas." in a flash the warden saw, without looking at her, that gwen was there, half hidden in a chair; and gwen, on her side, felt her heart thump, and was proudly and yet fearfully conscious of every movement of the warden as he walked across the room and stood on the other side of the hearthrug. "does he--does that important person belong to me?" she thought. the conviction was overpowering that if that important person did belong to her, and it appeared that he did, she also must be important. boreham's appearance did not gain in attractiveness by the proximity of his host. he began again in his rapid rather high voice. "you see for yourself," he said, turning back to lady dashwood: "here he is--the very picture of what is conventionally correct, his features, his manner, before which younger men who are not so correct actually quail. i'm afraid that now he is warden he has lost the chance of becoming a free man. i had hopes of one day seeing him carried off his feet by some impulse which fools call 'folly.' if he could have been even once divinely drunk, he might have realised his true self, i am afraid now he is hopeless." "my dear man, your philosophy of freedom is only suitable for the 'idle rich.' you would be the first person to object to your cook becoming divinely drunk instead of soberly preparing your dinner." boreham always ignored an argument that told against him, so he merely continued-- "as it is, middleton, who might have been magnificent, is bound hand and foot to the service of mere propriety, and will end by saddling himself with some dull wife." the warden stood patient and composed while boreham was talking about him. he took out his watch and glanced at lady dashwood. "i've given may five minutes' grace," she said, and then turned her face again to boreham. "but why should jim marry a dull wife? it will be his own fault if he does." gwen in her large chair sat stupefied at the word "wife." "no," said boreham, emphatically. "it won't be his fault. the best of our sex are daily sacrificed to the most dismal women. men being in the minority now--dangerously in the minority--are, as all minorities are, imposed upon by the gross majority. supposing middleton meets, to speak to, in his whole life, a couple of hundred women here and elsewhere, none of whom are in the least charming; well, then, one out of these two hundred, the one with the most brazen determination to be married, will marry him, and there'll be an end of it. the kindest thing, lady dashwood," continued boreham, "and i speak from the great love i have for middleton, is for you just to invite with sisterly discrimination some women, not quite unbearable to middleton, and he, like the emperor theophilus, will come into this room with an apple in his hand and present it to one of them. he can make the same remark that theophilus made to the lady he first approached." "and what was that?" asked lady dashwood. she was amused at finding the conversation turn on the very subject nearest her heart. even mr. boreham was proving himself useful in uttering this blunt warning of dangers ahead. "his remark was: 'woman is the source of evil.' and the lady's reply was----" both lady dashwood and gwen were gazing intently at boreham and boreham was staring fixedly at the ornament in lady dashwood's grey hair. no one but the warden noticed the door open and may dashwood enter. she was dressed in black and wore no ornaments. she had caught the gist of what boreham was saying, and she made the most delightful movement of her hands to middleton that expressed both respectful greeting to him as her host, and an apology for remaining motionless on the threshold of the room, so that she should not break boreham's story. "and her reply was," went on the unconscious boreham, "'but surely also of much good!'" so that was all! may dashwood came forward and walked straight up to the warden. she held out both her hands to him in apology for her behaviour. "i hope he--whoever he was--did not marry the young woman who made such an obvious retort," she said. "fancy what the conversation would be like at the breakfast table." boreham was too much occupied with his own interesting emotions at the sudden appearance of mrs. dashwood to notice what was plain to lady dashwood and gwendolen scott, that the warden seemed wholly taken by surprise. "he didn't marry her," he said, as he held may dashwood's hands for a moment and stared down into her upturned face with his narrow eyes. "but," he added, "the story is probably a fake." "ah!" said mrs. dashwood, as she released her hands. then she turned to boreham, who was waiting--a picture of self-consciousness in pale fawn. gwen's recently regained self-confidence was already oozing out of every pore of her skin. it didn't matter when the warden and mr. boreham talked queer talk, that was to be expected; but what did matter was this mrs. dashwood talking queerly with them. rubbish she, gwen, called it. what did that mrs. dashwood mean by saying that the retort, "and also of much good," was obvious? what did "obvious" mean? to gwen the retort seemed profoundly clever--and so true! how was she, gwen, to cope with this sort of thing? and then there was the warden already giving this terrible woman his arm and looking at her far too closely. "come, gwen," said lady dashwood, "mr. boreham must take us both!" gwen's head swam. along with this new and painful sensation had come a sudden recollection of something! that letter of her mother's! it had not been in her hand when she went into her bedroom. no, it had not. had she dropped it in the library, when the warden had---- oh! "i've lost my handkerchief," murmured the girl, "somewhere----" her voice was very small and sad, and she looked helplessly round the room. "mr. boreham, stop and help her find it," said lady dashwood, "i must go down." boreham stood rigidly at the door. he saw his hostess go out and still he did not move. gwen looked at him in despair. what she had intended, of course, was to have flown into the library and looked for her letter. how could she now, with mr. boreham standing in the way? and that terrible woman had gone off arm-in-arm with the warden. gwen stared at boreham. an idea struck her. she would go into the library--after dinner--before the men came up. but she must pretend to look for her handkerchief for a minute or two. "do you call mrs. dashwood pretty?" she asked tremulously, not looking at boreham, but diving her hand into the corners of the chair she had been sitting in. she must find out what men thought of mrs. dashwood. she must know the worst--now, when she had the opportunity. "pretty!" said boreham, still motionless at the door. "that's not a useful word. she's alluring." "oh!" said gwen. she had left off thumping the chair, and now walked slowly to him--wide-eyed with anxiety. to gwen, a man past his youth, wearing a fair beard and fair eyebrows that were stiff and stuck out like spikes, was scarcely a person of sex at all; but still he would probably know what men thought. "i don't think she is pretty--very," she said, her lips trembling a little as she spoke, and she gazed in a challenging way at boreham. "she is the most womanly woman i know," said boreham. "middleton is probably finding that out already." gwen patted her waistband where it bulged ever so slightly with her handkerchief. "womanly!" she repeated in a doubtful voice. "he'll fall in love with her to-day and propose to-morrow. do him a world of good," said boreham. "propose!" gwen caught her breath. "but he couldn't--she couldn't--he couldn't--marry!" "couldn't marry--i didn't say marry--i said he will propose to-morrow." boreham laughed a little in his beard. "i don't understand," stammered the girl. "you mean--she would refuse?" "no," said boreham. "it mightn't go as far as that--the whole thing is a matter of words--words--words. it's a part of a man's education to fall in love with mrs. dashwood!" gwen blinked at him. a piercing thought struck her brain. spoken words--they didn't count! words alone didn't clinch the bargain! words didn't tie a man up to his promise. was this the "law"? she must get at the actual "law" of the matter. she knew something about love-making, but nothing about the "law." "do you mean," she said, and she scarcely recognised her own voice, so great was her concentration of thought and so slowly did she pronounce the enigmatic words, "if he had kissed you as well, he would be obliged to marry one?" boreham knitted his brows. "if i was, at this moment to kiss you, my dear lady," he began, "i should not be compelled to marry you. even the gross injustice meted out to us men by the laws (backed up by mrs. grundy) dares not go as far as that. but there is no knowing what new oppression is in store for us--in the future." "i only mean," stammered gwen, "_if_ he had already said--something." boreham simply stared at her. "i am confused," he said. "confused!" "oh, please don't imagine that i meant you," she entreated. "i never for one single instant thought of you. i should never have imagined! i am so sorry!" and yet this humble apology did not mollify him. gwen almost felt frightened. everything seemed going to pieces, and she was no nearer knowing what the legal aspects of her case were. "have you found your handkerchief?" boreham asked, and the spikes in his eyebrows seemed to twitch. "it was in my band, all the time," said gwen, smiling deprecatingly. "oh, what a bother everything was!" "then we have wasted precious time for nothing," said boreham. "all the fun is going on downstairs--come along, miss wallace." boreham knew her name wasn't wallace, but wallace was scotch and that was near enough, when he was angry. gwen went downstairs as if she were in an ugly dream. her brief happiness and security and pleasure at her own importance was vanishing. this broad staircase that she was descending on boreham's stiff and rebellious arm; this wall with its panelling and its dim pictures of strange men's faces; these wide doors thrown back through which one went solemnly into the long dining-room; this dining-room itself dim and dignified; all this was going to be hers--only----. gwendolen, as she emerged into the glow of the long oval table, could see nothing but the face of mrs. dashwood, gently brilliant, and the warden roused to attentive interest. what was gwen to do? there was nobody whom she could consult. should she write to her mother? her mother would scold her! what, then, was she to do? perhaps she had better write to her mother, and let her see that she had, at any rate, tried her best. and in saying the words to herself "tried her best," gwen was not speaking the truth even to herself. she had not tried at all; the whole thing had come about accidentally. it had somehow happened! instead of going straight to bed that evening gwen seated herself at the writing-table in her bedroom. she must write a letter to her mother and ask for advice. the letter must go as soon as possible. gwen knew that if she put it off till the morning, it might never get written. she was always too sleepy to get up before breakfast. in oxford breakfast for dons was at eight o'clock, and that was far too early, as it was, for gwen. then after breakfast, there was "no time" to do anything, and so on, during the rest of the day. so gwen sat at her writing-table and wrote the longest letter she had ever written. gwen's handwriting was pointed, it was also shaky, and generally ran downhill, or else uphill. "dear mummy, "please write and tell me what to do? i've done all i could, but everything is in a rotten muddle. this evening i was crying, crying a little at your letter--i really couldn't help it--but anyhow it turned out all right--and the warden suddenly came along the passage and saw me. he took me into his library, i don't know how it all happened, mummy, but he put his arms round me and told me to come to him if i wanted a home. he was sweet, and i naturally thought this was true, and i said 'yes' and 'thanks.' there wasn't time for more, because of dinner. but a mr. boarham, who is a sort of cousin of dr. middleton, says that proposals are all words and that you needn't be married. what am i to do? i don't know if i am really engaged or not--because the warden hasn't said anything more--and suppose he doesn't---- isn't it rotten? do write and tell me what to do, for i feel so queer. what makes me worried is mrs. dashwood, a widow, talks so much. at dinner the warden seemed so much taken up by her--quite different. but then after dinner it wasn't like that. we sat in the drawing-room all the time and at least the men smoked and lady dashwood and me, but not mrs. dashwood, who said she was early victorian, and ought to have died long ago. she worked. lady dashwood said that she smoked because she was a silly old heathen, and that made me feel beastly. it wasn't fair--but lady dashwood is often rather nasty. but afterwards _he_ was nice, and asked me to play my reverie by slapovski. i have never forgotten it, mummy, though i haven't been taught it for six months. i am telling you everything so that you know what has happened. well, mr. borham said, 'for god's sake don't let's have any music.' he said that like he always does. it is very rude. of course i refused to play, and the warden was so nice, and he looked at me very straight and did not look at mrs. dashwood now. i think it must be all right. he sat in an armchair opposite us, and put his elbow on the arm and held the back of his neck--he does that, and smoked again and stared all the time at the carpet by mrs. dashwood's shoes, and never looked at her, but talked a lot. i can't understand what they say, and it is worse now mrs. d. is here. only once i saw him look up at her, and then he had that severe look. so i don't think any harm has happened. you know what i mean, mummie. i was afraid he might like her. i tell you everything so as you can judge and advise me, for i could not tell all this to old lady dashwood, of course. lady dashwood says smoking cigars in the drawing-room is good for the furniture!!! i thought it very disgusting of mr. borham to say, 'for god's sake.' he used not to believe in god, and even now he hasn't settled whether there is a god. we are all to go to chartcote house for lunch. there is to be a bazaar--i forget what for, somewhere. i have no money except half-a-crown. i have not paid for my laundry, so i can leave that in a drawer. now, dear mummy, do write at once and say exactly what i am to do, and tell me if i am engaged or not. "your affectionate daughter, "gwen. "i like the warden ever so much, and partly because he does not wear a beard. i feel very excited, but am trying not to. mrs. d. is to stay a whole week, till i go on the rd." gwen laid down her pen and sat looking at the sheet of paper before her. she had told her mother "everything." she had omitted nothing, except that her mother's letter had dropped somewhere, either in the library or the staircase, and she could not find it again. if it had dropped in the library, somebody had picked it up. supposing the warden had picked it up and read it? the clear sharp understanding of "honour" possessed by the best type of englishman and englishwoman was not possessed by gwen--it has not been acquired by the belindas of society or of the slums. but no, gwen felt sure that the warden hadn't found it, or he would have been very, very angry. then who had picked it up? chapter v waiting if pilate had uttered the sardonic remark "what is truth?" in boreham's presence, he would certainly have compelled that weary official to wait for definite enlightenment. boreham would have explained to him that although absolute truth (if there is such a thing) lies, like our destiny, in the lap of the gods, he, boreham, had a thoroughly reliable stock of useful truths with which he could supply any inquirer. indeed to boreham, the discussing of truths was a comparatively simple matter. truths were of two kinds. firstly, they were what he, himself, was convinced of at the moment of speaking; and secondly, they were _not_ what the man next him believed in. boreham found intolerable any assertion made by people he knew. he knew them! _voila!_ but he felt he could very fairly well trust opinions expressed by the native inhabitants of--say pomerania--or still better--india. boreham had already some acquaintances in oxford to whom he spoke, as he said himself, "frankly and fearlessly," and who tolerated him, whenever they had time to listen to him, because he was entirely harmless and merely tiresome. but he was not surprised (it had occurred before) that the warden refused his invitation to lunch at chartcote. the ladies had accepted; and when boreham said "the ladies," on this occasion he was thinking solely of mrs. dashwood. lady dashwood had accepted the invitation because it was given verbally. she made no purely social engagements. the warden, himself, did not entertain during the war, and the only engagements were those of business, or of hospitality of an academic nature. the day following may dashwood's arrival was entirely uneventful. the warden was mostly invisible. may was as bright as she had been on her arrival. gwen went about wide-eyed and wistful, and spoke spasmodically. lady dashwood was serene and satisfied. a shy don accompanied by a very nice, untidy wife, appeared at lunch, and they were introduced by the warden as mr. and mrs. stockwell. mr. stockwell was struck dumb at finding himself seated next to mrs. dashwood, a type of female little known to him. but may bravely taking him in hand, he recovered his powers of speech and became epigrammatic and sparkling. this round-shouldered, spectacled scholar, with a large nose and receding chin, poured out brilliant observations, subtile and suggestive, and had an apparently inexhaustible store of the literature of europe. he sat sideways in his chair and spoke into may's sympathetic ear, giving an occasional swift appealing glance at the warden, who came within the range of his vision. how stockwell ate his food was impossible to discover. he seemed to give automatic twiddles to his fork and apparently swallowed something afterwards, for when robinson's underling, robinson _petit fils_, removed stockwell's plates, they contained only wreckage. the warden, aided by lady dashwood, struggled courteously with mrs. stockwell. she was obliged to talk across gwendolen, who spent her time silently observing mrs. dashwood. mrs. stockwell had pathetic pretensions to intellectuality, based on a masterly acquaintance with the names of her husband's books and the fact that she lived in the academic circle. she had drooped visibly at the first sight of her hostess and mrs. dashwood, but was soon put at her ease by lady dashwood, who deftly drew her away from vague hints at the possession of learning into talk about her children. gwen, watching the warden and mrs. dashwood across mrs. stockwell's imitation lace front, could not be moved to speech. to any one in the secret there was written on her face two absorbing questions: "am i engaged or not?" "is she trying to oust me?" the warden's enigmatic eyes held no information in them. he looked at her gravely when he did look, and--that was all. was _he_ waiting to know whether he was engaged or not? gwen doubted it. he would be sure to know everything. he would know. think of all those books in the library! supposing he had found that letter--suppose he _had_ read it? no, if he _had_, he would have looked not merely grave, but angry! when the ladies rose from the table, stockwell rose too, reluctantly and as if waking from a pleasant dream. he stared in a startled way at the warden, who moved to open the door; he looked as if about to spring--then refrained, and resigning himself to the unmistakable decision of the fates, he remained standing, staring down at the table-cloth through his spectacles, with his cheeks flushed and his heart glad. mrs. stockwell passed out of the room in front of may dashwood, gratified, warm and trying to conceal the backs of her boots. finally the stockwells went away, and then lady dashwood took her niece to the magdalen walk. there among the last shreds of autumn, and in that muzzy golden sunshine of oxford, they walked and talked with the constraint of gwen's presence. at tea two or three people called, but the warden did not appear even for a hasty cup. at dinner an old pupil of the warden's--lamed by the war--occupied the attention of the little party. gwen's spirits rose at the sight of a really young man, but she remembered her mother's admonition and did not make any attempt to attract his attention beyond opening her eyes now and then suddenly and widely and with an ecstasy of interest at some invisible object just above his head. whether the youthful warrior's imagination was excited by this "passage of arms" gwen never knew, because the warden took his pupil off to the library after dinner, and did not even bring him into the drawing-room to bid farewell. in the quiet of the drawing-room gwen fell into thought. she wondered whether the warden expected her to come and knock on his library door and walk in and tell him that she really did want to be married to him? or had he read that letter and----? why, she had thought all this over a hundred times, and was no farther on than she had been before. after playing the reverie by slapovski, which mrs. dashwood had not yet heard, and which she expressed a desire to hear, gwen settled down to knitting a sock. she had been knitting that sock for five months. it was surprising how small the foot was, at least the toe part; the heel indeed was ample. she had followed the directions with great care, and yet the stupid thing would come out wrong. it was irritating to see mrs. dashwood knitting away at such a pace. it made gwen giddy to look at her hands. lady dashwood took up a book and read passages aloud. this was so intolerably dull that gwen found it difficult to keep her eyes open. it is always more tiring when nothing is going on than when plenty of things are going on! lady dashwood had just finished reading a passage and looked up to make a remark to may dashwood, when she became aware of gwen's face. "my dear, you looked just like a melancholy peach. go to bed!" gwen smiled and tumbled her pins into her knitting. she rose and said "good night," glad to be released. outside the drawing-room she stood holding her breath to hear if there was any sound audible from the library. she heard nothing. she moved over the soft carpet and listened again, at the door. she could hear the warden's deep, masculine voice--like the vibration of an organ, and then a higher voice, but what they said gwen could not tell. she turned away and went up to bed. she was beginning to lose that feeling of not being afraid of the warden. he was becoming more and more what he had been at first, an impressive and alarming personage, a human being entirely remote from her understanding and experience. at moments during dinner when she had glanced at him, he had seemed to her to be like a handsomely carved figure animated by some living force completely unknown to her. that such an incomprehensible being should become her husband was surely unlikely--if not impossible! gwen's thoughts became more and more confused. notwithstanding this confusion in what (if compelled to describe it) she would have called her soul, she closed her eyes and settled upon her pillow. she was conscious that she was disappointed and not happy. then she suddenly became indifferent to her fate--saw in her mind's eye a hat--it absorbed her. the hat was lying on a chair. it was trimmed like some other hat. then the hat disappeared, and gwen was asleep. as soon as gwendolen had left the drawing-room lady dashwood closed her book and looked at her niece. "now," said lady dashwood, "i begin to think that i was unnecessarily alarmed about jim. but it may be because you are here--giving me moral support." lady dashwood spoke the words "moral support" with great firmness. having once said it and seen that it was wrong, she meant to stick to it. "i wonder," began mrs. dashwood, and then she remained silent and looked hard at her knitting. lady dashwood still stared at her niece. but may did not conclude her sentence, if indeed she had meant to say any more. "why, you haven't noticed anything?" asked lady dashwood. "nothing!" said may, and she knitted on. "to-day," said lady dashwood, "jim has been practically invisible except at meals, but you've no idea how busy he is just now. all one's old ideas are in the melting-pot," she went on, "and jim has schemes. he is full of plans. he thinks there is much to be done, in oxford, with oxford--nothing revolutionary--but a lot that is evolutionary." mrs. dashwood dropped her knitting to listen, though she could have heard quite well without doing this. "imagine!" exclaimed lady dashwood, with a little burst of anger, "what a man like jim, a scholar, a man of business, an organiser, what on earth he would do with a wife like gwendolen scott! the idea is absurd." "the absurd often happens," said may, and as she said this she took up her knitting again with such a jerk that her ball of wool tumbled to the floor and began rolling; and being a tight ball it rolled some distance sideways from may's chair in the direction of the far distant door. she gave the wool a little tug, but the ball merely shook itself, turned over and released still more wool. "very well, remain there if you prefer that place," said may, and as she spoke there came a slight noise at the door. both ladies looked to see who was coming in. it was the warden. he held a cigar in his hand, a sign (lady dashwood knew it) that he intended merely to bid them "good night," and retire again to his library. but he now stood in the half-light with his hand on the door, and looked towards the glow of the hearth where the two ladies sat alone, each lighted by a tall, electric candle stand on the floor. and as he looked at this little space of light and warmth he hesitated. then he closed the door behind him and came in. chapter vi more than one conclusion the warden came slowly towards them over the wide space of carpeted floor. lady dashwood, who knew every passing change in his face and manner (they were photographed over and over again in every imaginable style in her book of life), noticed that the sight of herself and may alone, that is, without gwen--had made him decide to come in. she drew her own conclusions and smiled. "when you pass that ball of wool, pick it up, jim," she said. she spoke too late, however, and the warden kicked the ball with one foot, and sent it rolling under a chair. it took the opportunity of flinging itself round one leg, and tumbling against the second. with its remaining strength it rolled half way round the third leg, and then lay exhausted. "i'm not going to apologise," said the warden, in his most courteous tones. "you needn't do that, my dear, if you don't want to," said lady dashwood. "but pick up the ball, please." "if i pick the ball up," said the warden, "the result will be disastrous to somebody." he looked at the ball and at the chair, and then, putting his cigar between his teeth, he lifted the chair from the labyrinth of wool and placed it out of mischief. then he picked up the ball and stood holding it in his hand. who was the "somebody"? to whom did it belong? it was obvious to whom it belonged! a long line of wool dropped from the ball to the carpet. there it described a foolish pattern of its own, and then from one corner of that pattern the line of wool ran straight to mrs. dashwood's hands. she was sitting there, pretending that she didn't know that she was very, very slowly and deliberately jerking out the very vitals of that pattern, in fact disembowelling it. then the warden pretended to discover suddenly that it was mrs. dashwood's ball, and this discovery obliged him to look at her, and she, without glancing at him, slightly nodded her head, very gravely. lady dashwood grasped her book and pretended to read it. "i suppose i must clear up this mess," said the warden, as articulately as a man can who is holding a cigar between his teeth. he began to wind up the ball. "how beautifully you are winding it!" said may dashwood, without looking up from her knitting. the warden cleared the pattern from the floor, and now a long line of wool stretched tautly from his hands to those of mrs. dashwood. "please stop winding," she said quietly, and still she did not look up, though she might have easily done so for she had left off knitting. the warden stopped, but he stood looking at her as if to challenge her eyes. then, as she remained obstinately unmoved, he came towards her chair and dropped the ball on her lap. "you couldn't know i was winding it beautifully because you never looked." "i knew without looking," said may. "i took for granted that you did everything well." "if you will look now," said the warden, "you will see how crookedly i've done it. so much for flattery." he stood looking down at her bent head with its gold-brown hair lit up to splendour by the electric light behind her. her face was slightly in shadow. the warden stood so long that lady dashwood was seized with an agreeable feeling of embarrassment. may dashwood was apparently unconscious of the figure beside her. but she raised her eyebrows. her eyebrows were often slightly raised as if inquiring into the state of the world with sympathy tinged with surprise. she raised her eyebrows instead of making any reply, as if she said: "i could make a retort, but i am far too busy with more important matters." the warden at last moved, and putting a chair between the two ladies he seated himself exactly opposite the glowing fire and the portrait above it. leaning back, he smoked in silence for a few moments looking straight in front of him for the most part, only now and then turning his eyes to mrs. dashwood, just to find out if her eyebrows were still raised. lady dashwood began smiling at her book because she had discovered that she held it upside down. "you were interested in stockwell?" said the warden suddenly. "he is doing multifarious things now. he is an accomplished linguist, and we couldn't manage without him--besides he is over military age by a long way." lady dashwood felt quite sure that his silence had been occupied by the warden in thinking of may, so that his question, "you were interested," etc., was merely the point at which his thoughts broke into words. "i was very much interested in him," said may. "it was like reading a witty book--only much more delightful." "stockwell is always worth listening to," said the warden, "but he is sometimes very silent. he needs the right sort of audience to draw him out. two or three congenial men--or one sympathetic woman." here the warden paused and looked away from may dashwood, then he added: "i'm obliged to go to cambridge to-morrow. you will be at chartcote and you will get some amusement out of boreham. you find everybody interesting?" he turned again and looked at her--this time so searchingly that a little colour rose in may dashwood's cheek. "oh, not everybody," she said. "i wish i could!" "my dear may," said lady dashwood, briskly seizing this brilliant opportunity of pointing the moral and adorning the tale, "even you can't pretend to be interested in little gwendolen, though you have done your best. now that you have seen something of her, what do you think of her?" "very pretty," said may dashwood, and she became busy again with her work. "exactly," said lady dashwood. "if she were plain even belinda would not have the impertinence to deposit her on people's doorsteps in the way she does." the warden took his cigar out of his mouth, as if he had suddenly remembered something that he had forgotten. he laid his hands on the arms of his chair and seemed about to rise. "you're not going, jim!" exclaimed lady dashwood. "i thought you had come to talk to us. we have been doing our duty since dawn of day, and this is may's little holiday, you know. stop and talk nicely to us. do cheer us up!" her voice became appealing. the warden rose from his chair and stood with one hand resting on the back of it as if about to make some excuse for going away. except for the glance, necessitated by courtesy, that may dashwood gave the warden when he entered, she had kept her eyes obstinately upon her work. now she looked up and met his eyes, only for a moment. "i'm not going," he said, "but i find the fire too hot. excuse me if i move away. it has got muggy and warm--oxford weather!" "open one of the windows," said lady dashwood. "i'm sure may and i shall be glad of it." he moved away and walked slowly down the length of the room. going behind the heavy curtains he opened a part of the casement and then drew aside one of the curtains slightly. then he slowly came back to them in silence. this silence that followed was embarrassing, so embarrassing that lady dashwood broke into it urgently with the first subject that she could think of. "tell may about the barber's ghost, jim." "where does he appear?" asked may, interestedly, but without looking up. "what part of the college?" "in the library," said the warden. "and at the witching hour of midnight, i suppose?" said may. "birds of ill omen, i believe, appear at night," said the warden. "all souls college ought to have had an all souls' ghost, but it hasn't, it has only its 'foolish mallard.'" "and if he does appear," said may, "what apology are you going to offer him for the injustice of your predecessor in the eighteenth century?" the warden turned and stood looking back across the room at the warm space of light and the two women sitting in it, with the firelight flickering between them. "if i were to make myself responsible for all the misdemeanours of the reverend charles langley," he said, "i should have my hands full;" and he came slowly towards them as he spoke. "you have only to look at langley's face, over the mantelpiece, and you will see what i mean." may dashwood glanced up at the portrait and smiled. "do you admire our custos dilectissimus?" he asked. the lights were below the level of the portrait, but the hard handsome face with its bold eyes, was distinctly visible. he was looking lazily watchful, listening sardonically to the conversation about himself. "i admire the artist who painted his portrait," said may. "yes, the artist knew what he was doing when he painted langley," said the warden. he seemed now to have recovered his ease, and stood leaning his arms on the back of the chair he had vacated. "your idea is a good one," he went on. "i don't suppose it has occurred to any warden since langley's time that a frank and pleasant apology might lay the barber's ghost for ever. shall i try it?" he asked, looking at his guest. "my dear," said lady dashwood slowly, "i wish you wouldn't even joke about it--i dislike it. i wish people wouldn't invent ghost stories," she went on. "they are silly, and they are often mischievous. i wish you wouldn't talk as if you believed it." "it was you, lena, who brought up the subject," said middleton. "but i won't talk about him if you dislike it. you know that i am not a believer in ghosts." lady dashwood nodded her head approvingly, and began turning more pages of her book. "i sometimes wonder," said the warden, and now he turned his face towards may dashwood--"i wonder if men like langley really believed in a future life?" may looked up at the portrait, but was silent. "the eighteenth century was not tormented with the question as we are now!" said the warden, and again he looked at the auburn head and the dark lashes hiding the downcast eyes. "those who doubt," he said slowly and tentatively, "whether after all the high gods want us--those who doubt whether there are high gods--even those doubt with regret--now." he waited for a response and may dashwood suddenly raised her eyes to his. "there is no truculence in modern unbelief," he said, "it is a matter of passionate regret. and belief has become a passionate hope." lady dashwood knew that not a word of this was meant for her. she disliked all talk about the future world. it made her feel dismal. her life had been spent in managing first her father, then her brother, and now her husband, and incidentally many of her friends. some people dislike having plans made for them, some endure it, some positively like it, and for those who liked it, lady dashwood made extensive plans. her brain worked now almost automatically in plans. for herself she had no plans, she was the planner. but her plans were about this world. to the "other world" lady dashwood felt secretly inimical; that "unknown" lurking in the future, would probably, not so long hence, engulf her husband, leaving her, alas! still on this side--with no heart left for making any more plans. if she had been alone with the warden he would not have mentioned the "future life," nor would he have spoken of the "high gods." he knew her mind too well. was he probing the mind of may dashwood? either he was deliberately questioning her, or there was something in her presence that drew from him his inmost thoughts. lady dashwood felt a pang of indignation at herself for "being in the way" when to be "out of the way" at such a moment was absolutely necessary. she must leave these two people alone together--now--at this propitious moment. what should she do? she began casting about wildly in her brain for a plan of escape that would not be too obvious in its intention. the warden had never been with may alone for five minutes. to-morrow would be a blank day--there was chartcote first and then when they returned the warden would be still away and very probably would not be visible that evening. she could see may's raised face looking very expressive--full of thoughts. lady dashwood rose from her chair confident that inspired words would come to her lips--and they came! "my dear jim," she heard herself saying, "your mentioning the high gods has made me remember that i left about some letters that ought to be answered. horribly careless of me--i must go and find them. i'll only be away a moment. so sorry to interrupt when you are just getting interesting!" and still murmuring lady dashwood made her escape. she had done the best she could under the circumstances, and she smiled broadly as she went through the corridor. "that for belinda and co.!" she exclaimed half aloud, and she snapped her fingers. and what was going to happen after belinda and co. were defeated, banished for ever from the lodgings? what was going to happen to the warden? he had been successfully rescued from one danger--but what about the future? was he going to fall in love with may dashwood? "it sounded to me uncommonly like a metaphysical wooing of may," said lady dashwood to herself. "_that_ i must leave in the hands of providence;" and she went up to her room smiling. there she found louise. "madame is gay," said the frenchwoman, catching sight of the entering smile. "gay in this sad oxford!" "sad!" said lady dashwood, her smile still lingering. "the hospitals are sad, louise, yes, very sad, and the half-empty colleges." "oh, it is sad, incredibly sad," said the maid. "what kind of city is it, it contains only grey monasteries, no boulevards, no shops. there is one shop, perhaps, but what is that?" lady dashwood had gone to the toilet table, for she caught sight of the letters lying on the top of the jewel drawers. she had seen them several times that day, and had always intended tearing them up, for neither of them needed an answer. but they had served a good purpose. she had escaped from the drawing-room with their aid. she took them up and opened them and looked at them again. louise watched her covertly. she glanced at the first and tore it up; then at the second and tore that up. she opened the third and glanced at it. and now the faint remains of the smile that had lingered on her face suddenly vanished. "my dear gwen," (lena badly written, of course). "i hope you understood that lady dashwood will keep you till the rd. you don't mention the warden! does that mean that you are making no progress in that direction? perhaps taking no trouble! the question is----" here lady dashwood stopped. she looked at the signature of the writer. but that was not necessary--the handwriting was belinda scott's. for a moment or two lady dashwood stood as if she intended to remain in the same position for the rest of her life. then she breathed rather heavily and her nostrils dilated. "ah! well!" said louise to herself, and she nodded her head ominously. soon lady dashwood recovered herself and folded up the letter. she looked at the envelope. it was addressed to miss gwendolen scott. she put the letter back into its envelope. had she opened the letter and then laid it aside with the others, without perceiving that the letter was not addressed to her and without reading it? was it possible that she, in her hurry last evening, had done this? if so, gwen had never received the letter or read it. of course she could not have read it. if she had, it would not have been laid on the toilet table. if gwen had read it and left it about, it would have either been destroyed or taken to her room. "does madame wish to go to bed immediately?" asked louise innocently. she had been waiting nearly twenty-four hours for something to happen about that letter. she was beginning to be afraid that it might be discovered when she would not be there to see the effect it had on madame. ah! the letter was all that louise's fancy had painted it. see the emotion in madame's back! how expressive is the back! what abominable intrigue! it was not necessary, indeed, to go to paris to find wickedness. and, above all, the warden---- oh, my god! never, never shall i repose confidence even in the englishman the most respectable! "presently," said lady dashwood, in answer to louise's question. lady dashwood had made up her mind. she must have opened all three letters but only read two of them. there was no other explanation possible. what was to be done with gwen's letter? what was to be done with this--vile scribble? lady dashwood's fingers were aching to tear the letter up, but she refrained. it would need some thinking over. the style of this letter was probably familiar to gwendolen--her mind had already been corrupted. and to think that jim might have had belinda and co., and all that belinda and co. implied, hanging round his neck and dragging him down--till he dropped into his grave from the sheer dead weight of it! "yes, immediately," said lady dashwood. she would not go downstairs again. it was of vital importance that jim and may should be alone together, yes, alone together. lady dashwood put the letter away in a drawer and locked it. she must have time to think. a few minutes later louise was brushing out her mistress's hair--a mass of grey hair, still luxuriant, that had once been black. "i find that oxford does not agree with madame's hair," said louise, as she plied vigorously with the brush. lady dashwood made no reply. "i find that oxford does not agree with madame's hair at all, at all," repeated louise, firmly. "is it going greyer?" said lady dashwood indifferently, for her mind was working hard on another subject. "it grows not greyer, but it becomes dead, like the hair of a corpse--in this atmosphere of oxford," said louise, even more firmly. "try not to exaggerate, louise," said lady dashwood, quite unmoved. "madame cannot deny that the humidity of oxford is bad both for skin and hair," said louise, with some resentment in her tone. "damp is not bad for the skin, louise," said her mistress, "but it may be for the hair; i don't know and i don't care." "it's bad for the skin," said louise. "i have seen madame looking grave, the skin folded, in oxford. it is the climate. it is impossible to smile--in oxford. one lies as if under a tomb." "every place has its bad points," said lady dashwood. "it is important to make the best of them." "but i do not like to see madame depressed by the climate here," continued louise, obstinately, "and madame has been depressed here lately." "not at all," said lady dashwood. "you needn't worry, louise; any one who can stand india would find the climate of oxford admirable. now, as soon as you have done my hair, i want you to go down to the drawing-room, where you will find mrs. dashwood, and apologise to her for my not coming down again. say i have a letter that will take me some time to answer. bid her good night, also the warden, who will be with her, i expect." louise had been momentarily plunged into despair. she had been unsuccessful all the way round. it looked as if the visit to oxford was to go on indefinitely, and as to the letter--well--madame was unfathomable--as she always was. she was english, and one must not expect them to behave as if they had a heart. but now her spirits rose! this message to the drawing-room! the warden was alone with mrs. dashwood! the warden, this man of apparent uprightness who was the seducer of the young! lady dashwood had discovered his wickedness and dared not leave mrs. dashwood, a widow and of an age (twenty-eight) when a woman is still young, alone with him. so she, louise, was sent down, _bien entendu_, to break up the _tête-à-tête_! louise put down the brush and smiled to herself as she went down to the drawing-room. she, through her devotion to duty, had become an important instrument in the hands of providence. when lady dashwood found herself alone, she took up her keys and jingled them, unable to make up her mind. she had only read the first two or three sentences of belinda's letter; she had only read--until the identity and meaning of the letter had suddenly come to her. she opened the drawer and took out the letter. then she walked a few steps in the room, thinking as she walked. no, much as she despised belinda, she could not read a private letter of hers. perhaps, because she despised her, it was all the more urgent that she should not read anything of hers. what lady dashwood longed to do was to have done with belinda and never see her or hear from her again. she wanted belinda wiped out of the world in which she, lena dashwood, moved and thought. what was she to do with the letter? jim was safe now, the letter was harmless--as far as he was concerned. but what about gwen? was it not like handing on to her a dose of moral poison? on the other hand, the poison belonged to gwen and had been sent to her by her mother! the matter could not be settled without more reflection. perhaps some definite decision would frame itself during the night; perhaps she would awake in the morning, knowing exactly what was the best to be done. she put away the letter again, and again locked the drawer. she was putting away her keys when the door opened and she heard her maid come in. there was something in the way louise entered and stood at the door that made lady dashwood turn round and look at her. that excellent frenchwoman was standing very stiffly, her eyes wide and agitated, and her features expressive of extreme excitement. she breathed loudly. "what's the matter?" demanded lady dashwood. "madame dashwood was not visible in the drawing-room!" said louise, and she tightened her lips after this pronouncement. "she had gone up to her bedroom?" "madame dashwood is not in her bedroom!" said louise, with ever deepening tragedy in her voice. "did you look for her in the library?" demanded lady dashwood. "madame dashwood is not in the library!" said louise. she did not move from her position in front of the door. she stood there looking the personification of domestic disaster, her chest heaving. "mrs. dashwood isn't ill?" lady dashwood felt a sudden pang of fear at her heart. "no, madame!" said louise. "then what is the matter?" demanded lady dashwood, sternly. "don't be a fool, louise. say what has happened!" "how can i tell madame? it is indeed unbelievably too sad! i did not see madame dashwood but i heard her voice," began louise. "oh, madame, that i should have to pronounce such words to you! i open the door of the drawing-room! it is scarcely at all lighted! no one is visible! i stand and for a moment i look around me! i hear sounds! i listen again! i hear the voice of madame dashwood! ah! what surprise! where is she? she is hidden behind the great curtains of the window, completely hidden! why? and to whom does she speak? ah, madame, what frightful surprise, what shock to hear reply the voice, also behind the curtain, of monsieur the warden! i cannot believe it, it is incredible, but also it is true! i stop no longer, for shame! i fly, i meet robinson in the gallery, but i pass him--like lightning--i speak not! no word escapes from my mouth! i come direct to madame's room! in entering, i know not what to say, i say nothing! i dare not! i stand with the throat swelling, the heart oppressed, but with the lips closed! i speak only because madame insists, she commands me to speak, to say all! i trust in god! i obey madame's command! i speak! i disclose frankly the painful truth! i impart the boring information!" while louise was speaking lady dashwood's face had first expressed astonishment, and then it relaxed into amusement, and when her maid stopped speaking for want of breath, she sank down upon a chair and burst into laughter. "my poor louise?" she said. "you never will understand english people. if mrs. dashwood and the warden are behind the window curtains, it is because they want to look out of the window!" louise's face became passionately sceptical. "in the rain, madame!" she remarked. "in a darkness of the tomb?" "yes, in the rain and darkness," said lady dashwood. "you must go down again in a moment, and give them my message!" chapter vii men marching past after the warden had closed the door on his sister he came back to the fireplace. he had been interrupted, and he stood silently with his hand on the back of the chair, just as he had stood before. he was waiting, perhaps, for an invitation to speak; for some sign from mrs. dashwood that now that they were alone together, she expected him to talk on, freely. she had no suspicion of the real reason why her aunt lena had gone away. may took for granted that she had fled at the first sign of a religious discussion. may knew that general sir john dashwood, like many well regulated persons, was under the impression that he had, at some proper moment in his juvenile existence now forgotten, at his mother's knee or in his ancestral cradle, once and for all weighed, considered and accepted the sacred truths containing the christian religion, and that therefore there was no need to poke about among them and distrust them. lady dashwood had encouraged that sentiment of silent loyalty: it left more time and energy over for the discussion and arrangement of the practical affairs of life. may knew all this. may, sitting by the fire, with her eyes on her work, observed the hesitation in the warden's mind. she knew that he was waiting. she glanced up. "what was it you were saying?" she asked in the softest of voices, for now that they were alone there was no one to be annoyed by a religious discussion. the warden moved round and seated himself. but even then he could not bring his thoughts to the surface: they lay in the back of his mind urgent, yet reluctant. meanwhile he began talking about the portrait again. it served as a stalking horse. he told her some of the old college stories, stories not only of langley, but of other wardens in the tempestuous days of the reformation and of the civil war. "and yet," he said suddenly, "what were those days compared with these? has there been any tragedy like this?" he gazed at her now; with his narrow eyes strained and sad. "just at the beginning of the war," he said, "i heard---- it was one hot brilliant morning in that early september. it was only a passing sound--but i shall never forget it, till i die." may dashwood's hands dropped to her lap, and she sat listening with her eyes lowered. "there was a sound of the feet of men marching past, though i could not see them. their feet were trampling the ground rhythmically, and all to the 'playing' of a bugler. i have never heard, before or since, a bugle played like that! the youth--i could picture him in my mind--blew from his bugle strangely ardent, compelling notes. it was simple, monotonous music, but there came from the bugler's own soul a magnificent courage and buoyancy; and the trampling feet responded--responded to the light springing notes, the high ardour and gay fearlessness of youth. there was such hope, such joy in the call of duty! no thought of danger, no thought of suffering! all hearts leapt to the sounds! and the bugler passed and the trampling feet! i could hear the swift, high, passionate notes die in the distance; and i knew that the flower of our youth was marching to its doom." the warden got up from his chair, and walked away, and there was silence in the room. then he came up to where may sat and looked down at her. "the high gods," she said, quietly quoting his own phrase, "wanted them." he moved away again. "i have no argument for my faith," he said. "the question for us is no longer 'i must believe,' but 'dare i believe?' the old days of certainty have gone. inquisitions, solemn leagues and covenants have gone--never to return. all the clamour of men who claim 'to know' has died down." and as he gazed at her with eyes that demanded an answer she said simply: "i am content with the silence of god." he made no answer and leaned heavily on the back of his chair. a moment later he began to walk again. "i don't think i _can_ believe that the heroic sacrifice of youth, their bitter suffering, will be mixed up indistinguishably with the cunning meanness of pleasure-seekers, with the sordid humbug of money-makers--in one vast forgotten grave. no, i can't believe that--because the world we know is a rational world." may glanced round at him as he moved about. the great dimly-lit room was full of shadows, and middleton's face was dark, full of shadows too, shadows of mental suffering. she looked back at her work and sighed. "even if we straighten the crooked ways of life, so that there are no more starving children, no men and women broken with the struggle of life: even if we are able, by self-restraint, by greater scientific knowledge to rid the earth of those diseases that mean martyrdom to its victims; even if hate is turned to love, and vice and moral misery are banished: even if the kingdom of heaven does come upon this earth--even then! that will not be a kingdom of heaven that is eternal! this earth will, in time, die. this earth will die, that we know; and with it must vanish for ever even the memory of a million years of human effort. shall we be content with that? i fail to conceive it as rational, and therefore i cling to the _hope_ of some sort of life beyond the grave--eternal life. but," and here he spoke out emphatically, "i have no argument for my belief." he came and stood close beside her now, and looked down at her. "i have no argument for my belief," he repeated. "and you are content with the silence of god," he added. then he spoke very slowly: "i must be content." if he had stretched out his hand to touch hers, it would not have meant any more than did the prolonged gaze of his eyes. the clock on the mantelpiece ticked--its voice alone striking into the silence. it seemed to tick sometimes more loudly, sometimes more softly. the warden appeared to force himself away from his own thoughts. with his hands still grasping the back of his chair, he raised his head and stood upright. the tick of the clock fell upon his ear; a monotonous and mechanical sound--indifferent to human life and yet weighted with importance to human life; marking the moments as they passed; moments never to be recalled; steps that are leading irretrievably the human race to their far-off destiny. as the warden's eyes watched the hands of the clock, they pointed to five minutes to eleven. a thought came to him. "all the bells are silent now," he said, "except in the safe daylight." may looked up at him. "even 'tom' is silent. the clusius is not tolled now." he got up and walked along the room to the open window. there he held the curtain well aside and looked back at her. why it was, may did not know, but it seemed imperative to her to come to him. she put her work aside and came through into the broad embrasure of the bay. then he let the curtain fall and they stood together in the darkness. the warden pushed out the latticed frame wider into the dark night. the air was scarcely stirring, it came in warm and damp against their faces. the quadrangle below them was dimly visible. eastwards the sky was heavy with a great blank pale space stretching over the battlemented roof and full of the light of a moon that had just risen, but overhead a heavy cloud slowly moved westwards. they both leaned out and breathed the night air. "it will rain in a moment," said the warden. "in the old days," he said, "there would have been sounds coming from these windows. there would have been men coming light-heartedly from these staircases and crossing to one another. now all is under military rule: the poor remnant left of undergraduate life--poor mentally and physically--this poor remnant counts for nothing. all that is best has gone, gone voluntarily, eagerly, and the men who fill their places are training for the great sacrifice. it's the most glorious and the most terrible thing imaginable!" may leaned down lower and the silence of the night seemed oppressive when the warden ceased speaking. after a moment he said, "in the old days you would have heard some far-off clock strike the hour, probably a thin, cracked voice, and then it would have been followed by other voices. you would have heard them jangle together, and then into their discordance you would have heard the deep voice of 'tom' breaking." "but he is at his best," went on the warden, "when he tolls the clusius. it is his right to toll it, and his alone. he speaks one hundred and one times, slowly, solemnly and with authority, and then all the gates in oxford are closed." drops of rain fell lightly in at them, and may drew in her head. "oxford has become a city of memories to me," said the warden, and he put out his arm to draw in the window. "that is only when you are sad," said may. "yes," said the warden slowly, "it is only when i give way to gloom. after all, this is a great time, it can be made a great time. if only all men and women realised that it might be the beginning of the 'second coming.' as it is, the chance may slip." he pulled the window further in and secured it. may pushed aside the curtain and went back into the glow and warmth of the room. she gathered up her knitting and thrust it into the bag. "are you going?" asked the warden. he was standing now in the middle of the room watching her. "i'm going," said may. "i've driven you away," he said, "by my dismal talk." "driven me away!" she repeated. "oh no!" her voice expressed a great reproach, the reproach of one who has suffered too, and who has "dreamed dreams." surely he knew that she could understand! "forgive me!" he said, and held out his hand impulsively. at least it seemed strangely impulsive in this self-contained man. she put hers into it, withdrew it, and together they went to the door. for the first time in her life may felt the sting of a strange new pain. the open door led away from warmth and a world that was full and satisfying--at least it would have led away from such a world--a world new to her--only that she was saying "good night" and not "good-bye." later on she would have to say "good-bye." how many days were there before that--five whole days? she walked up the steps, and went into the corridor. louise was there, just coming towards her. "madame desires me to say good night," said louise, giving may's face a quick searching glance. "i'll come and say good night to her," said may, "if it's not too late." no, it was not too late. louise led the way, marvelling at the callous self-assurance of english people. louise opened her mistress's door, and though consumed with raging curiosity, left mrs. dashwood to enter alone. "oh, may!" cried lady dashwood. she was moving about the room in a grey dressing-gown, looking very restless, and with her hair down. "you didn't come down again," said may; "you were tired?" "i wasn't tired!" here lady dashwood paused. "may, i have, by pure accident, come upon a letter--from belinda to gwen. i don't know how it came among my own letters, but there it was, opened. i don't know if i opened it by mistake, but anyhow there it was opened; i began reading the nauseous rubbish, and then realised that i was reading belinda. now the question is, what to do with the letter? it contains advice. may, gwen is to secure the warden! it seems odd to see it written down in black and white." lady dashwood stared hard at her niece--who stood before her, thoughtful and silent. "shall i give it to gwen--or what?" she asked. "well," began may, and then she stopped. "of course, i blame myself for being such a fool as to have taken in belinda," said lady dashwood (for the hundredth time). "but the question now is--what to do with the letter? it isn't fit for a nice girl to read; but, no doubt, she's read scores of letters like it. the girl is being hawked round to see who will have her--and she knows it! she probably isn't nice! girls who are exhibited, or who exhibit themselves on a tray ain't nice. jim knows this; he knows it. oh, may! as if he didn't know it. you understand!" may dashwood stood looking straight into her aunt's face, revolving thoughts in her own mind. "some people, may," said lady dashwood, "who want to be unkind and only succeed in being stupid, say that i am a matchmaker. i _have_ always conscientiously tried to be a matchmaker, but i have rarely succeeded. i have been so happy with my dear old husband that i want other people to be happy too, and i am always bringing young people together--who were just made for each other. but they won't have it, may! i introduce a sweet girl full of womanly sense and affection to some nice man, and he won't have her at any price. he prefers some cheeky little brat who after marriage treats him rudely and decorates herself for other men. i introduce a really good man to a really nice girl and she won't have him, she 'loves,' if you please, a man whom decent men would like to kick, and she finds herself spending the rest of her life trying hard to make her life bearable. i dare say your scientists would say--nature likes to keep things even, bad and good mixed together. well, i'm against nature. my under-housemaid develops scarlet fever, and dear old nature wants her to pass it on to the other maids, and if possible to the cook. well, i circumvent nature." may dashwood's face slowly smiled. "but i did not bring gwendolen scott to this house--she was forced upon me--and i was weak enough to give in. now, i should very much like to say something when i give the letter to gwen. but i shall have to say nothing. yes, nothing," repeated lady dashwood, "except that i must tell her that i have, by mistake, read the first few lines." "yes," said may dashwood. "after all, what else could i say?" exclaimed lady dashwood. "you can't exactly tell a daughter that you think her mother is a shameless hussy, even if you may think that she ought to know it." "poor gwen and poor lady belinda!" said may dashwood sighing, and moving to go, and trying hard to feel real pity in her heart. "no," said lady dashwood, raising her voice, "i don't say 'poor belinda.' i don't feel a bit sorry for the old reprobate, i feel more angry with her. don't you see yourself--now you know jim," continued lady dashwood, throwing out her words at her niece's retreating figure--"don't you see that jim deserves something better than belinda and co.? now, would you like to see him saddled for life with gwendolen scott?" may dashwood did not reply immediately; she seemed to be much occupied in walking very slowly to the door and then in slowly turning the handle of the door. surely gwendolen and her mother were pitiable objects--unsuccessful as they were? "now, would you?" demanded lady dashwood. "would you?" "i should trust him not to do that," said may, as she opened the door. she looked back at the tall erect figure in the grey silk dressing-gown. "good night, dear aunt." and she went out. "you see, i am running away, and i order you to go to bed. you are tired." she spoke through the small open space she had left, and then she closed the door. "trust him! oh, lord!" exclaimed lady dashwood, in a loud voice. but she was not altogether displeased with the word "trust" in may dashwood's mouth. "she seems pretty confident that jim isn't going to make a martyr of himself," she said to herself happily. the door opened and louise entered with an enigmatical look on her face. louise had been listening outside for the tempestuous sounds that in her country would have issued from any two normal women under the same circumstances. but no such sounds had reached her attentive ears, and here was lady dashwood moving about with a serene countenance. she was even smiling. oh, what a country, what people! chapter viii the lost letter the next morning it was still raining. it was a typical oxford day, a day of which there are so many in the year that those who have best known oxford think of her fondly in terms of damp sandstone. they remember her gabled roofs, narrow pavements, winding alleys humid and shining from recent rain; her mullioned windows looking out on high-walled gardens where the over-hanging trees drip and drip in chastened melancholy. they remember her floating spires piercing the lowering sodden sky, her grey courts and solemn doorways, her echoing cloisters; all her incomparable monastic glory soaked through and through with heavy languorous moisture, and slowly darkening in a misty twilight. it is this sobering atmosphere that has brought to birth and has bred the "oxford tone;" the remorseless, if somewhat playful handling of ideas. gwendolen scott was no more aware of the existence of an "oxford tone," bred (as all organic life has been) in the damp, than was the maidservant who brought her tea in the morning; but she perceived the damp. she could see through the latticed windows of the breakfast-room that it rained, rained and rained, and the question was what she should do to make the time pass till they must start for chartcote? no letter had yet come from her mother--and the old letter was still lost. the best gwen could hope for was that it had been picked up and thrown into the paper basket and destroyed. meanwhile what should she do? lady dashwood was always occupied during the mornings. mrs. dashwood did not seem to be at her disposal. what was she to do? should she practise the "reverie"? no, she didn't want to "fag" at that. she had asked the housemaid to mend a pair of stockings, and she found these returned to her room--boggled! how maddening--what idiots servants were! she found another pair that wanted mending. she hadn't the courage to ask louise to mend it. if she tried to mend it herself she would only make a mess of it--besides she hadn't any lisle thread or needles. she would look at her frocks and try and decide what to wear at lunch. if she couldn't decide she would have to consult lady dashwood. her room was rather dark. the window looked, not on to the quadrangle, but on to the street. she took each piece of dress to the window and gazed at it. the blue coat and skirt wouldn't do. she had worn that often, and the blouse was not fresh now. that must go back into the wardrobe. the likely clothes must be spread on the bed, where she could review them. she ran her hand down a stiff rustling costume of brown silk. it gave her a pleasurable sensation. it was dark brown and inconspicuous, and yet "dressy." but would, after all, the blue coat and skirt be more suitable, as oxford people never dressed? yes; but she might meet other sort of people at chartcote! it was a difficult question. she passed on to a thin black and white cloth that was very "smart" and showed off her dark beauty. that and the white cloth hat would do! she had worn it once before and the warden had talked a great deal to her when she had it on. she took out the dress and laid it on the bed, and she laid the hat upon it. mrs. dashwood had not seen the dress! by the by, mrs. dashwood and the warden had scarcely talked at all at breakfast! he had once made a remark to her, and she had looked up and said "yes," in a funny sort of way, just as if she agreed of course! h'm, there was really no need to be afraid of that! supposing and if she, gwen, were ever to be mrs. middleton, what sort of new clothes would she buy? oh, all sorts of things would be necessary! and yet--the warden seemed to be quietly drifting farther and farther away from her. was that talk in the library a dream? then if not, why didn't he say something? did he say nothing, because in the library he had said, "if you want a home, etc., etc.?" did he mean by that, "if you come and tell me that you want a home, etc., etc.?" gwen was not sure whether he meant "if you come and _say_ you want a home, etc., etc.," or only, "if you want a home, etc., etc." how tiresome! he knew she wanted a home! but perhaps he wasn't sure whether she really wanted a home! ought she to go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home? was he waiting for her to come and knock on the door and say, "i really do want a home, etc., etc.," and then come near enough to be kissed? but after what mr. boreham had said, even if she did go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home, etc., etc., and go and stand quite near him, the warden might pretend not to understand and merely say, "i'm sorry," and go on writing. how did girls make sure that a proposal was binding? did they manage somehow to have it in writing? but how could she have said to the warden, "would you mind putting it all down in writing"? she really couldn't have said such a thing! gwen could not quite make up her mind what to wear. she had put the brown silk and one or two more dresses on the bed without being able to come to any conclusion. it would be necessary to ask advice. having covered the bed with "possible" dresses, gwen went out to search for lady dashwood. she had not to go far, for she met her just outside the door. "oh, lady dashwood," began gwen, "could you, would you mind telling me what i am to wear for lunch? i'm so sorry to be such a bother, but i'm----" here gwen stopped short, for her eyes caught sight of a letter in lady dashwood's hand--the letter! if gwen had known how to faint she would have tried to faint then; but she didn't know how it was done. "i found this letter addressed to you," said lady dashwood, "in my room--it had got there somehow." she held it out to the girl, who took it, reddening as she did so to the roots of her hair. "i found it opened--i hope i didn't open it by mistake?" "oh no," said gwen, stammering. "i--lost it--somehow. oh, thanks so much! oh, thanks!" tears of embarrassment were starting to the girl's eyes, and she turned away, letter in hand, and went towards her door like a beaten child. lady dashwood gazed after her, pity uppermost in her heart--pity, now that belinda and co. were no longer dangerous. safely inside the door, gwen gave way to regret, and from regret for her carelessness she went on to wondering wildly what effect the letter might have had on lady dashwood! had she told the warden its contents? had she read the letter to him? gwen squirmed as she walked about her room. there was a look in lady dashwood's face! oh dear, oh dear! the dresses lay neglected on the bed; the sight of them only made gwen's heart ache the more, for they reminded her of those bright hopes that had flitted through her brain--hopes of having more important clothes as the warden's wife. gwen had even gone as far as wondering whether cousin bridget might not give her some furs as a wedding present. cousin bridget had spent over a thousand pounds in new furs for herself that first winter of the war, when the style changed; so was it too much to expect that cousin bridget, who was the wealthy member of the family, though her husband's title was a new one, might give her a useful wedding present? now, the mischance with this letter had probably destroyed all chances of the warden marrying her! she was glad that he had gone away to-day, so that she would not see him again till the next morning; that gave more time. she did not want to go to chartcote to lunch. she would not be able to eat anything if she felt as miserable as she did now, and she would find it impossible to talk to any one. even her mother's letter of advice might not help her very much--now that old letter had been seen. gwen walked about her room, sometimes leaning over the foot of her bed and staring blankly at the dresses spread out before her, and sometimes stopping to look at herself in a long mirror on the way, feeling very sorry for that poor pretty girl whose image she saw reflected there. when she heard a knock at the door she almost jumped. was it lady dashwood? gwen's answering voice sounded very soft and meek, as if a mouse was saying "come in" to a cat that demanded entrance. it was mrs. dashwood who opened the door and walked in. "you want advice about what to wear for lunch?" said mrs. dashwood. "lady dashwood is finishing off some parcels, and asked me to come and offer you my services--if you'll have me?" and she actually laughed as she caught sight of the display on the bed. "very business-like," she said, walking up to the bed. she did not seem to have noticed gwen's distracted appearance, and this gave gwen time and courage to compose her features and assume her ordinary bearing. "thanks so much," she said, going to the foot of the bed. "i was afraid i bothered lady dashwood when i asked about the lunch." "it really doesn't much matter what it is you wear for chartcote," said may dashwood slowly, as her eye roamed over the bed. she did not appear to have heard gwen's last remark. "people do dress so funnily here," said gwen, beginning to feel happy again, "but i thought perhaps that----" "i think i should recommend that dark brown silk," said mrs. dashwood, "and if you have a black hat----" "yes, i have!" cried gwen, with animation, and she rushed to the wardrobe. after all she did like mrs. dashwood. she was not so bad after all. may received the black hat into her hands and praised it. she put it on the girl's head and then stood back to see the effect. gwen stood smiling, her face and dark hair framed by the black velvet. "the very thing," said mrs. dashwood. "do try it on. you'd look lovely in it," gushed gwen. the expression "you'd look lovely in it" came from her lips before she could stop it. her instinctive antagonism to mrs. dashwood was fast oozing away. may took the hat and put it on her own head, and then she looked round at the mirror. "there!" said gwen. "i told you so!" may dashwood regarded herself critically in the mirror and no smile came to her lips. she looked at her tall slender figure and the auburn hair under the black velvet brim as if she was looking at somebody else. may took off the hat and placed it on the bed by the dark brown silk. "now, you're complete," she said. "quite complete;" but she looked out of her grey eyes at something far away, and did not see gwendolen. "if only i had a nice fur!" exclaimed the girl. "mine is old, and it's the wrong shape, of course," she went on confidentially. she found herself suddenly desirous of making a life-long friend of mrs. dashwood. in spite of her age and the fact that she was very clever and all that, and that the warden had begun by taking too much notice of her, mrs. dashwood was nice. gwen wanted at that moment to "tell her everything," all about the "proposal," and see what she thought about it! gwen's emotions came and went in little spurts, and they were very absorbing for the moment. "don't be ashamed of yours," said mrs. dashwood, and as she spoke she went towards the door. "i can't say i admire the sisterhood of women who spend their pence on sham or their guineas on real fur and jewellery just now." gwen stared. she was not quite sure what the remark really meant--the word "sisterhood" confused her. "if i were you," said mrs. dashwood, smiling, "i should begin to dress; we are to be ready at one punctually." "oh, thanks so much," said gwen. "i know i take an age. i always do," she laughed. as soon as mrs. dashwood had gone gwen found it necessary to sit down and think whether she really liked mrs. dashwood so very much, or whether she only "just liked her," and this subject brought her back to the letter and the warden, and all her lost opportunities! gwen was startled by a knock at the door which she knew was produced by the knuckles of lady dashwood's maid. "oh, mademoiselle!" cried louise. "you have not commenced, and madame is ready." "the brown one," exclaimed gwen, as louise rushed towards the bed. louise fell upon the bed like a wild beast and began dressing gwen with positive ferocity, protesting all the time in tones of physical agony mingled with moral indignation, her astonishment at mademoiselle's indifference to the desires of madame. "i didn't know it was so late," said gwen, who was not accustomed to such freedom from a servant. more exclamations from louise, who was hooking and buttoning and pulling and pushing like a fury. "well, leave off talking," said gwen, looking very hot, "and don't pull so much." more exclamations from louise and more pulling, and at last gwen stood complete in her brown dress and black hat. while she was thinking about what shoes she should put on, louise had already seized a pair and was now pulling and pushing at her feet. lady dashwood was giving instructions to robinson in the hall, when gwen came precipitately downstairs. the taxi was at the door, and mrs. dashwood was already seated in it. it was still raining. of course! everything was wretched! now, what about an umbrella? gwen gazed about her and seized an umbrella, earnestly trusting that it was not one that lady dashwood meant to use. how hot and flushed and late she was, and then--the letter! oh, that letter! how horrible to be obliged to sit opposite to lady dashwood! she ran down the steps without opening the umbrella, and dashed into the taxi, lady dashwood following under an umbrella held by robinson. "here we are!" said lady dashwood. she seemed to have forgotten all about the letter, and she smiled at gwen. they passed out of the entrance court of the lodgings and into the narrow street, and then into the high street. the sky and the air and the road and the pavements and the buildings were grey. the cherwell was grey, and its trees wept into it. the meadows were sodden; it was difficult to imagine that they could ever stand in tall ripe hay. there was a smell of damp decay in the air. gwen stared fixedly out of the window in order to avoid looking at the ladies opposite her. they seemed to be occupied with the continuance of a conversation that they had begun before. now, gwen's mind failed and fainted before conversation that was at all impersonal, and though she was listening, she did not grasp the whole of any one sentence. but she caught isolated words and phrases here and there, dreary words like "education," "oxford methods," and her attention was absorbed by the discovery that every time mrs. dashwood spoke, she said: "does the warden think?" just as if she knew what the warden would think! this was nasty of her. if only she always talked about gwen's hat suiting her, and about other things that were really interesting, gwen believed she could make a life-long friend of her, in spite of her age; but she would talk about stupid incomprehensible things--and about the warden! the warden was growing a more and more remote figure in gwen's mind. he was fading into something unsubstantial--something that gwen could not lean against, or put her arms round. would she never again have the opportunity of feeling how hard and smooth his shirt-front was? it was like china, only not cold. as she thought gwen's eyes became misty and sad, and she ceased to notice what the two ladies opposite to her were saying. chapter ix the luncheon party boreham was in his dressing-room at chartcote looking at himself in the mirror. the picture he saw in its depths was familiar to him. had he (like prehistoric man) never had the opportunity of seeing his own face, and had he been suddenly presented with his portrait and asked whether he thought the picture pleasing, he would have replied, as do our cabinet ministers: "the answer is in the negative." but the figure in the mirror had always been associated with his inmost thoughts. it had grown with his growth. it had smiled, it had laughed and frowned. it had looked dull and disappointed, it had looked flattered and happy in tune with his own feelings; and that rather colourless face with the drab beard, the bristly eyebrows, the pale blue eyes and the thin lips, were all part of boreham's exclusive personal world to which he was passionately attached; something separate from the world he criticised, jeered at, scolded or praised, as the mood took him, also something separate from what he secretly and unwillingly envied. the portrait in the mirror represented boreham's own particular self--the unmistakable "i." he gave a last touch with a brush to the stiff hair, and then stood staring at his completed image, at himself, ready for lunch, ready--and this was what dominated his thoughts--ready to receive may dashwood. some eight or nine years ago, when he had first met may, he had as nearly fallen in love with her as his constitution permitted; and he had been nettled at finding himself in a financial position that was, to say the best of it, rather fluctuating. he knew he was going to have chartcote, but aunts of sixty frequently live to remain aunts at eighty. may had never shown any particular interest in him, but he attributed her indifference to the natural and selfish female desire to acquire a wealthy husband. as it was impossible for him to marry at that period in his life, he adopted that theory of marriage most likely to shed a cheerful light upon his compulsory bachelorhood. he maintained that the natural man tries to escape marriage, as it is incompatible with his "freedom," and is only "enchained" after much persistent hunting down by the female, who makes the most of the conventions of civilisation for her own protection and profit. he was able, therefore, at the age of forty-two to look round him and say: "i have successfully escaped--hitherto," and to feel that what he said was true. but now he was no longer poor. he was an eligible man. he was also less happy than he had been. he had lived at chartcote for some interminable weeks! he had found it tolerable, only because he was well enough off to be always going away from it. but now he had again met may, free like himself, and if possible more attractive than she had been eight years ago! he had met her and had found her at the zenith of womanhood; without losing her youth, she had acquired maturer grace and self-possession. had there been any room for improvement in himself he too would have matured! the wealth he had acquired was sufficient. and now the question was: whether with all his masculine longing to preserve his freedom he would be able to escape successfully again? this was why he was giving a lingering glance in the mirror, where his external personality was, as it were, painted with an exactness that no artist could command. should this blond man with the beard and the stiff hair, below which lay a splendid brain, should he escape again? boreham stared hard at his own image. he repeated the momentous question, firmly but inaudibly, and then went away without answering it. time would show--that very day might show! mrs. greenleafe potten had already arrived. now mrs. greenleafe potten was a cousin of boreham's maternal aunt. she lived in rude though luxurious widowhood about a quarter of a mile from chartcote, and she was naturally the person to whom boreham applied whenever he wanted a lady to head his table. besides, mrs. potten was a very old friend of lady dashwood's. mrs. potten was a little senior to lady dashwood, but in many ways appeared to be her junior. mrs. potten, too, retained her youthful interest in men. lady dashwood's long stay in oxford had brought with it a new interest to mrs. potten's life. it had enabled her to call at king's college and claim acquaintance with the warden. mrs. potten admired the warden with the sentiment of early girlhood. now mrs. potten was accredited with the possession of great wealth, of which she spent as little as possible. she practised certain strange economies, and on this occasion, learning that the dashwoods were coming without the warden, she decided to come in the costume in which she usually spent the morning hours, toiling in the garden. the party consisted of the three ladies from king's, mr. bingham, fellow of all souls, and mr. and mrs. harding. mr. bingham was a man of real learning; he was a bachelor, and he made forcible remarks in the soft deliberate tone of a super-curate. he laughed discreetly as if in the presence of some sacred shrine. in the old pre-war days there had been many stories current in oxford about bingham, some true and some invented by his friends. all of them were reports of brief but effective conversations between himself and some other less sophisticated person. bingham always accepted invitations from any one who asked him when he had time, and if he found himself bored, he simply did not go again. boreham had got hold of bingham and had asked him to lunch, so he had accepted. it was one of the days when he did _not_ go up to the war office, but when he lectured to women students. he had to lunch somewhere, and he had bicycled out, intending to bicycle back, rain or no rain, for the sake of exercise. then there were mr. and mrs. harding. harding, who had taken orders (just as some men have eaten dinners for the bar), was fellow and tutor of a sporting college. his tutorial business had been for many years to drive the unwilling and ungrateful blockhead through the pass degree. his private business was to assume that he was a "man of the world." it was a subject that engrossed what must (in the absence of anything more distinctive), be called the "spiritual" side of his nature. his wife, who had money, lived to set a good example to other dons' wives in matters of dress and "tenue," and she had put on her best frock in anticipation of meeting the "county." indeed, the hardings had taken up boreham because he was not a college don but a member of "society." they were, like bingham, at chartcote for the first time. it was an unpleasant shock to mr. harding to find that instead of the county, other oxford people had been asked to luncheon. fortunately, however, the oxford people were the dashwoods! the hardings exchanged glances, and harding, who had entered the room in his best manner, now looked round and heaved a sigh, letting himself spiritually down with a sort of thump. bingham his old school-fellow and senior at winchester, was, perhaps, the man in all oxford to whom he felt most antipathy. mrs. harding very much regretted that she had not come in a smart harris tweed. it would have been a good compromise between the dashwoods and the pretty girl with them, and mrs. greenleafe potten with her tweed skirt and not altogether spotless shirt. but it was too late! boreham was quite unconscious of his guests' thoughts, and was busy plotting how best to give may dashwood an opportunity of making love to him. he would have lady dashwood and mrs. harding on each side of him at table, giving to mrs. potten, harding and bingham. then may dashwood and miss scott would be wedged in at the sides. but, after lunch, he would give the men only ten minutes sharp for their coffee, and take off may dashwood to look over the house. in this way he would be behaving with the futile orthodoxy required by our effete social system, and yet give the opportunity necessary to the female for the successful pursuit of the male. only--and here a sudden spasm went through his frame, as he looked round on his guests--did he really wish to become a married man? did he want to be obliged to be always with one woman, to be obliged to pay calls with her, dine out with her? did he want to explain where he was going when he went by himself, and to give her some notion as to the hour when he would return, and to leave his address with her if he stayed away for a night? no! marriage was a gross imposition on humanity, as his brother had discovered twice over. the woman in the world who would tempt him into harness would have to be exquisitely fascinating! but then--and this was the point--may dashwood _had_ just that peculiar charm! boreham's eyes were now resting on her face. she was sitting on his left, next mrs. harding, and bingham's black head was bent and he was saying something to her that made her smile. boreham wished that he had put harding, the married man, next her! harding was commonplace! harding was safe! look at harding doing his duty with mrs. potten! useful man, harding! but bingham was a bachelor, and not safe! and so the luncheon went on, and boreham talked disconnectedly because he forgot the thread of his argument in his keenness to hear what may dashwood and bingham were saying to each other. he tried to drag in bingham and force him to talk to the table, but his efforts were fruitless. bingham merely looked absently and sweetly round the table, and then relapsed into talk that was inaudible except to his fair neighbour. gwendolen scott watched the table silently, and wondered how it was they found so much to talk about. harding did not intend to waste any time in talking to an oxford person. he put his elbow on the table on her side and conversed with mrs. potten. he professed interest in her agricultural pursuits, told her that he liked digging in the rain, and by the time lunch was over he had solemnly emphasised his opinion that the cricket bat and the shot gun and the covert and the moderate party in the church of england were what made our empire great. mrs. potten approved these remarks, and said that she was surprised and pleased to hear such sound views expressed by any one from oxford. she was afraid that very wild and democratic views were not only tolerated, but born and bred in oxford. she was afraid that oxford wasn't doing poor, dear, clever bernard any good, though she was convinced that the "dear warden" would not tolerate any foolishness, and she was on the point of rising when her movements were delayed by the shock of hearing mr. bingham suddenly guffaw with extraordinary suavity and gentleness. she turned to him questioningly. "it depends upon what you mean by democratic," he said, smiling softly past mrs. potten and on to harding. "the united states of america, which makes a point of talking the higher twaddle about all men being free and equal, can barely manage to bring any wealthy pot to justice. on the other hand, oxford, which is slimed with toryism, is always ready to make any son of any impecunious greengrocer the head of one's college. in oxford, even at christ church"--and here bingham showed two rows of good teeth at harding,--"you may say what you like now. oxford now swarms with political humanitarians, who go about sticking their stomachs out and pretending to be inspired! now, what do you mean by democratic?" mrs. potten would have been shocked, but bingham's mellifluous voice gave a "cachet" to his language. she looked nervously at boreham; seeing that he had caught the talk and was about to plunge into it, she signified "escape" to lady dashwood and rose herself. "we will leave you men to quarrel together," she said to harding. "you give it to them, mr. harding. don't you spare 'em," and she passed to the door. for a moment the three men who were left behind in the dining-room glanced at each other--then they sat down. boreham was torn between the desire to dispute whatever either of his guests put forward, and a still keener desire to get away rapidly to the drawing-room. harding had already lost all interest in the subject of democracy, and was passing on the claret to bingham. bingham helped himself, wondering, as he did so, whether mrs. dashwood was in mourning for a brother, or perhaps had been mourning for a husband. it seemed to bingham an interesting question. "good claret this of yours," said harding. "i conclude that you weren't one of those fanatics who tried to force us all to become teetotallers. my view is that at my age a man can judge for himself what is good for him." "that wasn't quite the point," said bingham. "the point was whether the stay-at-homes should fill up their stomachs, or turn it into cash for war purposes." "of course," sneered harding, "you like to put it in that way." "it isn't any man's business," broke in boreham, "whether another man can or can't judge what's good for him." boreham had been getting up steam for an attack upon christ church because it was ecclesiastical, upon balliol because it had been bingham's college, and upon oxford in general because he, boreham, had not been bred within its walls. in other words, boreham was going to speak with unbiassed frankness. but this sudden deviation of the talk to claret and harding's cool assumption that his view was like his host's, could not be passed in silence. "what i say is," said harding again, "that when a man gets to my age----" "age isn't the question," interrupted boreham. "let every man have his own view about drink. mine is that i'm not going to ask your permission to drink. if a man likes to get drunk, all i say is that it's not my business. the only thing any of your bishops ever said that was worth remembering was: 'i'd rather see england free than england sober.'" harding allowed that the saying was a good one. he nodded his head. bingham sipped his claret. "you do get a bit free when you're not sober," he said sweetly. "i say, harding, so you would rather see mrs. harding free than sober!" harding made an inarticulate noise that indicated the place to which in a future life he would like to consign the speaker. "every man does not get offensive when drunk," said boreham, ignoring, in the manner peculiar to him, the inner meaning of bingham's remark. "that's true," said bingham. "a man may have as his family motto: 'in vino suavitas'(courteous though drunk, boreham); but when you're drunk and you still go on talking, don't you find the difficulty is not so much to be courteous as to be coherent? in the good old drinking days of all souls, of which i am now an unworthy member, it was said that tindal was supreme in common room _because_ 'his abstemiousness in drink gave him no small advantage over those he conversed with.'" "talk about supreme in common room," said boreham, catching at the opportunity to drive his dagger into the weak points of oxford, "you chaps, even before the war, could hardly man your common rooms. you're all married men living out in the brick villas." "harding's married," said bingham. "i'm thinking about it. i've been thinking for twenty years. it takes a long time to mature thoughts. by the by, was that a miss dashwood who sat next harding? i don't think i have ever met her in oxford." "she is a miss scott," said boreham, suddenly remembering that he wanted to join the ladies as soon as possible. he would get bingham alone some day, and squeeze him. just now there wasn't time. as to harding--he was a hopeless idiot. "not one of scott of oriel's eight daughters? don't know 'em by sight even. can't keep pace with 'em," said harding. "she's the daughter of lady belinda scott," said boreham, "and staying with lady dashwood." "i thought she didn't belong to oxford," said bingham. harding stared at his fellow don, vaguely annoyed. he disliked to hear bingham hinting at any oxford "brand"--it was the privilege of himself and his wife to criticise oxford. also, why hadn't he talked to miss scott? he wondered why he hadn't seen that she was not an oxford girl by her dress and by her look of self-satisfied simplicity, the right look for a well-bred girl to have. "i promised to show mrs. dashwood my house," said boreham. "we mustn't keep the ladies too long waiting. shall we go?" he added. "oh, sorry, harding, i didn't notice you hadn't finished!" the men rose and went into the drawing-room. harding saw, as he entered, that his wife had discovered that miss scott was a stranger and she was talking to her, while mrs. greenleafe potten had got the dashwoods into a corner and was telling them all about chartcote: a skeleton list of names with nothing attached to them of historical interest. it was like reading aloud a page of bradshaw, and any interruption to such entertainment was a relief. indeed, may dashwood began to smile when she saw boreham approaching her. something, however, in his manner made the smile fade away. "will you come over the house?" he asked, carefully putting his person between herself and lady dashwood so as to obliterate the latter lady. "i don't suppose lady dashwood wants to see it. come along, mrs. dashwood." may could scarcely refuse. she rose. harding was making his way to gwendolen scott and raising his eyebrows at his wife as a signal for her to appropriate mrs. potten. bingham was standing in the middle of the room staring at lady dashwood. some problems were working in his mind, in which that lady figured as an important item. gwendolen scott looked round her. mr. harding had ignored her at lunch, and she did not mean to have him sitting beside her again. she was quite sure she wouldn't know what to say to him, if he did speak. she got up hurriedly from her chair, passed the astonished harding and plunged at mrs. dashwood. "oh, do let me come and see over the house with you," she said, laying a cold hand nervously on may's arm. "i should love to--i simply love looking at portraits." "come, of course," said may, with great cordiality. boreham stiffened and his voice became very flat. "i've got no portraits worth looking at," said he, keeping his hand firmly on the door. "i have a couple of lely's, they're all alike and sold with a pound of tea. the rest are by nobodies." "oh, never mind," said gwen, earnestly. "i love rooms; i love--anything!" boreham's beard gave a sort of little tilt, and his innermost thoughts were noisy and angry, but he had to open the door and let gwendolen scott through if the silly little girl would come and spoil everything. boreham could not conceal his vexation. his arrangements had been carefully made, and here they were knocked on the head, and how he was to get may dashwood over to chartcote again he didn't know. "what a nice hall!" exclaimed gwen. "i do love nice halls," and she looked round at the renaissance decorations of the wall and the domed roof. "oh, i do love that archway with the statue holding the electric light, it is sweet!" "it's bad style," said boreham, walking gloomily in front of them towards a door which led into the library. "the house was decent enough, i believe, till some fool in the family, seeing other people take up italian art, got a craze for it himself and knocked the place about." "oh," said gwen, crestfallen, "i really don't know anything about how houses ought to look. i only know my cousin lady goosemere's house and mother's father's old place, my grandfather's and--and--i do like the lodgings, mrs. dashwood," she added in confusion. "so do i," said may dashwood. "this is the library," said boreham, opening the door. boreham led them from one room to another, making remarks on them expressly for the enlightenment of mrs. dashwood, using language that was purposely complicated and obscure in order to show miss scott that he was not taking the trouble to give her any information. whenever he spoke, he stared straight at may dashwood, as if he were alone with her. he did not by any movement or look acknowledge the presence of the intruder, so that gwendolen began to wonder how long she would be able to endure her ill-treatment at chartcote, without dissolving into tears. she kept on stealing a glance at the watch on mrs. dashwood's wrist, but she could never make out the time, because the figures were not the right side up, and she never had time to count them round before mrs. dashwood moved her arm and made a muddle of the whole thing. but no lunch party lasts for ever, and at last gwendolen found herself down in the hall with the taxi grunting at the door and a bustle of good-byes around her. the rain had stopped. mrs. greenleafe potten and bingham were standing together on the shallow steps like two children. the hardings were already halfway down the drive. lady dashwood looked out of the window of the taxi at boreham, as he fastened the door. "wait a minute, mr. boreham," she said. "tell mr. bingham we can take him into oxford." "he's going to walk," said boreham, coldly. "he's going to walk back with mrs. potten, who wants to walk, and then return for his bicycle." "oh, very well," said lady dashwood, leaning back. "good-bye, so many thanks, mr. boreham." boreham's face wore an enigmatic look as he walked up the steps. bingham had opened a pocket-book and was making a note in it with a pencil. "excuse me just one moment, mrs. potten. i shan't remember if i don't make a note of it." the note that bingham jotted down was: "sat. lady dashwood, dinner o'clock." boreham glanced keenly and suspiciously at him, for he heard him murmur aloud the words he was writing. boreham did not see that bingham had any right to the invitation. "i've forgotten my waterproof," exclaimed mrs. potten, as she went down the steps. bingham dived into the hall after it and having found it in the arms of a servant, he hurried back to mrs. potten. "i do believe i've dropped my handkerchief," remarked mrs. potten, as he started her down the drive at a brisk trot. "are you afraid of this pace?" asked bingham evasively, for he did not intend to return to the house. boreham gazed after them with his beard at a saturnine angle. "you couldn't expect her to remember everything," he muttered to himself. the sky was low, heavy and grey, and the air was chilly and yet close, and everything--sky, half-leafless trees, the gravelled drive too--seemed to be steaming with moisture. the words came to boreham's mind: "my very heart faints and my whole soul grieves, at the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves." "that won't do," he said to himself, as he still stood on the steps motionless. "it's no use quoting from victorian poets. 'what the people want' is nothing older than masefield or noyes, or verhaeren. because, though verhaeren's old enough, they didn't know about him till just now, and so he seems new; then there are all the new small chaps. no, i can't finish that article. after all, what does it matter? they must wait, and i can afford now to say, 'take it or leave it, and go to the devil!'" he turned and went up the steps. there was no sound audible except the noise boreham was making with his own feet on the strip of marble that met the parquetted floor of the hall. "it's a beastly distance from oxford," he said, half aloud; "one can't just drop in on people in the evening, and who else is there? i'm not going to waste my life on half a dozen damned sport-ridden, parson-ridden neighbours who can barely spell out a printed book." one thing had become clear in boreham's mind. either he must marry may dashwood for love, or he must try and let chartcote, taking rooms in oxford and a flat in town. if boreham had found the morning unprofitable, the hardings had not found it less so. "did mrs. potten propose calling?" asked harding of his wife, as they sat side by side, rolling over a greasy road towards oxford. "no," said mrs. harding. "it's quite clear to me," said harding, "that mrs. g. p. only regards boreham as a freak, so that _he_ won't be any use." "we needn't go there again," said mrs. harding, "unless, of course," she added thoughtfully, "we knew beforehand--somehow--that it wasn't just an oxford party. and lady dashwood won't do anything for us." "it's not been worth the taxi," said harding. "i wish you'd not made that mistake about miss scott," said mrs. harding, after a moment's silence. "how could i help it?" blurted harding. "scott's a common name. how on earth could i tell--and coming from oxford!" "yes, but you could see she powdered, and her dress! besides, coming with the dashwoods and knowing mrs. potten!" continued mrs. harding. "if only you had said one or two sentences to her; i saw she was offended. that's why she ran off with mrs. dashwood, she wouldn't be left to your tender mercies. i saw lady dashwood staring." harding made no answer, he merely blew through his pursed-up mouth. "and we've got boreham dining with us next thursday!" he said after a pause. "damn it all!" "no. i didn't leave the note," said mrs. harding. "i thought i'd 'wait and see.'" "good!" said harding. "it was a nuisance," said mrs. harding, "that we asked the warden of king's when the bishop was here and got a refusal. we can't ask the dashwoods and miss scott even quietly. it's for the warden to ask us." "anyhow ask bingham," said harding; "just casually." mrs. harding looked surprised. "why, i thought you couldn't stick him," she said; "and he hasn't been near us for a couple of years at least." "yes, but----" "very well," said mrs. harding. "and meanwhile i've got lady dashwood to lend me miss scott for our sale to-morrow! and shall i ask them to tea? we are so near that it would seem the natural thing to do." chapter x parental effusions "well, may," said lady dashwood, leaning back into her corner and speaking in a voice of satisfaction, "we've done our duty, i hope, and now, if you don't mind, we'll go on doing our duty and pay some calls. i ought to call at st. john's and wadham, and also go into the suburbs. i've asked mr. bingham to dinner--just by ourselves, of course. do you know what his nickname is in oxford?" may did not know. "it is: 'it depends on what you mean,'" said lady dashwood. "oh!" said may. "yes, in the socratic manner." "i dare say," said lady dashwood. "what did you think of the hardings?" may said she didn't know. "they are a type one finds everywhere," said lady dashwood. the afternoon passed slowly away. it was the busy desolation of the city, a willing sacrifice to the needs of war, that made both may and lady dashwood sit so silently as they went first to wadham, and then, round through the noble wide expanse of market square opposite st. john's. then later on out into the interminable stretch of villas beyond. by the time they returned to the lodgings the grey afternoon light had faded into darkness. "any letters?" asked lady dashwood, as robinson relieved them of their wraps. yes, there were letters awaiting them, and they had been put on the table in the middle of the hall; there was a wire also. the wire was from the warden, saying that he would not be back to dinner. "he's coming later," said lady dashwood, aloud. "late, may!" "oh!" said may dashwood. there was a letter for gwen. it was lying by itself and addressed in her mother's handwriting. she laid her hand upon it and hurried up to her room. lady dashwood went upstairs slowly to the drawing-room. "h'm, one from belinda," she said to herself, "asking me to keep gwen longer, i suppose, on some absurd excuse! well, i won't do it; she shall go on monday." she turned up the electric light and seated herself on a couch at one side of the fire. she glanced through the other letters, leaving the one from belinda to the last. "now, what does the creature want?" she said aloud, and at the sound of her own voice, she glanced round the room. she had taken for granted that may had been following behind her and had sat down, somewhere, absorbed in her letters. there was no one in the room and the door was closed. she opened the letter and began to read: "my dear lena, "i am a bit taken by surprise at gwen's news! how rapidly it must have happened! but i have no right to complain, for it sounds just like a real old-fashioned love at first sight affair, and i can tell by gwen's letter that she knows her own mind and has taken a step that will bring her happiness. well, i suppose there is nothing that a mother can do--in such a case--but to be submissive and very sweet about it!" lady dashwood's hand that held the letter was trembling, and her eyes shifted from the lines. she clung to them desperately, and read on: "i must try and not be jealous of dr. middleton. i must be very 'dood.' but just at the moment it is rather sudden and overpowering and difficult to realise. i had always thought of my little gwen, with her great beauty and attractiveness, mated to some one in the big world; but perhaps it was a selfish ambition (excusable in a mother), for the fates had decreed otherwise, and one must say 'kismet!' i long to come and see you all. it is impossible for me to get away to-morrow, but i could come on saturday. would that suit you? it seems like a dream--a very real dream of happiness for gwen and for--i suppose i must call him 'jim.' and i must (though i shouldn't) congratulate you on so cleverly getting my little treasure for your brother. i know how dear he is to you. "yours affectionately, "belinda scott." lady dashwood laid the letter on her knees and sat thinking, with the pulses in her body throbbing. a dull flush had come into her cheeks, and just below her heart was a queer, empty, weak feeling, as if she had had no food for a long, long while. she moved at last and stood upon her feet. "i will not bear it," she said aloud. her voice strayed through the empty room. the face of the portrait stared out remorselessly at her with its cynical smile. all the world had become cynical and remorseless. lady dashwood moved to the door and went into the corridor. she passed gwen's room and went to may dashwood's. there she knocked on the door. may's voice responded. she had already begun to dress. "aunt lena!" she exclaimed softly, as lady dashwood closed the door behind her without a word and came forward to the fireplace, "what has happened?" lady dashwood held towards her a letter. "read that," she said, and then she turned to the fire and leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and clasped her hot brow in her hands. she did not look at the tall slight figure with its aureole of auburn hair near her, and the serious sweet face reading the letter. what she was waiting for was--help--help in her dire need--help! she wanted may to say, "this can't be, must not be. _i_ can help you"; and yet, as the silence grew, lady dashwood knew that there was no help coming--it was absurd to expect help. may dashwood stood quite still and read the letter through. she read it twice, and yet said nothing. "well!" said lady dashwood, her voice muffled. as no reply came, she glanced round. "you have read the letter?" she asked. "yes," said may, "i've read it," and she laid the letter on the mantelpiece. there was a curious movement of her breathing--as if something checked it; otherwise her face was calm and she showed no emotion. "what's to be done?" demanded lady dashwood. "nothing can be done," said may, and she spoke breathlessly. "nothing!" exclaimed lady dashwood. "may!" "nothing, not if it is his wish," said may dashwood, and she cleared her throat and moved away. "if he knew, it would not be his wish," said lady dashwood. "if he knew about the other letter; if he knew what those women were like! of course," she went on, "men are such fools, that he might think he was rescuing her from belinda! but," she burst out suddenly, yet very quietly, "can't he see that gwen has no moral backbone? can't he see that she's a lump of jelly? no, he can't see anything;" then she turned round again to the fire. "society backs up fraud in marriage. people will palm off a girl who drinks or who shows signs of inherited insanity with the shamelessness of horse-dealers. 'the man must look out for himself,' they say. very well," said lady dashwood, pulling herself up to her full height, "i am going to do--whatever can be done." but she did not _feel_ brave. may had walked to the dressing-table and was taking up brushes and putting them down again without using them. she took a stopper out of a bottle, and then replaced it. lady dashwood stood looking at her, looking at the bent head silently. then she said suddenly: "this letter was posted when?" she suddenly became aware that the envelope was missing. she had thrown it into the fire in the drawing-room or dropped it. it didn't matter--it was written last night. "gwen must have posted her news at the latest yesterday morning by the first post. then when could it have happened? he never saw her for a moment between dinner on monday, when you arrived, and when she must have posted her letter." lady dashwood stared at her niece. "it must have happened before you arrived." "no," said may. "he must have _written_--you see;" and she turned round and looked straight at lady dashwood for the first time since she read that letter. "written that same night, monday, after mr. boreham left?" may moved her lips a moment and turned away again. "i don't believe it," said lady dashwood. "if it is his wish--if he is in love," said may slowly, "you can do nothing!" "he is not in love with her," said lady dashwood, with a short bitter laugh. "if she speaks to me about it before his return, i--well, i shall know what to say. but she won't speak; she knows i read the first sentences of her mother's letter, and being the daughter of her mother--that is, having no understanding of 'honour'--she will take for granted that i read more--that i read that letter through." may remained silent. just then the dressing gong sounded, and lady dashwood went to the door. "may, i am going to dress," she said. "i shall fight this affair; for if it hadn't been for me, jim would still be a free man." may looked at her again fixedly. "what shall you say to lady belinda?" she asked. "i shall say nothing to belinda--just now," said lady dashwood. "the letter may be--a lie!" "suppose she comes on saturday?" said may. lady dashwood's eyes flickered. "she can't come on saturday," she said slowly. "there is no room for her, while you are here; the other bedrooms are not furnished. you"--here lady dashwood's voice became strangely cool and commanding--"you stay here, may, till monday! i must go and dress." may did not reply. lady dashwood paused to listen to her silence--a silence which was assent, and then she left the room as rapidly and quietly as she had entered. outside, the familiar staircase looked strange and unsympathetic, like territory lost to an enemy and possessed by that enemy--ruined and distorted to some disastrous end. some disastrous end! the word "end" made lady dashwood stop and to think about it. would this engagement that threatened to end in marriage, affect her brother's career in oxford? it might! he might find it impossible to be an efficient warden, if gwendolen was his wife! there was no telling what she might not do to make his position untenable. lady dashwood went up the short stair that led to the other bedrooms. she passed gwendolen's door. what was the girl inside that room thinking of? was she triumphant? had lady dashwood been able to see within that room, she would have found gwendolen moving about restlessly. she had thrown her hat and outdoor things on the bed and was vaguely preparing to dress for dinner. mrs. potten had not said one word about asking her to come on monday--not one word; but it didn't matter--no, not one little bit! nothing mattered now! a letter lay on her dressing-table. from time to time gwendolen came up to the dressing-table and glanced at the letter and then glanced at her own face in the mirror. the letter was as follows:-- "my darling little girl, "what you tell me puts me in a huge whirl of surprise and excitement. i suppose i am a very vain mother when i say that i am not one little bit astonished that dr. middleton proposes to marry you. but you must not imagine for a moment that i think you were foolish in listening to his offer. for many reasons, a very young pretty girl is safer under the protection and care of a man a good deal older than herself. dr. middleton in his prominent position in oxford would not promise to share his life and his home with you unless he really meant to make you very, very happy, darling. may your future life as mistress of the lodgings be a veritable day-dream. tell him how much i long to come; but i can't till saturday as i have promised to help bee with a concert on friday; it is an engagement of honour, and you know one must play up trumps. i rush this off to the post. my love, darling, "your own "mother." gwen had found a slip of paper folded in the letter, on which was written in pencil, "of course you are engaged. dr. middleton is pledged to you. tear up this slip of paper as soon as you have read it, and give my letter to you to the warden to read. this is all-important. let me know when you have given it to him." gwen had read and had burned the slip of paper, and had even poked the ashes well into the red of the fire. when that was done, she had walked about the room excitedly. how was it possible to dress quietly when the world had suddenly become so dreadfully thrilling? so, after all her doubt and despair, after all her worry, she was engaged. it was all right! all she had to do was to give her mother's letter to the warden and the matter was concluded. she was going to be mrs. middleton, and mistress of the lodgings. how thrilling! how splendid it was of her mother to make it so plain and easy! and yet, how was she to put the letter into the warden's hands? what was she to say when she handed the letter to him? when louise appeared to attend to gwen's dress, she found that young lady fastening up her black tresses with hands that showed suppressed excitement, and her eyes and cheeks were glowing. she turned and glanced at louise. "i'm late, as usual, i suppose," she said and laughed. "mademoiselle has the appearance of being _très gaie ce soir_," said louise. "oh, not particularly," said gwen; "only my hair won't go right; it's a beast, and refuses," and she laughed again. when she was mrs. middleton she would have a maid of her own, not a french maid. they were a nuisance, and looked shabby. yes, she dared think of being engaged and of being married. it wasn't a dream: it was all real. she would buy a dog, a small little thing, and she would tie its front hair with a big orange bow and carry it about in her arms everywhere. it would be lovely to be dressed in a filmy tea-gown with the dog in her arms, and she would rise to meet callers and say, "i'm so sorry--the warden isn't at home; but you know how busy he is," etc., etc., and the men who called would pull the dog's ears and say "lucky beggar!" and she would scold them for hurting her darling, darling pet, and she would sit in the best place in the chapel, wearing the most cunning hats, and she would appear not to see that she was being admired. in this land of fairy dreams the warden hovered near as a vague shadowy presence: he was there, but only as a name is over a shop window, something that marks its identity but has little to do with the delights to be bought within. and why shouldn't she imagine all this? there was the letter to be given to the warden--that must be done first. she must think that over. louise's presence suggested a plan. suppose the warden came home so late that she didn't see him? she would write a tiny note and put her mother's letter within it, and send it down to the library by louise. that would be far easier than speaking to him. so much easier did it seem to gwen, that she determined to go to bed very early, so that she should escape meeting the warden. and what should she write in her little note? how exciting the world was; how funny it was going down into the drawing-room and meeting lady dashwood and mrs. dashwood, both looking so innocent, knowing nothing of the great secret! how funny it was going down to the great solemn dining-room, entered by its double doors--her dining-room--and sitting at table, thinking all the time that the whole house really belonged to her, and that she would in future sit in lady dashwood's chair! how deliciously exciting, indeed! all the plate and glass on the table was really hers. old robinson and young robinson were really her servants. what a shock for lady dashwood when she found out! gwen's eyes were luminous as she looked round the table. how envious some people would be of her! mrs. dashwood would not be pleased! for all her clever talk, mrs. dashwood had not done much. what a bustle there would be when the secret was discovered, when the warden announced: "i am engaged to miss scott, miss gwendolen scott!" how young, how awfully young to be a warden's wife! what an excitement! during dinner, lady dashwood told robinson to keep up a good fire in the library, as the warden would probably arrive at about a quarter to eleven. that decided gwen. she would go to bed at ten, and that would give her time to write her little note and get it taken to the library before the warden arrived home. he would find it there, awaiting him. dinner passed swiftly, though the two ladies were rather dull and silent. gwen had so much to think of that she ate almost without knowing that she was eating. when they went upstairs to the drawing-room, the time went much more slowly, for there was nothing to do. lady dashwood and mrs. dashwood both took up books, and seemed to sink back into the very depths of their chairs, and disappear. it was very dismal. perhaps lady dashwood hadn't read _that_ letter all through. anyhow she had not been able to interfere. that was clear! gwen went and fetched the book on oxford, and read half a page of it, and when she had mastered that, she discovered that she had read it before. so she was no farther on for all her industry. how slowly the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece moved; how interminable the time was! everybody was so silent that the clock could be heard ticking. that lady dashwood hadn't been able to interfere and make mischief with the warden, showed how little power she had after all. at last the clock struck ten, and gwen got up from her chair. "ten," said mrs. dashwood, and she raised her face from her book. "ten," said lady dashwood. "yes, ten," said gwendolen. "i think i'll go to bed, lady dashwood, if you don't mind." "do, my dear," said lady dashwood. the girl stood up before her, slim and straight as an arrow. both women sat and looked at her, and she glanced at both of them in silence. her very beauty stung lady dashwood and made her eyes harden as she looked at the girl. what were may dashwood's thoughts as she, too, leaning back in her large chair, looked at the dark hair and the flushed cheeks, the white brow and neck, the radiant pearly prettiness of eighteen! gwen was conscious that they were examining her; that they knew she was pretty--they could not deny her prettiness. she felt a glow of pride in her youth and in her power--her power over a man who commanded other men. and this drawing-room was hers. she glanced at the portrait over the fireplace. "mr. thing-um-bob," she said dimpling, "is looking very sly this evening." may dashwood took up her book again and turned over a few pages, as if she had lost her place. lady dashwood did not smile or speak. gwen made a movement nearer to lady dashwood. "good night," she said. she seemed to have a sudden intention of bending down, perhaps to kiss lady dashwood. vague thoughts possessed the girl that this rather incomprehensible and imposing elderly woman, who wore such nice rings, was going to be a relation of hers. would she be her sister-in-law? how funny to have anybody so old for a sister-in-law! it was a good thing she had, after all, so little influence over dr. middleton. "good night, gwen," said lady dashwood, without appearing to notice the girl's movement towards her. "sleep well, child," she added and she turned her head towards may dashwood. gwen hesitated a brief moment, and then walked away. "i always sleep well," she said, with a laugh. "i once thought it would be so nice to wake up in the night, because one would know how comfy one was. but i did wake once--for about a quarter of an hour--and i soon got tired and hated it!" at the door she turned and said, "good night, mrs. dashwood. i quite forgot--how rude of me!" "good night," said may. the door closed. lady dashwood stared deeply at her book, and then raised her eyes suddenly to her niece. may had risen from her chair. "do you mind, dear aunt lena, if i go off too?" she came close to lady dashwood and laid a caressing hand on her shoulder. lady dashwood looked up into her face, and may was startled at the expression of suffering in the eyes. "go, dear, if you want to! i shall stay up--till he comes in. yes, go, may!" "you won't feel lonely?" said may, and she sighed without knowing that she did so. "no," said lady dashwood. may bent down and kissed her aunt's brow. it was burning hot. she caressed her cheek with her hand, then kissed her again and went out. as may met the cooler air of the staircase, she murmured to herself, "i'm a coward to leave her alone--alone when she is so wretched. oh, what a coward i am!" she shivered as she went up the stairs, and as soon as she was in her own room she put up the lights, and then she locked the door, and having done this she took off her dress and put on her dressing-gown. she sat down by the fire. how was she to stay on here till monday: how was she to endure it? it would be intolerable! may groaned aloud. what right had she to call it intolerable? what had happened to her? what was demoralising her, turning her strength into weakness? what was it that had entered into her soul and was poisoning its health and destroying its purpose? a few days ago and she had been steadily pursuing her work. she had been stifling her sorrow, and filling the vacancy of her life with voluntary labour. having no child of her own, she had been filling her empty arms with the children of other women. she had fed and nursed and loved babies that would never call her "mother." she had had no time to think of herself--no time for regrets--for self-pity. and now, suddenly, her heart that had been quieted and comforted, her heart that had seemed quieted and comforted, her heart dismissed all this tender and sacred work and cried for something else--cried and would not be appeased. she felt as if all that she had believed fixed and certain in herself and in her life, was shaken and might topple over, and in the disaster her soul might be destroyed. she was appalled at herself. no, no; she must wrestle with this sin, with this devil of self; she must fight it! she got up from her chair and went to the dressing-table. there she took up with a trembling hand a little ivory case, and going back to her seat she opened it reverently and looked at the face of her boy husband. there he was in all the bloom of his twenty and six years. it was a young pleasant face. and he had been such a comrade of her childhood and girlhood. but strangely enough he had never seen the gulf widening between them as she grew into a woman older than her years and he into a man, young for his years; boyish in his view of life, mentally immature. he was quite unconscious that he never met the deeper wants of her nature; those depths meant nothing to him. there had been a tacit understanding between them from their childhood that they should marry; an understanding encouraged by their parents. when at last may found out her mistake; that this bondage was irksome and her heart unsatisfied, he had suddenly thrown the responsibility of his happiness, of his very life, upon her shoulders, not by threats of vengeance on himself, but by falling from his usual buoyant cheerfulness into a state of uncomplaining despondency. may had had more than her share of men's admiration. her piquancy and ready sympathy more even than her good looks attracted them. but she had gone on her way heart whole, and meanwhile she could not endure to see her old comrade unhappy. they became formally engaged and he returned to his old careless cheerfulness. he was no longer a pathetic object, and she was a little disappointed and yet ashamed of her disappointment. why should she have vague "wants" in her nature--these luxuries of the pampered soul? the face she now gazed upon, figured in the little ivory frame, was of a man, not over-wise, a man who was occupied with the enjoyment of life, yet without sinister motives. during those brief six months of married life, he had leant upon her, delighted and yet amused at her sterner virtues; and yet this man, not strong, not wise, when the call of duty came, when that ancient call to manhood, the call to rise up and meet the enemy, when that call came, he went out not shrinking, but with all honourable eagerness and fearlessness to offer his life. and his life was taken. so that he whom in life she had never looked to for moral help, had become to her--in death--something sacred and unapproachable. in her first fresh grief she had asked herself bitterly what she--in her young womanhood--had ever offered to humanity? nothing at all comparable to his sacrifice! had she ever offered anything at all? had she not, from girlhood, taken all the joys that life put in her way, and taken them for granted? she had been aware of an underworld of misery, suffering and vice, had seen glimpses of it, heard its sounds breaking in upon her serenity. she had, like the travelling levite, observed, noted, and had gone about her own business. so with passionate self-reproach she had thrown herself into work among the neglected children of the poor, and had tried to still the clamour of her conscience and fill the emptiness of her heart. and until now, that life had absorbed her and satisfied her--until now! "i am not worthy to look upon your face," she murmured, and she closed the ivory case, letting it fall upon her lap. she hid her face in her hands. oh, why had she during those six months of marriage patronised him in her thoughts? why had she told him he was "irresponsible," jestingly calling him "her son," and now after his death, was she to add a further injustice and become unfaithful to his memory--the memory of her boy, who would never return? sharp, burning tears oozed up painfully between her eyelids. she tried to pray, and into her whole being came a profound silent sense of self-abasement, absorbing her as if it were a prayer. chapter xi no escape lady dashwood sat on in the drawing-room. now that she was alone it was not necessary to keep up the show of reading a book. she put it down on a table close at hand and gave herself up to thought. but what was the good of plans--until jim came back? the first thing was to find out whether the engagement was a fact and not an invention of belinda's. then if it was a fact, whether jim really wanted to marry gwendolen? if he did want to, plans might be very difficult to make, and there was little time, with belinda clamouring to come and play the mother-in-law. the vulture was already hovering with the scent of battle in its nostrils. then, on the other hand, supposing jim didn't want to marry gwen, but had only been run into it--somehow--before he had had time to see may dashwood, then plans might be easier. but in any case there were almost overwhelming difficulties in the way of "doing anything." it was easy to say that she would never allow the marriage to take place, but how was she to prevent it? "i must prevent it," she murmured to herself. "must!" what still amazed and confounded lady dashwood and made her helpless was: why her brother showed such obvious interest--more than mere interest--in may dashwood, if he was in love with gwendolen scott and secretly pledged to her? jim playing the ordinary flirt was unthinkable. it did look as if he had proposed in some impulsive moment, before may arrived, and then---- why, that was why he had not announced his engagement! was he playing a double game? no, it was unthinkable that he should not be absolutely straight. gwendolen had somehow entangled him. the very thought of it made lady dashwood get up from her chair and move about restlessly. then an idea struck her. jim coveted gwendolen for her youth and freshness and only admired may! yes, only admired her, and regarding her as still mourning for her young husband, still inconsolable, he had treated her with frankness and had shown his admiration without the restraint that he would have used otherwise. when would jim return? how long would she have to wait? she had told robinson to take a tray of refreshments for the warden into the library. now that she was alone in the drawing-room she would have the tray brought in here. when jim did come in, she would have to approach her subject gradually. she must be as wily as a serpent--wily, when her pulses were beating and her head was aching? it would be more easy and natural for her to begin talking here than to go into the library and force him into conversation after the day's work was done. yet the matter must be thrashed out at once. she could not go about with belinda's letter announcing the engagement and yet pretend that she knew nothing about it. gwendolen probably knew that her mother had written; or if she didn't already know, would very likely know by the morning's post. she rang the bell, and when robinson appeared, she told him to bring the tray in, instead of taking it to the library. "when the warden comes in, tell him the tray is here," she said. oh, how the last few minutes dragged! it was some distraction to have robinson coming in and putting the tray down on the wrong table, and to be able to tell him the right table and the most suitable chair to accompany it. then, when he had gone and all was ready, she chose a chair for herself. not too near and not too far. she had belinda's letter safe? yes, it was here! she was ready, she was prepared. she was going to do something more difficult than anything she had experienced in her life, because so much depended on it, so much; and a great emotion is not easy to hide, it takes one's breath sometimes, it makes one's voice harsh, or indistinct, or worse still, it suddenly benumbs the brain, and thoughts go astray and tangle themselves, and all one's power of argument, all one's grip of the situation, goes. and the minutes passed slowly and still more slowly. when at last she heard sounds on the stairs, the blood rushed to her cheeks and her hands became as cold as ice. that was a bad beginning! she went to the door and opened it. he had come in and had gone into the library. she called out to him to come into the drawing-room. she heard his voice answer "coming!" she left the door open and went back to her chair, the chair she had chosen, and she stood by it, waiting, looking at the open door. he came in. he looked all round the room, and closed the door behind him. "all alone?" he said, and there was a question in his voice. who was he thinking of? who was absent? whose absence was he thinking of? she sat down. "you're not cold?" she asked. "not at all," he said, and he walked to the table arranged for him and sat down. "did you have a satisfactory day?" she asked. "on the whole," he said slowly, "yes." "you're not tired?" she asked. "not a bit," he answered. "why should i be?" and he looked at her and smiled. "i don't know why you should be, jim. i'm glad you're not. my guests seemed to be tired, for they both went off long ago." she was now making the first step in the direction which she must boldly travel. "i expect you are tired too," he said, "only--as usual--you wait up for me." the warden poured himself out a cup of coffee, and took up a sandwich, adding: "i managed to get a scrappy dinner before seven; if i had waited longer i should have missed my train." "we were very dull at dinner without you," she said, bringing him back again to the point from which she was starting. the warden looked pleased, and then pained. lady dashwood was watching him with keen tired eyes. "we lunched at chartcote, and then we did all that you particularly wanted me to do," she said. "and then something rather amazing happened--i found a letter waiting me from belinda scott!" she paused. the warden glanced at her: his face became coldly abstracted. "i don't mean that it was strange that she should write, but that what she said was strange." he glanced at her again, and she saw that he was arrested. she went on. it seemed now easier to speak. a strange cold despair had seized her, and with that despair a fearlessness. "i can't help thinking that there is some mistake, because you would have told me if--well, anything had happened to you--of consequence! you would not have left me to be told by an--an outsider." the warden raised the cup of coffee to his lips, and then put it down carefully. "anything that has happened," he said, "has not been communicated by me to anybody. it did not seem to me that--there was anything that ought to be." lady dashwood waited and finding her lips would stiffen and her voice sounded hollow, measured her words. "will you read belinda's letter, and then you will see what i mean?" she said, and she rose and held the paper out to him. his features had grown tense and severe. he half rose, and reached out over the table for the letter, and took it without a word. then he put on his eye-glasses and read it through very slowly. lady dashwood sat, staring at her own hands that lay in her lap. she was not thinking, she was waiting for him to speak. he read the letter through, and sat with it in his hand, silent for a minute. for years he had been accustomed to looking over the compositions of men who had begun to think, and of men who never would begin to think. he was unable to read anything without reading it critically. but his criticism was criticism of ideas and the expression of ideas. he had no insight either by instinct or training for the detection of petty personal subterfuges, nor did he suspect crooked motives. but the discrepancy between this effusion of maternal emotion and gwendolen's assertion that she had no home and that nobody cared was glaring. the writer of the letter was a bouncing, selfish woman of poor intelligence. that fact, indeed, had become established in the warden's mind. the letter was in hopelessly bad taste. it became pretty plain, therefore, that gwendolen had spoken the truth, and the lie belonged to the mother. already, yes, already he was being drawn into an atmosphere of paltry humbug, of silly dishonesty, an atmosphere in which he could not breathe. couldn't breathe! the warden roused himself. what did he mean by "being drawn"? he had carried out his life with decisive and serious intentions, and whoever shared that life with him would have to live in the atmosphere he had created around him. surely he was strong enough not only to hold his own against the mother, but to mould a pliable girl into a form that he could respect! "somehow, i can't imagine how," said lady dashwood, breaking the silence, "i found a letter from belinda to gwendolen on my toilet table among other letters, and opened it and i began reading it--without knowing that it was not for me. belinda's writing--all loops--did not make the distinction between gwen and lena so very striking. i read two sentences or so, and one phrase i can't forget; it was 'what are you doing about the warden?' i turned the sheet and saw, 'your affectionate mother, belinda scott.' i did not read any more. i gave the letter to gwen, and i saw by her face that she had read the letter herself. 'what are you doing about the warden?' knowing belinda, i draw conclusions from this sentence that do not match with the surprise she expresses in this letter you have just read. you understand what i mean?" the warden moved on his seat uneasily. "belinda speaks of your _engagement_ to gwendolen," said lady dashwood, and her voice this time demanded an answer. "i am not engaged," he said, turning his eyes to his sister's face slowly, "but, i am pledged to marry her--if it is her wish." lady dashwood's eyes quavered. "is it your wish?" she asked. the warden rose from his chair as if to go. "i can't discuss the matter further, lena. i cannot tell you more. i had no right, i had no reason, for telling you anything before, because nothing had been concluded--it may not be concluded. it depends on her, and she has not spoken to me decisively." he moved away from the table. "you haven't finished your coffee, your sandwiches," said lady dashwood, to give herself time, and to help her to self-control. oh, why had he put himself and his useful life in the hands of a mere child--a child who would never become a real woman? why did he deliberately plan his own martyrdom? "i don't want any more," he said, "and i have letters to write." "jim," she called to him gently, "tell me at least--if you are happy--whether----" "i can't talk just now--not just now, lena," he said. "but belinda takes the matter as settled--otherwise the letter is not merely absurd--but outrageous!" the warden hesitated in his slow stride towards the door. "i am not going to have belinda here on saturday. there is no room for her. she can't come till may has gone." lady dashwood spoke this in a firm, rapid voice. "that is for you to decide," he said. "you are mistress here." he was moving again when she said in a voice full of pain: "you say you can't talk just now, you can't speak to me of what is happening to you, of what may happen to you, when you, next to john, are more to me than anything else in the world. what happens to you means happiness or misery to me, and yet you _can't talk_!" the warden was arrested, stood still, and turned towards her. "you owe me some consideration, jim. i have no children, you have been a son as well as a brother to me. i can have no peace of mind, no joy in life if things go wrong with you. yes, i repeat it--if things go wrong with you. i was your mother, jim, for many years, and yet you say you can't discuss something that is of supreme importance! you are willing to go out of this room and leave me to spend a night sleepless with anxiety." what his engagement to gwendolen would mean to her was expressed more in her voice even than in her words. the warden stood motionless. "be patient with me, lena. i can't talk about it--i would if i could. i know all i owe to you--all i can never repay; but there is nothing more to tell you than that i have offered her a home. i have made a proposal--i was not aware that she had definitely accepted, and that is why i said nothing to you about it." lady dashwood got up. she did not approach her brother. her instinct told her not to touch him, or entreat him by such means. she made a step towards the hearth, and said in a muffled voice-- "will you answer one question? you can answer it." he made no sound of assent. "are you in love with her? or"--and here lady dashwood's voice shook--"do you feel that she will help you? do you think she will be helpful to--the college?" there was a pause, and then the warden's voice came to her; he was forcing himself to speak very calmly. "i have no right to speak of what may not happen. lena, can't you see that i haven't?" the pause came again. "you have answered it," said lady dashwood, in a broken voice. there was no time to think now, for at that moment there came a sound that startled both of them and made them stand for a second with lifted heads listening. "some one screamed!" exclaimed lady dashwood. the warden was already at the door and had pulled it open. "the library!" he called out to her sharply, and he was gone. she hurried out after him, her heart beating with the sudden alarm. what had happened, what was it? chapter xii the ghost as soon as she had reached her room gwendolen scott sat down seriously by the little writing-table. here was the paper and here was the pen, but the composition of the letter to the warden was not even projected in her mind. the thoughts would not come. "dear dr. middleton," gwen began with complete satisfaction. that was all right. after some thought she went on. "mother asks me to give you her letter!" no, of course, that wouldn't do. her mother wouldn't like him to know that she ordered the letter to be shown to him. everything on the slip of paper was secret. it was not the first time that gwen had received private slips of paper. gwen was obliged to tear up the sheet and begin again: "dear dr. middleton,"---- now what would she say? it would take her all night. of course, louise looked in at the door and muttered something volubly. "i can manage myself," called out gwen from her table. "i'm not ready, and shan't be for hours." louise went away. then it occurred to gwen that she ought to have asked louise to come back again in a few minutes, and take the letter. she really must try and get the letter written. so putting all the determination she was capable of into a supreme effort, she began: "i hope mother won't mind my showing you this letter." gwen had heard her mother often say with complete self-satisfaction: "only a fool is afraid to tell a useful lie, but only a fool tells one that isn't necessary!" indeed, lady belinda thought the second half of her maxim a bit clever, a bit penetrating, and gwen had listened to it smiling and feeling that some reflected glory from her mother's wit was falling upon her, because she understood how clever it was. now the implied untruth that gwen was putting upon paper seemed to her very useful, and it looked satisfactory when written. she went on: "i hope it wasn't wrong of me to tell what you said. you didn't say tell, but i didn't know what to do, as i am afraid to speak if you don't speak to me. you are so awfully, awfully kind that i know i oughtn't to be afraid, but i am. do forgive stupid little me, and be kind again to "your solotory little "gwendolen scott." the spelling of "solitary" had caused gwen much mental strain, and even when the intellectual conflict was over and the word written, it did not look quite right. why had she not said "lonely"? but that, too, had its difficulties. however, the letter was now finished. louise had taken her at her word and had not returned. gwen looked at her watch. it was past a quarter to eleven. at this hour she knew she mustn't ring the bell for a servant. she could not search for louise, she would be in lady dashwood's room. she must take the letter herself to the library. she put the letter into an envelope and addressed it to dr. middleton. then she added her mother's letter and sealed the whole. then she peeped out of her door and listened! all the lights were full on and there was no sound of any one moving. the warden very likely hadn't yet returned. she would try and find out. she slipped quietly down the steps, and with her feet on the thick carpeted landing she waited. she could see that the hall below was brightly lighted, and all was still. she listened intently outside the drawing-room door. not a sound. she might have time--if he really hadn't arrived. she fled across the head of the staircase and was at the door of the library in a second of time. there she paused. no, there was no sound behind her! no one was coming upstairs! no one was opening the front door or moving in the hall! but it was just possible that he had already arrived and was sitting in the library. he might be sitting there--and looking severe! that would be alarming! though--and here gwen suddenly decided that for all his severity she infinitely preferred his appearance to that of a man like mr. boreham--mr. boreham's beard was surely the limit! she listened at the door. she laid her cheek against it and listened. no sound! the whole house illuminated and yet silent! there was something strange about it! she would peep in and if there was no light within--except, of course, firelight--she would know instantly that the warden wasn't there. it would only take her a flash of a minute to run in, throw the letter down on the desk, and fly for all she was worth. she turned the handle of the door slowly and noiselessly, and pushed ever so little. the door opened just an inch or two and disclosed--darkness! except for a glimmer--just a faint glimmer of light! he could not have come in, he could not possibly be there, and yet gwen had a curious impression that the room was not empty. but empty it must be. she pushed the door quietly open and peeped in. the fire was burning on the hearth in solemn silence, a cavernous red. there was nobody in the room, and yet, as gwen stole in and passed the projecting book-case opposite the door, against which she had stumbled that evening of evenings, she felt that she was not alone. it was a strange unpleasant feeling. there she was standing in the full space of that shadowy room. books, books were everywhere--books that seemed to her keeping secrets in their pages and purposely not saying anything. the room was too long, too full of dead things--like books--too full of shadows. the heavy curtains looked black, the desk, its chair standing with its back to the fire--had a look of expecting to be occupied and waiting. she would have liked to have thrown the letter on to the desk instead of having to cross the few feet that separated her from the desk. the silence of the room was alarming! something seemed to be ready to jump at her! was something in the room? gwen made a dash for the desk and threw down the letter. as she did so, a sudden thrill passed up her spine and stiffened her hair. she was _not_ alone! there _was_ somebody in the room, a shadow, an outline, at the far end of the room against one of the curtains--a man, a strange figure, looking straight at her! he was standing, bending forward but motionless against the curtain, and staring with eyes that had no life in them--at her! gwen gave a piercing scream and rushed blindly for the door. she dashed against the projecting book-case, striking her head with some violence. she tried to cry for help, but could not, the room swam in her vision. she struck out her arms to shield herself, and as she did so she felt rather than heard some one coming to her rescue, some one who flashed on the lights--and she flung herself into protecting arms. "it's all right, it's all right," said the warden. "what made you cry out? don't be frightened, child!" and he half led, half carried her towards a chair near the fire. "no, no!" sobbed gwen, shrilly. "not here--no, take me away--away from----" "from what?" asked lady dashwood quietly, at her elbow. "what is the matter, gwen? you mustn't scream for nothing--what has frightened you?" gwen groaned aloud and hid her face in the warden's arm. "something in this room has frightened you?" he asked. gwen sobbed assent. "there is nothing in this room," said lady dashwood. "put her on the chair, jim. she must tell us what it is she is afraid of. come, gwen!" although gwendolen submitted to the commanding voice of lady dashwood and allowed herself to be placed in the chair, she still grasped the warden's arm and hid her face in it. "what frightened you, gwen?" asked lady dashwood. "no harm can come to you--we are by you. pull yourself together and speak plainly and quietly." gwen uttered some half-incoherent sounds--one only being intelligible to the two who were bending over her. "a man!" said the warden, glancing round with surprise. "no man is in the room," said lady dashwood. "did he go out? did you see him go out?" gwen raised her face slightly. "no. at the end there--looking!" and again she burst into uncontrollable sobs. the warden released his arm and walked to the farther end of the room, and gwen grasped lady dashwood's arm and clung to her. the two women could hear the warden as he walked across to the farther end of the room. gwen dared not look, but lady dashwood turned her head, supporting the girl's head as she did so on her shoulder. the warden had reached the window. he opened the curtains and looked behind them, then he pulled one sharply back, and into the lighted room came a flood of pale moonlight, and through the chequered window panes could be seen the moon herself riding full above a slowly drifting mass of cloud. "there is nothing in the room. if there were we should see it," said lady dashwood quietly, and she turned the girl's face towards the moonlight. "look for yourself, gwen. your fears are quite foolish, my dear, and you must try and control them." so peremptory was lady dashwood's voice that the girl, still resting her head on the protecting shoulder, slightly opened her eyelids and saw the moonlight, the drawn curtains and the warden standing looking back at them. "you can see for yourself that there is nothing here," he said. it was true, there was nothing there--there wasn't _now_: and for the first time gwen was conscious of pain in her head and put up her hand. there was a lump where she had knocked it, the lump was sore. "why, you have hurt your head, gwen," said lady dashwood. "that explains everything. a blow on the head is just the thing to make you think you see something that isn't there! come now, we'll go upstairs and put something on that bruised head, and make it well again." "i struck my head after i saw _it_," said gwen, laying a stress upon the word "it," averting her eyes from the moonlight and rising with the help of lady dashwood. "you may have thought so," said lady dashwood. "come we mustn't stop here. dr. middleton probably has letters to write. jim, good night. i'm sorry you have been so much disturbed, after a hard day's work." the tone in which lady dashwood made her last remark and her manner in leading gwendolen out of the library, was that of a person who has "closed" a correspondence, terminated an interview. the affair of the scream and fright was over. it was a perfectly unnecessary incident to have occurred in a sane working day, so she had apologised for its intrusion. why gwendolen was in the library at all was a question that was of no consequence. it certainly was not in search of a book on which to spend the midnight oil. she _was_ there--that was all. when they had gone, the warden stood for some moments in the library pondering. he had shut the door. the curtains he had forgotten to pull back, and now he discovered his omission and went to the farther end of the room. the opposite wall, the wall of the court, was just tipped with silver. distant spires and gables were silver grey. the clouds were drifting over the city westwards, and as the moon rode higher and higher in the southern sky, so the clouds sped faster before it, and behind it lay clear unfathomable spaces in the east. the warden pulled the heavy curtain across the window again, and walked to the fireplace. outside was the infinite universe--its immensity awful to contemplate! inside was the narrow security of the lighted room in which he worked and thought and would work and think--for a few years! for a few years? how did he know that he should have even a few years in which to think and work for his college? the warden went to the fire and stood looking down into it, his hands clasped behind his back. the girl he was pledged to marry, if she wished to marry him, might wreck his life! she had only just a few moments ago showed signs of being weakly hysterical. "helpful to the college!" his sister's question had filled him with a sudden new ominous thought. what about the college? he had forgotten his duty to the college! "my marriage is my own concern," he was blurting out to himself miserably, as he looked at the fire. but the inevitable answer was already drumming in his ears--his own answer: "a man's action is not his own concern, and so deeply is every man involved in the life of the community in which he lives, that even his thoughts are not his own concern." the warden paced up and down. there were letters lying on his desk unopened, unread. he would not attempt to answer any of them to-night. he could not attend to them, while these words were beating in his brain: "do you think she will be helpful to the college?" his college! more to him than anything else, more than his duty; his hope, his pride! and the college meant also the sacred memory of those who had fallen in the war, all the glorious hopeful youth that had sacrificed itself! and he had forgotten the college! he dared not think any longer. he must wrestle with his thoughts. he must force them aside and wait, till the moment came when he must act. that moment might not come! possibly it might not! he would go to bed and try and sleep. he must not let thoughts so bitter and so deadly overwhelm him, eating into the substance of his brain, where they could breed and batten on the finest tissues and breed again. he was looking at his desk and saw that one letter had tumbled from it on to the floor by his chair. he went across and picked it up. it was addressed in a big straggling hand--and had not come by post. he tore it open. it was from gwendolen scott. this was why she had come into the library. without moving from the position where he stood he read it through. chapter xiii the effect of suggestion the clock struck midnight, and yet the warden had not done what he had intended to do before he picked up that letter and read it. he had not gone to bed. he was still in his library, not at his desk, but in a great shabby easy-chair by the fire. he had put the lights out and was smoking in the half-dark. so deeply absorbed was the warden in his own thoughts that he did not hear the first knock on the door. but he heard the second knock, which was louder. "come in," he called, and he leaned forward in his chair. who wanted him at such an hour? it would not be any one from the college? the door opened and lady dashwood came in. she was in a dressing-gown. "you haven't gone to bed," she said. it was obvious that he hadn't gone to bed. "no, not yet," said the warden. and he added, "do you want me?" "i ought not to want you, dear," she said, "for i know you must be very tired." then she came up to the fireplace and stood looking down at her brother. she saw that the spring and the hope had gone out of his face. he looked older. "i have put gwen to bed in my room, but even that has not quieted her," said lady dashwood, speaking slowly. the warden's face in the twilight looked set. he did not glance at his sister now. "she has lost her self-control. do you know what the silly child thinks she saw?" here lady dashwood paused, and waited for his reply. "i hadn't thought. she fancied she saw something--a man!" he answered, in his deep voice. he hadn't thought! there had been no room in his mind for anything but the doom that was awaiting him. one of his most bitter thoughts in the twilight of that room had been that a woman he could have loved was already under his roof when he took his destiny into his own hands and wrecked it. "i don't know," he said, repeating mechanically an answer to his sister's question. "she thought she saw the barber's ghost," said lady dashwood. the warden looked up in surprise. there was a slight and bitter smile at the corners of his mouth. then he straightened himself in his chair and looked frowning into the fire. that gwendolen should have taken a college "story" seriously and "made a scene" about it was particularly repugnant to him. "she came in here; why i don't know, and no doubt was full of the story about the barber appearing in the library," said lady dashwood. "we ought not to have talked about it to any one so excitable. then she knocked her head against the book-case and was in a state of daze, in which she could easily mistake the moonlight coming through an opening in the curtains for a ghost, and if a ghost, then of course the barber's ghost. and so all this fuss!" "i see," said the warden, gloomily. "as soon as we got upstairs, i had to pack louise off before she had time to hear anything, for i can't have the whole household upset simply because a girl allows herself to become hysterical. may is now sitting with gwen, as she won't be left alone for a moment." "what are you going to do?" asked the warden, in a slow hard voice. "that's the question," she said, looking down at him narrowly. "do you want a doctor?" he asked. "is it bad enough for that? it is rather late to ask any one to come in when there isn't any actual illness." "a doctor would be worse than useless." "well, then, what do you suggest?" he asked. "couldn't you say something to her to quiet her?" said lady dashwood. the warden looked surprised. "i couldn't say anything, lena, that you couldn't say. you can speak with authority when you like." "more is wanted than that. she must be made to think she saw nothing here in this library," said lady dashwood. "you used to be able to 'suggest.' don't you remember?" the warden pondered and said nothing. "she would like to keep the whole house awake--if she had the chance," said lady dashwood, and the bitterness in her voice made her brother wince. "couldn't you make her believe that the ghost won't, or can't come again, or that there are no such things as ghosts?" the warden sat still; the glow was dying out of the cigar he held between his fingers. he did not move. "when you were a boy you found it easy enough to suggest; i remember i disapproved of it. i want you to do it now, because we must have quiet in the house." "she may not be susceptible to suggestion!" said the warden, still obstinately keeping his seat. "you think she is too flighty, that she has too little power of concentration," suggested lady dashwood, with a sting in her voice. "you must try: come, jim! i want to get some rest, i'm very tired." she did, indeed, look hollow-eyed, and seeing this he rose and threw his cigar into the fire. so this was the first thing he had to do as an engaged man: he had to prevent his future wife from disturbing the household. he had to distract her attention from absurd fears, he had to impose his will upon her. such a relationship between them, the husband and wife that were to be, would be a relationship that he did not wish to have with any one whom he ought to respect, much less any one whom he ought to love. the errand on which he was going was a repulsive one. if even a faint trace of romantic appreciation of the girl's beauty had survived in him, it would have vanished now. what he was going to do seemed like a denial of her identity, and yet it seemed necessary to do it. had he still much of that "pity" left for her that had impelled him to offer her a home? they left the library and, as they passed the curtained door of the warden's bedroom, lady dashwood said, "you'll go to bed afterwards, jim?" she had spoken a moment ago of her own fatigue as if it was important. she had now forgotten it. her mind was never occupied for many moments with herself, she was now back again at her old habit, thinking of him. he was tired. no wonder, worn out with worries, of his own making, alas! "yes," said the warden, "yes, dear." the lights in the hall were still burning, and he turned them out from the wall by the head of the staircase. then they went up the short steps into the corridor. lady dashwood's room was at the end. at the door of her room lady dashwood paused and listened, and turned round to her brother as if she were going to say something. "what?" whispered the warden, bending his head. "oh, nothing!" said lady dashwood, as if exasperated with her own thoughts. then she opened the door and went in, followed by the warden. the room was not spacious, and the canopied bedstead looked too massive for the room. it had stood there through the reign of four of the wardens, and lady dashwood had kept it religiously. gwen was propped up on pillows at one side of it, looking out of her luminous eyes with great self-pity. her dark hair was disordered. she glanced round tearfully and apprehensively. an acute observer might have detected that her alarm was a little over expressed: she had three spectators--and one of them was the warden! near her stood may dashwood in a black dressing-gown illumined by her auburn hair. it was tied behind at her neck and spread on each side and down her back in glistening masses. she looked like some priestess of an ancient cult, ministering to a soul distressed. the warden stood for a moment arrested, looking across at them, and then his eyes rested on may alone. gwen made a curious movement into her pillows and may moved away from the bed. she seemed about to slip away from the room, but lady dashwood made her a sign to stay. it was such an imperative sign that may stayed. she went to the fireplace silently and stood there, and lady dashwood came to her. no one spoke. lady dashwood stood with face averted from the bed and closed her eyes, like one who waits patiently, but takes no part and no responsibility. may did not look at the bed, but she heard what was said and saw, without looking. the warden was now walking quietly round to the side where gwendolen was propped. she made a convulsive movement of her arms towards him and sobbed hysterically-- "oh, i'm so frightened!" he approached her without responding either to her exclamation or her gestures. he put his hand on the electric lamp by the bed, raised the shade, and turned it so as to cast its light on his own face. while he did this there was silence. then he began to speak, and the sound of his voice made may's heart stir strangely. she leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and pressed her hand over her eyes. all her prayers that night, all her self-reproach, meant very little. what were they but a pretence, a cloak to hide from herself the nakedness of her soul? no, they were not a pretence. her prayer had been a real prayer for forgetfulness of herself. but in his presence the past seemed to slip away and leave her clamouring for relief from this strange present suffering, and from this dull empty aching below her heart when she drew her breath. she knew now how weak she was. she could hear his voice saying: "what is it you are afraid of?" and as he spoke, it seemed to may herself that fear, of all things in the world, was the least real, and fear of spirits was an amazing folly. "i thought i saw something," said gwendolen, doubtfully; for already she was under the influence of his voice, his manner, his face; and her mind had begun to relax the tenacity of its hold on that one distracting fear. "you thought you saw something," he said, emphasising the word "thought"; "you made a mistake. you saw nothing--you imagined you saw--there _was_ nothing!" may could not hear whether gwendolen made any reply. "and now i am going to prevent you from frightening yourself by imagining such foolish things again." although she did not look towards them, but kept her eyes on the ground, may was aware that the warden was now bending over the bed, and he was speaking in an inaudible voice. she could hear the girl move round on the pillow in obedience to some direction of his. after this there came a brief silence between them that seemed an age of intolerable misery to may, and then she perceived that the warden was turning out the bed light, and she heard him move away from the bed. he walked to the door very quietly, as if to avoid awakening a sleeper. "good night," he said in a low voice, and then, without turning towards them, he went out of the room. the door was closed. the two women moved, looked at each other, and then glanced at the bed. gwen was lying still; she had slid down low on her pillows, with her face towards the windows and her eyes closed. they stood motionless and intent, till they could see in the dim light that the girl was breathing quietly and slowly in sleep. then lady dashwood spoke in a whisper. "now, i suppose, i can go to bed!" then she looked round at may. "go to bed, may! you look worn out." "shall you sleep?" whispered may dashwood, but she spoke as if she wasn't listening for an answer. "i don't know," said lady dashwood, in a whisper too. "it's so like life. the person who has made all the fuss is comfortably asleep, and we who have had to endure the fuss, we who are worn out with it, are awake and probably won't sleep." may moved towards the door and her aunt followed her. when may opened the door and went outside, lady dashwood did not close the door or say good night. she stood for a moment undecided, and then came outside herself and pulled the door to softly behind her. "may!" she said, and she laid a detaining hand on her niece's arm. "what, aunt lena?" "if he liked, he could repel her, make her dislike him! if he liked he could make her refuse to marry him! you understand what i mean? he must know this now. the idea will be in his mind. he'll think it over. but i've no hope. he won't act on it. he'll only think of it as a temptation that he must put aside." may did not answer. "he could," said lady dashwood; "but he won't. he thinks himself pledged. and he isn't even in love with her. he isn't even infatuated for the moment!" "you can't be sure." "i am sure," said lady dashwood. "how?" and now may turned back and listened for an answer with downcast eyes. "i asked him a question--which he refused to answer. if he were in love he would have answered it eagerly. why, he would have forced me to listen to it." may dashwood moved away from her aunt. "still--they are engaged," she said. "they are engaged--that is settled." lady dashwood spoke in a low, detaining voice. "wait, may! somehow she has got hold of him--somehow. often the weak victimise the strong. those who clamour for what they want, get it. every day the wise are sacrificed to fools. i know it, and yet i sleep in peace. but when jim is to be sacrificed--i can't sleep. i am like a withered leaf, blown by the wind." may took her aunt's arm and laid her cheek against her shoulder. "how can i sleep," said lady dashwood, "when i think of him, worried into the grave by petty anxieties, by the daily fretting of an irresponsible wife, by the hopeless daily task of trying to make something honourable and worthy--out of belinda and co.? when i say belinda and co., i think not merely of belinda scott and her child, but of all that jim hates: the whole crew of noisy pleasure-hunters that float upon the surface of our social life. the time may come when we shall say to our social parasites, 'take up your burden of life and work!' the time _will_ come! but meanwhile jim has to be sacrificed because he is hopelessly just. and yet i wouldn't have him otherwise. go, dear, try and sleep, for all my talk." then, as she drew away from her niece, she said in a tense whisper: "what an unforgivable fool he has been!" may closed her eyes intently and said nothing. "oh, may," sighed lady dashwood, "forgive me; i feel so bitter that i could speak against god." may looked up and laid her hand on her aunt's arm. "you know those lines, aunt lena-- "measure thy life by loss and not by gain, not by the wine drunk, but the wine poured forth!" lady dashwood's eyes flashed. "if jim had offered his life for england i could say that: but are we to pour forth wine to belinda and co.?" the two women looked at each other; stared, silently. then lady dashwood began to turn the handle of the door. "why should he be sacrificed to--to--futilities?" then she added very softly: "i have had no son of my own, may, so jim fills the vacant place. i think i could, like abraham, have sacrificed my son to the great god of my nation, but this sacrifice! oh, may, it's so silly! he might have married some nice, quiet oxford girl any day. and he has waited for this!" she saw the pain in may's eyes and added: "i am wearing you out with my talk. i am getting very selfish. i am thinking too much of my own suffering. you, too, have suffered, dear, and you say nothing," and as she spoke her voice softened to a whisper. "but, may, your sacrifice _was_ to the great god of your nation--the great god of all nations." "the sacrifice had nothing to do with me," said may, turning away. "it was his." "but you endure the loss, the vacant place," said lady dashwood. "i know what a vacant place means," said may, quietly, "and my vacant place will never be filled--except by the children of other women! good night, dear aunt," and she walked away quickly, without looking back. then she found the door of her room and went in. lady dashwood's eyes followed her, till the door closed. "i ought not to have said what i did," murmured lady dashwood. "oh, dear may, poor may," and she went back into her room. gwen was still sleeping peacefully. chapter xiv different views the lodgings at king's were built at a period when the college demanded that its warden should be a bachelor and a divine, and it contained neither morning-room nor boudoir. the warden's breakfast-room was used by lady dashwood for both purposes. it was not such an inconvenient arrangement, because the warden, as the war advanced, had reduced his breakfast till it was now little more than the continental "petit déjeuner," and it could be as rapidly removed as it was brought in. the breakfast-room was a small room and had no academic dignity, it was what mrs. robinson called "cosy." it was badly lighted by one window, and that barred, looking into the quadrangle. the walls were wainscoted. one or two pictures brightened it, landscapes in water-colour that had been bought by the warden long ago for his rooms when he was a college tutor. at the breakfast table on the morning following gwendolen's brief interview with the barber's ghost, her place was empty. no one remarked on her absence. the warden came in as if nothing had happened on the previous night. he did not even ask the ladies how they had slept, or if they had slept. he appeared to have forgotten all about last night, and he seated himself at the table and began opening his letters. mrs. dashwood gave him one furtive glance when he came in and responded to his salutation. then she also sat in silence and looked over her letters. she was making a great effort not to mind what happened to her, not to feel that outside these few rooms in a corner of an ancient college, all the world stretched like a wilderness. and this effort made her face a little wan in the morning light. lady dashwood poured out the coffee with a hand that was not quite as steady as usual, but she, too, made no reference to the events of last night. nobody, of course, had slept but gwendolen, and gwendolen had awakened from her sleep fresh and rosy. it was only after several minutes had passed that lady dashwood remarked across the table to the warden-- "i have kept gwendolen in bed for breakfast, not because she is ill, she is perfectly well, but because i want her to be alone, and to understand that she has completely got over her little hysterical fit and is sensible again." the warden looked up and then down again at his letters and said, "yes!" lady dashwood went on with her breakfast. she evidently did not expect any discussion. she had merely wished to make some reference to the occurrence of last night in such a way as not to reopen the subject, but to close the subject--for ever. "is it your club morning?" asked the warden, as he looked over his letters. "yes," said lady dashwood. "i'll come and help you to cut out," said may. "i'm an old hand." "why should you come?" said lady dashwood. "this is your holiday, and it's short enough." she thought that the warden noted the words, "short enough." "i shall come," said may, and glancing at her aunt as she spoke, she now fancied her grown a little thinner in the face since last night only that it was impossible. the lines in the face were accentuated by want of sleep, it was that that made her face look thinner. "i shall take gwen," said lady dashwood. "she can hand us scissors and pins, and can pick up the bits." she spoke quite boldly and quietly of gwendolen, and met may's eye without a flicker. "our plan, may, is to get these young mothers and teach them at least how to make and mend their clothes. it isn't war work. it's 'after the war' work. those young mothers who have done factory work, know nothing about anything. we must get something into their noddles. two or three ladies will be there this morning, and we shall get all the work ready for the next club meeting--mothers and babies. babies are entertained in a separate room. we have tea and one half-hour's reading; the rest of the time gossip. oh, how they do talk!" "how much do you expect to get from the sale of work to-day for your club?" asked may, avoiding the warden's eye when he put out his hand to her for the cup of coffee that she was passing him. "not very much," said lady dashwood, "but enough, i hope." a moment later and lady dashwood was opening her letters. "mr. boreham," she remarked suddenly, "is bringing mrs. potten in to the sale. he is the last person i should expect to meet at a sale of work in aid of a mother's club." the warden raised his eyes and apparently addressed the coffee-pot across the table. "boreham is usually suspicious of anything that is organised by what he calls 'respectable people.'" then he looked round at may dashwood for the first time. the reason why boreham was going to drive mrs. potten in to the sale of work was obvious both to him and to lady dashwood. may did not meet the warden's eye, though she was tinglingly conscious that they rested on her face. "i object," she said, imitating boreham's voice, "not only to the respectable members of the british public, but to the british public in general. i am irritated with and express my animosity to the people around me with frankness and courage. but i have no inimical feelings towards people whom i have never met. them i respect and love. their institutions, of which i know nothing, i honour." the warden's lips parted with a smile, as if the smile was wrung from him, but may did not smile. she was still making her effort, and was looking down into her plate, her eyebrows very much raised, as if she was contemplating there the portrait of somebody with compassionate interest. lady dashwood saw the warden's smile, and saw him lean forward to look at the downcast face of may, as if to note every detail of it. well into the early morning lady dashwood had lain awake thinking, and listening mechanically to the gentle breathing of the girl beside her, and thinking--thinking of may's strange exhibition of emotion. was may----? no--that made things worse than ever--that made the irony of her brother's fate more acute! that was a tragic thought! but it was just this tragic thought that made lady dashwood now at the breakfast table observe with a subtle keenness of observation and yet without seeming to observe, or even to look. she sat there, absorbing may, absorbing the warden, measuring them, weighing them while she tried to eat a piece of toast, biting it up as if she had pledged herself to reduce it to the minutest fragments. "perhaps i'm not fair to mr. boreham," said may, shaking her head. "but i am an ignoramus. how can one," she said smiling, but keeping her eyelids still downcast, "how can one combine the bathing of babies and feeding them, the dressing and undressing of them, the putting them to bed and getting them up again, with any culture (spelt with a 'c'). i get only a short and rather tired hour of leisure in the evening in which to read?" "you do combine them," he said, still bending towards her with the same tense look. "only one woman in a thousand would." the colour had slightly risen in may's face, and now it died away, for she was aware that no sooner were the last words spoken than the warden seemed to regret them. at least he stiffened himself and looked away from her, stared at nothing in particular and then put out his hand to take a piece of toast, making that simple action seem as if it were a protest of resolute indifference to her. may felt as if his hand had struck her. she had partly succeeded in her effort and she had refused to glance at him. but she had not succeeded in thinking of something else, and now this simple movement of his hand made thoughts of him burn in her brain. why did this man, with all his erudition, with his distinction, with all his force of character, his wide sympathies and his curious influence over others, why did this man with all his talk (and this she said bitterly) about life and death--and yes--about eternity, why did he bind himself hand and foot to a selfish and shallow girl? he who talked of life and of death, could he not stand the test of life himself? the warden rose from the table the moment that he had finished and looked at his sister. she had put her letters aside and appeared to have fallen into a heavy preoccupation with her own thoughts. "can i see you--afterwards--for a moment in the library, lena?" he asked. lady dashwood's tired face flushed. "i will come very soon," she said, and she pushed her chair back a little, as if to cover her embarrassment, and looked at her niece. "may," she said, in a voice that did not quite conceal her trouble, "we ought to start at a quarter to ten. that will give us two clear hours for our work." may bent her head in assent. neither of them was thinking of the club. they could hear the warden close the door behind him. then lady dashwood rose and casting a silent look at may, went out of the room. in the library a fitful sunshine was coming and going from a clouded sky. the curtains were drawn back and there seemed nothing in the room that could have justified even a hysterical girl in imagining a ghost. the warden had left the door open, for he heard his sister coming up the stairs behind him. lady dashwood came in, and she began speaking at once to cover her apprehension of the interview. "a funny sort of a day," she began. "i hope it will keep up for this afternoon." the warden had gone to one of the windows, and he moved at the sound of her voice. "mrs. harding," she said, "has written to ask us to come in to tea, as she's so near. it is convenient, as we shall only have to walk a few steps from our sale, so i am going to accept by telephone." the warden came towards her, and taking a little case from his pocket, handed her some notes. "will you spend that for me at your sale?" that was not his reason for the interview! lady dashwood took the notes and put them into her bag, and then waited a moment. "i may possibly have to go to the deanery this afternoon," he said, and then he paused too. "very well," said lady dashwood. they both were painfully aware that this also was not what he wanted to say. "please let me have my lunch early, at a quarter to one," he said. "i have asked mr. bingham here to dinner on saturday, he seemed to interest may, and, well, of course, it is not a lively holiday for her just now." lady dashwood's eyes were on him as she spoke. he seemed not to hear. he went up to his desk and turned over some papers, nervously, and he was a man who rarely showed any nervousness in his movements. then he suddenly said: "gwendolen has practically accepted my offer." and he did not turn round and look at his sister. it had come! she knew it was coming, and yet it was as keenly painful as if she had been wholly unprepared. "i can't delay our engagement," he said. "i must speak to her to-day--some time." then he moved so as to face his sister, and their eyes met. misery was plainly visible in hers, in his the fixed determination to ignore that misery. "may i ask you one question?" she began in a shaky voice. he made no reply, but waited in silence for the question. "when did it happen? i've no right to ask, dear, but tell me when did it happen?" there was a strange look of conflict in his face that he was unable to control. "on monday, just before dinner," he said, and he took some papers from the desk as if he were about to read them. then he put them down again and took out his cigar case. lady dashwood walked slowly to the door. when she reached it, she turned. "no man," she said, still with an unsteady voice, "is bound to carry out a promise made in a reckless moment, against his better judgment, a promise which involves the usefulness of his life. as to belinda, i suppose i must endure the presence of that woman next week; i must endure it, because i hadn't the sense--the foresight--to prevent her putting a foot in this house." the warden's face twitched. "am i expecting too much from you, lena?" he asked. "expecting too much!" lady dashwood made her way blindly to the door. "i have wrecked your life by sheer stupidity, and i am well punished." at the door she stayed. "of course, jim, i shall now back you up, through thick and thin." she went out and stood for a moment, her head throbbing. she had said all. she had spoken as she had never spoken in her life before, she had said her last word. now she must be silent and go through with it all unless--unless--something happened--unless some merciful accident happened to prevent it. she went downstairs again and crossed the hall to the door of the breakfast-room. may was still there, holding a newspaper in her hands, apparently reading it. lady dashwood walked straight in, and then said quietly: "they are practically engaged." she saw the paper in may's hand quiver. "yes," said may, without moving her paper. "of course." her voice sounded small and hard. lady dashwood moved about as if to arrange something, and then stood at the dull little window looking out miserably, seeing nothing. "i wonder--i hope, you won't be vexed with me. aunt lena," began may. "you won't be angry----" "i couldn't be angry with you," said lady dashwood briefly, "but----" she did not move, she kept her back to her niece. "i want you to let me go away rather earlier than monday," said may, and speaking without looking towards her aunt. "i think i ought to go. the fact is----" lady dashwood turned round and came to her niece. "do you think i am a selfish woman?" she asked. there was a strange note of purpose in her voice. may shook her head and tried to smile. she did smile at last. "then, may," said lady dashwood, "i am going to be selfish now. i ask you to stop till monday, and help me to get through what i have to get through, even if you stay at some sacrifice to yourself. jim has decided, so i must support him. that's clear." may stared hard at the paper that was still in her hand, though she had ceased to read it. "as you wish, dear aunt," she said, and turned away. "thanks," said lady dashwood, in a low voice. "i shall be ready to start in a few minutes," she went on, looking at her watch. then she added bitterly, "i'm not going to talk about it any more, but i must say one thing. when you first shook hands with jim he was already a pledged man. he is capable of yearning for the moon, but he has decided to put up with a penny bun;" here she laughed a hard painful laugh. "nobody cares but i," she added. "i have said all i can say to him, and i am now going to be silent." the door of the breakfast-room was slightly open and they could hear the sound of steps outside in the hall, steps they both knew. the warden was in the hall. lady dashwood listened, and then called out to him: "jim!" her voice now raised was a little husky, but quite calm. they could hear the swish of a gown and the warden was there, looking at them. he was in his gown and hood, and held his cap in his hand. he was at all times a notable figure, but the long robe added to the dignity of his appearance. his face was very grave. "may has not seen the cathedral," said lady dashwood quietly, as if she had forgotten their interview in the library, "and we shall be close to christ church. our sale, you know." "oh," said may, slowly and doubtfully, and not looking as if she were really concerned in the matter. "may ought to see the cathedral, jim," said lady dashwood, "so, if you do happen to be going to christ church, would you have time to take her over it and make the proper learned observations on it, which i can't do, to save my life?" the warden's eyes were now fixed on may. "you would like to see it?" he asked. "you, may," said lady dashwood. it seemed necessary to make it very clear to may that they were both talking about her. "i?" said may, with her eyes downcast. "oh, please don't trouble. you mustn't when you're so busy. i can see the cathedral any time. i really like looking at churches--quite alone." the warden's blue eyes darkened, but may did not see them, she had raised her paper and was smiling vaguely at the print. the warden said, "as you like, mrs. dashwood. but i am not too busy to show you anything in oxford you want to see." "thank you," said may, vaguely. "thanks so much! some time when you are less busy, i shall ask you to show me something." the warden looked at her for a more definite reply. she seemed to be unaware that he was waiting for it, and when she heard the movement of his robes, and his steps and then the hall-door close, she looked round the room and said "oh!" again vaguely, and then she raised her eyebrows as if surprised. lady dashwood made no remark, she left the room and went into the hall. the irony of the situation was growing more and more acute, but there was nothing to be done but to keep silence. another step was coming down the stairs, steps made by a youthful wearer of high heels. it was gwendolen. she looked just a little serious, but otherwise there was no trace on her blooming countenance of last night's tragedy. a little lump on her head was all that remained to prove that she really had been frightened and really and truly had stupidly thought there was something to be frightened of. gwen constantly put her finger up to feel the lump on her head, and as she did so she thought agreeably of the warden. "you see i'm not a bit frightened," she said, and her cheeks dimpled. "when i passed near the library, i thought of dr. middleton." "you understand, don't you, gwen," said lady dashwood, "that i don't want any talk about 'a ghost,' even though, you are now quite sensible about it. i don't think the robinsons are silly, but louise and the other two are like children, and must be treated as such." "oh no," said gwen, innocently, "i won't!" and she meant what she said. it was true that she had just hinted at something, perhaps she even used the word "ghost," to the housemaid that morning, but she had made her promise faithfully not to repeat what she had heard, so it was all right. "we start at half-past ten," said lady dashwood. gwen said she would be punctual. her face was full of mysterious and subdued pleasure when she looked into the breakfast-room to see if by any chance mrs. dashwood was still there. the girl's fancy was excited by the warden's behaviour last night. she kept on thinking of his face in the lamp light. it looked very severe and yet so gentle. she was actually falling in love with him, so she said to herself. the barber's ghost was no longer alarming, but something to recall with a thrill of interest, as it led on to the warden. she was burning to talk about the warden. she was so glad she had delivered her letter to the warden. he would be simply obliged to speak some time to-day. how exciting! now, was mrs. dashwood in the breakfast-room? yes, there she was, standing in the window with a newspaper in her hand. "oh, good morning," said gwen, brightly. "i must thank you for having been so awfully sweet to me last night. it was funny, wasn't it, my getting that fright? i really and truly was frightened, till dr. middleton came up and told me i needn't. isn't he wonderful?" here gwen's voice sank into a confidential whisper. mrs. dashwood said "yes" in a lingering voice, and she seemed about to go. "i do think he is the nicest man i have ever met," said gwen hurriedly, "don't you? but then, of course, i have reason to think so, after last night. it must have looked queer, i mean to any one merely looking on. how i _did_ sleep!" then after a moment she said: "don't you think he is very good-looking? now, do tell me, mrs. dashwood! i promise you i won't repeat it." "he is a very charming man," said may, "that is obvious." "wasn't it silly of me to think of the barber's ghost--especially as it only appears when some disaster happens to the warden? i mean that is the story. now the warden is perfectly well this morning, i particularly asked, though i knew he would be, of course. now, if there had been a real ghost, he ought to die to-day, or perhaps to-morrow. isn't it all funny?" then, as there came another pause, gwendolen added, "i suppose it couldn't mean that he might die in a week's time--or six months perhaps?" and her voice was a little anxious. "death isn't the only disaster," said may, "that can happen to a man." "don't you think it's about the worst?" said gwen. "worse even than losing lots of money. you see, if you are once dead, there you are! but i needn't bother--there was no ghost." "no, there was no ghost," said mrs. dashwood, and she laid her paper down on a side table. gwen felt that she had not had a fair chance of a talk. in the absence of anybody really young it was some comfort to talk to mrs. dashwood. she much preferred mrs. dashwood to lady dashwood. lady dashwood was sometimes "nasty," since that letter affair. fortunately she had not been able to _do_ anything nasty. she had not been able to make the warden nasty. gwen stood watching may, and then said in a low voice to detain her: "i wish mother would come!" "do you expect her?" asked may, turning round and facing the girl. "i do and i don't and i do," said gwen. "that sounds jolly vague, i know, and please don't even say to lady dashwood that i mentioned it. you won't, will you? it jumped out of my mouth. things do sometimes." may smiled a little. "mother is so plucky," said gwen; "i'm sure you'd like her--you really would, and she would like you. she doesn't by any means like everybody. she's very particular, but i think she would like you." may smiled again, and this gave gwen complete confidence. "our relations, you know, have really been a bit stingy," she said. "too bad, isn't it, and there's been a bother about my education. of course, mother needn't have sent me to school at all, only she's so keen on doing all she can for me, much more keen than our relations have been. why, would you believe it, uncle ted, my father's youngest brother, who is a parson in essex, has been saving! what i mean is that the scotts ain't a bit well off--isn't it hard lines? you see i tell you all this, i wouldn't to anybody else. well, uncle ted had saved for years for his only son--for eton and oxford: i don't think he'd ever given mother a penny. wasn't that rather hard luck on mother?" may said "oh!" in a tone that was neutral. "well, but i'll explain," said gwen, eagerly, "and you'll see. when poor ted was killed, almost at once in the war, there was all the oxford money still there. mother knew about it, and said it couldn't be less than five hundred pounds, and might be more. and mother just went to them and spoke ever so nicely about poor ted being killed--it was such horrid luck on uncle ted--and then she just asked ever so quietly if she might borrow some of the oxford money, as there would be no use for it now. she didn't even ask them to give it, she only asked to borrow, and she thought they would like it to be used for the last two years of my school, it would be such a nice thought for them. and would you believe it, they were quite angry and refused! so mother thought they ought to know how mean it was of them. she is so plucky! so she told them that they had no sympathy with anybody but themselves, and didn't care about any scott except their own ted, who was dead and couldn't come to life again, however much they hoarded. mother does say things so straight. she is so sporting! but wasn't it horrid for her to have to do it?" may had gradually moved to the door ready to go out. now she opened it. so this was the young woman to whom the warden had bound himself, and this was his future mother-in-law! may left the breakfast-room abruptly and without a word. she mounted the stairs swiftly. she wanted to be alone. as the servants were still moving about upstairs, she went into the drawing-room. there was no one there but that living portrait of stephen langley, and he was looking at her across the wide space between them with an almost imperceptible sneer--so she thought. chapter xv mrs. potten's carelessness there is little left in christ church of the simplicity and piety of the age of faith. it was rebuilt when the fine spiritual romanticism of our architectural adolescence had coarsened into a prosperous and prosaic middle age. the western façade of the college is fine, but it is ostentatious for its purpose, and when one passes under tom tower and enters the quadrangle there is something dreary in the terraces that were intended to be cloistered and the mean windows of the ground floor that were intended to be hidden. "it is like harding," said bingham to himself, as he strolled in with a parcel under his arm. "he is always mistaking mrs. grundy for the holy ghost. but harding has his uses," he went on thinking, "and so has tom quod--it makes one thankful that wolsey died before he had time to finish ruining the cathedral." an elderly canon of christ church, with a fine profile and dignified manner, stopped bingham and demanded to know what he was carrying under his arm. "nothing for the wounded," said bingham. "i've bought a green table-cloth and a pair of bedroom slippers for myself. i've just come from a sale in which some oxford ladies are interested. one of the many good works with which we are going strong nowadays." the canon turned and walked with bingham. "do you know boreham?" he asked rather abruptly. bingham said he did. "i met him a moment ago. he is taking some lady over the college. i met him at middleton's, i think, not so long ago." "he's a connection of middleton's," said bingham. "oh," said the canon, "is he? a remarkable person. he gave me his views on eugenics, i remember." "he would be likely to give you his views," said bingham. "did he want to know yours?" the canon laughed. "he pleaded so passionately in favour of our preserving the leaven of disease in our racial heredity, so as to insure originality and genius, that i was tempted to indulge in the logical fallacy: 'a dicto secundum quid ad dictum simpliciter,'" and the canon laughed again. "his father was a first-rate old rapid," said bingham, "who ended in an asylum, i believe. his aunt keeps cats; this i know as a fact. his brother, lord boreham, as everybody knows, has been divorced twice. what matter? the good old scrap-heap has produced bernard boreham; what more do you want?" bingham's remarks were uttered with even more than his usual suavity of tone because he was annoyed. he had come to the sale, he had bought the green table-cloth and the shoes, ostensibly as an act of patriotism, but really in order to meet mrs. dashwood. he had planned to take her over christ church and show her everything, and now boreham, who had also planned the same thing, had turned up more punctually, had taken her off, and was at this moment going in and out, banging doors and giving erroneous information, along with much talk about himself and his ideas for the improvement of mankind. the two men walked very slowly along. bingham was in no hurry. the canon also was in no hurry. in these gloomy days he was glad of a few minutes' distraction in the company of bingham, whom nothing depressed. they walked so slowly that lady dashwood and mrs. potten, who had just entered the quadrangle, attended by miss scott laden with parcels, came up to them, bowed and passed them on their way to the rooms of one of the fellows who had begged them to deposit their parcels and rest, if they wished to. the two men went on talking, though their eyes watched the three ladies, who were looking for the rooms where they were going to deposit their purchases. bingham took out his watch. it was half-past three. the ladies had found the right entrance, and disappeared. then lady dashwood's face was to be seen for a moment at a window. simultaneously harding appeared from under tom tower. he came up and spoke to the two men, and while he did so bingham observed miss scott suddenly appear and make straight for them, holding something in her hand. "bravo! what a sprint," murmured bingham, as gwendolen reached them rather breathless. "oh, mr. harding," she panted, "lady dashwood saw you coming and thought you wouldn't know where she and mrs. potten were. have you got the buckinghamshire collar?" bingham burst into subdued laughter. "my wife sent me over with it," said harding, who could not see anything amusing in the incident. "she said lady dashwood had got mrs. potten here. that's all right," and he gravely drew from his sleeve a piece of mauve paper, carefully rolled up, on which was stitched the collar in question. "here's the money," said gwen, holding out a folded paper. harding took the paper. "thirty shillings," said gwen. "is that right?" "yes, thirty shillings," said harding. "the price is marked on the paper." "extraordinarily cheap at the price," remarked bingham. "there is no other collar equal to it in buckinghamshire." the canon turned and walked off, wondering in his mind who the very pretty, smartly dressed girl was. harding unfolded the paper. it was a pound note and inside was not one but two new ten-shilling notes--only stuck together. "you've given me too much, one pound and two tens," he said, and he separated the two notes and gave one back to gwen. "you're a bit too generous, miss scott," he said. gwen took the note, dimpling and smiling and harding wrote "paid" in pencil on the mauve paper. "here's your receipt," he said, handing her the paper, "the collar and all," and he turned away and went back to the sale room, with the money in his pocket. meanwhile gwendolen did not run, she walked back very deliberately. she had the collar in one hand and the ten-shilling note in the other. she heard the two men turn and walk towards the gate. the old gentleman with a gown on, by which she meant the canon, had disappeared. the quadrangle was empty. gwen was thinking, thinking. it wasn't she who was generous, it was mrs. potten, at least not generous but casual. she was probably casual because, although she was supposed to be stingy, a ten-shilling note made really no difference to her. it was too bad that some women had so much money and some so little. it was especially unjust that an old plain woman like mrs. potten could have hundreds of frocks if she wanted to, and that young pretty women often couldn't. it was very, very unjust and stupid. why she, gwen, hadn't enough money even to buy a wretched umbrella. it looked exactly as if it was going to rain later on, and yet there was no umbrella she could borrow. the umbrella she had borrowed before, had disappeared from the stand: it must have been left by somebody and been returned. you can't borrow an umbrella that isn't there. it was all very well for her mother to say "borrow" an umbrella, but suppose there wasn't an umbrella! the idea flashed into gwen's mind that an umbrella could be bought for ten shillings. it wouldn't be a smart umbrella, but it would be an umbrella. then she remembered very vividly how, a year ago, she was in a railway carriage with her mother and there was one woman there sitting in a corner at the other end. this woman fidgeted with her purse a great deal, and when she got out, a sovereign was lying on the floor just where her feet had been. gwen remembered her mother moving swiftly, picking it up, and putting the coin into her own purse, remarking, "if people are so careless they deserve to lose things," and gwen felt that the remark was keenly just, and made several little things "right" that other people had said were wrong. now, as she thought this over, she said to herself that it was only a week ago she had lost that umbrella: somebody must have got that umbrella and had been using it for a week, and she didn't blame them; beside the handle had got rather bashed. another dozen steps towards the rooms made her feel very, very sure she didn't blame them, and--mrs. potten deserved to lose her ten-shilling note. now she had reached the doorway, an idea, that was a natural development of the previous idea, came to her very definitely. she slipped the note into the right-hand pocket of her coat just as she stood on the threshold of the doorway, and then she ran up the stone stairs. no one was looking out of the window. she had noticed that as she came along. now, she would see if mrs. potten was really careless enough not to know that she had given away two ten-shilling notes instead of one. gwendolen walked into the sitting-room. there were mrs. potten and lady dashwood sitting together and talking, as if they intended remaining there for ever. "here's your collar, mrs. potten," said gwen, coming in with the prettiest flush on her face, from the haste with which she had mounted the stairs. she handed the roll of mauve paper and stood looking at mrs. potten. now, she would find out whether mrs. potten knew she had flung away her precious ten-shilling note or not. if she was so stingy why was she so careless? she was very, very short-sighted, of course, but still that was no excuse. "thanks, my dear," said mrs. potten. "i doubt if it is really as nice as the one we saw that was sold. thirty shillings--the receipt is on the paper. it's the first time i've ever had a receipt at a bazaar or sale. very business-like; mr harding, of course. one can see the handwriting isn't a woman's!" so saying mrs. potten, who had been peering hard at the collar and the paper, passed it to lady dashwood to look at. "charming!" said lady dashwood. now lady dashwood knew mrs. potten's soul. mrs. potten had come into oxford at no expense of her own. mr. boreham had driven her. she had also, so lady dashwood divined, the intention of helping the sale as much as possible, by her moral approbation. nothing pleased mrs. potten that she saw on the modest undecked tables. then she had praised a shilling pincushion, had bought it with much ceremony, and put it into her bag. "there, i mustn't go and lose this," she had said as she clicked the fastening of her bag. then she had praised a buckinghamshire collar which was marked "sold," and in an unwary moment had told lady dashwood that she would have bought that; that was exactly what she wanted, only it was unfortunately sold. but lady dashwood, who was business-like even in grief, had been equal to the occasion. "i know there is another one very like it," she had said in a slightly bullying voice; and when mrs. potten moved off as if she had not realised her luck, murmuring something about having to be somewhere almost immediately, lady dashwood had swiftly arranged with mrs. harding that the other collar, which was somewhere in reserve and was being searched for, should be sent after them. this was why lady dashwood had conveyed the reluctant mrs. potten into the quadrangle, and had made her climb the stairs with her into these rooms and wait. so here was mrs. potten, with her collar, trying to believe that she was not annoyed at having been deprived of thirty shillings in such an astute way by her dear friend. "am i wanted any more?" asked gwen, looking from one lady to the other. she took the collar from lady dashwood and returned it to mrs. potten. mrs. potten opened her bag disclosing the shilling pincushion (which now she need not have bought) and placed the collar within. then she shut the bag with a snap, and looked so innocent that gwendolen almost laughed. no, gwen was not wanted any more. she turned and went. mrs. potten deserved to lose money! "yes, she did, and in any case," thought gwen, "at any moment i can say, 'oh yes, i quite forgot i had the note. how stupid, how awfully stupid,' etc." so she went down the stairs and out into the terrace. a few steps away she saw mr. bingham, coming back again. this time alone. as soon as gwen had gone mrs. potten remarked, "now i must be going!" and then sat on, as people do. "very pretty girl, gwendolen scott," she added. "very pretty," said lady dashwood. "lady belinda wrote to me a day or two ago, asking me if gwen could come on to me from you on monday." "oh!" said lady dashwood, but she uttered the exclamation wearily. "i have written and told her that i'm afraid i can't," said mrs. potten. "can't!" lady dashwood looked away as if the subject was ended. "if i have the child, it will mean that the mother will insist on coming to fetch her away or something." here mrs. potten fidgeted with her bag. "and i really scarcely know lady belinda. it was the husband we used to know, old general scott, poor dear silly old man!" lady dashwood received the remark in silence. "i can't do with some of these modern women," continued mrs. potten. "there are women whose names i could tell you that i would not trust with a tin halfpenny. my dear, i've seen with my own eyes at a hotel restaurant a well-dressed woman sweep up the tip left for the waiter by the person who had just gone, i saw that the waiters saw it, but they daren't do anything. i saw a friend of mine speaking to her afterwards! knew her! quite respectable! fancy the audacity of it!" lady dashwood now rested her head on the back of her chair and allowed mrs. potten to talk on. "i'm afraid there's nothing of the good samaritan in me," said mrs. potten, in a self-satisfied tone. "i can't undertake the responsibility of a girl who is billeted out by her mother--instead of being given a decent home. i think you're simply angelic to have had her for so long, lena." lady dashwood's silence only excited mrs. potten's curiosity. "most girls now seem to be doing something or other," she said. "why, one even sees young women students wheeling convalescent soldiers about oxford. i don't believe there is a woman or girl in oxford who isn't doing something for the war." "yes, but it is the busy women who almost always have time for more work," said lady dashwood. "now, i suppose gwendolen is doing nothing and eating her head off, as the phrase goes," said mrs. potten. lady dashwood was not to be drawn. "talking of doing something," she said, to draw mrs. potten off the subject, and there was a touch of weariness in her voice: "i think a frenchwoman can beat an englishwoman any day at 'doing.' i am speaking now of the working classes. i have a french maid now who does twice the work that any english maid would do. i picked her up at the beginning of the war. her husband was killed and she was stranded with two children. i've put the two children into a catholic school in kent and i have them in the holidays. well, louise makes practically all my things, makes her own clothes and the children's, and besides that we have made shirts and pyjamas till i could cut them out blindfolded. she's an object lesson to all maids." lady dashwood was successful, mrs. potten's attention was diverted, only unfortunately the word "maid" stimulated her to draw up an exhaustive inventory of all the servants she had ever had at potten end, and she was doing this in her best bradshaw style when lady dashwood exclaimed that she had a wire to send off and must go and do it. "i ought to be going too," said mrs. potten, her brain reeling for a moment at this sudden interruption to her train of thought. she rose with some indecision, leaving her bag on the floor. then she stooped and picked up her bag and left her umbrella; and then at last securing both bag and umbrella, the two ladies made their way down the stairs and went back into st. aldates. all the time that mrs. potten had been running through a list of the marriages, births, etc., of all her former servants, lady dashwood was contriving a telegram to lady belinda scott. it was difficult to compose, partly because it had to be both elusive and yet firm, and partly because mrs. potten's voice kept on interrupting any flow of consecutive thought. when the two ladies had reached the post-office the wire was completed in lady dashwood's brain. "good-bye," said mrs. potten, just outside the threshold of the door. "and if you see bernard--i believe he means to go to tea at the hardings--would you remind him that it is at eliston's that he has to pick me up? there are attractions about!" added mrs. potten mysteriously, "and he may forget! poor bernard, such a good fellow in his way, but so wild, and he sometimes talks as if he were almost a conscientious objector, only he's too old for it to matter. i don't allow him to argue with me. i can't follow it--and don't want to. but he's a dear fellow." lady dashwood walked into the post-office. "thank goodness, i can think now," she said to herself, as she went to a desk. the wire ran as follows:-- "sorry. saturday quite impossible. writing." it was far from cordial, but cordial lady dashwood had no intention of being. she meant to do her duty and no more by belinda. duty would be hard enough. and when she wrote the letter, what should she say? "if only something would happen, some providential accident," thought lady dashwood, unconscious of the contradiction involved in the terms. the word "providential" caused her to go on thinking. if there were such things as ghosts, the "ghost" of the previous night might have been providentially sent--sent as a warning! but the thought was a foolish one. "in any case," she argued, "what is the good of warnings? did any one ever take warning? no, not even if one rose from the dead to deliver it." she was too tired to walk about and too tired to want to go again into the sale room and talk to people. she went back to the rooms, climbed the stairs slowly and then sat down to wait till it was time to go to mrs. harding's. perhaps may would soon have finished seeing christ church and come and join her. her presence was always a comfort. it was a comfort, perhaps rather a miserable comfort, to lady dashwood because she had begun to suspect that may too was suffering, not suffering from wounded vanity, for may was almost devoid of vanity, but from--and here lady dashwood leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. it was a strange thing that both jim and may should have allowed themselves to be martyrised, only may's marriage had been so brief and had ended so worthily, the shallow young man becoming suddenly compelled to bear the burden of empire, and bearing it to the utmost; but gwen would meander along, putting all her burdens on other people; and she would live for ever! chapter xvi seeing christ church boreham had been very successful that afternoon. he had managed to secure mrs. dashwood without having to be rude to her hostess. he had done it by exchanging mrs. potten for the younger lady with a deftness on which he congratulated himself, though it was true that lady dashwood had said to may dashwood, "go and see over the college with mr. boreham." miss scott was, most fortunately, absorbed in playing at shop with mrs. harding. boreham's course was clear. he calculated with satisfaction that he had a good hour before him alone with mrs. dashwood. he could show her every corner of christ church and do it slowly; the brief explanation (of a disparaging nature) that he would be obliged to make on the details of that historic building would only serve to help him out at, perhaps, difficult moments. it would be easier for him to talk freely and prepare her mind for a proper appreciation of the future which lay before her, while he walked beside her and pointed out irrelevant things, than it would have been if he had been obliged to sit still in a chair facing her, for example, and stick to his subject. it seemed to him best to begin by speaking quite frankly in praise of himself. boreham had his doubts whether any man is really humble in his estimation of himself, however much he may pretend to be; and if, indeed, any man were truly humble, then, in boreham's opinion, that man was a fool. as soon as they had crossed st. aldates and had entered the gate under tom tower, boreham introduced the subject of his own merits, by glancing round the great quadrangle and remarking that he was thankful that he had never been subjected to the fossilising routine of a classical education. "the study of dead languages is a 'cul-de-sac,'" he explained. "you can see the effect it has had in the very atmosphere of oxford. you can see the effect it has had on middleton, dear fellow, who got a double first, and the ireland, and everything else proper and useless, and who is now--what? a conscientious schoolmaster, and nothing more!" it was necessary to bring middleton in because may dashwood might not have had the time or the opportunity of observing all middleton's limitations. she probably would imagine that he was a man of ideas and originality. she would take for granted (not knowing) that the head of an oxford college was a weighty person, a successful person. also middleton was a good-looking-man, as good-looking as he, boreham, was himself (only of a more conventional type), and therefore not to be despised from the mere woman's point of view. boreham peered eagerly at his companion's profile to see how she took this criticism of middleton. may was taking it quite calmly, and even smiled. "so far, good," said boreham to himself, and he went on to compare his larger view of life and deeper knowledge of "facts" with the restricted outlook of the oxford don. this she apparently accepted as "understood," for she smiled again, and this triumph of boreham's was achieved while they looked over the christ church library. "the first thing," said boreham, when they came again into the open air--"the first thing that a man has to do is to be a man of the world that we actually live in, not of the world as it was!" "yes," said mrs. dashwood "the world we actually live in." "you agree?" he said brightly. she smiled again. "oxford might have been vitalised; might, i say, if, by good luck, somebody had discovered a coal mine under the broad, or the high, and the university had been compelled to adjust itself to the practical requirements of the world of labour and of commerce, and to drop its mediæval methods for those of the modern world." may confessed that she had not thought of this way of improving the ancient university, but she suggested that some of the provincial universities had the advantage of being in the neighbourhood of coal mines or in industrial centres. boreham, however, waived the point, for his spirits were rising, and the sight of bingham in the distance, carrying his table-cloth and slippers and looking wistfully at nothing in particular, gave him increased confidence in his main plan. "this staircase," said boreham, "leads to the hall. shall we go in? i suppose you ought to see it." "what a lovely roof!" exclaimed may, when they reached the foot of the staircase. boreham admitted that it was fine, but he insisted that it was too good for the place, and he went on with his main discourse. when they entered the dining-hall, the dignity of the room, with its noble ceiling, its rich windows and the glow of the portraits on the walls, brought another exclamation from may's lips. but all this academic splendour annoyed boreham extremely. it seemed to jeer at him as an outsider. "it's too good for the collection of asses who dine here," he said. as to the portraits, he insisted that among them all, among all these so-called distinguished men, there was not one that possessed any real originality and power--except perhaps the painter watts. "it's so like oxford," he added, "to produce nothing distinctive." may laughed now, with a subdued laughter that was a little irritating, because it was uncalled for. "i am laughing," she explained, "because 'the world we actually live in' is such a funny place and is so full of funny people--ourselves included." that was not a reason for laughter if it were true, and it was not true that she was, or that he was "funny." if she had been "funny" he would not have been in love with her. he detained her in front of the portrait of wesley. "i wonder they have had the sense to keep him here," said boreham. "he is a perpetual reminder to them of the scandalous torpor of the church which repudiated him. yes, i wonder they tolerate him. anyhow, i suppose they tolerate him because, after all, they tolerate anybody who tries to keep alive a lost cause. religion was dying a natural death and, instead of letting it die, he revived it for a bit. it was as good as you could expect from an oxford man! when an oxford man revolts, he only revolts in order to take up some lost cause, some survival!" "i suppose," said may, "that if wesley had had the advantage of being at one of the provincial colleges, he would have invented a new soap, instead of strewing the place with nonconformist chapels?" this sarcasm of may's would have been exasperating, only that the mention of soap quite naturally suggested children who had to be soaped, and children did bring boreham actually to an important point. he did not really care two straws about wesley. he went straight for this point. he put a few piercing questions to may about her work among children in london. strangely enough she did not respond. she gave him one or two brief answers of the vaguest description, while she turned away to look at more portraits. boreham, however, had only put the questions as a delicate approach to _the_ subject. he did not really want any answers, and he proceeded to point out to her that her work, though it was undertaken in the most altruistic spirit, and appeared to be useful to the superficial observer, was really not helpful but harmful to the community. and this for two reasons. he would explain them. firstly, because it blinded people who were interested in social questions to the need for the endowment of mothers; and secondly, the care of other women's children did not really satisfy the maternal instinct in women. it excited their emotions and gave them the impression that these emotions were satisfying. they were not. he hinted that if may would consult any pathologist he would tell her that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a life like hers, seemingly so full, would not save a woman from the disastrous effects of being childless. now, boreham was convinced that women rarely understand what it is they really want. women believe that they want to become clerks or postmen or lawyers, when all the time what they want and need is to become mothers. for instance, it was a common thing for a woman who had no interest in drama and who couldn't act, to want to be an actress. what she really wanted then was an increased opportunity of meeting the other sex. boreham put this before may dashwood, and was gratified at the reception of his remarks. "what you say _is_ true," she said, "though so few people have the courage to say it." boreham went on. he felt that may dashwood, in spite of all her sharpness, was profoundly ignorant of her own psychology. it was necessary to enlighten her, to make her understand that it was not her duty to go on mourning for a husband who was dead, but that it was her duty to make the best of her own life. he entirely exonerated her from the charge of humbug in her desire to mother slum children; all he wanted was for her to understand that it wasn't of any use either to herself or to the community. how well she was taking it! he had barely finished speaking when he became unpleasantly aware that two ladies, who had just entered, were staring at himself and his companion instead of examining the hall. the strangers were foreigners, to judge by the boldness with which they wore hats that bore no relation to the shape or the dignity of the human head. they were evidently arrested and curious. may did not speak for some moments, after they both moved away from the portraits. boreham watched her, rather breathlessly, for things were going right and coming to a crisis. "you are quite right," she repeated, at last. "but people haven't the courage to say so!" "you think so?" he replied eagerly. he now appreciated, as he had never done before, how much he scored by possessing, along with the subtle intuitions of the celt, the plain common-sense of his english mother. "i am preparing my mind," said may, as they approached the door of the hall, "to face a future chequered by fits of hysteria." "but why!" urged boreham, and he could not conceal his agitation; "when i spoke of the endowment of mothers i did not mean that i personally wanted any interference (at present) with our system of monogamy. the british public thinks it believes in monogamy and i, personally, think that monogamy is workable, under certain circumstances. it would be possible for me under certain circumstances." the sublimity of his self-sacrifice almost brought tears to boreham's eyes. may quickened her steps, and he opened the door for her to go into the lobby. as he went through himself he could see that the two strangers had turned and were watching them. he damned them under his breath and pulled the door to. "there are women," he went on, as he followed her down the stairs, "who have breadth of character and brains that command the fidelity of men. i need not tell _you_ this." may was descending slowly and looked as if she thought she was alone. "'age cannot wither, nor custom stale thy infinite variety,'" he whispered behind her, and he found the words strangely difficult to pronounce because of his emotion. he moved alertly into step with her and gazed at her profile. "when that is said to a woman, well, a moderately young woman," remarked may, "a woman who is, say, twenty-eight--i am twenty-eight--it has no point i am afraid!" "no point?" exclaimed boreham. "no point," repeated may. "how do you know that thirty years from now, when i am on the verge of sixty, that i shan't be withered--unless, indeed, i get too stout?" she added pensively. "you will always be young," said boreham, fervently; "young, like ninon de l'enclos." may had now reached the ground, and she walked out on to the terrace into open daylight. boreham was at her side immediately, and she turned and looked at him. his pale blue eyes blinked at her, for he was aware that hers were hostile! why? "you would seem young to me," he said, trying to feel brave. "men and women ought," she said, with emphasis on the word "ought"--"men and women ought to wither and grow old in the service of humanity. i think nothing is more pathetic than the sight of an old woman trying to look young instead of learning the lesson of life, the lesson we are here to learn!" boreham had had barely time to recover from the blow when she added in the sweetest tone-- "there, that's a scolding for you and for ninon de l'enclos!" "but i don't mean----" began boreham. "i haven't put it--you don't take my words quite correctly." may was already walking on into the open archway that led to the cathedral. before them stood the great western doors, and she saw them and stopped. boreham wished to goodness that he had waited till they were in the cathedral before he had made his quotation. through the open doors of that ancient building he could hear somebody playing the organ. that would have been the proper emotional accompaniment for those immortal lines of shakespeare. he pictured a corner of the latin chapel and an obscure tender light. why had he begun to talk in the glare of a public thoroughfare? "shall we go inside?" he asked urgently. "one can't talk here." but may turned to go back. "i should like to see the cathedral some other time," she said. "i must thank you very much for having shown me over the college--and--explained everything." "yes; but----" stammered boreham. "we can get into the cathedral." she was actually beginning to hold out her hand as if to say good-bye. "not now," she said; and before he had time to argue further, bingham came suddenly upon them from somewhere, and expressed so much surprise at seeing them that it was evident that he had been on the watch. he had disposed of his purchases and was a free man. he had actually pounced upon them like a bird of prey--and stealthily too. it was a mean trick to have played. "are you coming out or going in?" asked bingham. "neither," said may, turning to him as if she was glad of his approach. "you've seen it before?" said bingham. "no, not yet," said may. "it's as nice a place as you could find anywhere," said bingham, calmly, "for doing a bit of joss." boreham's brain surged with indignation. this man's intrusion at such a moment was insupportable. yes, and he had got rid of his miserable table-cloth and shoes, probably taken them to harding's house, and was going to tea there too. not only this, but here he was talking in his jesting way, exactly in the same soft drawling voice in which he reeled off latin quotations, and so it went down--yes, went down when it ought to have given offence. may ought to have been offended. she didn't look offended! "you forget," said boreham, looking through his eyeglass at bingham and frowning, "that mrs. dashwood is, what is called a churchwoman." "i'm a churchman myself," said the imperturbable don. "to me a church is always first a sanctuary, as i have just remarked to mrs. dashwood. secondly, it is the artistic triumph of some blooming engineer. nowadays our church architects aren't engineers; they don't _create_ a building, they just run it up from books. our modern churches are failures not because we aren't religious, but because our architects are not big enough men to be great engineers." "ah, yes," said may, looking up with relief at bingham's swarthy features. "i deny that we are religious, as a whole," said boreham, stoutly. "you may not be, my dear fellow," said bingham, in his oily voice; "but then you are the only genuine conservative i meet nowadays. you are still faithful to the 'eighties'--still impressed by the discovery that religion don't drop out of the sky as we thought it did, but had its origin in the funk and cunning of the humanoid ape." may was standing between the two men, and all three had their backs to the cathedral, just as if they had emerged from its doors. and it was at this moment that she caught a sudden sight through the open archway of two figures passing along the terrace outside; one figure she did not know, but which she thought might be the dean of christ church, and the other figure was one which was becoming to her more significant than any other in the world. he saw her; he raised his hat, and was already gone before she had time to think. when she did think it came upon her, with a rush of remorse, that he must have thought that she had been looking over the cathedral with her two companions, after having refused his guidance on the pretext that she wished to be alone. yes, there was in his face surely surprise, surprise and reproach! how could she explain? he had gone! she vaguely heard the two men beside her speaking; she heard boreham's protesting voice but did not follow his words. "while we are engaged in peaceful persuasion," said bingham in her ear, "you are white with fatigue." "i'm not tired," she said, "not really--only i think i will go to the rooms where lady dashwood is to meet me. will you show me them?" she spoke to bingham, and touched his arm with her hand as if to ask for his support. boreham saw that he was excluded. it was obvious, and he stood staring after them, full of indignation. "i shall see you later," he said in a dry voice. how did it all happen? as soon as they were on the terrace, may released bingham's arm. "you want to get a rest before you go to the hardings," he said. then he added, in a voice that threw out the words merely as a remark which demanded no answer, "was it physical--or--moral or both? umph!" he went on. "now, we have only a step to make. it's the third doorway!" chapter xvii a tea party mrs. harding had not succeeded in finding some chance of "casually" asking mrs. potten to have tea with her, but she had secured the dashwoods. that was something. mrs. harding's drawing-room was spacious and looked out on the turreted walls of christ church. the house witnessed to mrs. harding's private means. "we have got lady dashwood in the further room," she murmured to some ladies who arrived punctually from the sale in st. aldates, "and we nearly got the warden of kings." the naïveté of mrs. harding's remark was quite unconscious, and was due to that absence of humour which is the very foundation stone of snobbishness. "but the warden is coming to fetch his party home," added mrs. harding, cheerfully. harding, too, was in good spirits. he was all patriotism and full of courteous consideration for his friends. so heartened was he that, after tea, at the suggestion of bingham, he sat down to the piano to sing a duet with his wife. this was also a sort of touching example of british respectability with a dash of "go" in it! bingham was turning over some music. "what shall it be, tina?" asked harding, whose repertoire was limited. "this!" said bingham, and he placed on the piano in front of hording the duet from "becket." the room was crowded, khaki prevailing. "all the women are workers," mrs. harding had explained. gwendolen scott was there, of course, still conscious of the ten-shilling note in the pocket of her coat. mrs. potten had gone, along with the buckinghamshire collar, just as if neither had ever existed. boreham was there, talking to one or two men in khaki, because he could not get near may dashwood. she had now somehow got wedged into a corner over which bingham was standing guard. at the door the warden had just made his appearance. he had got no further than the threshold, for he saw his hostess about to sing and would not advance to disturb her. from where he stood may dashwood could be plainly seen, and bingham stooping with his hands on his knees, making an inaudible remark to her. the remark that gentleman was actually making was: "you'll have a treat presently--the greatest surprise in your life." mrs. harding stood behind her husband. she was dressed with strict regard to the last fashion. dressing in each fashion as it came into existence she used to call quite prettily, "the simple truth about it." since the war she called it frankly and seriously "the true economy." her face usually expressed a superior self-assurance, and now it wore also a look of indulgent amiability. her whole appearance suggested a happy peacock with its tail spread, and the surprise which bingham predicted came when she opened her mouth and, instead of emitting screams in praise of diamonds and of paris hats (as one would have expected), she piped in a small melancholy voice the following pathetic inquiry-- "is it the wind of the dawn that i hear in the pine overhead?" and then came harding's growling baritone, avoiding any mention of cigars or cocktails and making answer-- "no! but the noise of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land." mrs. harding-- "is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the strand, one coming up with the song in the flush of the glimmering red?" mr. harding-- "love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea." bingham was convulsed with inward laughter. may tried to smile a little--at the incongruity of the singers and the words they sang; but her thoughts were all astray. the warden was here--so near! no one else was in the least amused. boreham was plainly worried, and was staring through his eyeglass at bingham's back, behind which may dashwood was half obliterated. gwendolen scott had only just caught sight of the warden and had flushed up, and wore an excited look on her face. she was glancing at him with furtive glances--ready to bow. now she caught his eye and bowed, and he returned the bow very gravely. lady dashwood was leaning back in her chair listening with resigned misery. may looked straight before her, past bingham's elbow. she knew the song from becket well. words in the song were soon coming that she dreaded, because of the warden standing there by the door. the words came-- "love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea, love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall have fled." she raised her eyes to the warden. she could see his profile. it looked noble among the faces around him, as he stood with his head bent, apparently very much aloof, absorbed in his own thoughts. he, of all men she had ever met, ought to have understood "love that is born of the deep," and did not. he turned his head slightly and met her eyes for the flash of a second. it was the look of a man who takes his last look. she did not move, but she grasped the arms of her chair and heard no more of the music but sounds, vaguely drumming at her ears, without meaning. she did not even notice bingham's movement, the slow cautious movement with which he turned to see what had aroused her emotion. when he knew, he made a still more cautious and imperceptible movement away from her; the movement of a man who discerns that he had made a step too far and wishes to retrace that step without being observed. may did not even notice that the song was over and that people were talking and moving about. "we are going, may," said lady dashwood. "mr. boreham has to go and hunt for a ten-shilling note that mrs. potten thinks she dropped at christ church. she has just sent me a letter about it. she can't remember the staircase. in any case we have to go and pick up our purchases there, so we are all going together." "she's always dropping things," said boreham, who had taken the opportunity of coming up and speaking to may. "she may have lost the note anywhere between here and norham gardens. she's incorrigible." the little gathering was beginning to melt away. harding and bingham had hurried off on business, and there was nobody now left but boreham and the party from king's and mrs. harding, who was determined to help in the search for mrs. potten's lost note. "miss scott is coming back with me--to help wind up things at the sale," said mrs. harding, "and on our way we will go in and help you." gwendolen's first impulse, when mrs. potten's note was discussed, was to get behind somebody else so as not to be seen. would mr. harding and mr. bingham remember about the extra note? probably--so her second impulse was to say aloud: "i wonder if it's the note i quite forgot to give to mrs. potten? i've got it somewhere." alas! this impulse was short-lived. ever since she had put the note in her pocket, the mental image of an umbrella had been before her eyes. she had begun to consider that mental umbrella as already a real umbrella and hers. she walked about already, in imagination, under it. she might have planned to spend money that had fallen into her hands on sweets. that would have been the usual thing; but no, she was going to spend it on something very useful and necessary. that ten shillings, in fact, so carelessly flung aside by mrs. potten, was going to be spent in a way very few girls would think of. to spend it on an umbrella was wonderfully virtuous and made the whole affair a sort of duty. the umbrella, in short, had become now part of gwendolen's future. virtue walking with an umbrella. without that umbrella there would be a distinct blank in gwendolen's life! if she obeyed her second impulse on the moment, that umbrella would never become hers. she would for ever lose that umbrella. but neither mr. harding nor mr. bingham seemed to think of her, or her note. they were already rushing off to lectures or chapels or something. the impulse died! so the poor silly child pretended to search in the rooms at christ church with no less energy than mrs. harding and mrs. dashwood, and much more thoroughly than boreham, who did nothing more than put up the lights and stand about looking gloomy. the warden was walking slowly with lady dashwood on the terrace below when the searchers came out announcing that no note could be found. boreham's arms were full of parcels, and these were distributed among the warden, lady dashwood, and mrs. dashwood. mrs. harding said "good-bye" outside the great gate. "i shall bring miss scott home, after the work is over," she said; and gwendolen glanced at the warden in the fading afternoon light with some confidence, for was not the affair of the note over? what more could happen? she could not be certain whether he looked at her or not. he moved away the moment that mrs. harding had ceased speaking. he bowed, and in another moment was talking to mr. boreham. may dashwood had slipped her hand into her aunt's arm, making it obvious to boreham that he and the warden must walk on ahead, or else walk behind. they walked on ahead. "i've got to fetch mrs. potten from eliston's," he said fretfully, as he walked beside the warden. all four went along in silence. they passed carfax. there, a little farther on, was mrs. potten just at the shop's door, looking out keenly through her glasses, peering from one side of the street to the other. she came forward to meet them, evidently charmed at seeing the warden. "i'm afraid i made a great fuss over that note. did you find it, bernard?" boreham felt too cross to answer. "we didn't," said may dashwood. "i'm sorry!" "no, we couldn't find it," said lady dashwood. "you really couldn't," repeated mrs. potten. "well, i wonder---- but how kind of you!" now, mrs. potten rarely saw the warden, and this fact made her prize him all the more. mrs. potten's weakness for men was very weak for the warden, so much so that for the moment she forgot the loss of her note, and--thinking of wardens--burst into a long story about the heads of colleges she had known personally and those she had not known personally. her assumption that heads of colleges were of any importance was all the more distasteful to boreham because may dashwood was listening. "come along, mrs. potten," he said crossly; "we shall have to have the lamps lit if we wait any longer." but they were not her lamps that would have to be lit, burning _her_ oil, and mrs. potten released the warden with much regret. "so the poor little note was never found," she said, as she held out her hand for good-bye. "i know it's a trifle, but in these days everything is serious, everything! and after i had scribbled off my note to you from eliston's i thought i might have given miss scott two ten-shilling notes instead of one, just by mistake, and that she hadn't noticed, of course." "i thought of that," said lady dashwood, "and i asked mrs. harding; but she said that she had got the correct notes--thirty shillings." "well, good-bye," said mrs. potten. "i am sorry to have troubled everybody, but in war time one has to be careful. one never knows what may happen. strange things have happened and will happen. don't you think so, warden?" "stranger than perhaps we think of," said the warden, and he raised his hat to go. "come, bernard," said mrs. potten, "i must try and tear you away. good-bye, good-bye!" and even then she lingered and looked at the warden. "good-bye, marian," said lady dashwood, firmly. "i am afraid you are very tired," whispered may in her aunt's ear, as they turned up the broad. "rather tired," said lady dashwood. "too tired to hear marian's list of names, nothing but names!" they walked on a few steps, and then there came a sound of whirring in the sky. it was a sound new to oxford, but which had lately become frequent. all three looked up. an aeroplane was skimming low over steeples, towers, and ancient chimney stacks, going home to port meadow, like a bird going home to roost at the approach of night. it was going safely. the pilot was only learning, playing with air, overcoming it with youthful keenness and light-heartedness. they could see his little solitary figure sitting at the helm. later on he would play no more; the air would be full of glory, and horror--over in france. the warden sighed. when they reached the lodgings they went into the gloom of the dark panelled hall. the portraits on the walls glowered at them. the warden put up the lights and looked at the table for letters, as if he expected something. there was a wire for him; more business, but not unexpected. "i have to go to town again," he said. "a meeting and other education business." "ah!" said lady dashwood. she caught at the idea, and her eyes followed the figure of may dashwood walking upstairs. when may turned out of sight she said: "do you mean now?" "no, to-morrow early," he said. "and i shall be back on saturday." lady dashwood seated herself on a couch; her letters were in her hand, but she did not open them. her eyes were fixed on her brother. "can you manage somehow so that i can speak to gwendolen alone?" he asked. "i am dining in hall, but i shall be back by half-past nine." lady dashwood felt her cheeks tingle. "yes, i will manage it, if it is inevitable." she dwelt lingeringly upon the word "inevitable." "thank you," said the warden, and he turned and walked slowly upstairs. very heavily he walked, so lady dashwood thought, as she sat listening to his footsteps. of course it was inevitable. if vows are forgotten, promises are broken, there is an end to "honour," to "progress," to everything worth living for! at the drawing-room he paused; the door was wide open, and he could see may dashwood standing near one of the windows pulling her gloves off. she turned. "i have to be in town early to-morrow and shall not return till the following day, saturday," he said, coming up slowly to where she was standing. she glanced up at him. "this is the second time i have had to go away since you came, but it is a time when so much has to be considered and discussed, matters relating to the future of education, and of the universities, and with the future of oxford. things have suddenly changed; it is a new world that we live in to-day, a new world." then he added bitterly, "such as was the morrow of the crucifixion." he glanced away from her and rested his eyes on the window. the curtains had not yet been drawn and the latticed panes were growing dim. the dull grey sky behind the battlements of the roof opposite showed no memory of sunset. "of course you have to go away," said may, softly, and she too looked out at the dull sky now darkening into night. should she now tell him that she had kept her word, that she had not seen the cathedral because she had not been alone. she had had a strong desire to tell him when it was impossible to do so. now, when she had only to say the words for he was there, close beside her, she could not speak. perhaps he wouldn't care whether she had kept her word--and yet she knew that he did care. they stood together for a moment in silence. "and you were not able to go with me to the cathedral," he said, turning and looking at her face steadily. may coloured as she felt his eyes upon her, but she braced herself to meet his question as if it was a matter about which they cared nothing. "i didn't want to waste your time," she said, and she drew her gloves through her hand and moved away. "bingham," he said, "knows more than i do, perhaps more than any man in oxford, about mediæval architecture." "ah yes," said may, and she walked slowly towards the fireplace. "and he will have shown you everything," he persisted. may was now in front of the portrait, though she did not notice it. "i didn't go into the cathedral," she said. the warden raised his head as if throwing off some invisible burden. then he moved and came and stood near her--also facing the portrait. but neither noticed the large luminous eyes fixed upon them, visible even in the darkening room. "i suppose one ought not to be critical of a drawing-room song," said the warden, and his voice now was changed. may moved her head slightly towards him, but did not meet his eyes. "i was inclined," he said, "but then i am by trade a college tutor, to criticise one line of tennyson's verse." she knew what he meant. "what line do you object to?" she asked, and the line seemed to be already dinning in her ears. he quoted the line, pronouncing the words with a strange emphasis-- "'love that can shape or can shatter a life, till the life shall have fled.'" "yes?" said may. "it is a pretty sentiment," he said. "i suppose we ought to accept it as such." "oh!" said may, and her voice lingered doubtfully over the word. "have we any right to expect so much, or fear so much," said the warden, "from the circumstances of life?" may turned her head away and said nothing. "why demand that life shall be made so easy?" here he paused again. "some of us," he went on, "want to be converted, in the evangelical sense; in other words, some of us want to be given a sudden inspiring illumination, an irresistible motive for living the good life, a motive that will make virtue easy." may looked down into the fire and waited for him to go on. "some of us demand a love that will make marriage easy, smooth for our temper, flattering to our vanity. some demand"--and here there was a touch of passion in his voice that made may's heart heavy and sick--"they demand that it should be made easy to be faithful." and she gave no answer. "isn't it our business to accept the circumstances of life, love among them, and refuse either to be shaped by them or shattered by them? but you will accuse me of being hyper-critical at a tea-party, of arguing on ethics when i should have been thinking of--of nothing particular." this was his apologia. after this there would be silence. he would be gwendolen's husband. may tried to gather up all her self-possession. "you don't agree with me?" he asked to break her obstinate silence. she could hear robinson coming in. he put up the lights, and out of the obscurity flashed the face of the portrait almost to the point of speech. "do you mean that one ought and can live in marriage without help and without sympathy?" she asked, and her voice trembled a little. he answered, "i mean that. may i quote you lines that you probably know, lines of a more strenuous character than that line from 'becket.'" and he quoted-- "'for even the purest delight may pall, and power must fail, and the pride must fall, and the love of the dearest friends grow small, but the glory of the lord is all in all.'" they could hear the swish of the heavy curtains as robinson pulled them over the windows. "and yet----" she said. here a queer spasm came in her throat. she was moving towards the open door, for she felt that she could not bear to hear any more. he followed her. "and yet----?" he persisted. "i only mean," she said, and she compelled her voice to be steady, "what is the glory of the lord? is it anything but love--love of other people?" she went through the open door slowly and turned to the shallow stairs that led to her bedroom. she could not hear whether he went to his library or not. she was glad that she did not meet anybody in the corridor. the doors were shut. she locked her door and went up to the dressing-table. the little oval picture case was lying there. she laid her hand upon it, but did not move it. she stood, pressing her fingers upon it. then she moved away. even the memory of the past was fading from her life; her future would contain nothing--to remember. she moved about the room. wasn't duty enough to fill her life? wasn't it enough for her to know that she was helping in her small way to build up the future of the race? why could she not be content with that? perhaps, when white hairs came and wrinkles, and her prime was past, she might be content! but until then.... chapter xviii the moral claims of an umbrella the ghost was, so to speak, dead, as far as any mention of him was made at the lodgings. but in the servants' quarters he was very much alive. the housemaid, who had promised not to tell "any one" that miss scott had seen a ghost, kept her word with literal strictness, by telling every one. robinson was of opinion that the general question of ghosts was still an open one. also that he had never heard in his time, or his father's, of the barber's ghost actually appearing in the warden's library. when the maids expressed alarm, he reproved them with a grumbling scorn. if ghosts did ever appear, he felt that the lodgings had a first-class claim to one; ghosts were "classy," he argued. had any one ever heard tell of a ghost haunting a red brick villa or a dissenting chapel? louise had gathered up the story without difficulty, but she had secret doubts whether miss scott might not have invented the whole thing. she did not put much faith in miss scott. now, if lady dashwood had seen the ghost, that would have been another matter! what really excited louise was the story that the barber came to warn wardens of an approaching disaster. now louise was in any case prepared to believe that "disasters" might easily be born and bred in places like the lodgings and in a city like oxford; but in addition to all this there had been and was something going on in the lodgings lately that was distressing lady dashwood, something in the behaviour of the warden! a disaster! hein? when she returned from st. aldates, gwendolen scott had had only time to sit down in a chair and survey her boots for a few moments when louise came into her bedroom and suggested that mademoiselle would like to have her hair well brushed. mademoiselle's hair had suffered from the passing events of the day. "doesn't lady dashwood want you?" asked gwendolen. no, lady dashwood was already dressed and was reposing herself on the couch, being fatigued. she was lying with her face towards the window, which was indeed wide open--wide open, and it was after sunset and at the end of october--par example! gwendolen still stared at her boots and said she wanted to think; but louise had an object in view and was firm, and in a few minutes she had deposited the young lady in front of the toilet-table and was brushing her black curly hair with much vigour. "mademoiselle saw the ghost last night," began louise. "who said that?" exclaimed gwendolen. "on dit," said louise. "then they shouldn't on dit," said gwendolen. "i never said i saw the ghost, i may have said i thought i saw one, which is quite different. the warden says there are no ghosts, and the whole thing is rubbish." "there comes no ghost here," said louise, firmly, "except there is a disaster preparing for the warden." "the warden's quite all right," said gwen, with some scorn. "quite all right," repeated louise. "but it may be some disaster domestic. who can tell? there is not only death--there is--par exemple, marriage!" and louise glanced over gwendolen's head and looked at the girl's face reflected in the mirror. "well, that is cool," thought gwendolen; "i suppose that's french!" "the whole thing is rubbish," she said. "one cannot tell, it is not for us to know, perhaps, but it may be that the disaster is, that mrs. dashwood, so charming--so douce--will not permit herself to marry again--though she is still young. such things happen. but how the barber should have obtained the information--the good god only knows." gwendolen blew the breath from her mouth with protruding lips. "what has that to do with the warden? i do wish you wouldn't talk so much, louise." "it may be a disaster that there can be no marriage between mrs. dashwood and monsieur the warden," continued louise. "the warden doesn't want to marry mrs. dashwood," replied gwendolen, with some energy. "mademoiselle knows!" said louise, softly. "yes, i know," said gwendolen. "no one has thought of such a thing--except you." "but perhaps he is about to marry--some one whom lady dashwood esteems not; that would be indeed a disaster," said louise, regretfully. "ah, indeed a disaster," and she ran the brush lengthily down gwendolen's hair. "i do wish you wouldn't talk," said gwen. "it isn't your business, louise." "ah," murmured louise, brushing away, "i will not speak of disasters; but i pray--i pray continually, and particularly i pray to st. joseph to protect m. the warden from any disaster whatever." then she added: "i believe so much in st. joseph." "st. joseph!" said gwendolen, sharply. "why on earth?" "i believe much in him," said louise. "i don't like him," said gwendolen. "he always spoils those pictures of the holy family, he and his beard; he is like abraham." "he spoils! that is not so; he is no doubt much, much older than the blessed virgin, but that was necessary, and he is un peu homme du monde--to protect the lady mother and child. i pray to st. joseph, because the good god, who was the blessed child, was always so gentle, so obedient, so tender. he will still listen to his kind protector, st. joseph." "oh, louise, you are funny," said gwendolen, laughing. "funny!" exclaimed louise. "holy jesus!" "well, it all happened such ages ago, and you talk as if it were going on now." "it is now--always now--to god," exclaimed louise, fervently; "there is no past--all is now." this was far too metaphysical for gwendolen. "you are funny," she repeated. "funny--again funny. ah, but i forget, mademoiselle is protestant." "no, i'm not," said gwen; "i belong to the english branch of the catholic church." "we have no branch, we are a trunk," said louise, sadly. "well, i'm exactly what the warden is and what lady dashwood is," said gwendolen. "ah, my lady dashwood," said louise, breaking into a tone of tragic melancholy. "i pray always for her. ah! but she is good, and the good god knows it. but she is not well." and louise changed her tone to one of mild speculation. "madame perhaps is souffrante because of so much fresh air and the absence of shops." "it is foolish to suppose that the warden does just what lady dashwood tells him. that doesn't happen in this part of the world," said gwendolen, her mind still rankling on louise's remark about lady dashwood not esteeming--as if, indeed, lady dashwood was the important person, as if, indeed, it was to please lady dashwood that the warden was to marry! "ah, no," said louise. "the monsieurs here come and go just like guests in their homes. they do as they choose. the husband in england says never--as he does in france: 'i come back, my dearest, at the first moment possible, to assist you entertain our dear grandmamma and our dear aunt.' no, he says that not; and the english wife she never says: 'where have you been? it is an hour that our little suzette demands that the father should show her again her new picture book!' ah, no. i find that the english messieurs have much liberty." "it must be deadly for men in france," said gwendolen. "it is always funny or deadly with mademoiselle," replied louise. but she felt that she had obtained enough information of an indirect nature to strengthen her in her suspicions that lady dashwood had arranged a marriage between the warden and mrs. dashwood, but that the warden had not played his part, and, notwithstanding his dignified appearance, was amusing himself with both his guests in a manner altogether reprehensible. ah! but it was a pity! when louise left the room gwendolen went to the wardrobe, and took out the coat that louise had put away. she felt in the wrong pocket first, which was empty, and then in the right one and found the ten-shilling note. now that she had it in her hand it seemed to her amazing that mrs. potten, with her big income, should have fussed over such a small matter. it was shabby of her. gwendolen took her purse out of a drawer which she always locked up. even if her purse only contained sixpence, she locked it up because she took for granted that it would be "stolen." as she put away her purse and locked the drawer a sudden and disagreeable thought came into her mind. she would not like the warden to know that she was going to buy an umbrella with money that mrs. potten had "thrown away." she would feel "queer" if she met him in the hall, when she came in from buying the umbrella. why? well, she would! anyhow, she need not make up her mind yet what she would do--about the umbrella. meanwhile the warden surely would speak to her this evening, or would write or something? was she never, never going to be engaged? she dressed and came down into the drawing-room. dinner had already been announced, and lady dashwood was standing and mrs. dashwood was standing. where was the warden? "i ought not to have to tell you to be punctual, gwen," said lady dashwood. "i expect you to be in the drawing-room before dinner is announced, not after." "so sorry," murmured gwen; then added lightly, "but i am more punctual than dr. middleton!" "the warden is dining in hall," said lady dashwood. so the warden had made himself invisible again! when was he going to speak to her? when was she going to be really engaged? gwendolen held open the door for the two ladies and, as she did so, glanced round the room. now that she knew that the warden was out somehow the drawing-room looked rather dreary. her eyes rested on the portrait over the fireplace. there was that odious man looking so knowing! she was not sure whether she shouldn't have that portrait removed when she was mrs. middleton. it would serve him right. she turned out the lights with some satisfaction, it left him in the dark! as she walked downstairs behind the two ladies, she thought that they too looked rather dreary. the hall looked dreary. even the dining-room that she always admired looked dreary, and especially dreary looked old robinson, and very shabby he looked, as he stood at the carving table. and young robinson's nose looked more turned-up, and more stumpy than she had noticed before. it was so dull without the warden at the head of the table. there was very little conversation at dinner. when the warden was away, nobody seemed to want to talk. lady dashwood said she had a headache. but gwendolen gathered some information of importance. mrs. potten had turned up again, and had been told that the right money had gone to mrs. harding. gwendolen stared a good deal at her plate, and felt considerable relief when lady dashwood added: "she knows now that she did not lose her note in christ church. she is always dropping things--poor marian! but she very likely hadn't the note at all, and only thought she had the note," and so the matter _ended_. just as dinner was over gwen gathered more information. the warden was going away early to-morrow! that was dreary, only--she would go and buy the umbrella while he was away, and get used to having it before he saw it. that the future mrs. middleton should not even have an umbrella to call her own was monstrous! she must keep up the dignity of her future position! chapter xix honour the drawing-room was empty except for the figure of gwendolen scott. her slim length was in a great easy-chair, on the arms of which she was resting her hands, while she turned her head from side to side like a bird that anticipates the approach of enemies. mrs. dashwood and lady dashwood had gone upstairs, and, to her astonishment, when she prepared to follow them, lady dashwood had quietly made her wait behind for the warden! the command, for it seemed almost like a command, came with startling abruptness. so lady dashwood knew all about it! she must have talked it over with the warden, and now she was arranging it as if the warden couldn't act without her! but the annoyance that gwen felt at this proof of lady dashwood's power was swallowed up in the sense of a great victory, the prize was won! she was going to be really engaged at last! all the waiting and the bother was over! she was ready for him, at least as ready as she could be. she was glad she had got on her white frock; on the whole, she preferred it to the others. even louise, who never said anything nice, said that it suited her. when would he come? and when he did come, what would he do, what would he say? would he come in quietly and slowly as he had done last night, looking, oh, so strong, so capable of driving ghosts away, fears away? she would never be afraid of anything in his presence, except perhaps of himself! here he was! he came in, shut the door behind him, and advanced towards her. she couldn't help watching him. "you're quite alone," he said, and he came and stood by the hearth under the portrait and leaned his hand on the mantelshelf. "yes," said gwen, blushing violently. "lady dashwood and mrs. dashwood have gone. lady dashwood said i was to stay up!" "thank you," said the warden. gwen looked up at him wistfully. "you wrote me a letter," he began, "and from it i gather that you have been thinking over what i said the other evening." "yes," said gwen; "i've been so--bothered. oh, that's the wrong word--i mean----" "you have thought it over quietly and seriously?" said the warden. gwen's eyes flickered. "yes," she said; and then, as he seemed to expect her to say more, she added: "i don't know whether you meant----" and here she stopped dead. "between us there must be absolute sincerity," he said. gwen felt a qualm. did absolute sincerity mean that she would have to tell about the--the umbrella that she was going to get? "yes," she said, "i like sincerity; it's right, isn't it?" he made no answer. she looked again at him wistfully. "suppose you tell me," he said gently, "what you yourself think of your mother's letter in which she speaks to you with affection and pride, and even regrets that she will lose you. her letter conveys the idea that you _are_ loved and wanted." he put emphasis on the "are." "it was a nice letter," said gwen, thinking hard as she spoke. "but you see we haven't got any home now," she went on. "mother stays about with people. it is hard lines, but she is so sporting." "yes," said the warden, "and," he said, as if to assist her to complete the picture, "yet she wants you!" as he spoke his eyes narrowed and his breath was arrested for a moment. "oh no," said gwen, eagerly. "she doesn't want to prevent--me--me marrying. you see she can't have me much, it's--it's difficult in other people's houses--at least it sometimes is--just now especially." "thank you," said the warden, "i understand." he sighed and moved slightly from his former position. "you mean that she wants you very much, but that she can't afford to give you a home." "yes," said gwen, with relief. the way was being made very clear to her. she was telling "the truth" and he was helping her so kindly. "you see mother couldn't stand a small house and servant bothers. it's been such hard luck on her, that father left nothing like what she thought he had got. mother has been so plucky, she really has." "i see," said the warden. "then your mother's letter has your approval?" her approval! yes, of course; it was simply topping of her mother to have written in the way she did. "it was good of mother," she said. if it hadn't been for her mother she would not have known what to do. the warden moved his hand away from the mantelshelf and now stood with his back against it, away from the blaze of the fire. "you have never mentioned, in my presence," he said, "what you think about the work that most girls of your age are doing for the war." "oh yes," said gwen, eagerly; "mother is so keen about that. she does do such a lot herself, and she took me away from school a fortnight before time was up to go to a hospital for three months' training." "and you are having a holiday and want to go on," suggested the warden. "no; mother thought i had better have a change. you can't think how horrid the matron was to me--she had favourites, worse luck; and now mother is looking--has been"--gwen corrected herself sharply--"for something for me to do that would be more suitable, but the difficulty is to find anything really nice." the warden meditated. "yes," he said. gwen continued to look at him, her face full of questioning. "you have been thinking whether you should trust yourself to me," he said very gravely, "and whether you could face the responsibility and the cares of a house, a position, like that of a warden's wife?" "oh yes," said gwen. "you think that you understand them?" he asked. "oh yes," said gwen. "at least, i would try; i would do my best." "there is nothing very amusing in my manner of life; in fact, i should describe it as--solemn. the business," he continued, "of a warden is to ward his college. his wife's business is to assist him." "i should simply love that," said gwen. "i should really! i'm not clever, i know, but i would try my best, and--i'm so--afraid of you," she said with a gulp of emotion, "and admire you so awfully!" the warden's face hardened a little, but gwen did not observe it; all she saw and knew was that the dismal part of the interview was over, for he accepted this outburst as a definite reply on her part to his offer. she was so glad she had said just what she had said. it seemed to be all right. "that is your decision?" he said, only he did not move towards her. he stood there, standing with his back to the projection of the fireplace, his head on a level with the frame of the portrait. the two faces, of the present warden of the year and the warden of the eighteenth century, made a striking contrast. both men had no lack of physical beauty, but the one had discovered the "rights" of man, and therefore of a warden, and the other had discovered the "duties" of men, including wardens. he stood there and did not approach her. he was hesitating. he could, if he wished it, exercise his power over her and make her answer "no." he could make her shrink away from him, or even deny that she had wished for an interview. and he could do this safely, for gwendolen herself was ignorant of the fact that he had on the previous night exercised any influence over her except that of argument. she would have no suspicion that he was tampering with her will for his own purposes. he could extricate himself now and at this moment. now, while she was still waiting for him to tell her whether he would marry her. the temptation was a heavy one. it was heavy, although he knew from the first that it was one which he could and would resist. there was no real question about it. he stood there by the hearth, a free man still. in a moment he would be bound hand and foot. still, come what may, he must satisfy his honour. he must satisfy his honour at any price. gwendolen saw that he did not move and she became suddenly alarmed. didn't he mean to keep his promise after all? had he taken a dislike to her? "have i offended you?" she asked humbly. "you're not pleased with me. oh, dr. middleton, you do make me so afraid!" she got up from her chair, looking very pale. "you've been so awfully kind and good to me, but you make me frightened!" she held out her hands to him and turned her face away, as if to hide it from him. "oh, do be kind!" she pleaded. he was looking at her with profound attention, but the tenseness of his eyes had relaxed. here was this girl. foolish she might be naturally, badly brought up she certainly was, but she was utterly alone in the world. he must train her. he must oblige her to walk in the path he had laid out for her. she, too, must become a servant of the college. he willed it! "i hope, gwendolen," he said gently, "that i shall never be anything but kind to you. but do you realise that if you are my wife, you will have to live, not for pleasure or ease; and you will have not merely to control yourself, but learn to control other people? this may sound hard. does it sound hard?" oh, she would try her very best. she would do whatever he told her to do. just whatever he told her! whatever he told her to do! what an unending task he had undertaken of telling her what to do! he must never relax his will or his attention from her. it would be no marriage for him; it would be a heavy responsibility. but at least the college should not suffer! was he sure of that? he must see that it did not suffer. if he failed, he must resign. his promise to her was not to love her. he had never spoken of love. he had offered her a home, and he must give her a home. he braced himself up with a supreme effort and went towards her, taking her into his arms and kissing her brow and cheeks, and then, releasing himself from her clinging arms, he said-- "go now, gwendolen. go to bed. i have work to do." "are you--is it----" she stammered. "we are engaged, if that is what you mean," he said. "oh, dr. middleton!" she exclaimed. "and may i write to my mother?" the warden did not answer for a moment. that was another burden, gwendolen's mother! the warden's face became hard. but he thought he knew how he should deal with gwendolen's mother; he should begin from the very first. "yes," he said; "but as to her coming here--she mentions it in her letter--lady dashwood will decide about that. i don't know what her plans are." gwendolen looked disappointed. "and i may talk to lady dashwood, to mrs. dashwood, and anybody about our engagement?" she asked. "certainly," he said, but he spoke stiffly. "and--and--" said the girl, following him to the door and stretching out her hand towards his arm as she walked but not touching it,--"shall i see you to-morrow morning before you go to town?" the warden felt as if he had been dealt a light but acutely painful blow. shall i see you to-morrow morning? already she was claiming her right over him, her right to see him, to know of his movements. he had for many years been the servant of the college. he had given the college his entire allegiance, but he had also been its master. he had been the strong man among weaker men, and, as all men of his type are, he had been alone, uninterfered with, rather remote in matters concerning his private personal life. and now this mere child demanded explanations of him. it was a bitter moment for his pride and independence. however strictly he might bind his wife to his will, his own freedom had gone; he was no longer the man he had been. if this simple question, "shall i see you to-morrow morning?" tortured his self-respect, how would he be able to bear what was coming upon him day by day? he had to bear it. that was the only answer to the question! "i am starting early," he said. "but i shall be back on saturday, some time in the afternoon probably." gwendolen's brain was in a whirl. her desire had been consummated. the warden was hers, but, somehow, he was not quite what he had been on that monday evening. he was cold, at least rather cold. still he was hers; that was fixed. she waited for a moment to see if he meant to kiss her again. he did not mean to, he held out his hand and smiled a little. she kissed his hand. "i shall long for you to come back," she said, and then ran out, leaving him alone to return to his desk with a heart sick and empty. "there can be no cohesion, no progress in the world, no hope for the future of man, if men break their word; if there is no such thing as inviolable honour," the warden said to himself, just as he had said before. "after all, as long as honour is left, one has a right to live, to struggle on, to endure." chapter xx shopping mrs. potten found that it "paid" to do her own shopping, and she did it once every week, on friday. for this purpose she was compelled to use her car. this grieved her. her extreme desire to save petrol would have been more patriotic if she had not availed herself, on every possible occasion, of using other people's petrol, or, so to speak, other people's oats. she had gone to the sale of work in boreham's gig, but there was not much room in it for miscellaneous parcels, so she was obliged to come into oxford on the following morning as usual and do her regular shopping. mrs. potten's acquaintance with the university consisted in knowing a member of it here and there, and in accepting invitations to any public function which did not involve the expenditure of her own money. no greenleafe potten had ever given any endowment to oxford, nor, for the matter of that, had any squire of chartcote ever spent a penny for the advancement of learning. indeed, the old county had been mostly occupied in preserving itself from gradual extinction, and the new county, the nouveaux riches, had been mainly occupied in the dissipation of energy. but mrs. potten had given the potten revenues a new lease of life. not only did she make a point of not reducing her capital, but she was increasing it year by year. she did this by systematic and often minute economies (which is the true secret of economy). the surface of her nature was emotional, enclosing a core of flint, so that when she (being short-sighted) dropped things about in moments of excitement, agreeable or disagreeable, she made such losses good by drawing in the household belt. if she inadvertently dropped a half-crown piece down a grating while exchanging controversial remarks with a local tradesman, or mixed up a note with her pocket handkerchief and mislaid both when forced to find a subscription to some pious object, or if she left a purse containing one shilling and fivepence behind her on a chair in the agitation of meeting a man whom she admired (a man like the warden, for instance); when such misfortunes happened she made them up--somehow! knowing her own weakness, she armed herself against it, by never carrying money about with her, except on rare occasions. when she travelled, her maid carried the money (with her head as the price of it). this friday morning, therefore, mrs. potten had a business duty before her, she had to squeeze ten shillings out of the weekly bills--a matter difficult in times of peace and more difficult in war time. it was a difficulty she meant to overcome. now on this friday morning, after the sale, mrs. potten motored into oxford rather earlier than usual. she intended going to the lodgings at king's before doing her shopping. her reason for going to the lodgings was an interesting one. she had just had a letter from lady belinda scott, informing her that, even if she had been able to invite gwendolen for monday, gwendolen could not accept the invitation, as the dear child was going to stay on at the lodgings indefinitely. she was engaged to be married to the warden! at this point in the letter mrs. potten put the paper upon the breakfast table and felt that the world was grey. mrs. potten liked men she admired to be bachelors or else widowers, either would do. she liked to feel that if only she had been ten years younger, and had not been so exclusively devoted to the memory of her husband, things might have---- she never allowed herself to state definitely, even to herself, what they might have----, but as long as they might have----, there was over the world in which mrs. potten moved and thought a subtle veil of emotional possibilities. so he was engaged! and what exasperated mrs. potten, as she read on, was lady belinda's playful hints that lady dashwood (dear old thing!) had manoeuvred gwendolen's visit in the first instance, and then kept her firmly a prisoner till the knot was tied. hadn't it been clever? then as to the warden, he was madly, romantically in love, and what could a mother do but resign herself to the inevitable? it wasn't what she had hoped for gwen! it was very, very different--very! she must not trust herself to speak on that subject because she had given her consent and the thing was done, and she meant to make the best of it loyally. with this news surging in her head mrs. potten raced along the moist roadways towards the ancient and sacred city. lena ought to have told her about this engagement when they were sitting together in the rooms at christ church. it wasn't the right thing for an old friend to have preserved a mysterious silence, unless (mrs. potten was a woman with her wits about her) the engagement had been not lady dashwood's plan, but exclusively belinda's plan and the daughter's plan, and the warden had been "caught"! "a liar," said mrs. potten, as she stared gloomily out of the open window, "is always a liar!" mrs. potten rang the door-bell at the lodging and waited for the answer with much warmth of interest. suppose lena was not at home? what should she do? she must thrash out this matter. lena would be certain to be at home, it was so early! she _was_ at home! mrs. potten walked upstairs, her mind agitated with mingled emotions, and also the hope of meeting the warden, incidentally. but she did not meet the warden. he was not either coming up or going down, and mrs. potten found herself alone in the drawing-room. she could not sit down, she walked up to the fireplace and stared through her glasses for a moment at the portrait. it was quite true that the man was a very good-looking warden! yes, but scarcely the sort of person she would have thought suitable to look after young men; and then she walked away to the window. she was framing in her mind the way in which she should open the subject of her call at this early hour. she almost started when she heard the door click, and turned round to see lady dashwood coming towards her. "dear one, how tired you look!" said mrs. potten; "and i really ought not to have come at this unholy hour----" "it's not so early," said lady dashwood. "you know work begins in this house at eight o'clock in the morning." "so much the better," said mrs. potten. "i don't like the modern late hours. in old days our prime ministers were up at six in the morning attending to their correspondence. when are they up now, i should like to know? well," she added, "i have come to offer you my congratulations. i got a letter this morning from lady belinda, telling me all about it. no, i won't sit down, i merely ran in for a moment." lady dashwood did not smile. she simply repeated: "from belinda, telling you all about it!" mrs. potten noted the sarcasm underlying the remark. "humph!" said mrs. potten. "and you, my dear, said nothing yesterday, though we sat together for half an hour." "they were not engaged till yesterday evening," said lady dashwood. "belinda writing yesterday speaks of this engagement having already taken place," said mrs. potten; "but, of course, she is wrong." "yes," said lady dashwood. "ah!" cried mrs. potten, nodding her head up and down once or twice. "jim has gone to town this morning," said lady dashwood. "to buy a ring?" said mrs. potten. "well, i really ought to have brought you lady belinda's letter to read. she thinks you have got your heart's desire. that's _her_ way of looking at it." lady dashwood made no answer. "i never think lies are amusing," said mrs. potten, "when you know they are lies. but you see, you never said a word. well, well, so dr. middleton is engaged!" "yes, engaged," repeated lady dashwood. "i'm afraid you're tired," said mrs. potten. "you did too much yesterday." "i'm tired," said lady dashwood. "i always expected," said mrs. potten, "that the warden would have found some nice, steady, capable country rector's daughter. but i suppose, being a man as well as a warden, he fell in love with a pretty face, eh?" and mrs. potten moved as if to go. "well, she is a lucky girl." "very lucky," said lady dashwood. then mrs. potten stared closely with her short-sighted eyes into her friend's face and saw such resigned miseries there that mrs. potten felt a stirring movement of those superficial emotions of which we have already spoken. "i could have wept for her, my dear," said mrs. potten, addressing an imaginary companion as she went through the court of the warden's lodgings to the car, which she had left standing in the street. "i could have wept for her and for the warden--poor silly man--and he looks so wise," she added incredulously. "and," she went on, "she wouldn't say a word against the girl or against belinda. too proud, i suppose." just as she was getting into the car harding was passing. he stopped, and in his best manner informed her that his wife had told him that the proceeds of the sale amounted to ninety-three pounds ten shillings and threepence. "very good," said mrs. potten; "excellent!" "and we are much indebted to our kind friends who patronised the sale." mrs. potten thought of her buckinghamshire collar and the shilling pincushion that she need not have bought. "i shall tell my wife," said harding, with much unction, "that you think it very satisfactory." it did indeed seem to mrs. potten (whose income was in thousands) that ninety-three pounds, ten shillings and threepence was a very handsome sum for the purpose of assisting fifty or sixty young mothers of the present generation. but she had little time to think of this for just by her, walking past her from the lodgings, came miss gwendolen scott. now, what was mrs. potten to do? why, congratulate her, of course! the thing had to be done! she called to gwendolen, who came to the side of the car all blushes. "she's pleased--that's plain," said mrs. potten to herself. but mrs. potten was mistaken. gwendolen's vivid colour came not from the cause which mrs. potten imagined. gwendolen's colour came simply from alarm at the sight of mrs. potten and mr. harding speaking to one another, and this alarm was not lessened when mrs. potten exclaimed-- "mr. harding has been telling me that you made ninety-three pounds, ten shillings and threepence from the sale?" "oh, did we?" murmured gwendolen, and her colour came and went away. "we did, thanks to mrs. potten's purchases," said harding, with obsequious playfulness, and he took his leave. then mrs. potten leaned over the car towards gwendolen and whispered-- "i was waiting till he had gone, as i don't know if you intend all oxford to know----" gwendolen's lips were pouted into a terrified expression. "your engagement, i mean," explained mrs. potten. gwendolen breathed again, and now she laughed. oh, why had she been so frightened? that silly little affair of yesterday was over, it was dead and buried! it was absolutely safe, and here was the first real proper congratulations and acknowledgment of her importance. "you've got a charming man, very charming," said mrs. potten. gwendolen admitted that she had, and then mrs. potten waved her hand and was gone. that morning, when gwendolen had come down to breakfast, she wondered how she was going to be received, and whether she would have to wait again for recognition as the future mrs. middleton. breakfast had been put half an hour later. she had found lady dashwood and mrs. dashwood already at breakfast. the warden had had breakfast alone a little before eight. lady dashwood called to her and, when she came near, kissed her, and said very quietly-- "the warden has told me." and then mrs. dashwood smiled and stretched out her hand and said: "i have been allowed to hear the news." and gwendolen had looked at them both and said: "thanks ever so much. i can scarcely believe it, only i know it's true!" however, the glamour of the situation was gone because the warden's seat was empty. he could be heard in the hall; the taxi could be heard and the door slamming, and he never came in to say "good-bye"! still it was all exhilarating and wonderfully full of hope and promise, and mysterious to a degree! the conversation at breakfast was not about herself, but that did not matter, she was occupied with happy thoughts. now all this, everything she looked at and everything she happened to touch, was hers. everything was hers from the silver urn down to the very salt spoons. the cup that lady dashwood was just raising to her lips was hers, gwendolen's. and now as she walked along broad street, after leaving mrs. potten, how gay the world seemed--how brilliant! even the leaden grey sky was joyful! to gwendolen there was no war, no sorrow, no pain! there was no world beyond, no complexity of moral forces, no great piteous struggle for an ideal, no "christ that is to be!" she was engaged and was going shopping! it was, however, a pity that she had only ten shillings. that would not get a really good umbrella. oh, look at those perfectly ducky gloves in the window they were only eight and elevenpence! gwendolen stared at the window. stopping to look at shop windows had been strictly forbidden by her mother, but her dear mother was not there! so gwendolen peered in intently. what about getting those gloves instead of the umbrella? she marched into the shop, rather bewildered with her own thoughts. the gloves were shown her by the same woman who had served lady dashwood a day or two ago, and who recognised her and smiled respectfully. the gloves were sweet; the gauntlets were exactly what she preferred to any others. and the colour was right. gwendolen was fingering her purse when the shopwoman said-- "do you want to pay for them, or shall i enter them, miss?" gwendolen's brain worked. she was now definitely engaged, and in a few weeks no doubt would be mrs. middleton; after that a bill of eight and elevenpence would be a trifle. "enter them, please," said gwendolen, and she surprised herself by hearing her own voice asking for the umbrella department. after this, problems that had in the past appeared insoluble, arranged themselves without any straining effort on her part; they just straightened themselves out and went "right there." she looked at a plain umbrella for nine and sixpence, and then examined one at fifteen and eleven. thereupon she was shown another at twenty-five shillings, which was more respectable looking and had a nice top. it was clearly her duty to choose this, anything poorer would lower the dignity of the future mrs. middleton. gwendolen was learning the "duties" she owed to the station in life to which god had called her. she found no sort of difficulty in this kind of learning, and it was far more really useful than book learning which is proverbially deleterious to the character. she had the umbrella, too, put down to miss scott, the lodgings, king's college. when she got out of the shop the ten-shilling note was still in her purse. "i shall get some chocolates," she said. "a few!" chapter xxi the soul of mrs. potten mrs. potten was emerging from a shop in broad street when she caught sight of mr. bingham, in cap and gown, passing her and called to him. he stopped and walked a few steps with her, while she informed him that the proceeds of the sale had come to ninety-three pounds, ten shillings and threepence; but this was only in order to find out whether he had heard of that poor dear warden's engagement. it was all so very foolish! "only that!" said bingham, who was evidently in ignorance of the event; "and after i bought a table-cloth, which i find goes badly with my curtains, and bedroom slippers, that are too small now i've tried them on. well, mrs. potten, you did your best, anyhow, flinging notes about all over christ church. was the second note found?" "the second note?" exclaimed mrs. potten. "what d'ye mean?" "you dropped one note at christ church, and you would have lost another if harding hadn't discovered that you had given him an extra note and restored it to miss scott. i suppose miss scott pretended that it was she who had been clever enough to rescue the note for you?" "no, she did not," said mrs. potten; and here she paused and remained silent, for her brain was seething with tumultuous thoughts. "well, but for harding, the sale would have made a cool ninety-three pounds, fifteen shillings and threepence. do you follow me?" mrs. potten did follow him and with much agitation. "how do you know it was my note and not miss scott's own note?" she asked, and there was in her tone a twang of cunning, for bingham's remarks had roused not only the emotional superficies of mrs. potten's nature, but had pierced to the very core where lay the thought of money. "because," replied bingham, "miss scott, who was running like a two-year-old, was not likely to have unfastened your note and fitted one of her own under it so tightly that harding, whose mind is quite accustomed to the solution of simple problems, had to blow 'poof' to separate them. no, take the blame on yourself, mrs. potten, and in future have a purse-bearer." mrs. potten's mind was in such a state of inward indignation that she went past the chemist's shop, and was now within a few yards of the sheldonian theatre. she had become forgetful of time and place, and was muttering to herself-- "what a little baggage--what a little minx!" and other remarks unheard by bingham. "i see you are admiring that semicircle of splendid heads that crown the palisading of the sheldonian," said bingham, as they came up close to the historic building. "admiring them!" exclaimed mrs. potten. "they are monstrosities." "they are perfectly sweet, as ladies say," contradicted bingham; "we wouldn't part with them for the world." "what are they?" demanded mrs. potten, trying hard to preserve an outward calm and discretion. "jupiter tonans--or plato," said bingham, "and in progressive stages of senility." "why don't you have handsome heads?" said mrs. potten, and she began to cross the road with bingham. bingham was crossing the road because he was going that way, and mrs. potten drifted along with him because she was too much excited to think out the matter. "they are handsome," said bingham. mrs. potten was speechless. suddenly she discovered that she was hurrying in the wrong direction, just as if she were running away with mr. bingham. she paused at the curb of the opposite pavement. "mr. bingham," she said, arresting him. he stopped. "i must go back," she said. "i quite forgot that my car may be waiting for me at the chemist's!" and then she fumbled with her bag, and then looked thoughtfully into bingham's face as they stood together on the curb. "bernard always lunches with me on sundays," she said; "i shall be glad to see you any sunday if you want a walk, and we can talk about the removal of those heads." bingham gave a cordial but elusive reply, and, raising his cap, he sauntered away eastwards, his gown flying out behind him in the light autumn wind. mrs. potten re-crossed the road and walked slowly back to the chemist's. her car was there waiting for her, and it contained her weekly groceries, her leg of mutton, and the unbleached calico for the making of hospital slings which she had bought in queen's street, because she could obtain it there at / d. per yard. she went into the chemist's and bought some patent pills, all the time thinking hard. she had two witnesses to gwendolen scott's having possession of the note: mr. harding and mr. bingham; and one witness, lady dashwood, to her having delivered the collar and not the note! all these witnesses were unconscious of the meaning of the transaction. she, mrs. potten, alone could piece together the evidence and know what it meant, and it was by a mere chance that she had been able to do this. if she had not met mr. bingham (and she had never met him before in the street), and if she had not happened to have mentioned the proceeds of the sale, she would still be under the impression that the note had been mislaid. "and the impertinence of the young woman!" exclaimed mrs. potten, as she paid for her pills. "and she fancies herself in a position of trust, if you please! she means to figure, if you please, at the head of an establishment where we send our sons to be kept out of mischief for a bit! well, i never heard of anything like it. why, she'll be tampering with the bills!" mrs. potten's indignation did not wane as the moments passed, but rather waxed. "and her mother is condescending about the engagement! why," added mrs. potten to herself with emphasis, as she got into her car--"why, if this had happened with one of my maids, i should have put it into the hands of the police." "the lodgings, king's," she said to the chauffeur. what was she going to do when she got there? mrs. potten had no intention of bursting into the lodgings in order to demand an explanation from miss scott. no, thank you, miss scott must wait upon mrs. potten. she must come out to potten end and make her explanation! but mrs. potten was going to the lodgings merely to ensure that this would be done on the instant. "don't drive in," she called, and getting out of the car she walked into the court and went up the two shallow steps of the front door and rang at the bell. the retroussé nose of robinson junior appeared at the opened door. lady dashwood was not at home and was not expected till half-past one. it was then one o'clock. mrs. potten mused for a little and then asked if she might see lady dashwood's maid for a moment. robinson junior suppressed his scornful surprise that any one should want to see louise, and ushered mrs. potten into the warden's breakfast-room, and there, seating herself near the window, she searched for a visiting card and a pencil. louise appeared very promptly. "madame wishes something?" she remarked as she closed the door behind her, and stood surveying mrs. potten from that distance. "i do," said mrs. potten, taking in louise's untidy blouse, her plain features, thick complexion and luminous brown eyes in one comprehensive glance. "can you tell me if miss scott will be in for luncheon?" mrs. potten spoke french with a strong english accent and much originality of style. yes, miss scott was returning to luncheon. "and do you know if the ladies have afternoon engagements?" louise thought they had none, because lady dashwood was to be at home to tea. that she knew for certain, and she added in a voice fraught with import: "i shall urge madame to rest after lunch." "humph! i see you look after her properly," said mrs. potten, beginning to write on her card with the pencil; "i thought she was looking very tired when i saw her this morning." "tired!" exclaimed louise; "madame is always tired in oxford." "relaxing climate," said mrs. potten as she wrote. "and this house does not suit madame," continued louise, motionless at the door. "the drains wrong, perhaps," said mrs. potten, with absolute indifference. "i know nothing of drains, madame," said louise, "i speak of other things." "sans doute il y a du 'dry rot,'" said mrs. potten, looking at what she had written. "ah!" exclaimed louise, clasping her hands, "madame has heard; i did not know his name, but what matter? ghosts are always ghosts, and my lady dashwood has never been the same since that night, never!" mrs. potten stared but she did not express surprise, she wanted to hear more without asking for more. "madame knows that the ghost comes to bring bad news about the warden!" "bad news!" said mrs. potten, and she put her pencil back into her bag and wondered whether the news of the warden's engagement had reached the servants' quarters. "a disaster," said louise. "always a disaster--to monsieur the warden. madame understands?" louise gazed at mrs. potten as if she hoped that that lady had information to give her. but mrs. potten had none. she was merely thinking deeply. "well," she said, rising, "i suppose most old houses pretend to have ghosts. we have one at potten end, but i have never seen it myself, and, as far as i know, it does no harm and no good. but madame didn't see the ghost you speak of?" and here mrs. potten smiled a little satirically. "it was miss scott," said louise, darkly. "oh!" said mrs. potten, with a short laugh. "oh, well!" and she came towards the maid with the card in her hand. "now, will you be good enough to give this to madame the moment that she returns and say that it is 'urgent,' d'une importance extrème." "well," said mrs. potten to herself, as she walked through the court and gained the street, "and i should think it _was_ a disaster for a quiet, respectable warden of an oxford college to marry a person of the scott type." as to louise, when she had closed the front door on mrs. potten's retreating figure, she gazed hard at the card in her hand. the writing was as follows:-- "dear lena, "can miss scott come to see me this afternoon without fail? very kindly allow her to come early. "m. p." it did not contain anything more. now, mrs. potten really believed in ghosts, but she thought of them as dreary, uninteresting intruders on the world's history. there was hamlet's father's ghost that spoke at such length, and there was the spirit that made abraham's hair stand on end as it passed before him, and then there was the ghost of samuel that appeared to saul and prophesied evil. but of all ghosts, the one that mrs. potten thought most dismal, was the ghost of the man-servant who came out from a mansion, full of light and music, one winter night on a devon bye-road. there he stood in the snow directing the lost travellers to the nearest inn, and (this was what struck mrs. potten's soul to the core) the half-crown (an actual precious piece of money) that was dropped into his hand--fell through the palm--on to the snow--and so the travellers knew that they had spoken to a spirit, and were leaving behind them a ghostly house with ghostly lights and the merriment of the dead. mrs. potten's mind worked in columns, and had she been calm and happy she would have spent the time returning to potten end in completing the list of ghosts she was acquainted with; but she was excited and full of tumultuous thoughts. there was, indeed, in mrs. potten's soul the strife of various passions: there was the desire to act in a high-handed, swift potten manner, the desire to pursue and flatten any one who invaded the potten preserves. there was the desire to put her heavy individual foot upon a specimen of the modern female who betrays the honour and the interest of her own class. there was also the general desire to show a fool that she was a fool. there was also the desire to snub belinda scott; and lastly, but not least, there was the desire to put her knife into any giddy young girl who had thrown her net over the warden. these desires fought tooth and nail with a certain dogged sentiment of fear--a fear of the warden. if he was deeply in love, what might he do or not do? would he put potten end under a ban? would he excommunicate her, marian potten? and so mrs. potten's mind whirled. at a certain shop in the high there was may dashwood, looking at a window full of books. no doubt lady dashwood was inside, or, more probably, in the shop next door. an inspiration came to mrs. potten. was the warden so very much in love? belinda scott laid great stress on his being very much in love, and the whole thing being a surprise! belinda scott was a liar! and the little daughter who could stoop to thieving ten shillings at a bazaar, might well have been put on by her mother to some equally noxious behaviour to the warden. she might have lain in wait for him behind doors and on staircases; she might----mrs. potten stopped her car, got out of it, and went behind may dashwood and whispered in her ear. may turned, her eyebrows very much raised, and listened to what mrs. potten had to say. great urgency made mrs. potten as astute as a french detective. "i'm quite sorry," she whispered, "to find that your aunt lena seems worried about the engagement. now why on earth, oh why, did the warden run himself into an engagement with a girl he doesn't really care about?" this question was a master-stroke. there was no getting out of this for may dashwood. mrs. potten clapped her hand over her mouth and drew in a breath. then she listened breathless for the answer. the answer must either be: "but he _does_ really care about her," or something evasive. not only mrs. potten's emotional superficies but her core of flint feared the emphatic answer, and yearned for an evasive one. what was it to be? may's face had suddenly blanched. had her aunt lena told? no--surely not; and yet mrs. potten seemed to _know_. "how can i tell, mrs. potten?" said may, unsteadily. "i----" "evasive!" said mrs. potten to herself triumphantly. "never mind! things do happen," she said, interrupting may. "i suppose, at any rate, he has to make the best of it, now it's done." mrs. potten was afraid that she was now going too far, and she swiftly turned the subject sideways before may had time to think out a reply. "tell your aunt lena that i expect gwendolen, without fail, after lunch. please tell her; so kind of you! good-bye, good-bye," and mrs. potten got fiercely into her car. "well, i never!" she said, and she said it over and over again. a cloud of thoughts seemed to float with her as the car skimmed along the road, and through that cloud seemed to peer at her, though somewhat dimly, the "beaux yeux" of the warden of king's. "i think i shall," said mrs. potten, "i think i shall; but i shall make certain first--absolutely certain--first." chapter xxii mr. boreham's proposal boreham's purpose had been thwarted for the moment. but there was still time for him to make another effort, and this time it was to be a successful effort. a letter to may would have been the easiest way in which to achieve his purpose, but boreham shrank from leaving to posterity a written proposal of marriage, because there always was just the chance that such a letter might not be answered in the right spirit, and in that case the letter would appear to future readers of boreham's biography as an unsolicited testimonial in favour of marriage--as an institution. so boreham decided to continue "feeling" his way! after all, there was not very much time in which to feel the way, for may was leaving oxford on monday. to-day was friday, and boreham knew the king's party were going to chapel at magdalen. if he went, too, it would be possible for him to get may to himself on the way back to the lodgings (in the dark). so to magdalen he went, hurrying along on that friday afternoon, and the nearer he got to magdalen the more sure he was that only fools lived in the country; the more convinced he was that chartcote had become, even in three months, a hateful place. boreham was nearly late, he stumbled into the ante-chapel just as they were closing the doors with solemn insistence. he uncovered his head as he entered, and his nostrils were struck with a peculiar odour of stone and mortar; a sense of space around him and height above him; also with the warmth of some indefinable sense of community of purpose that annoyed him. he was, indeed, already warm enough physically with his haste in coming; he was also spiritually in a glow with the consciousness of his own magnanimity and toleration. here was the enlightened boreham entering a temple where they repeated "creeds outworn." here he was entering it without any exhibition of violent hostility or even of contempt. he was entering it decorously, though not without some speed. he was warm and did not wish to be made warmer. what he had not anticipated, and what disappointed him, was that from the ante-chapel he could not see whether the dashwoods were in the chapel or not. the screen and organ loft were in the way, they blocked his vision, and not having any "permit" for the chapel, he had to remain in the ante-chapel, and just hope for the best. he seated himself as near to the door as he could, on the end of the back bench, already crowded. there he disposed of his hat and prepared himself to go through with the service. boreham did not, of course, follow the prayers or make any responses; he merely uttered a humming noise with the object of showing his mental aloofness, and yet impressing the fact of his presence on the devout around him. many a man who has a conscientious objection to prayer, likes to hear himself sing. but boreham's singing voice was not altogether under his own control. it was as if the machinery that produced song was mislaid somewhere down among his digestive organs and had got rusted, parts of it being actually impaired. it had been, in his younger days, a source of regret to boreham that he could never hope to charm the world by song as well as by words. as he grew older that regret faded, and was now negligible. is there any religious service in the world more perfect than evensong at magdalen? just now, in the twilight of the ante-chapel, a twilight faintly lit above at the spring of the groined roof, the voices of the choir rose and fell in absolute unison, with a thrill of subdued complaint; a complaint uttered by a hebrew poet dead and gone these many years, a complaint to the god of his fathers, the only true god. boreham marked time (slightly out of time) muttering-- "tum/tum tum/ti: tum/tum tum/tum ti/tum?" loud enough to escape the humiliation of being confounded with those weak-minded strangers who are carried away (in spite of their reason) by the charm of sacerdotal blandishments. he stood there among the ordinary church-goers, conscious that he was a free spirit. he was happy. at least not so much happy as agreeably excited by the contrast he made with those around him, and excited, too, at what was going to happen in about half an hour. that is, if may dashwood was actually behind that heavy absurd screen in the chapel. he went on "tum-ing" as if she was there and all was well. and within the chapel, in one of those deep embrasures against the walls, was may dashwood. but she was alone. lady dashwood had been too tired to come with her, and gwendolen had been hurried off to potten end immediately after lunch, strangely reluctant to go. so may had come to the chapel alone, and, not knowing that boreham was in the ante-chapel waiting for her, she had some comfort in the seclusion and remoteness of that sacred place. not that the tragedy of the world was shut out and forgotten, as it is in those busy market-places where men make money and listen too greedily to the chink of coin to hear any far-off sounds from the plain of armageddon. may got comfort, not because she had forgotten the tragedy of the world and was soothed by soft sounds, but because that tragedy was remembered in this hour of prayer; because she was listening to the cry of the hebrew poet, uttered so long ago and echoed now by distressful souls who feel just as he felt the desperate problem of human suffering and the desire for peace. "why art thou so vexed, o my soul; and why art thou so disquieted within me?" and then the answer; an answer which to some is meaningless, but which, to the seeker after the "things that are invisible," is the only answer--the answer that the soul makes to itself-- "o put thy trust in god!" * * * * * may observed no one in the chapel; she saw nothing but the written words in the massive prayer-book on the desk before her; and when at last the service was over, she came out looking neither to right nor left, and was startled to find herself emerging into the fresh air with boreham by her side, claiming her company back to the lodgings. it was just dusk and the moon was rising in the east. though it could not be seen, its presence was visible in the thin vaporous lightness of the sky. the college buildings stood out dimly, as if seen by a pallid dawn. "you leave oxford on monday?" began boreham, as they went through the entrance porch out into the high and turned to the right. "yes," said may, and a sigh escaped her. that boreham noticed. "i don't deny the attractions of oxford," he said. "all i object to is its pretensions." "you don't like originality," murmured may. she was thinking of the slums of london where she worked. what a contrast with this noble street! why should men be allowed to build dens and hovels for other men to live in? why should men make ugliness and endure squalor? "i thought you knew me better," said boreham, reproachfully, "than to say that." "if you do approve of originality," said may, "then why not let oxford work out its own evolution, in its own way?" "it needs entire reconstruction," said boreham, stubbornly. "you would like to pass everything through a mill and turn it out to a pattern," said may. "but that's not the way the world progresses. entire reconstruction would spoil oxford. what it wants is what we all want--the pruning of our vices and the development of our virtues. we don't want to be shorn of all that makes up our personality." boreham said, "that is a different matter; but why should we argue?" "to leave oxford and speak of ourselves, of you and me," said may, persisting. "you don't want to be made like me; but we both want to have the selfishness squeezed out of us. there! i warn you that, having once started, i shall probably go on lamenting like the prophet jeremiah until i reach the lodgings! so if you want to escape, do find some pressing engagement. i shan't be offended in the very least." how she longed for him to go! but was he capable of discovering this even when it was broadly hinted? boreham's beard moved irritably. the word "selfish" stung him. there was no such thing as being "unselfish"--one man wanted one thing, another man wanted another--and there you are! "human nature is selfish," he retorted. "saints are selfish. they want to have a good time in the next world. each man always wants to please himself, only tastes differ." boreham spoke in emphatic tones. if may was thinking of her husband, then this piece of truth must be put before her without delay. war widows had the habit of speaking of their husbands as heroes, when all they had done was to have got themselves blown to pieces while they were trying to blow other people to pieces. "you make questions of taste very important," said may, looking down the misty street. "some men have a taste for virtue and generosity, and others have taste for vice and meanness." boreham looked at her features closely in the dim light. "are you angry with me?" he asked. "not at all," said may. "we are arguing about words. you object to the use of the word 'selfish,' so i adopt your term 'taste.'" "there's no reason why we should argue just now," said boreham. "not that argument affects friendship! friendship goes behind all that, doesn't it?" he asked this anxiously. "i don't expect my friends to agree with me in all points," said may, smiling. "that would be very selfish!" she laughed. "i beg your pardon. i mean that my taste in friends is pretty catholic," and here boreham detected a sudden coldness in her voice. "friendship--i will say more than that--love--has nothing to do with 'points of view,'" he began hastily. "a man may fall in love with a woman as she passes his window, though he may never exchange a word with her. such things have happened." "and it is just possible," suggested may, "that a protracted conversation with the lady might have had the effect of destroying the romance." here boreham felt a wave of fear and hope and necessity surge through his whole being. the moment had arrived! "not if you were the lady," he said in a convinced tone. may still gazed down the street, etherealised beyond its usual beauty in this thin pale light. "i don't think any man, however magnanimous, could stand a woman long if she made protracted lamentations after the manner of jeremiah," she said. "you are purposely speaking ill of yourself," said boreham. "yet, whatever you do or say makes a man fall in love with you." he was finding words now without having to think. "i was not aware of it," said may, rather coldly. "it is true," he persisted. "you are different from other women; you are the only woman i have ever met whom i wanted to marry." it was out! not as well put as he would have liked, but it was out. here was a proposal of marriage by word of mouth. here was the orthodox woman's definite opportunity. may would see the seriousness of it now. "as a personal friend of yours," said may, and her tone was not as serious as he had feverishly hoped, "i do not think you are consulting your own interests at this moment, mr. boreham." "no!" began boreham. "not mine exclusively----" "your remark was hasty--ill considered," she said, interrupting him. "you don't really want to marry. you would find it an irksome bondage, probably dull as well as irksome." "not with you!" exclaimed boreham, and he touched her arm. may's arm became miraculously hard and unsympathetic. "marriage is a great responsibility," she said. "i have thought that all out," said boreham. "there may be----" "then you know," she replied, "that it means----" "i have calculated the cost," he said. "i am willing----" "you have not only to save your own soul but to help some one else to save theirs," she went on. "you have to exercise justice and mercy. you have to forgive every day of your life, and"--she added--"to be forgiven. wouldn't that bore you?" boreham's heart thumped with consternation. it might take months to make her take a reasonable view of marriage. she was more difficult than he had anticipated. "marriage is a dreary business," continued may, "unless you go into it with much prayer and fasting--jeremiah again." into boreham's consternation broke a sudden anger. "that is why," continued may, "herod ordered mariamne to be beheaded, and why the young woman who married the 'beloved disciple' said she couldn't realise her true self and went off with judas iscariot." may turned round and looked at him as she spoke. "i was serious!" burst out boreham. "not more serious than i am," said may; "i am serious enough to treat the subject you have introduced with the fearless criticism you consider right to apply to all important subjects. you ought to approve!" and yet she smiled just a little at the corners of her mouth, because she knew that, when boreham demanded the right of every man to criticise fearlessly--what he really had in his mind was the vision of himself, boreham, criticising fearlessly. he thought of himself, for instance, as trying to shame the british public for saying slimily: "let's pretend to be monogamous!" he thought of himself calling out pluckily: "here, you self-satisfied humbugs, i'm going to say straight out--we ain't monogamous----" he never contemplated may dashwood coming and saying to him: "and are _you_ not a self-satisfied humbug, pretending that there is no courage, no endurance, no moral effort superior to your own?" it was this that made may smile a little. "the fact remains," he said, feeling his way hotly, blindly, "that a man can, and does, make a woman happy, if he loves her. all i ask," he went on, "is to be allowed the chance of doing this, and you gibe." "i don't gibe," said may, "i'm preaching. and, after all, i ought not to preach, because marriage does not concern me--directly. i shall not marry again, mr. boreham." boreham stared hard at her and his eyebrows worked. all she had just been saying provoked his anger; it disagreed with him, made him dismal, and yet, at least, he had no rival! she hadn't got hold of any so-called saint as a future husband. middleton hadn't been meddling, nor bingham, and there was no shadowy third anywhere in town. she was heart free! that was something! there was the dead husband, of course, but his memory would fade as time went on. "just now, people who are dead or dying, are in the swim," thought boreham; "but just wait till the war is over!" he swiftly imagined publishers and editors of journals refusing anything that referred to the war or to any dismal subject connected with it. the british public would have no use for the dead when the war was over. the british public would be occupied with the future; how to make money, how to spend it. stories about love and hate among the living would be wanted, or pleasant discourses about the consolations of religion and blessed hopes of immortality for those who were making the money and spending it! boreham sneered as he thought this, and yet he himself desired intensely that men, and especially women, should forget the dead, and, above all, that may should forget her dead and occupy herself in being a pretty and attractive person of the female sex. "i will wait," said boreham, eagerly; "i won't ask you for an answer now." "now you know my position, you will not put any question to me!" said may, very quietly. there came a moment's oppressive silence. "i may continue to be your friend," he demanded; "you won't punish me?" and his voice was urgent. "of course not," she said. "i may come and see you?" he urged again. "any friends of mine may come and see me, if they care to," she said; "but i am very much occupied during the day--and tired in the evenings." "sundays?" he interrupted. "my sundays i spend with friends in surrey." boreham jerked his head nervously. "i shall be living in town almost immediately," he said; "i will come and see what times would be convenient." "i am very stupid when my day's work is done," said may. "stupid!" boreham laughed harshly. "but your work is too hard and most unsuitable. any woman can attend to babies." "i flatter myself," said may, "that i can wash a baby without forgetting to dry it." "why do you hide yourself?" he exclaimed. "why do you throw yourself away?" he felt that, with her beside him, he could dictate to the world like a god. "why don't you organise?" "do you mean run about and talk," asked may, "and leave the work to other people? don't you think that we are beginning to hate people who run about and talk?" "because the wrong people do it," said boreham. "the people who do it are usually the wrong people," corrected may; "the right people are generally occupied with skilled work--technical or intellectual. that clears the way for the unskilled to run about and talk, and so the world goes round, infinite labour and talent quietly building up the empire, and idleness talking about it and interrupting it." boreham stared at her with petulant admiration. "you could do anything," he said bluntly. "i shall put an advertisement into the _times_," said may. "'a gentlewoman of independent means, unable to do any work properly, but anxious to organise.'" they had now turned into a narrow lane and were almost at the gates of the lodgings. may did not want boreham to come into the court with her, she wanted to dismiss him now. she had a queer feeling of dislike that he should tread upon the gravel of the court, and perhaps come actually to the front door of the lodgings. she stopped and held out her hand. "i have your promise," he said, "i can come and see you?" he looked thwarted and miserable. "if you happen to be in town," she said. "but i mean to live there," he said. this insinuation on her part, that she had not accepted the fact that he was going to live in town, was unsympathetic of her. "i can't stand the loneliness of chartcote, it has become intolerable." the word "loneliness" melted may. she knew what loneliness meant. after all, how could he help being the man he was? was it his fault that he had been born with his share of the boreham heredity? was he able to control his irritability, to suppress his exaggerated self-esteem; both of them, perhaps, symptoms of some obscure form of neurosis? may felt a pang of pity for him. his face showed signs of pain and discontent and restlessness. "i shall leave chartcote any day, immediately. london draws me back to it. i can think there. i can't at chartcote, the atmosphere is sodden at chartcote, my neighbours are clods." may looked at him anxiously. "it is dull for you," she said. encouraged by this he went on rapidly. "art, literature is nothing to them. they are centaurs. they ought to eat grass. they don't know a sunset from a swede. they don't know the name of a bird, except game birds; they are ignorant fools, they are damned----" boreham's breathing was loud and rapid. "and yet you hate oxford," murmured may, as she held out her hand. she still did not mean boreham to come inside the court, her hand was a dismissal. "because oxford is so smug," said boreham. "and the country is smug. england is the land that begets effeteness and smuggishness. yes, i should be pretty desperate," he added, and he held her hand with some pressure--"i should be pretty desperate, only you have promised to let me come and see you." may withdrew her hand. "as a friend," she said. "yes, come as a friend." boreham gave a curious toss to his head. "i am under your orders," he said, "i obey. you don't wish me to come with you to the door--i obey!" "thank you," said may, simply. "and if you are lonely, well, so am i. there are many lonely people in this world just now, and many, many lonely women!" she turned away and left him. boreham raced rather than walked away from the lodgings towards the stables where he had put up his horse. he hardly knew what his thoughts were. he was more strangely moved than he had ever thought he could be. and how solitary he was! what permanent joy is there in the world, after all? there _is_ nothing permanent in life! it takes years to find that out--years--if you are well in health and full of vanity! but you do find it out--at last. as he went headlong he came suddenly against an obstacle. somebody caught him by the arm and slowed him down. "hullo, boreham!" said bingham. "stop a moment!" boreham allowed himself to be fastened upon, and suffered bingham's arm to rest on his, but he puffed with irritation. he felt like a poet who has been interrupted in a fit of inspiration. "i thought this was one of your war office days," he said bluntly. "it is," replied bingham, in his sweetest curate tones. "but there is special college business to-day, and i'm putting in an extra day next week instead. look here, do you want a job of work?" no, of course, boreham didn't. "i'm leaving chartcote," he said, and was glad to think it was true. "this week?" asked bingham. "no," said boreham, suddenly wild with indignation, "but any time--next week, perhaps." "this job will only take four or five days," said bingham. "what job?" demanded boreham. "there's a small library just been given us by the widow of a general." "didn't know soldiers ever read books," said boreham. "i don't know if he read them," said bingham, "but there they are. we want some one to look through them--put aside the sort suitable for hospitals, and make a _catalogue raisonné_ of the others for the camps in germany." boreham wanted to say, "be damned with your _raisonné_," but he limited himself to saying: "can't you get some college chaplain, or some bloke of the sort to do it?" "all are thick busy," said bingham--"those that are left." "it must be a new experience for them," said boreham. "there are plenty of new experiences going," said bingham. "and you won't deny," said boreham, smiling the smile of self-righteousness, as he tried to assume a calm bantering tone, "that experience--of life, i mean--is a bit lacking in oxford?" "it depends on what you mean," said bingham, sweetly. "we haven't the experience of making money here. also oxford dons are expected to go about with the motto 'pereunt et imputantur' written upon our brows (see the sundial in my college), 'the hours pass and we must give an account of them.'" bingham always translated his latin, however simple, for boreham's benefit. just now this angered boreham. "this motto," continued bingham, "isn't for ornament but for an example. in short, my dear man, we avoid what i might call, for want of a more comprehensive term, the pot-house experience of life." boreham threw back his head. "well, you'll take the job, will you?" and bingham released his arm. "can't you get one of those elderly ladies who frequent lectures during their lifetime to do the job?" "we may be reduced to that," said bingham, "but even they are busy. it's a nice job," he added enticingly. "i know what it will be like," grunted boreham, and he hesitated. if may dashwood had been staying on in oxford it would have been different, but she was going away. so boreham hesitated. "telephone me this evening, will you?" said bingham. "very well," said boreham. "i'll see what i have got on hand, and if i have time----" and so the two men parted. boreham got into his gig with a heavy heart and drove back to chartcote. how he hated the avenue that cut him off from the world outside. how he hated the clean smell of the country that came into his windows. how he hated to see the moon, when it glinted at him from between the tops of trees. he longed for streets, for the odour of dirt and of petrol and of stale-cooked food. the noise of london soothed him, the jostling of men and women; he hungered for it. and yet he did not love those human beings. he knew their weaknesses, their superstitions, their follies, their unreason! boreham remembered a much over-rated hebrew (possibly only a mythical figure) who once said to his followers that when they prayed they should say: "father, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us." he got out of his gig slowly. "i don't forgive them," he said, and, unconscious of his own sins, he walked up the steps into his lonely house. chapter xxiii by moonlight may waited within the gates of the lodgings for some moments. she did not open the door and enter the house. she walked up and down on the gravelled court. she wanted to be alone, to speak to no one just now; her heart was full of weariness and loneliness. when she felt certain that boreham was safely away, she went to the gates and out into the narrow street again, where she could hear subdued sounds of the evening traffic of the city. the dusky streets had grown less dim; the shining overhead was more luminous as the moon rose. the old buildings, as she passed them on her solitary walk, looked mysterious and aloof, as if they had been placed there magically for some secret purpose and might vanish before the dawn. this was the ancient oxford, the oxford of the past, the oxford that was about to pass away, leaving priceless memories of learning and romance behind it, something that could never be again quite what it had been. before dawn would it vanish and something else, still called oxford, would be standing there in its place? may was tempted to let her imagination wander thus, and to see in this mysterious oxford the symbol of the personality of a single man, a personality that haunted her when she was alone, a personality which, when it stood before her in flesh and blood, seemed to fill space and obliterate other objects. she had, in the chapel, re-affirmed over and over again her resolution to overcome this obsession, and now, as she walked that evening, her heart cried out for indulgence just for one brief moment, for permission to think of this personality, and to read details of it in every moonlit façade of old oxford, in every turn of the time-worn lanes and passages. the temptation had come upon her, because it was so dreary to be loved by boreham. his talk seemed to mark her spiritual loneliness with such poignant insistence; it made it so desperately plain to her that those sharp cravings of her heart could not be satisfied except by one man. it had made her see, for the first time, that the sacred dead, to whom she had raised a shrine, was a memory and not a present reality to her; and this thought only added to her confusion and her grief. what was there to hold on to in life? "o, put thy trust in god!" came the answer. "help me to make the mischance of my life a motive for greater moral effort. help me to be a willing sacrifice and not an unwilling victim." and as she uttered these words she moved with more rapid steps. shadows were visible on the roadway; roofs glimmered and the edges of the deep window recesses were tinged with a dark silver. she passed under the walls of all souls and emerged again into the high. a figure she recognised confronted her. she tried to pass it without appearing to be aware of it, and she hurried on with bent head. but it turned, and bingham's voice spoke to her. "mrs. dashwood," he called softly. she was forced to slacken her pace. "oh, mr. bingham!" she said, and he came and walked by her, making pretence that he was disturbing her solitude because he had never been told the dinner-hour at the lodgings, when lady dashwood invited him, and, what was more important, he had forgotten to say that he would be very glad if mrs. dashwood would make use of him as a cicerone if she wanted any more sight-seeing in oxford and the warden was unable to accompany her. this was the pretence he put before her. then, when he had said all this and had walked a few yards along the street with her, he seemed to forget that his business with her ought to be over, and remarked that he had been trying to save boreham's soul. "his soul!" said may, with a sigh. "i've been trying to make him work." "doesn't he work?" asked may. "no, he preaches," said bingham. "if he had a touch of genius he might invent some attractive system of ethics in which his own characteristics would be the right characteristics; some system in which humility and patience would take a back seat." may could not help smiling a little, bingham's voice was so smooth and soft; but she felt boreham's loneliness again and ceased smiling. "or he might invent a new god," said bingham, "a sort of composite photograph of himself and the old gods. he might invent a new creed to go along with it and damn all the old creeds. but he is incapable of construction, so he merely preaches the destruction of sodom and gomorrah, which is a soft job. wherever he is, there is sodom and gomorrah! you see my point? egotism is always annoyed at egotisms. an egotist always sees the egotism of other people. the egotism of those round him, jump at him, they get on his nerves! he has to love people who are far, far away! you see my point? well, i've been trying to make him take on a small bit of war work!" "and will he take it?" asked may. "i don't know," said bingham; "i've just left him, a prey to conflicting passions." may was silent. "are you going back to king's?" asked bingham. she and bingham were walking along, just as she and boreham had been walking along the same street, past these same colleges not an hour ago. was she going back to the lodgings? yes, she thought, in fact she knew she was going back to the lodgings. "may i see you to the lodgings?" asked bingham. there seemed no alternative but to say "yes." "there are many things i should like to talk over with you, mrs. dashwood," said bingham, stepping out cheerfully. "i should like to roam the universe with you." "i'm afraid you would find me very ignorant," said may. "i would present you with facts. i would sit at your feet and hold them out for your inspection, and you, from your throne above, would pronounce judgment on them." "it is the ignorant people who always do pronounce judgment," said may. "so that will be all right. you spoke of mr. boreham preaching. well, i've just been preaching. it's a horrid habit." bingham gave one of his surprising and most cultured explosions of laughter. may turned and looked at him with her eyebrows very much raised. "i am laughing at myself," he explained. "i thought to buy things too cheaply." may looked away, pondering on the meaning of his words. at last the meaning occurred to her. "you mean you wanted to flatter me, and--and i began to talk about something else. was that what made you laugh?" she asked. "that's it," said bingham. "i wanted to flatter you because it is a pleasure to flatter you, and i forgot what a privilege it was." "ah!" said may, quietly. "cheap, cheap, always cheap!" said bingham. "cheapness is the curse of our age. the old radical belief in the right to buy cheaply, that poison has soaked into the very bone of politics. it has contaminated our religion. the pulpit has decided in favour of cheap salvation." may looked round again at bingham's moonlit profile. "no more hell!" he said, "no more narrow way, no more strait gate to heaven! on the contrary, we bawl ourselves blue asserting that the way is broad, and that every blessed man jack of us will find it. yes," he went on more slowly, "we have no use now for a god who can deny to any one a cheap suburban residence in the new jerusalem. and so," he added, "i flatter you, stupidly, and--and you forgive me." they walked on together for a moment in silence. "i don't deserve your forgiveness," he said. "but i desire your forgiveness. i desire your toleration as far as it will go. perhaps, if you were to let me talk on, i might go too far for your toleration," and now he turned and looked at her. "you would not go too far," said may. "you are too much detached; you look on----" and here she hesitated. "oh, damn!" said bingham, softly; "that is the accursed truth," and he stared before him at the cracks in the pavement as they stood out sharply in the moonlight. "you mustn't mind," said may, soothingly. "i do mind," said bingham; "i should like to be able to take my own emotions seriously. i should like to feel the importance of my being highly strung, imaginative, a lover of beauty and susceptible to the charms of women. instead of which i am hopelessly critical of myself. i see myself a blinking fool, among other fools." bingham's lips went on moving as if he were continuing to speak to himself. "when a woman takes you and your emotions seriously, what happens then?" asked may very softly, and she looked at him with wide open eyes and her eyebrows full of inquiry. "ah!" sighed bingham, "that was long ago. i have forgotten--or nearly." then he added, after a moment's silence: "may i talk to you about the present?" "yes, do," said may. "there!" said bingham, resentfully, "see how you trust me! you know that if i begin to step on forbidden ground, you have only to put out your finger and say 'stop!' and i shall retire amiably, with a jest." "that is part of--of your--your charm," said may, hesitatingly. "my charm!" repeated bingham, in a tone of sarcasm. "i'm sorry i used the word charm," said may. "i will use a better term, your personality. you are so alarming and yet so gentle." bingham turned and gazed at her silently. they were now very near the lodgings. "thanks," he said at last. "i know where i am. but i knew it before." a great silence came upon them. sounds passed them as they walked; men hurried past them, occasionally a woman, a red cross nurse in uniform. the sky above was still growing more and more luminous. all the rest of the way they walked in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, neither wishing to speak. when they reached the lodgings bingham walked into the court with her. "won't you come in?" she asked, but it was a mere formality, for she knew that he would refuse. "it's too late," he said. "and you are coming to dinner to-morrow at eight?" she laid emphasis on the hour, to hide the fact that she was really asking whether he meant to come at all, after their talk about his personality. "yes, at eight," he said. "good-bye." as he spoke the moon showed full and gloriously, coming out for a moment sharply from the fine gauzy veil of grey that overspread the sky, and the court was distinct to its very corners. the gravel, the shallow stone steps at the door, the narrow windows on each side of the door, the sombre walls; all were illumined. and bingham's face, as he lifted his cap, was illumined too. it was a very dark face, so dark that may doubted if she really had quite grasped the details of it in her own mind. his eyes seemed scarcely to notice her as she smiled, and yet he too smiled. then he went back over the gravel to the gate without saying another word. she did not look at his retreating figure. she opened the door and went in. other people in the world were suffering. why can't one always realise that? it would make one's own suffering easier to bear. the house seemed empty. there was not a sound in it. the dim portraits on the walls looked out from their frames at her. but they had nothing to do with her, she was an outsider! she walked up the broad staircase. she must endure torture for two--nearly three more days! the hours must be dealt with one by one, even the minutes. it would take all her strength. at the head of the stairs she paused. her desire was to go straight to her room, and not to go into the drawing-room and greet her aunt lena. gwendolen would very likely be there in high spirits--the future mistress of the house--the one person in the world to whom the warden would have to say, "may i? can i?" "don't be a coward! other people in the world are suffering besides you," said the inner voice; and may went straight to the drawing-room door and opened it. the room was dark except for a glimmer from a red fire. may was going out again, and about to close the door, when her aunt's voice called to her, and the lights went up on each side of the fireplace. may pushed the door back again and came inside. "aunt lena!" she called. lady dashwood had been sitting on the couch near it. she was standing now. it was she who had put up the lights. her face was pale and her eyes brilliant. "may, it's all over!" she called under her breath. may stood by the door. it was still ajar and in her hand. "all over! what is all over?" she asked apprehensively. "shut the door!" said lady dashwood, in a low voice. may shut the door. "gwendolen has broken off her engagement!" said lady dashwood, controlling her voice. may always remembered that moment. the room seemed to stretch about her in alleys fringed with chairs and couches. there was plenty of room to walk, plenty of room to sit down. there was plenty of time too. it was extraordinary what a lot of time there was in the world, time for everything you wanted to do. then there was the portrait over the mantelpiece. he seemed to have nothing to do. she had not thought of that before. he was absolutely idle, simply looking on. and below these trivial thoughts, tossed on the surface of her mind, flowed a strange, confused, almost overwhelming, tide of joy. chapter xxiv a cause and impediment "oh!" was all that may said. lady dashwood looked at her and looked again. she put out her hand and rested it on the mantelshelf, and still looked at may. may was taking off one of her gloves. when she had unfastened the buttons she discovered that she was wearing a watch on her wrist, and she wound it up carefully. lady dashwood was still looking, all her excitement was suppressed for the moment. what was may thinking of--what had happened to her? "for how long?" asked may, and she suddenly perceived that there had been a rigid silence between them. "for how long?" exclaimed lady dashwood. "yes," said may. "the engagement is broken off!" said lady dashwood. "broken off, dear!" "not permanently?" said may, as if she were speaking of an incident of no particular importance. lady dashwood's eyes gleamed. "for ever," she said. may looked at her watch again and began to wind it up again. it refused to be wound any more. may looked at it anxiously. "gwendolen goes to-morrow," said lady dashwood. "it is she who has broken off the engagement, and she is going away before jim returns. it is all over, may, and i have been waiting for half an hour to tell you the news. i have scarcely known how to wait." may went up and kissed her silently. "you are the only person i can speak to," said lady dashwood. "may, i feel as if this couldn't be true. will you read this?" and she put a letter into may's hands. as she did so she saw, for the first time, that may's hands were trembling. she drew the letter back and said quietly: "no, let me read marian potten's letter to you. i want to read it again for my own sake, though i have read it half a dozen times already." "mrs. potten!" said may. "aunt lena, you'll think me stupid, but i haven't grasped things." "of course not," said lady dashwood. "and i am too much excited to explain properly. i suppose my nerves have been strained lately. i want to hear marian's letter read aloud. listen, may! oh, my dear, do listen!" lady dashwood turned the letter up to the light and began to read in a slow, emphatic, husky voice-- "dear lena, "certain things have happened of which i cannot speak, and which necessitated a private interview between gwendolen and myself. but what i am going to tell you now concerns you, because it concerns the warden. in our interview gwendolen confided to me that she had serious misgivings about the wisdom of her engagement. they are more than misgivings. she feels that she ought not to have accepted the warden's offer. she feels that she never considered the responsibilities she was undertaking, and she had nobody to talk the matter over with who could have given her sensible advice. she feels that neither her character nor her education fit her to be a warden's wife, and she shrinks from the duties that it involves. all this came out! i hope that you and the warden will forgive the fact that all this came out before me, and that i found myself in the position of gwen's adviser. she has come to the conclusion that she ought to break off this engagement--so hastily made--and i agree with her that there should not be an hour's delay in breaking it off. she is afraid of meeting the warden and having to give him a personal explanation. it is a natural fear, for she is only a silly child and he is a man of years and experience. she does not feel strong enough to meet him and tell him to his face that she cannot be his wife. you will understand how unpleasant it would be for you all. so, with my entire approval and help, she has taken the opportunity of his absence to write him a decisive letter. she will hand you over this letter and ask you to give it to the warden on his return home. this letter is to tell him that she releases him from his promise of marriage. and to avoid a very serious embarrassment i have invited her to come to potten end to-morrow morning and stay with me till i have heard from lady belinda. i am writing myself to lady belinda, giving her full details. i am sure she will be convinced of the wisdom of gwendolen so suddenly breaking off her engagement. i will send the car for gwendolen to-morrow at ten o'clock, and meanwhile will you spare her feelings and make no reference to what has taken place? the poor child is feeling very sore and very much ashamed of all the fuss, but feels that she is doing the right thing--at last. "yours ever, "marian potten." lady dashwood folded up the letter and put it back into its envelope. she avoided looking at may just now. "marian must feel very strongly on the subject to offer to send her own car," she said. "i have never known her do such a thing before," and lady dashwood smiled and looked at the fire. "so the whole thing is over! but how did it all come about? what happened? i've been thinking over every possible accident that could have happened to make gwen change her mind in this sudden way, and i am still in the dark," she went on. "do you think that gwendolen had any misgivings about her engagement when she left this house after lunch, may? i'm sure she hadn't." here lady dashwood paused and looked towards may but not at her. "it all happened at potten end! i'm certain of it," she added. may, having at last completely drawn off both her gloves, was folding and unfolding them with unsteady hands. "it's a mystery," said may. "but i don't care what happened!" said lady dashwood, solemnly; "i don't really want to know. it is over! i can't rest, i can't read, i can't think coherently. i can only be thankful--thankful beyond words." may walked slowly in the direction of the door. "yes, all your troubles are over," she said. "do you remember, may," went on lady dashwood, "how you and i stood together just here, under the portrait, when you arrived on monday? well, all that torment is over. all that happened between then and now has been wiped clean out, as if it had never been." but all had not been wiped out. some of what happened had been written down in may's mind and couldn't be wiped out. "don't go this moment; sit down for a little, before you go and dress," said lady dashwood, "and i'll try and sit, for i must talk, i must talk, and, may dear, you must listen. come back, dear!" lady dashwood sat down on one side of the fireplace and looked at may, as she came back and seated herself on the opposite side. there was the fireplace between them. "aren't you glad?" asked lady dashwood. "aren't you glad, may?" "i am very glad," said may. "i rejoice--in your joy." lady dashwood leaned back in her chair, and let her eyes rest on may's face. "i can't describe to you what i felt when gwendolen came in half an hour ago. she came in quietly, her face pale and her eyes swollen, and said quite abruptly: 'i have broken on my engagement with dr. middleton. please don't scold me, please don't talk about it; please let me go. i'm miserable enough as it is,' and she put two letters into my hand and went. may, i took the letter addressed to jim and locked it up, for a horrible fear came on me that some one might destroy that letter. besides, i had also the fear that because the thing was so sudden it might somehow not be true. well, then i came down here again and waited for you. i waited in the dark, trying to rest. you came in very late. i scarcely knew how to wait. i suppose i am horribly excited. i am feeling now as louise feels constantly, but i can't get any relief in the way she does. a frenchwoman never bottles up anything; her method is to wear other people out and save her own strength by doing so. from our cradles we are smacked if we express our emotions; but foreigners have been encouraged to express their emotions. they believe it necessary and proper to do so. they gesticulate and scream. it is a confirmed habit with them to do so, and it doesn't mean much. i dare say when you or i just say 'oh!' it means more than if louise uttered persistent shrieks for half an hour. but she is a good soul----" and lady dashwood ran on in this half-consequent, half-inconsequent way, while may sat in her chair, busy trying to hide the trembling of her knees. they would tremble. she tried holding them with her hands, but they refused to stop shaking. once they trembled too obviously, and lady dashwood said, in a changed tone, as if she had suddenly observed may: "you have caught cold! you have caught a chill!" "perhaps i have," said may, and her knees knocked against each other. "you have, my dear," said lady dashwood; and as she pronounced this verdict, she rose from her chair with great suddenness. there was on her face no anxiety, not a trace of it, but a certain great content. but as she rose she became aware that her head ached and she felt a little dizzy. what matter! "i may have got just the slightest chill," said may, rising too, "but if so, it's nothing!" "most people like having chills, and that's why they never take any precautions, and refuse all remedies," said lady dashwood, making her way to the door with care, and speaking more slowly and deliberately; "but i know you're not like that, and i'm going to give you an infallible cure and preventive. it'll put you right, i promise. come along, dear child. i ought to have known you had a chill. i ought to have seen it written on your brow 'chill' when you came in; but i've been too much excited by events to see anything. i've been chattering like a silly goose. come upstairs, i'm going to dose you." and may submitted, and the two women went out of the drawing-room together up the two or three steps and into the corridor. they walked together, both making a harmless, pathetic pretence: the one to think the other had a chill, the other to own that a chill it was, indeed, though not a bad chill! what was gwendolen doing now? was she crying? "poor thing, poor little neglected thing!" thought lady dashwood. "marian can be very high-handed," she whispered to may. "i have known her do many arbitrary things. she would be quite capable of---- but what's the good! poor gwen! i couldn't pity her before, i felt too hard. but now jim is safe i can think reasonably. i'm sorry for her. but," she added, "i'm not sorry for belinda." now that they had reached may's room, may declared that she was not as sure as she had been that she had got a chill. but the chill could not be dropped like that. lady dashwood felt the impropriety of suddenly giving up the chill, and she left the room and went to search for the infallible cure and preventive. as she did so she began to wonder why she could not will to have no headache. she was so happy that a headache was ridiculous. when she returned, may was in her dressing-gown and was moving about with decision, and her limbs no longer trembled. "i don't pity belinda," said lady dashwood, pretending not to see the change. "i don't pity her, though i suppose that she, too, is merely a symptom of the times we live in." here she began to pour out a dose from the bottle in her hand. "it can't be a good thing, may, for the community that there should be women who live to organise amusement for themselves; who merely live to meet each other and their men folk, and play about. it can't be good for the community? we ought all to work, may, every one of us. writing invitations to each other to come and play, buying things for ourselves, seeing dressmakers isn't work. there, may!" she held out the glass to may. each kept up the pretence--pretending with solemnity that may had been trembling because she had possibly got a chill. it was a pretence that was necessary. it was a pretence that covered and protected both of them. it was a brave pretence. "no," said lady dashwood again, and firmly, as she released the glass. "it isn't good for the community to have a class of busy idlers at the top of the ladder." may had taken the glass, and now she tipped it up and drank the contents. they were hot and stinging! then may broke her silence, and imitating a voice that lady dashwood knew well, uttered these words: "oh, damn the community!" "was it very nasty?" said lady dashwood, laughing. "ah, may, i can laugh now at belinda! alas! i can laugh!" chapter xxv confessions what stung gwendolen, what made her smart almost beyond endurance, was that she had exchanged the warden for an umbrella. the transaction had been simple, and sudden, and inevitable. the warden was in london, a free man, and there was the umbrella in the corner of the room, hers. it was looking at her, and she had not paid for it. the bill would be sent to the lodgings, the bill for the umbrella and the gloves. the bill would be re-directed and would reach her--bills always did reach one, however frequently one changed one's address. private letters sometimes got misdirected and mislaid, but never bills. friends sometimes say, "we couldn't write because we didn't know your address." tradespeople never say this, they don't omit to send their bills merely because they don't know your address. if they don't know your address, they search for it! the pure imbecility of her behaviour at christ church about that ten-shilling note was now apparent to gwendolen. she could not think, now, how she could have done anything so inconceivably silly, and so useless as to put herself in the power of mrs. potten. she would never, never in all her life, do such a thing again. another time, when hard up and needing something necessary, she would borrow, or she would go straight to the shop and order "the umbrella" (as after all, she had done), and she would take the sporting chance of being able to pay the bill some time. but never would she again touch notes or coins that belonged to people she knew, and especially those belonging to mrs. potten! oh, what a wickedly cruel punishment she had to bear, merely because she had had a sort of joke about ten shillings belonging to mrs. potten. one thing she would never forgive as long as she lived, and that was mrs. potten's meanness. she would never forget the way in which mrs. potten took advantage of her by getting her into potten end alone, with nobody to protect her. first of all mrs. potten had pretended to be merely sorry. then she spoke about mr. harding and mr. bingham being witnesses and made the whole thing appear as a sort of crime, and then she ended up with saying: "the warden must not be kept in ignorance of all this! that is out of the question. he has a right to know." that came as an awful shock to gwendolen, and made her burst into tears. "are you afraid, child, he will break off the engagement?" was all that mrs. potten said, and then the horrid old woman asked all sorts of horrid questions, and wormed out all kinds of things: that the warden had not actually said he was in love, that he had scarcely spoken to her for three days, and that he had not said "good-bye" that morning when he left for london. how mrs. potten had managed to sneak it out of her gwendolen did not know, but mrs. potten gave her no time to think of what she was saying, and being so much upset and so much afraid of mrs. potten lots of things came out. and yet all the time she knew things were going wrong because of the wicked look on mrs. potten's face. however, gwendolen had all through stuck to it (and it was the truth) that she had never intended to do more than "sort of joke" with the note, and this mrs. potten simply wouldn't understand. and when she, gwendolen, promised, on her honour, to make it "all right," by wiring to her mother to send her a postal order for ten shillings by return, mrs. potten sprang like a tiger on her: "why wire for it? why not return it now?" oh, the whole thing was awful! after this mrs. potten's voice had changed to ice, and she put on a perfectly beastly tone. "gwendolen, you shock me beyond words, and oblige me to take a very decided step in the matter." then she stopped, and gwendolen could recall that horrible moment of suspense. then came words that made gwendolen shudder to think of. "i have a very great respect for the position of a warden--it is a position of trust; and i have also personally a very great respect for the warden of king's. i give you an alternative. break off your engagement with him at once, quietly, or i shall make this little affair of the note known in oxford, so that the warden will have to break the engagement off. which alternative do you choose?" the very words repeated themselves over and over in gwendolen's memory, and she flung herself on her bed and gave way to a passion of tears. no, she would never forgive mrs. potten. when the bell sounded for dinner, gwendolen struggled off the bed and went to look at herself in the glass. she couldn't possibly go downstairs looking like that, even if she were dressed. yet pangs of hunger seized gwendolen. she had eaten one wretched little slice of bread and butter at potten end, moistening it with her tears, and now she wanted food. several minutes passed. "they won't care even if i'm dead," moaned gwendolen, and she listened. a knock came at her door, and louise entered. "if mademoiselle has a headache would she like to have some dinner brought up to her?" "yes, thanks," said gwendolen, and she kept her face away from the direction of the door so that louise could not see it. "what would mademoiselle like? some soup?" oh, how wretched it all was! and when all might have been so different! and soup--only soup! "i don't care," said gwendolen, "some sort of dinner--any dinner." "ah, dinner!" said louise. when she had gone, gwendolen tied two handkerchiefs together and fastened them round her forehead to look as if she had a headache--indeed, she had a headache--and a heartache too! presently dinner was brought up, and gwendolen ate it in loneliness and sadness. she did not leave anything. she had thought of leaving some of the meat, but decided against it. after she had finished, and it had been cleared away, she had sat looking at the fire for a few minutes with eyes that were sore from weeping. then she got up and began to undress. life was a miserable thing! she got into bed and laid her hot head down on the cool pillow and tried not to think. but she listened to every sound that passed her door. it was horrible to be alone and forgotten. she had asked to be left alone, but she had not meant to be alone so long. then there suddenly sprang into her mind the recollection of the strange form she thought she had seen in the library. she really had thought she had seen him. were such things true? what about the disaster? perhaps it was _her_ disaster he had come to warn _her_ about and that was why _she_ saw him. perhaps god sent him! this thought thrilled her whole being, and she lay very still. perhaps god had meant to tell _her_ that she must be careful, and she had not been careful. but then how could she have guessed? gwendolen had been confirmed only two years ago. she remembered that the preparation for confirmation had been a bore, and yet had given her a pleasant sensation of self-approbation, because she was serving god in a manner peculiarly agreeable to him by being in the right church, especially now in these times of unbelief and neglect of religion. she had a pleasant feeling that there were a great many people disobeying him; and that heaps of priggish people who fussed about living goody-goody lives, were not really approved of by him, because they didn't go to church or only went to wrong churches. then she recalled the afternoon when she was confirmed. she was at school and there were other girls with her, and the old bishop preached to them, and went on and on and on so long, and was so dull that gwendolen ceased to listen. but she had gone through it all, and had felt very happy to have it over. she felt safe in god's keeping. but now she was alone and miserable, and felt strangely unprotected by god, as if god didn't care! was that strange form she had seen in the library sent not by god but by the devil to frighten her? if the warden had been in the house she would have felt less frightened, only now--now she was so horribly alone. even if he had been in the house, though she couldn't speak to him, she would have been less frightened. gwendolen listened for footsteps in the corridor--would any one come to her? why had she spoken to lady dashwood as if she didn't want to be disturbed? suppose nobody came? and what about the devil? should she ring? at last, unable to bear herself and her thoughts any longer she rose from her bed and put on her dressing-gown. she opened her door and peeped out into the corridor. there was just a glimpse of light, and she could see pretty clearly from end to end. she could hear what sounded like a person near the head of the staircase. gwendolen darted forwards towards the curtained end of the corridor. but when she reached the curtain she saw old robinson going down the staircase. gwendolen went back a few steps along the corridor and returned to her room. she pushed the door open. it was too silent and too empty, it frightened her. should she ring the bell? if she rang the bell what would she say? the dinner had been cleared away. what should she ask for if she rang? with a groan of despair she went outside again and again listened. somebody was approaching the corridor. somebody was coming into the corridor. she stood where she was. it was mrs. dashwood who was coming. she had mounted the steps, and here she was walking towards her. gwendolen stood still and waited. may saw the figure of the girl, clutching her dressing-gown round her, and staring with large distended eyes like a hunted animal. "what is it?" asked may. "do you feel ill, gwen?" "oh!" said the girl, with a shiver, "i'm so glad you've come! i can't go into my bedroom alone. oh, i am so wretched!" "i'll take you into your bedroom," said may, and she led gwen in and closed the door behind them. "you were in bed," she said. "get in again and i will straighten you up." she helped gwendolen to take off her dressing-gown. "you can't stay with me a little?" demanded gwen, and her lips trembled. "i've such a headache." the handkerchiefs were still bound round her head, and were making her hot and uncomfortable. "poor gwen!" said may. "yes, i'll stay a little. i dare say some eau-de-cologne would help your headache to go." "i haven't got any. i've only got scent," said gwen, as she stepped into bed. "i have some," said may. "i'll go and fetch it. i'll be back in a moment." gwendolen sat up in bed, drawing the clothes up to her neck, waiting. the moment she was alone in the room, the room seemed so dismal, and the solitude alarming. there was always the devil---- "sitting up?" said may, when she came back with the eau-de-cologne in her hand. gwendolen sank down in the bed. how comforting it was to have mrs. dashwood waiting on her and talking about her and being sympathetic. she had always loved mrs. dashwood. she was so sweet. now, if only, only she had not made that horrible blunder, she would have had the whole household waiting on her, talking about her and being sympathetic! oh! may brought a chair to the bed, and began to smooth the dark hair away from gwen's face. "i think you would be cooler with those handkerchiefs off," she said. "i can't get to your forehead very well with the eau-de-cologne." gwen signified her consent with a deep sigh, and may slipped the bandage off and put it away on the dressing-table. then she dabbed some of the eau-de-cologne softly on to the girl's forehead. "i suppose you _know_," whispered gwen, as the scent of the perfume came into her nostrils. "yes," said may. "i hope the servants don't know," groaned gwen. "i don't think any one knows, but just ourselves," said may, in a soothing voice; "and no one but ourselves need know about it." "oh, it's horrible!" groaned gwen again. "i can't bear it!" "it is hard to bear," said may, as she smoothed the girl's brow. after a little silence gwendolen suddenly said-- "you don't believe in that ghost?" "the ghost?" said may, a little surprised at this sudden deviation from the cause of gwendolen's grief. "you thought it was silly?" said gwen, tentatively. "not silly, but fanciful," said may. gwendolen moved her head. "i think i was; but i still see him, and i don't want to. i have begun to think about him, now, this evening. i had forgotten before----" "you must make up your mind not to think of it. it isn't a real person, gwen." gwendolen still kept her head slightly round towards may dashwood, though she had her eyes closed so as not to interfere with the movements of may's hand on her brow. "do you think the devil does things?" she asked in an awed voice. may hesitated for a moment and then said: "we do things, and some of us call it the devil doing things." "then you don't believe in the devil?" asked gwendolen, opening her eyes. "i don't think so, gwen," said may. "but god i am sure of." gwendolen lay still for a little while. she was thinking now of her troubles. "you don't do any wrong things?" asked gwendolen, tentatively. "we all do wrong things," said may. "i mean wrong things that people make a fuss about," said gwendolen, thinking of mrs. potten, and the drawing-room at potten end. "some things are more wrong than others," said may. "it depends upon whether they do much harm or not." gwendolen pondered. this was a new proof of mrs. potten's meanness. what she, gwen, had done had harmed nobody practically. "i'm miserable!" she burst out. "poor gwen!" murmured may. gwendolen lay still. her heart was full. when she had once left the lodgings, and was at mrs. potten's she would be among enemies. now, here, at least she had one friend--some one who was not mean and didn't scold. she must speak to this one kind friend--she would tell her troubles. she must have some one to confide in. "i didn't want to break off the engagement," she said at last, unable to keep her thoughts much longer to herself. "you didn't want to!" said may gently. it was scarcely a question, but it drew gwendolen to an explanation of her words. "mrs. potten made me," she said. "no one could make you," said may, quietly. "could they?" "she did," said gwen, with a burst of tears. "i wanted to make it all right, and she wouldn't let me. if only i could have seen the warden, he would have taken my side, perhaps," and here gwen's voice became less emphatic. "but mrs. potten simply made me. she was determined. she hates me. i can't bear her." "had you done absolutely nothing to make her so determined?" asked may wondering. "nothing--except a little joke----" began gwen. "it was merely a sort of a joke." "a joke!" said may, and her voice was very low and strange. the umbrella standing in the corner of the room in the shadow seemed to make faces at gwen. why hadn't she put the horrid thing in the wardrobe? "it was only meant as a sort of joke," she repeated, and then the overwhelming flood of bitter memory coming upon her, she yielded to her instinct and poured out to may, bit by bit, a broken garbled history of the whole affair--a story such as belinda and co. would tell--a story made, unconsciously, all the more sordid and pitiful because it was obviously not the whole truth. and this was a story told by one who might have been the warden's wife! may went on soothing the girl's hair and brow with her hand. "and mrs. potten wouldn't let me make it all right. she refused to let me, though i begged her to, and gave her my word of honour," wept gwen, indignantly. then she suddenly said, "oh, the fire's going out and perhaps you're cold!" for she was fearful lest her visitor would leave her. "when my dinner was taken away too much coal was put on my fire, and i was too miserable to make a fuss." "i'm not cold," said may. "but i will stir up the fire." she rose from her chair and went to the fire, and poked it up into a blaze. "i'm afraid, gwen, that you couldn't make it all right with mrs. potten, except by----" "by what?" asked gwen, becoming suddenly excited. "if only dr. middleton had not been away, i might have borrowed from him. do you mean that?" "no," said may, with a profound sigh, as she came back to the bedside. "it was a question of honour, don't you see? you couldn't have made it right, except by being horrified at what you had done and feeling that you could never, never make it right! do you understand what i mean?" gwen was trying to understand. "that would have made mrs. potten worse," she said hoarsely. "no," said may, with a quiet emphasis on the word. "if you had really been terribly unhappy about your honour, mrs. potten would have sympathised! don't you see what i mean?" "but how could i be so terribly unhappy about such a mere accident?" protested gwen, tearfully. "i might have returned the money. i very nearly did twice, only somehow i didn't. it just seemed to happen like that, and it was such a little affair." may sat down again and put her cool hand on the girl's brow. it was no use talking about honour to the child. to belinda and co. honour was, what was expected of you by people who were in the swim, and if mrs. potten had made no discovery, or had forgiven it when it was made, gwendolen's "honour" would have remained bright and untarnished. that was gwendolen's sense of the moral situation! her vision went no further. still may's silence was disturbing. gwendolen felt that she had not been understood, and that she was being reproved by that silence, though the reproof was gentle, very different from the kind of reproof that would probably be administered by her mother. on the other hand, the reproof was not merited. "would you," said gwendolen, with a gulp in her throat, "would you spoil somebody's whole life because they took some trifle that nobody really missed or wanted, intending to give it back, only didn't somehow get the opportunity? would you?" "your whole life isn't spoiled," said may. "if you take what has happened very seriously you may make your life more honourable in the future than it has been. don't you see that if what you had done had not been discovered you might have gone on doing these things all your life. that would have spoiled your life!" "but my engagement!" moaned gwen. "i shall have to go to that horrid stow, unless mother has got an invitation for me, and mother will be so upset. she'll be so angry!" what could may say to give the girl any real understanding of her own responsibilities? was she to drift about like a leaf in the wind, without principles, with no firm basis upon which she could stand and take her part in the struggle of human life? what was to be done? may did her best to put her thoughts into the plainest, simplest words. she had to begin at the beginning, and speak as to a child. as she went on may discovered that one thing, and one thing only, really impressed gwen, and that was the idea of courage. coward as she was, she did grasp that courage was of real value. gwen had a faint gleam of the meaning of honour, when it was a question of courage, and upon this one string may played, for it gave a clear note, striking into the silence of the poor girl's moral nature. she got the girl to promise that she would try and take the misfortune of her youth with courage and meet the future bravely. she even induced gwendolen then and there to pray for more courage, moral and physical, and she did not leave her till she had added also a prayer for help in the future when difficulties and temptations were in her path. they were vague words, "difficulties and temptations," and may knew that, but it is not possible in half an hour to straighten the muddle of many years of belinda and co. "have courage," she said at last, "i must go, gwen. good-night," and may stooped down to kiss the dark head on the pillow. "god protect you; god help you!" "good-night," sighed gwen; "i'll try and go to sleep. but could you--could you put that umbrella into the wardrobe and poke up the fire again to make a little light?" and may put the umbrella away in the wardrobe and poked up the fire. chapter xxvi the anxieties of louise the one definite thought in may's mind now was that she must leave oxford before the warden's return. a blind instinct compelled her to take this course. it was not easy for her to say to lady dashwood quite unconcernedly: "you won't mind my running away to-morrow, will you? you won't mind if i run off, will you? all your troubles are over, and i do want to get back to-morrow. i have lots of things to do--to get ready before monday." it was not easy to say all this, but may did say it. she said it in the corridor as they were bidding each other good night. lady dashwood's surprise was painful. "i do mind your running off," she said, and she looked a little bewildered. "must you go to-morrow? must you? to-morrow!" lady dashwood had talked a great deal, both before may went into gwendolen's room and afterwards, when may came back again to the drawing-room. may had told the reason for her long absence from the drawing-room, but in an abstracted manner; and lady dashwood, observing this, looked long and wistfully at her, but had asked no questions. all she had said was, "i'm glad you've been with the child," and she spoke in a low voice. then she had begun talking again of things relevant and irrelevant, and in doing so had betrayed her excitement. it was indeed may now who was calm and self-contained, all trace of her "chill" gone, whereas lady dashwood was obviously over-excited. it was only when may said good night, and made this announcement about going away on the following day, that lady dashwood's spirits showed signs of flagging. that moment all her vivacity suddenly died down and she looked no longer brisk and brilliant, but limp and tired, a hollow-eyed woman. "i do mind," she repeated. but she gave no reason for minding, she merely added: "don't go!" and stared at her niece pathetically. but may was firm. she kissed her aunt very affectionately, and was very tender in her manner and voice, but she was immovable. "i must go, dear," she said; and then she repeated again: "your troubles are over! seriously, aunt lena, i want to go!" lady dashwood sighed. "you have done a great deal for me, may," she said, and this gratitude from her aunt lena shook may's courage more than any protest. "i don't want to go," she said, "but i must go." that was her last word. and may wanted to go early. everything must be ready. she wanted to get away as soon as gwendolen had gone. she must not risk meeting the warden! he might return to lunch, she must go before lunch. she must not see him come back. she could not bear to be in the house when he read the letter from gwendolen. _that_ was what made her fly. to stay on and witness in cold blood his feelings at being rescued, to witness his humiliation, because he was rescued, would be an intrusion on the privacy of a human soul. she must go. so may packed up over night, slept uneasily and in snatches, conscious of oxford all the time, conscious of all that it meant to her! it was a grey morning when she got up and looked out of narrow window's on to the quiet, narrow grey street. she heard no one moving about when she came down the broad staircase and into the hall, prepared to go, hardening herself to go, because to stop would be impossible. in the breakfast-room she found lady dashwood. the two women looked at each other silently with a smile only of greeting. they could hear steps outside, and gwendolen came in with swollen eyes and smiled vaguely round the room. "good morning," she said, and then gulped. poor girl! she was making an effort to be brave, and may gave her a glance that said plainly her approval and her sympathy. lady dashwood was almost tender in her manner. gwen ate hurriedly, and once or twice made spasmodic faces in trying not to break down. of course, no reference was made to anything that had happened, but it was necessary to talk a little. silence would have made things worse. so lady dashwood praised potten end, and said it was more bracing there than at oxford; and may said she had not seen potten end. then both ladies looked at each other and started some other subject. they spoke at great length about the weather. at last breakfast was over, and lady dashwood rose from her chair and looked rather nervously across at gwendolen. "i'm ready," said gwendolen, bravely. "at least, i've only got to put my hat on." "there is no hurry, dear," said lady dashwood. "let me see, you have nearly an hour." the car was to come at ten--an unearthly hour except in oxford and at potten end. gwendolen disappeared upstairs, and the two ladies lingered about in the breakfast-room, neither able to attend to the papers, though both read ostentatiously. at last the car was announced and they went into the hall. gwendolen came downstairs hastily. that horrible umbrella was in her hand, in the other hand was a handkerchief. she was frowning under her veil to keep herself from crying. "well, good-bye, gwen," said lady dashwood, and she kissed the girl on both cheeks. "good-bye, dear; give my love to mrs. potten." "thanks----" began gwen, but her voice began to fail her. "thanks----" "my love to mrs. potten," repeated lady dashwood hurriedly, and gwendolen turned away without finishing her sentence. may kissed gwendolen and murmured in her ear: "brave girl!" "good-bye," she said aloud. "good-bye," said gwen. there was the familiar hall, its great bevelled doors, its oak panelling and its wide oak staircase. there was the round table in the middle under the electric chandelier and the dim portraits on the walls. all was familiar, and all had been thought of as hers for a time, all too short; for a day that now seemed as if it could never have been; for a dream and no part of the reality of gwen's life. there outside was the car which was to take her away for ever. robinson junior was holding open the door, his snub nose well in the air, his cheeks reddened by the chill autumn wind. he was waiting for her to get in. then he would bang the door to, and have done with her, and the lodgings would never again have anything to do with her--nor oxford. oh, it was too wretched, but brave she would be, and mrs. dashwood at least would pity her and understand. what lady dashwood thought she did not care so very much. gwen went down the steps and got into the car. robinson junior did bang the door. he banged it and caught a piece of gwendolen's skirt. then he opened the door with ferocity as if it was somebody else's fault. gwendolen pulled her skirt and he banged the door to again. this time it shut her out from the lodgings. the last moment had come. the car moved. the two ladies waved their hands. robinson junior raised his finger to his ear. the car turned and went out of the court into the narrow street. it was all over! robinson junior did not come in. he slipped somewhere round at the back with mysterious swiftness, and lady dashwood shut the door herself. it was like closing a book at "the end" or writing a last will and testament. it was all over! then lady dashwood, who had been so composed that may had been deceived into thinking that she had almost recovered from her excitement and fatigue, suddenly leaned against the hall table. "may!" she called. may did not hear her name called, she was already retreating up the staircase to her room as hastily as she dared. there was not much time, and yet she had not told her aunt lena yet that she meant to leave that very morning; she had mentioned no hour. her luggage was packed and labelled. her hat and coat and gloves, exactly the things she had arrived in from malvern, were there waiting for her to put them on and go away. meanwhile _he_ was in town, little dreaming of what was happening. he would be back soon. it would be horrible if he arrived before she left, and there was still an hour before she must start for the station! she would put on her hat and then go down, tell her aunt lena that she must go in an hour, and talk to her, give herself up to her till the taxi came. no, it would be impossible for him to arrive before she left; she was foolish to worry about it. it was pure nonsense--merely a nervous fear. when she had put on her hat, it flashed into her mind that mr. bingham was coming to dinner, ostensibly to meet her. after their talk together she must write to him. she must scribble a little note and get it taken to all souls. she must tell him that she had to leave oxford quite unexpectedly. she sat down at her writing table and took up a pen. she wrote a few words, and thought the words too cold and too abrupt. she must begin again, and she tore up the letter and threw it into the waste-paper basket. she wanted to write sympathetically and yet not to appear to think he needed sympathy. she wanted to write as if she was very much disappointed at not meeting him again, but without putting it into words that would sound self-assured--as if she knew and counted on his being grateful at her disappointment. and indeed, she thought, he was not much in love with her. why should he be? that was a question may always asked herself when a man professed to be in love with her. why? why in the name of all----, etc. may always failed to see why. this lack of vanity in may had led many people, who did not understand her, to accuse her of flirting. but may, in writing to bingham, realised to the full _his_ attractions. he was too interesting a personality to be going about unclaimed. he ought to make some woman happy--some nice woman--not herself. she began a fresh letter and was at the first sentence when a knock came at the door. "come in," she called. in came louise, looking full of sinister importance. her hair, which was never very tidy, looked as if it had taken an intelligent interest in some crisis. louise glanced round the room at the luggage, at the coat, at the hat on may's head. "oh, madame, what a desolation!" cried louise, and she wrung her hands. "i have packed very well, louise," said may dashwood. "i am accustomed to do it--i have no maid." "oh, what a desolation!" repeated louise, as she advanced further into the room. then she stopped and announced, with an affectation of horrible composure: "i come to inform madame that it is impossible for her to depart." may put down her pen. "what is the matter, louise?" louise drew in her breath. "my lady suffers," she began, and as she proceeded her words flowed more and more quickly: "while madame prepares to forsake her, my lady faints upon the floor in the breakfast parlour, she expires." may rose, her heart beating. "she now swallows a glass of brandy and a biscuit brought by mrs. robinson, who is so slow, so slow and who understands nothing, but has the keys. i call and i call, eh bien, i call--oh, but what slowness, what insupportable delay." may put her letter inside the writing case and moved away from the writing-table. she was composed now. "is she very ill?" she asked quietly. "my lady has died every day for two weeks," continued louise; "for many days she has died, and no one observes it but myself and the angels in heaven. madame agonises, over what terrible events i know not. but they know, the spirits of the dead--they know and they come. i believe that, for this house, this lodgings is gloomy, this oxford is so full of sombre thought. my lady dashwood martyrs herself for others. i see it always with monsieur le general sir john dashwood, excellent man as he is, but who insists on catching severe colds in the head--colds heavy, overpowering--he sneezing with a ferocity that is impossible. at last old robinson telephones for a doctor at my demand, oh, how i demand! it was necessary to overcome the phlegm and the stupidity of the robinson family. i say! i demand! it is only when mrs. robinson comes to assist at this terrible crisis, that i go to rush upstairs for madame. i go to rush, but i am detained! 'stay!' cries my lady, 'i forbid you to speak of it. i am not ill--it is an indisposition of the mildest.' you see, madame, the extraordinary generosity of my lady dashwood! her soul full of sublime resignation! 'i go to prevent madame mrs. dashwood's departure,' i cry! my lady replies with immense self-renunciation, like that of the blessed saints: 'say nothing, my poor louise. i exist only to do good on this earth. i ask for nothing for myself. i suffer alone. i endure without complaint. i speak not of my extreme agony in the head. i do not mention the insupportable nausea of the stomach. i subdue my cries! i weep silently, alone in the presence of my god.'" louise paused for a second for breath. nothing at this moment could have made may smile. she looked at louise with gravity. "but," continued louise, with the same vehement swiftness, "a good moment arrives. the form too full of mrs. robinson hides me as i escape from the room. i come to madame here. eh bien!" here louise broke off and, glancing round the room, made a gesture that implied unpacking may's luggage and putting everything back in the proper place. "i unpack for madame, immediately, while madame descends and assures my lady that she does not forsake her at the supreme moment." louise's eyes now seemed to pierce the space in front of her, she defied contradiction. "i will go and see lady dashwood," said may, calmly. "but don't unpack yet for me. i shall put her ladyship to bed, louise. go and see that everything is ready, please." "i go to countermand madame's taxi," said louise, astutely. "you can do that," said may; "i shall wait till the doctor comes--anyhow. ask robinson to telephone at once." may went down to the breakfast-room, and found mrs. robinson's stout form coming out of the door. within lady dashwood was seated in a chair by the fire. "i am perfectly well, may," said lady dashwood, lifting up a white face to her niece as she came up to her. "i have sent mrs. robinson away. that silly old fool, louise, has made robinson telephone for a doctor." "quite right of her," said may, quietly, "and i shall stop till he has come and gone." "you didn't mean to go before lunch?" murmured lady dashwood. "i can go after lunch," said may. lady dashwood leaned her head back in a weak manner. "not so convenient to you perhaps, dear," she murmured, but in a voice that accepted the delay to may's departure. she accepted it and sighed and stared into the fire, and said not one word about the warden, but she said: "i'm not going to bed. the house will be empty enough as it is;" and may knew she was thinking of the warden's return. "you must go to bed," may replied. "i can't go to bed, child. i shall stay up and look after things," said lady dashwood, and she knew she was speaking with guile. "you forget, dear, that--the house will be so empty!" "i shall put you to bed," said may. "how do you know i shall remain?" said lady dashwood. "the doctor will say that there is nothing wrong." she looked white and obstinate and clung to her chair. then at last may said: "i am going to stay on till the doctor comes. like all managing people, you are absolutely irresponsible about yourself, aunt lena. i shall have to stay and make you obey me." "oh, i didn't know i was so wicked!" sighed lady dashwood, in a suddenly contented voice. now she allowed herself to be helped out of her chair and led upstairs to her room. "and can you _really_ stay, may? _really_, dear?" "i must," said may. "you are so wicked." "oh dear, am i wicked?" said lady dashwood. "i knew my dear old john was very tiresome, but i didn't know i was!" so may remained. what else could she do? she left lady dashwood in louise's hands and went to her room. what was to be done about mr. bingham? may looked round the room. her boxes had disappeared. her clothes were all put away and the toilet table carefully strewn with her toilet things. louise had done it. on the little table by the bed stood something that had not been there before. it was a little plaster image of st. joseph. it bore the traces of wear and tear from the hands of the pious believer--also deterioration from dust, and damage from accidents. something, perhaps coffee, had been spilt upon it. the machine-made features of the face also had shared this accidental ablution, and one foot was slightly damaged. the saint was standing upon a piece of folded paper. may pulled out the paper and unfolded it. written in faultless copper-plate were the words: "louise dumont prays for the protection of madame every day." chapter xxvii the forgiveness of the fates lady dashwood submitted gracefully to being put to bed and propped up by pillows. the doctor had come, pronounced his patient very greatly over-fatigued though not seriously ill, but he had forbidden her to leave her bed till he gave permission. "keep a strict watch over her," he had said to may, outside in the corridor. "she has got to the point when rest will put her right, or fatigue will put her all wrong." when he had gone may came back into her aunt's room. "now you know what it is to be under orders," she said with a smile. "and what about you, dear?" murmured lady dashwood, sweetly. "you can't stay on, of course, darling?" may frowned to herself and then smiled. "i shall stay till the doctor comes again, because i can't trust you, dear aunt, to keep in bed, if i go." "you can't trust me," sighed lady dashwood, blissfully. "i am beginning to realise that i am not the only reasonable person in the world. i suppose it is good for me, but it is very sad for you, may, to be sacrificed like this." may said she wasn't being sacrificed, and refused to discuss the matter any longer. so lady dashwood lay quietly looking at the narrow windows, from which college roofs opposite could be seen in a grey oxford daylight. she made no reference to the warden's return. she did not tell may when he was expected home, whether he was coming back to lunch, or whether he was coming by a late afternoon train. she did not even mention his name. and may, too, kept up the appearance of not thinking about him. she merely looked up with a rather strained attention if the door opened, or there were sounds in the corridor. the time came for her to go down to lunch, and lady dashwood did not even say: "you will have to take lunch alone." but she said: "i wonder what marian potten and gwendolen are doing?" so may went into the dining-room and glanced round her with apprehension. two places were laid, one for the warden at the head of the table and one at his right hand. "you expect the warden?" she asked of robinson, who was standing in the room alone, and she came towards the table apprehensively. he pulled out her chair and said: "no, m'm, i don't think 'e will be in to lunch." may sat down and breathed again. "you think he will be late?" she asked, speaking as one who cares not, but who needs the information for purposes of business. "'e said to me, m'm," said robinson, as he handed a dish to her with old gnarled hands that were a little shaky but still full of service, "as i was 'andin' 'im 'is 'at what 'e wears in london: 'if i'm not 'ome in time for lunch, i shall be 'ome by 'alf-past five.'" "oh yes," said may. "then you'll be putting tea for him in the library, won't you, robinson?" robinson assented. "yes, m'm, if you 'as tea with 'er ladyship." then he added, "we're glad, m'm, that you're stayin' on,"--now he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, and wore the air of one who is privileged to communicate private information to a member of the family--"because that french louise is so exactin' and that jealous of mrs. robinson, and no one can't expect a learned gentleman, what 'as the 'ole college on 'is shoulders and ain't used to ladies, to know what to do." "no, of course not," said may. "but we've all noticed," said robinson, solemnly, as he poured out some water into may's glass, "as 'ow 'er ladyship's indisposition 'as come on gradual." here he ended his observations, and he went and stood by his carving table with his accustomed bearing of humble importance. but it would have been a mistake to suppose that robinson was really humble. he was, on the contrary, proud. proud because he was part of king's college and had been a part thereof for fifty years, and his father had been part before him. but his pride went further. he was proud of the way he waited. he moved about the room, skimming the edges of the long table and circumventing chairs and protruding backs of awkward guests with peculiar skill. robinson would have had much sympathy with the oxford chaplain who offered to give any other clerical gentlemen a generous handicap in the creed and beat them. robinson, had he been an ecclesiastic, would have made such a boast himself. as it was, he prided himself on being able to serve round an "ontray" on his own side of the table and lap over two out of the other man's, easy. robinson was also proud of having a master with a distinguished appearance, and this without any treachery to the late warden's bald head and exceedingly casual nose. there was no obligation on robinson's part to back up the old warden against the new, or indeed the new against the old, because all wardens were wardens, and the college was continuous and eternal. robinson gloried on there being many thousand volumes in the library. mrs. robinson did not share his enthusiasm. he enjoyed opening the door to other heads of colleges and saying: "not at 'ome, sir. is there any message i can take, sir?" for robinson felt that he was negotiating important affairs that affected the welfare of oxford. when waiting on the warden, robinson's solemnity was not occasioned by pure meekness, nor was his deferential smile (when a smile was suitable) an exposition of snobbery nor the flattery of the wage-earner. robinson was gratifying his own vanity; he was showing how he grasped the etiquette of his profession. also he experienced pleasure in being necessary to a human being whose manner and tastes were as impressive as they were unaccountable. "there's more of these 'ere periodicals coming in," he said that very afternoon, as he arranged the lamp in the library, "though there aren't no more germans among 'em, than there ever were before in my time." he spoke to robinson junior, who had followed him into the library. "'e don't read 'em," said robinson junior, his nose elevated, in the act of drawing the curtains. "'ow d'you know?" asked robinson. "they ain't cut, not all of 'em," said junior. "'e don't read the stuff what is familiar to 'im," explained robinson, and so saying, he took from some corner of the room a little table and set it up by a chair by the fire, for the warden's tea-tray. meanwhile may dashwood had taken tea with her aunt lena and then had gone to her own room. so that when the warden did arrive, just about half-past five, he found no one moving about, no one visible. he came in like a thief in the night, pale and silent. he glanced round the hall, preoccupied apparently, but really aware of things that were around him to a high degree of sensitiveness. he moved noiselessly, rang the bell, and then looked at the table for letters. robinson appeared immediately. the warden's narrow eyes, that seemed to absorb the light that fell upon them, rested upon robinson's face with that steady but veiled regard with which a master controls those who are under him. the warden did not ask "where are the ladies?" he asked whether lady dashwood was in. "in 'er room, sir," said robinson; and he then proceeded to explain why, and gave the doctor's report. "nothin' alarmin', sir." the warden said "ah!" and looked down at the table. he glanced over the letters that were waiting for him. he gathered them in his hands. "tea is in the library for you, sir," said old robinson; "i will bring it in a minute." the warden went upstairs. he went past the drawing-room and past his bedroom into the library. he threw his letters down on the writing-desk, walked to the fire, and then walked back again to the desk. then he finally went out of the room and passed the head of the staircase and up the two or three steps into the corridor. he had been into the corridor three times since the arrival of his sister. once when he conducted her to her room, on her arrival, once again when she had made alterations in the bedrooms and had asked for his approval, and then on that wretched night when he had gone to calm gwendolen and assure her that there were no such things as ghosts. now he went along over the noiseless floor, anxious to meet no one. why was lena ill? he knew why lena was ill, but for a moment he felt wearily vexed with her. why did she make things worse? this feeling vanished when he opened her door and went in, and saw her sitting up in bed supported by pillows. then his feeling was of remorse, of anger increased against himself, and himself only. she was turning the pages of a paper, ostentatiously looking at the illustrations, but she was really waiting in suspense for his arrival and thinking of nothing else. she looked up at him with a strange smile. "back!" she said. "and you find me malingering!" he came up to the bed. "you've been ill," he said, and he did not return her smile. "i'm very sorry, lena." "no, only tired," she said. "and i am already better, jim," she went on, and now she showed great nervousness and her voice was jerky. "i have a letter for you. i want you to read it at once, dear, but not here; read it in the library. don't stay now; go away, dear, and come and see me afterwards." she gave him the letter with the handwriting downwards. she had thought this out beforehand. she feared the sight of his emotion. she could not bear it--just now. she was still feeling very shaky and very weak. he took the letter and turned it over to see the handwriting. she thought he made a movement of surprise. his face she did not look at, she looked at the paper that was lying before her. she longed for him to go away, now that the letter was safely in his hands. he guessed, no doubt, what the letter was about! he must guess! she little knew. he no more guessed its contents than he would have guessed that in order to secure his salvation some one would be allowed to rise from the dead! the letter he regarded as ominous--of some trouble, some dispute, something inevitable and miserable. "i hope you have everything you want, lena," he said as he walked to the door. "i hope louise doesn't fuss you." then he asked: "have you ever fainted before?" lady dashwood said she hadn't, but added that people over fifty generally fainted, and that she would not have gone to bed had not dear may insisted on it as well as louise. he went out. he found the corridor silent. he walked along with that letter in his pocket, feeling a great solitude within him. when he passed gwendolen's door, something gripped him painfully. and then there was _her_ door, too! he returned to the library and sat down by the tea-table and the fire. from his chair his eyes rested upon the great window at the end of the library. it was screened by curtains now. it was there, at that exact spot by the right-hand curtain, that gwendolen had fancied she saw the ghost. a ghost, a thin filmy shape was probably her only conception of something spiritual. that the story of the barber's ghost, the story that he came as a prophet of ill tidings to the warden of the college, seemed to fit in with recent events, the events of the last few days; this only made the whole episode more repulsive. he must train gwendolen--if indeed she were capable of being trained! the mother would be perhaps even a greater obstacle to a sane and useful life than gwendolen herself. very likely gwendolen's letter was to announce that lady belinda insisted on coming at once, whether there was room for her or not; or possibly the letter contained some foolish enclosure from lady belinda, and gwendolen was shy of communicating it, but had been ordered to do so. possibly the letter contained a cutting announcing the engagement! he had glanced through the _times_ yesterday and this morning very hastily. gwendolen's mother might be capable of announcing the engagement before it had actually taken place! he poured out a cup of tea and drank it, and then took the letter from his pocket. he started at the opening of his door. robinson brought in an american visitor, who came with an introduction. the introduction was lying on the desk, not yet opened. the warden rose--escape was impossible. he put the letter back into his pocket. "bring fresh tea, robinson," said the warden. but the stranger declined it. he had business in view. he had a string of solemn questions to ask upon world matters. he wanted the answers. he was writing a book, he wanted copy. he had come, metaphorically speaking, note-book and pencil in hand. the warden, with his mind upon private matters, looked gloomily at this visitor to oxford. even about "world" matters, with that letter in his pocket, he found it difficult to tolerate an interviewer. how was he to get through his work if he felt like this? the american, too, became uneasy. he found the warden unwilling to give him any dogmatic pronouncements on the subject of literature, on the subject of education, or the subject of woman now and woman in the immediate future. the warden declined to say whether the church of england would work for union or whether it was going to split up and dwindle into rival sects. he was also guarded in his remarks about the political situation in england. he would not prophesy the future of labour, or the fate of landowners. the warden was not encouraging. with that letter in his pocket the warden found it difficult to assume the patient attention that was due to note-book visitors from afar. this was a bad beginning, surely! how was the future to be met? the american was about to take his leave, considerably disappointed with the heads of oxford colleges, but he suspected that american neutrality might be at the bottom of the warden's reticence. "i am not one of those americans," he said, rising, "who regard president woodrow wilson as the only statesman in the world at this present moment." the warden threw his cigarette into the fire. "wilson has one qualification for statesmanship," he said, rising and speaking as if he was suddenly roused to interest by this highly contentious subject. the american was surprised. "i presume, coming from you, professor, that you speak of the president's academic training?" he said. "i am not a professor," said the warden, at last sufficiently awakened from his preoccupation to make a correction that he should have made before. "the university has not conferred that honour upon me. yes, i mean an academic training. when a man who is trained to think meets a new problem in politics he pauses to consider it; he takes time; and for this the crowd jeer at him! the so-called practical man rarely pauses; he doesn't see, unless he has genius, that he mustn't treat a new problem as if it were an old one. he decides at once, and for this the crowd admire him. 'he knows his own mind,' they say!" the warden spoke with a ring of sarcasm in his voice. it was a sarcasm secretly directed against himself. that letter in his pocket was the cause. he had been confronted in the small world of his own life with a new problem--marriage, and he ought to have understood that it was new, new to himself, complicated by his position and needing thought; and he had not thought, he had acted. he had belied the use and dignity of his training. had he any excuse? there was the obligation to marry, and there was "pity." were these excuses? they were miserable excuses. but he had no time to argue further with himself, the inexorable voice of the man standing opposite to him broke in. "in your view, warden, the practical man is too previous?" said the american, making notes (in his own mind). "he is too confident," said the warden. "it is difficult enough to make an untrained man accept a new fact. it is still more difficult to make him think out a new method!" "i opine," said the american, "that in your view president wilson has only one qualification for statesmanship?" "i didn't say that," said the warden. "he may have the other, i mean character. wilson may have the moral courage to act in accordance with his mental insight, and if so, if he has both the mental and moral force necessary, he might well be, what you do not yourself hold, the only living statesman in the world. time will tell." here the warden smiled a curious smile and made a movement to indicate that the visit must come to an end. he must be alone--he needed to think--alone. how was he at this moment showing "character, moral courage?" here he was, unable to bear the friction of an ordinary interview. here he was, almost inclined to be discourteous. here he was, determined to bear no longer with his visitor. when the door closed upon the stranger, the warden, sick with himself and sick with the world, turned to his desk. his letters must be looked through at once. very well, let him begin with the letter in his pocket. but he first sorted his other letters, throwing away advertisements and useless papers. then he took the letter from his pocket. the very handwriting showed incapacity and slackness. at dinner he would have the writer of this letter on one side of him, and on the other--he dared not think! the warden ground his teeth and tore open the letter, and then a knock came at his door. "come in," he said almost fiercely. robinson came in. "i was to remind you, sir, that mr. bingham would be here to dinner." so much the better. "very well, robinson," he said. robinson withdrew. the letter was a long one. it was addressed at the top "potten end." "potten end," said the warden, half aloud. this was strange! then she was not in the house! the letter began-- "dear dr. middleton, "when you get this letter i shall have left your house and i shan't return. i hope you will forgive me. i don't know how to tell you, but i have broken off our engagement----" the warden stared at the words. there were more to come, but these--these that he had read! were they true? "my god!" he exclaimed, below his breath, "i don't deserve it!" and he made some swift strides in the room; "i don't deserve it!" chapter xxviii alma mater the warden went to the door and turned the key. why, he did not know. he simply did it instinctively. then he finished reading the letter; and having read it through, read it again a second time. he was a free man, and he had obtained his freedom through a circumstance that was pitifully silly, a circumstance almost incredibly sordid and futile. her humiliation was his humiliation, for had he not chosen her to be his companion for life? had he not at this time, when the full responsibility of manhood was placed on every man, had he not chosen as the mother of his children, a moral weakling? he locked the letter up in his desk and paced the length of the room once or twice. then he threw himself into a chair and, clasping his head in his hands, remained there motionless. could he be the same man who had a few days ago, of his own free will, without any compulsion, without any kind of necessity, offered himself for life to a girl of whom he knew absolutely nothing, except that she had had a miserable upbringing and an heredity that he could not respect? was it her slender beauty, her girlishness, that had made him so passionately pitiful? from an ordinary man this action would have been folly, but from him it was an offence! a very great offence, now, in these times. on the desk lay some pages of notes--notes of a course of public lectures he was about to give, lectures on the responsibility of citizenship, in which he was going to make a strong appeal to his audience for a more conscious philosophy of life. he was going to urge the necessity for greater reverence for education. he was going to speak not only of the burden of empire, but of the new burden, the burden of democracy, a democracy that is young, independent, and feeling its way. he was going to speak of the true meaning of a free democracy, no chaotic meaningless freedom, but the sane and ordered freedom of educated men, democracy open-eyed and training itself, like a strong man, to run a race for some far-off, some desired goal to which "all creation moves." he was in these lectures going to pose not only as a practical man but as a preacher, one of those who "point the way"; and meanwhile he had bound himself to a girl who not only would be unable to grasp the meaning of any strenuous moral effort, but who would have to be herself guarded from every petty temptation that came in her way. he was (so he said to himself, as he groaned in his spirit) one of those many preachers who, in all ages, have talked of moral progress, and who have missed the road that they themselves have pointed out! he was fiercely angry with himself because he had called the emotion that he had felt for gwendolen in her mischance a "passionate pity." it was a very different emotion from that which wrung him when his old pupils, one by one, gave up their youth and hope in the service of their country. that indeed was a passionate pity, a pity full of remorseful gratitude, full of great pride in their high purpose and their noble self-sacrifice. on his mantelpiece, within arm's length of him, lay an open book. it was a book of poems, and there were verses that the warden had read more than once. "city of hope and golden dreaming." a farewell to oxford. it was the farewell of youth in its heyday to "all the things we hoped to do." and then followed the lines that pierced him now with poignant sadness as he thought of them-- "dreams that will never be clothed in being, mother, your sons have left with you." the warden groaned within himself. he was part of that alma mater; that city left behind in charge of that sacred gift! he loathed himself, and this deep self-humiliation of a scrupulous gentleman was what his sister had shrunk from witnessing. it was this deep humiliation that may dashwood fled from when she hid herself in her room that afternoon. the warden was not a man who spent much time in introspection. he had no subtlety of self-analysis, but what insight he had was spent in condemning himself, not in justifying himself. but now he added this to his self-accusations, that if may dashwood had not suddenly stepped across his path and revealed to him true womanhood, gilded--yes, he used that term sardonically--gilded by beauty, he might not have seen the whole depth of his offence until now, when the crude truth about gwendolen was forced upon him by her letter. the warden sat on, crushed by the weight of his humiliation. and he had been forgiven, he had been rescued from his own folly. his mistake had been wiped out, his offence pardoned. and what about gwendolen herself? what about this poor solitary foolish girl? what was to be her future? swiftly she had come into his life and swiftly gone! what, indeed, was to become of her and her life? and so the warden sat on till the dressing-bell rang, and then he got up from his chair blindly. he had been forgiven and rescued too easily. he did not deserve it. how was it that he had dared to quote to may dashwood those solemn, awful words-- "and the glory of the lord is all in all!" it must have seemed to her a piece of arrogant self-righteousness. and she had said: "what is the glory of the lord?" and had answered the question herself. her answer had condemned him; the glory of the lord was not merely self-restraint, stoical resignation, it was something more, it was "love" that "beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." "for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love god whom he hath not seen?" the warden dressed, moving about automatically, not thinking of what he was doing. when he left his bedroom he passed the head of the staircase. there were letters lying on the table, just as letters had lain waiting for him on that evening, on that monday evening, when he found gwendolen reading the letter from her mother and crying over it. within those few short days he had risked the happiness and the usefulness of his whole life, and--god had forgiven him. he passed the table and went on. lena must have been waiting for him, expecting him! perhaps she had been worrying. the thought made him walk rapidly along the corridor. he knocked at her door. louise opened it. "entrez, monsieur," she said, in the tone and manner of one who mounts guard and whose permission must be obtained. she stood aside to let him pass, and then went out and pulled the door to after her. the warden walked up to the bed. lady dashwood's face was averted from him. "jim," she said wistfully, and she put her hand over her eyes and waited for the sound of his voice. she was there, waiting for him to show her what sort of sympathy he needed. he did not speak. he came round to the side of the bed where she was lying, by the windows. there he stood for a moment looking down upon her. she did not look up. she looked, indeed, like a culprit, like one humbled, who longed for pardon but did not like to ask for it. and it was this profound humble sympathy that smote his heart through and through. what if anything had happened to this dear sister of his? what if her unhappiness had been too great a strain upon her? he knelt down by the bed and laid his face on her shoulder, just as he used to do when he was a child. neither of them spoke. she moved her hand and clasped his arm that he placed over her, and they remained like this for some minutes, while a great peace enclosed them. in those few minutes it seemed as if years dropped away from them and they were young again. she the motherly young woman, and he the motherless boy to whom she stood as mother. all the interval was forgotten and there they were still, mother and son. when at last he raised himself he found that her eyes were dim with tears. as to himself, he felt strangely quieted and composed. he pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down, not facing her, but sideways, and he rested his elbow on the edge of her pillow his other hand resting on hers. "did you get through all you wanted to, in town?" she asked, smiling through her tears. "lena!" he said in a low voice, "you want to spare me. you always do." his voice overwhelmed her. his humility pierced her like a sword. "it was all my fault, dear," she began; "entirely my fault." "no," he said, in a low emphatic voice. "it was." she reiterated this with almost a sullen persistence. "how could it possibly be your fault?" he said, with deep self-reproach. "it was," she said, "though i cannot make you understand it. jim, you must forget it all, for my sake. you must forget it at once, you have things to do." "i have things to do," he said. "i seemed in danger of forgetting those things," he said huskily. "as to forgetting, that is a difficult matter." "you must put it aside," she said, and now she raised herself on her pillows and stared anxiously into his face. "you made a mistake such as the best man _would_ make," she argued passionately. "how can a strong man suspect weakness in others? you know how it is, we suspect in others virtues and vices that we have ourselves. you know what i mean, dear. a drunkard always suspects other men of wanting to drink!" and she laughed a little, and her voice trembled with an excitement she found it difficult to suppress. "thieves always suspect others of thieving. an amorous man sees sex motives in everything. do you suppose an honourable man doesn't also suspect others of honourable intentions?" he made no reply. "besides, you have always been eager to think the best of women. you've credited them, even with mental gifts that they haven't got! you have been over-loyal to them all your life! and now"--here lady dashwood put out her hand and laid it on his arm as if to compel him to agree--"and now you are suffering for it, or rather you have suffered. you thought you were doing your duty, that you ought to marry. you were right; you ought to marry, and i, just at that moment, thrust somebody forward who looked innocent and helpless. and how could you tell? of course you couldn't tell," and now her voice dropped a little and she seemed suddenly to have become tired out, and she sank back on her pillows. the warden leant over her. her special pleading for him was so familiar to him. she had corrected his faults, admonished him when necessary, but had always upheld his self-respect, even in small matters. she was fighting now for the preservation of his sense of honour. "anyhow, darling," she said, "you must forget!" "you are exhausted," he said, "in trying to make black white. i ought not to have come in and let you talk. lena, what has happened this week has knocked you up. i know it, and even now you are worrying because of me. i will forget it, dear, if you will pick up again and get strong." "i am better already," she said, and the very faintest smile was on her face. "i am rather tired, but i shall be all right to-morrow. all i want is a good night's sleep. i want to sleep for hours, and i shall sleep for hours now that i have seen you." a knock came on the door. "they are looking for you, dear," said lady dashwood. the warden slowly rose from his seat. "i must go now, lena," he said, "but i shall come in again the last thing. i shall come in without knocking if i may, because i hope you will be asleep, and i don't want to wake you." "very well," she said smiling. "you'll find me asleep. i feel so calm, so happy." he bent down and kissed her and then went to the door. she turned her head and looked after him. louise was at the door. "monsieur bingham is arrived," she said; "i regret to have disturbed monsieur." the warden walked slowly down the corridor. there was something that he dreaded, something that was going to happen--the first meeting of the eyes--the first moment when may dashwood would look at him, knowing all that had happened! he passed the table again on which lay his letters. he would look through all that pile of correspondence after bingham had gone. robinson was hovering at the stairhead. "mr. bingham is in the drawing-room, sir." "alone?" asked the warden. "mrs. dashwood is there, sir," said robinson. "how have you arranged the table?" asked the warden. "i've put mrs. dashwood close on your right, sir," said robinson, secretly amazed at the question; "mr. bingham on your left, sir." "yes," said the warden. "yes, of course!" passing his servant with an abstracted air. "shall i announce dinner, sir?" asked robinson, hurrying behind and measuring his strength for what he was about to perform in the exercise of his duty. "yes," said the warden, still moving on, and now near the drawing-room door. robinson made a wondrous skip, a miracle it was of service in honour of the warden; he flew past his master like an aged but agile mercury and pounced upon the drawing-room door handle. then he threw the door open. he waited till the warden had advanced to a sufficient distance in the room towards the guests who were waiting by the fireside, and then he uttered, in his penetrating but quavering voice, the familiar and important word-- "dinner!" chapter xxix dinner "i am sorry i'm late," said the warden quietly, and he looked at both his guests. "i have been with lady dashwood. i must apologise, bingham, for her absence. i expect mrs. dashwood has already told you that she is not well." the bow with which the warden offered his arm to may was one which included more than the mere formal invitation to go down to dinner, it meant a greeting after absence and an acknowledgment that she was acting as his hostess. it was one of those ceremonial bows which men are rarely able to make without looking pompous. he had the reputation, in oxford, of being one of the very few men who, in his tutorial days, could present men for degrees with academic grace. "i'm sorry, bingham," he said; "i have only just returned, or i might have secured a fourth to dinner--yes, even in war time." may went downstairs, wondering. wondering how it was that the worst was so soon over, and that, after all, instead of feeling a painful pity for the man whose arm held hers in a light grasp, she felt strangely timorous of him. she was profoundly thankful for the presence of bingham, who was following behind, cheerful and chatty, having put aside, apparently, all recollection of the conversation of the evening before. yes, whatever his secret thoughts might have been, bingham appeared to have forgotten that there were any moonlight nights in the streets of oxford. for this, may blessed him. they entered the long dining-room and, sitting at the warden's end of the table, formed a bright living space of light and movement. outside that bright space the room gradually sombred to the dark panelled walls. the warden, in his high-backed chair, looked the very impersonation of oxford. this was what struck bingham as he glanced at his host, and the thought suggested that hater of oxford, the warden's relative, bernard boreham. "i have just got your friend boreham to undertake a job of work," said bingham. "it'll do him a world of good to have work, a library to catalogue for the use of our prisoners. he wanted to shove off the job to some chaplain. i was to procure the chaplain, just as if all men weren't scarce, even chaplains!" composed as the warden was, he looked at bingham with something of eager attention on his face, as if relying on him for support and conversation. "poor old boreham, he is a connection of mine by marriage," he said, and as the words fell from his lips, he, in his present sensitive mood, recoiled from them, for they implied that boreham was not a friend. why was he posing as one who was too superior to choose boreham as a friend? "talking of chaplains," said bingham, who knew nothing of what was going on in the warden's mind, and thought this sudden stop came from dislike of any reference to boreham--"talking of parsons, why not release all parsons in west end churches for the war?" a smile came into may's face at the extreme sweetness of bingham's voice; a warning that he was about to say something biting. "release all parsons who have smart congregations," continued bingham, in honied tones; "parsons with congregations of jolly, well-dressed women, women who enjoy having their naughtiness slanged from the pulpit just as they enjoy having their photographs in the picture papers. their spiritual necessities would be more than adequately provided for if they were given a dummy priest and a gramophone." may's smile seemed to stimulate bingham's imagination. "to waste on them a real parson with a soul and a rudimentary intellect," he went on, "is like giving a glass of moselle to an agricultural labourer when he would be happy with a mug of beer. but the church wastes its energies even in this time of heartbreakings." "i should like to see you, bingham," said the warden, smiling too, and turning his narrow eyes, in his slow deliberate manner, towards his guest, "as chairman to a committee of english bishops, on the reconstruction of the church." "i've no quarrel with our bishops," said bingham; "i don't want them to extol every new point of view as they pass along. i don't expect them to behave like young men. nor do i expect them to be like the absolute, without 'body, parts or passions.' my indictment is not even against that mere drop in the ocean, 'good christian souls,' but against humanity and human nature!" bingham looked from one to the other of his listeners. "until now, the only people we have taken quite seriously are the very well dressed and the--well, the undressed. the two classes overlap continually. but now we've got to take everybody seriously; we are going to have a democracy. human nature has got a new tool, and the tool is democracy. the new tool is to be put into the same foolish old hands, and we shall very soon discover what we shall call 'the sins of democracy.' what is fundamentally wrong with us is what apparently we can't help: it's that we are ourselves, that we are human beings." bingham smiled into his plate. "we adopt christianity, and because we are human beings we make it intellectually rigid and morally sloppy. we are patronising democracy, and we shall make it intellectually rigid and morally sloppy too--if we don't take care. everything we handle becomes intellectually rigid and morally sloppy. and yet we still fancy that, if only we could get hold of the right tools, our hands would do the right work." "the reconstruction of human nature is what you are demanding," said the warden. "yes, that's what we want," sighed bingham. "when we have got rid of the huns, we must begin to think about it." "if you saw the children i have seen, mr. bingham," said may, quietly, "you would want to begin at once, and i think you would be hopeful." there was on the warden's face a sudden passionate assent that bingham detected. "all men," said bingham, leaning back in his chair and regarding his two listeners with veiled attention--"all men like to hear a woman say sweet, tender, hopeful things, even if they don't believe them. as for myself, mrs. dashwood, i admit that your 'higher optimism' haunts me too at times; at rare times when, for instance, the weather in oxford is dry and bright and bracing." if he had for a moment doubted it since the afternoon at the hardings', bingham was now sure, as sure as a man can be of what is unconfessed in words, that between this man and woman sitting at the table with him was some secret sensitive interest that was not friendship. how did this conviction affect bingham and bingham's spirits? it certainly did not put a stop to his flow of talk. rather, he talked the more; he was even more sweetly cynical and amiably scintillating than usual. if his heart was wounded, and he himself was not sure whether it was or not, he hid that heart successfully in a sheath of his own sparks. a pause came when robinson put out the light over the carving-table and withdrew with robinson junior. the dining-room was silent. bingham drank some wine, the warden mused, and may dashwood sat with her eyes on a glass of water by her, looking at it as if she could see some vision in its transparency. the fire was glowing a deep red in the great stone chimney-piece at the further end of the room. a coal fell forward upon the hearth with a strangely solitary sound. bingham glanced towards the fire and then round the room, and then at his host, and lastly at may dashwood. "i heard a rumour," he said, and he took a sip of his claret, "that your college ghost had made an appearance!" there came another silence in the room. "one doesn't know how such rumours come about," continued bingham; "perhaps you hadn't even heard of this one?" he looked across at may and round at the warden. neither of them seemed to be aware that a question was being asked. "i didn't know king's even claimed a ghost," said bingham again. "i've heard of the ghost of shelley in the high," he added, smiling. "a ghost for the tourist who comes to see the shelley memorial." may looked down rather closely at the table. the warden moved stiffly. "i don't believe shelley would want to come," he said. "he always despised his alma mater." "he was a bit of an _enfant terrible_," said bingham, "from the tutor's point of view." may raised her eyes with relief; the warden had parried the question of the ghost with skill. "and i don't believe," said the warden, "that any one returns who has merely roystered within our walls," and he smiled. bingham was now looking very attentively at the warden out of his dark eyes. "jeremy bentham," he said, "seems to have been afraid of ghosts, when he was an undergraduate here. he was afraid of barging against them on dark college staircases. it's a fear i can't grasp. i would much rather come into collision with any ghost than with the stroke of the 'varsity eight, whether the staircase was dark or not." "if there are ghosts," said the warden, pensively, "i should expect to see cranmer, on some wild night, wandering near the places where he endured his passion and his death. or i should expect to see laud pacing the streets, amazed at the order and discipline of modern oxford. if personal attachment could bring a man from the grave," he went on, meeting bingham's eyes with a smile, "why shouldn't that least ghostly of all scholars, your old master, jowett--why shouldn't he walk at night when balliol is asleep?" "then there was nothing in the rumour," said bingham, "that your king's ghost has turned up?" "the warden doesn't believe in ghosts," said may, looking across the table eagerly. she remembered how he had stood by the bedside of gwendolen that night. she recalled the room vividly, the gloom of the room and he alone standing in the light thrown upon him by the lamp. she could recall every tone of his voice as he said: "you thought you saw something. you made a mistake. you saw nothing, you imagined that you saw--there was nothing," and how his voice convinced _her_, as she stood by the fire and listened. how long ago was that--only three days--it seemed like a month. "no," said the warden, "i don't believe in ghosts. at least, i don't believe that our dead"--and he pronounced the last word reverently--"are such that they can return to us in human form, or through the intervention of some hired medium. but if there are ghosts in oxford," he went on, and now he turned to bingham, as if he were answering his question--"if there are ghosts in oxford they will be the ghosts of those who were, in life, bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. i am thinking of those men who lived and died in oxford, recluses who knew no other world, and of whom the world knew nothing--men who used to flit like shadows from their solitary rooms to the lecture hall and to high table and to the common room. those men were monks in all but name; celibates, solitaries--men to whom the laughter of youth was maddening pain." may's eyes dropped! what the warden was saying stabbed her, not merely because of the words he said, but because his voice conveyed the sense of that poignant pain. "such men as i speak of," he went on, "oxford must always have possessed, even in the boisterous days when you fellows of all souls," he said, addressing bingham, "used to pull your doors off their hinges to make bonfires in honour of the mallard. there always have been these men, students shy and sensitive, shrinking from the rougher side of the ordinary man, shrinking from ordinary social life; men who are only courageous in their devotion to learning and to truth; men who are lonely with that awful loneliness of those who live in the world of thoughts. i knew one such man myself. those who believe in ghosts may come upon the shades of these men in the passages and in the cloisters at night, or hiding in the dark recesses of our college windows. why, i can feel them everywhere--and yet i don't believe in ghosts." the warden placed his elbows upon the table and rested his chin upon his hands, and looked down at the table-cloth. may said nothing; she was listening, her face bent but expressive even to her eyebrows. "neither do i," said bingham, in an altered voice. "i don't believe in ghosts, and yet, what do we know of this world? we talk of it glibly. but what do we know of the forces which make up the phantasmagoria that we call the world? what do we know of this vast universe? we perceive something of it by touch, by sight, sound and smell. these are the doors through which its forces penetrate the brain of man. these doors are our way of 'being aware' of life. the psychology of man is in its infancy. and remember"--here bingham leaned over the table and rested his eyes on may--"it is man studying himself! that makes the difficulty!" bingham was serious now, and he had slipped from slang into the academic form in which his thoughts really moved. "and we don't even know whether our ways of perceiving are the only ways," said the warden. "anyhow," said bingham, turning to him, "the ghosts you 'feel,' and which you and i don't believe in, belong to the old oxford, the oxford which is gone." there came a sudden silence in the long room, and may felt that she ought to make a move. she looked at the warden. "that oxford," continued bingham, "is gone for ever. it began to go when men hedged it round with red brick, and went to live under red-tiled roofs with wives and children." "yes, it has gone," said the warden. "must you leave us!" he asked, rising, as may looked at him and made a movement to rise. bingham rose to his feet, but he stood with his hand holding the foot of his glass and gazing into its crimson depths. "pardon, middleton! mrs. dashwood, one moment," he said, and he raised his glass solemnly till it was almost on a level with his dark face. "will you pledge me?" he asked. "to the old oxford that is past and gone!" the warden and may were both drinking water. they raised their glasses and touched bingham's wine which glowed in the light from above, almost suggesting something sacramental. and bingham himself looked like a smooth, swarthy priest of mediæval story, half-serious and half-gay, disguised in modern dress. "to the oxford of sacred memory," he said. they drank. may was thinking deeply and as she was about to place her glass back upon the table, the thought that was struggling for expression came to her. she lifted her glass: "to the oxford that is to be," she said gently. she glanced first at bingham, and then her eyes rested for a moment upon the warden. bingham watched her keenly. he could see that at that moment she had no thought of herself. her thoughts were of oxford alone, and, bingham guessed, with the man with whom she identified oxford. bingham hesitated to raise his glass. was it a flash of jealousy that went through him? a jealousy of the new oxford and all that it might mean to the two human beings beside him? if it was jealousy it died out as swiftly as it had come. he raised his glass. "to the oxford of the future," said the warden. "ad multos annos," said bingham. chapter xxx the end of belinda and co. lady dashwood professed to be very much better the next morning when may looked in to see how she had slept. "i'm a new woman," she said to may; "i slept till seven, and then, my dear, i began to think, and what do you think my thoughts were?" may shook her head. "you thought it was sunday morning." "quite true," said lady dashwood; "i heard the extra bells going on round us. no, what i was thinking of was, what on earth marian potten did with gwendolen yesterday afternoon. i'm quite sure she will have made her useful. i can picture marian making her guest put on a big apron and some old potten gloves and taking her out into the garden to gather beans. i can picture them gathering beans till tea-time. marian is sure to be storing beans, and she wouldn't let the one aged gardener she has got left waste his time on gathering beans. i can see marian raking the pods into a heap and setting fire to the heap. i imagined that after tea gwendolen played the 'reverie' by slapovski. after dinner: 'patience.'" may pondered. "and now. may," said lady dashwood, looking tired in spite of her theory that she had become a new woman, "it's a lovely day; even louise allows that the sun is shining, and i can't have you staying indoors on my account. i won't allow you in my bedroom to-day. i shall be very busy." "no!" said may, reproachfully. "i shall not allow business." "i'm just going to write a letter to my dear old john, whom i've treated shamefully for a week, only sending him a scrawl on half a page. now, i want you to go to church, or else for a walk. i can tell you what the doctor says when you come back." may said neither "yes" nor "no." she laughed a little and went out of the room. in the breakfast-room the warden was already there. they greeted each other and sat down together, and talked strict commonplaces till the meal was over. he did not ask may what she was going to do, neither did she ask him any questions. they both were following a line of action that they thought was the right one. neither intended meeting the other unless circumstances compelled the meeting; circumstances like breakfast, lunch and dinner. it was clear to both of them that, except on these occasions, they had no business with each other. the warden was clear about it because he was a man still ashamed. may was clear that she had no business to see the warden except when necessity occasioned it, because each moment made her more unfaithful to the memory of the dead, to the memory of the dead man who could no longer claim her, who had given away his all at the call of duty and who had no power to hold her now. so she, too, being honourably proud, felt ashamed in the presence of the warden. all that morning was wasted. the doctor did not come, and may spent the time waiting for him. lady dashwood sat up in bed and wrote an apparently interminable letter to her husband. whenever may appeared she said: "go away, may!" and then she looked long and wistfully at her niece. two or three men came to lunch and went into the library afterwards with the warden, and may went to her aunt lena's room. "the doctor won't come now till after three, may, so you must go out, or you will really grieve me," said lady dashwood. "jim will take you out. he came in just after you left me before lunch, and i told him you would go out." "you are supposed to be resting," said may, "and i can't have you making arrangements, dear aunt lena. i shall do exactly what i please, and shall not even tell you what i please to do. i do believe," she added, as she shook up the pillows, "that in the next world, dear, you will want to make plans for god, and that will get you into serious trouble." lady dashwood sighed deeply. "oh dear, oh dear," she said, "i suppose i must go on pretending i'm ill." may shook her head at her and pulled down the blinds, and left her in the darkness suitable for repose. the warden had not mentioned a walk. perhaps he hadn't found an opportunity with those men present! should she go for a walk alone? she found herself dressing, putting on her things with a feverish haste. then she took off her coat and sat down, and took her hat off and held it on her knees. she thought she heard the sound of a voice in the corridor outside, and she put on her hat with trembling fingers and caught up the coat and scarf and her gloves. she went out into the corridor and found it empty and still. she went to the head of the stairs. there was no sound coming from the library. but even if the warden were still there with the other men, she might not hear any sounds of their talk. they might be there or they might not. it was impossible to tell. perhaps he had gone to look for her in the drawing-room and, finding no one there, had gone out. the drawing-room door was open. she glanced in. the room was empty, of course, and the afternoon sunshine was coming in through the windows, falling across the floor towards the fireplace. it would soon creep up to the portrait over the fireplace. may waited several minutes, walking about the room and listening, and then she went out and closed the door behind her. she went down the staircase into the hall, opened the front door very slowly and went out. an indescribable loneliness seized her as she walked over the gravelled court to the gates. the afternoon sunshine was less friendly than rain and bitter wind. she took the road to the parks, meeting the signs of the war that had obliterated the old sunday afternoons of oxford in the days of peace. here was suffering, a deliberate preparation for more suffering. did all this world-suffering make her small personal grief any less? yes, it did; it would help her to get over the dreary space of time, the days, months, years till she was a grey-haired woman and was resigned, having learned patience and even become thankful! once she thought she saw the figure of the warden in the distance, and then her heart beat suffocatingly, but it was not he. once she thought she saw bingham walking with some other man. he rounded the walk by the river and--no, it was not mr. bingham--the face was different. she began asking herself questions that had begun to disturb her. was the real tragedy of the warden's engagement to him not the discovery that gwendolen was silly and weak, but that she was not honourable? had he suspected something of the kind before he received that letter? wasn't it a suspicion of the kind that had made him speak as he did in the drawing-room after they had returned from christ church? might he not have been contented with gwendolen if she had been straight and true, however weak and foolish? was he the sort of man who demands sympathy and understanding from friends, men and women, but something very different from a wife? was the warden one of those men who prefer a wife to be shallow because they shrink from any permanent demand being made upon their moral nature or their intellect? perhaps the warden craved a wife who was thoughtless, and, choosing gwendolen, was disappointed in her, solely because he found she was not trustworthy. that suspicion was a bitter one. was it an unjust suspicion? as may walked, the river beside her slipped along slowly under the melancholy willows. the surface of the water was laden with fallen leaves and the wreckage of an almost forgotten summer. it was strangely sad, this river! may turned away and began walking back to the lodgings. there was a deepening sunshine in the west, a glow was coming into the sky. oh, the sadness of that glorious sunset! may was glad to hide away from it in the narrow streets. she was glad to get back to the court and to enter the darkened house, and yet there was no rest for her there. soon, very soon, she would say good-bye to this calm secluded home and go out alone into the wilderness! she walked straight to her room and took off her things, and then went into lady dashwood's room. louise was arranging a little table for tea between the bed and the windows. "well!" cried lady dashwood. "so you have had a good walk!" "it was a lovely afternoon," said may. she looked out of the window and could see the colour of the sunset reflected on the roof opposite. lady dashwood watched louise putting a cloth on the table, and remarked that "poor jim" would be having tea all alone! "i think the warden is out," said may, as she stood at the window. "oh!" exclaimed lady dashwood, but at that moment the doctor was ushered into the room. he apologised for coming so late in the day, he had been pressed with work. "i'm perfectly well," said lady dashwood; "i don't need a doctor, you are simply wasted on me. i can come down to dinner." there was no doubt that she was better. the doctor admitted it and praised her, but he refused to let her get up till the next day, and then only for tea in the drawing-room; and, strange to say, lady dashwood did not argue the point, merely remarking that she wasn't sure whether she could be trusted to remain in bed. she wouldn't promise that she could be trusted. when the doctor left may slipped out with him, and they went along the corridor together. "how much better is she?" she asked. "is she really on the road to being quite well?" "she's all right," said the doctor, as they went down the staircase, "but she mustn't be allowed to get as low as she was yesterday, or there will be trouble." "and," said may, "what about me?" and she explained to him that she was only in oxford on a visit and had work in london that oughtn't to be left. "has she got a good maid?" asked the doctor. "an excitable frenchwoman, but otherwise useful." they were at the front door now. "and you really ought to go to-morrow?" "i ought," said may, and her heart seemed to be sinking low down--lower and lower. "very well," said the doctor, "i suppose we must let you go, mrs. dashwood," and as he spoke he pulled the door wide open. "here is the warden!" he said. there was the warden coming in at the gate. may was standing so that she could not see into the court. she started at the doctor's remark. "i'll speak to him," he said, and, bowing, he went down the steps, leaving the door open behind him. may turned away and walked upstairs. she wouldn't have to tell the warden that she was going to-morrow; the doctor would tell him, of course. would he care? she went back to the bedroom, and lady dashwood looked round eagerly at her, but did not ask her any questions. "now, dear, pour out the tea," she said. "the doctor was a great interruption. my dear may, i wish i wasn't such an egotist." "you aren't," said may, sitting down and pouring out two cups of tea. "i am," said lady dashwood. "why?" asked may. "well, you see," said lady dashwood, "i was terribly upset about belinda and co., because belinda and co. had pushed her foot in at my front door, or rather at jim's front door; but she's gone now, as far as i'm personally concerned. she's a thing of the past. but, and here it comes, belindas are still rampant in the world, and there are male as well as female belindas; and i bear it wonderfully. i shall quite enjoy a cup of tea. thanks, darling." "if anybody were to come and say to you," said may, looking deeply into her cup, "'will you join a society for the painless extermination of belindas--belindas of both classes--belindas in expensive furs, and tattered belindas,' wouldn't you become a member, or at least give a guinea?" lady dashwood smiled a little. "dear may, how satirical you are with your poor old aunt!" "i'm not satirical," said may. "i'm afraid," groaned lady dashwood, "it's mainly because we think things will be made straight in the next world that we don't do enough here. now, i haven't that excuse, may, because you know i never have looked forward to the next world. somehow i can't!" something in her aunt's voice made may look round at her. "don't be sorrowful, dear," she said. "now that i've slanged belinda," murmured lady dashwood, "i've begun to think about my own short-comings." "nonsense, dear aunt," said may. "you are not accustomed to think about yourself; it must be a sign that you are not feeling well. i shall ring for louise." may spoke in a bantering voice, but her eyes did not smile. "for mercy's sake, don't," said lady dashwood. the glow had faded from the roof of the college opposite, and had become grey and cold when may got up and took the little tea tray from her aunt lena's bed. "now, i've got just a few lines more to add to my letter to my old dear one," said lady dashwood. "suppose you go down and see what's happening?" "what's happening!" said may, but she did not ask a question, merely she repeated her aunt's words. "yes, dear," said lady dashwood. "what's happening. all sorts of things happen, you know; things go on! please ring, i want louise to clear away. now, go down into the drawing-room and, if you see jim, give him my love." may went into the empty drawing-room and sat there till it grew dark, doing nothing. robinson came in to make up the fire and draw the curtains. he apologised for his lateness, explaining that he did not think any one was in the drawing-room. "will you have dinner with 'er ladyship?" he asked, "or in the dining-room, m'm? the warden is dining in 'all." may walked to a little table and took up one of the books that were lying there. "upstairs, please, robinson," she answered. she began looking through the book, turning over the pages, but the print seemed unintelligible. she stood listening to robinson's movements in the room. then the door opened and the warden came in and startled her so much that she dropped the book upon the table. he was in his gown, just come back from chapel. he came some way into the room and stood at a little distance from her. she did not look at him, though she turned towards him in acknowledgment of his presence. "wasn't the sunset wonderful?" she said. "it was a wonderful sunset!" he said. robinson was still busy in the room, and the warden moved to the fireplace and stood looking as if he was undecided whether to stay or to go. "i'm sorry i have to dine out this evening," said the warden. "i have no choice in the matter, unfortunately." "of course," said may. "please don't think of me. i have aunt lena to look after." "you are very good to her," he said, and lingered for a moment. robinson was now going towards the door with his soft, light, though rather shambling movements. the warden moved towards the door too, and then stopped and said-- "there isn't anything i can do for you, any book i can lend you for this evening?" "no, thanks very much," said may. "i have all i want," and she took up the book she had dropped with an air of wanting it very much, and went towards the chair she had been sitting in before robinson disturbed her. the warden swung himself round. she could hear the sound of his robe against the lintel of the door as he went out and left her alone. he might have stayed a few minutes if he had wished! he didn't wish! when she went to her aunt lena's bedroom, half an hour later, she found that he had been there, sitting with her and talking, and had gone five minutes ago. the warden seemed to move like some one in a dream. he came and went and never stayed. during dinner lady dashwood said, not à propos of anything-- "your poor uncle john is beginning to get restive, and i suppose i shall have to go back to him in a few days. having done all the mischief that i could, i suppose it is time i should leave oxford. louise will be glad and jim will be sorry, i am afraid. i haven't broken to him yet that my time is coming to an end. i really dread telling him. it was different when he was a college tutor--he had only rooms then. now he has a house. it's very dismal for him to be alone." here lady dashwood stopped abruptly and went on eating. about nine o'clock she professed to be ready "to be put to bed," and may, who had been knitting by her side, got up and prepared to leave her for the night. as she kissed her she wondered why her aunt lena had never asked her how long she was going to stay. why hadn't she told her after seeing the doctor, and got it over? the warden knew and yet did not say a word, but that was different! should she tell her aunt now? she hesitated. no, it might perhaps make her wakeful. it would be better to give her nothing to think about. there would be time to-morrow. she would tell her before breakfast, on the way downstairs. it would be giving her long enough notice if she put off her journey till the late afternoon. and there _was_ no need to leave on monday till the late afternoon. "you are going down into the drawing-room again?" said lady dashwood. "yes; you must sleep well, dear," said may, bending down and kissing her. "oh, very well," said lady dashwood, closing her eyes. later on disturbing thoughts came to her. why had may ceased to show any emotion? why had she become quiet and self-contained? that wasn't a good sign. and what about to-morrow? did she mean to go? she had said nothing, but she might have made up her mind to go. and there was jim going in and out and doing _nothing_! oh, why couldn't the dear things see that they were made for one another? why couldn't they go about mysterious, blown up with self-importance--and engaged? when louise came in she found her mistress still awake. "louise, before you settle me, see if mrs. dashwood has gone to bed. don't disturb her, of course." "bien, madame," said louise; and she left the room with the air of one who is going to fathom a mystery. "what a nuisance louise is," sighed lady dashwood, turning on her pillow. she did not turn her head again when louise came back. "madame is not in her room," said louise, in a voice of profound interest, and she waited to hear the result. "oh!" said lady dashwood, brightening a little. "well, louise, light a night light and leave it at the other end of the room, so that the light doesn't come on my face! i don't want to be in complete darkness or the warden will not come in. he will think i am asleep." "madame will not sleep?" demanded louise. "of course i shall sleep," said lady dashwood, and she began thinking again. chapter xxxi a farewell when may went back again to the drawing-room she did not sit down immediately but walked round, taking up the books that were lying about. some she had read, and the book she had taken up by accident before dinner did not interest her. she took up one after another and read the title, and then, seeing a small soft yellow volume full of verse, she carried it with her to her chair. she might be able to read and follow something slight; she could not concentrate herself on anything that needed thought. she opened the volume. it was an anthology of victorian verse. she began looking through it. she read and read--at least she turned over page after page, following the sense here and there. books could not distract her from painful thoughts about herself; hard work with hands and eyes, work such as hers would be able to distract her. she was relying upon it to do so; she felt that her work was her refuge. she was thankful that she had a refuge--very thankful, and yet she was counting how many more hours she still had before her in oxford. there she showed her weakness; she knew that every hour in oxford meant pain, and yet she did not want to go away! at last she had turned over all the pages and had come to the last page. there her eyes were caught, and they held on to some printed words. she read! the words were like the echo of a voice, a voice that thrilled her even in memory! "and the glory of the lord shall be all in all." she read the poem through and through again. it took hold of her. she sat musing over it. the clock struck ten. to sit on and on was like waiting for him! she resented the thought bitterly. she rose from her chair, meaning to take the book up with her to her room. to have it beside her would be a little consolation. she would read it through again the last thing before trying to sleep. she was already walking to the door, very slowly, her will compelling unwilling limbs. "you are just going?" said the warden's voice. he had suddenly opened the door and stood before her. "i was going," she said, and held on to the book, open as it was at the last page. "have you just come back from dinner?" "i have just come back," he said, and he closed the door behind him. but he stayed near the door, for may was standing just where she had stood when he came in, the book in her hand. "i regretted very much that you should be alone this last evening of your stay----" he paused and looked at her. "i ought to have asked some one to dine with you. i am so little accustomed to guests, but i ought to have thought of it." "i am used to being alone in the evening," said may, now smoothing the page of her book with her free hand. "except on saturdays and sundays, when i go to friends of mine, i am usually alone--and generally glad to be, after my day's work. besides, i have been with aunt lena this evening. i only left her an hour ago." he came nearer and stood looking at her and at the book in her hands. he seemed suddenly to recognise the book, and saw that it was open at the last page. "i ought not to have quoted that to you," he said in a low voice; "those words of that poem--there under your hand." "why not?" she asked, shutting the book up and holding it closed between her hands. "why shouldn't you have quoted it?" and she looked at the book intently, listening for his voice again. "because it savoured of self-righteousness, and that was not becoming in a man who had brought his own troubles upon himself." may did not look up at him; she felt, too keenly the poignancy of that brief confession, dignified in its simplicity, a confession that a weaker man would have been afraid to make, and a man of less intelligence could not have made because he would not have understood the dignity of it. may found no words with which to speak to him; she could only look at the carpet stupidly and admire him with all the pulses in her body. "your interpretation of 'the glory of the lord' is the right one; i think--i feel convinced of it." he stood before her, wearing a curiously pathetic expression of diffidence. that moment passed, and then he seemed to force himself back into his old attitude of courteous reserve. "you were just going when i came in," he said, moving and putting out his hand to open the door for her. "i am keeping you." "i was going," said may, "but, dr. middleton----" he let his arm drop. "yes?" he said. "you have, i am afraid, a totally wrong idea of me." he stared straight into her face as she spoke, but it was his veiled stare, in which he held himself aloof for reasons of his own. "i don't think so," he said quickly. "i talked about 'my interpretation' of the words you quoted," she said, "just as if i spoke from some special knowledge, from personal experience, i mean. i had no intention of giving you that idea; it was merely a _thought_ i expressed." how could she say what her heart was full of without betraying herself? he was waiting for her to speak with a strained look in his eyes. "and, of course, any one can 'think.' i am afraid----somehow--i find it impossible to say what i mean--i--i am horribly stupid to-night." she moved forward and he opened the door, and held it open for her. she went out with only a brief "good-night," because no more words would come. she had said all she was able to say, and now she walked along trying to get her breath again. in the corridor she came upon louise, who seemed to have sprung suddenly from nowhere. "can i assist madame?" said louise, her face full of unrestrained curiosity. "can i brush madame's hair?" may made one or two more steps without finding her voice, then she said-- "no, thank you, louise." and feeling more than seeing the frenchwoman's ardent stare of interrogation, she added: "louise, you may bring back my travelling things, please, the first thing to-morrow morning. i shall want them." louise was silent for a moment, just as a child is voiceless for a moment before it bursts into shrieks. she followed may to her door. "i shall pack everything for madame," she exclaimed, and her voice twanged like steel. she followed may into her bedroom. "i shall pack everything when madame goes truly." here she glanced round the room, and her large dark eyes rested with wild indignation on the little stained figure of st. joseph standing on the table by the bed. the small pathetic saint stood all unconscious, its machine-made face looking down amiably upon the branch of lilies in its hands. "i want them early," said may, "because i prefer to pack myself, louise. you are such a kind creature, but i really prefer waiting upon myself." "i shall pack for madame," repeated louise. may went to the toilet table and put down the book that she was carrying. "good night, louise," was all she said. louise moved. she groaned, then she took hold of the door and began to withdraw herself behind it. "i wish madame a good repose. i shall pack for madame, comme il faut," she said with superb obstinacy, and she closed the door after her. good repose! repose seemed to may the last word that was suitable. fall asleep she might, for she was strong and full of vigour, but repose----! she read the poem once again through when she was in bed. then she laid the book under the pillow and turned out the light. how many hours had she still in oxford? about seventeen hours. and even when she was back again at her work--sundered for ever from the place that she had learned to love better than any other place in the world--she would have something precious to remember. even if they never met again after those seventeen hours were over, even though they never saw each other's faces again, she would have something to remember: words of his spoken only to her, words that betrayed the fineness of his nature. those words of his belonged to her. * * * * * and it was in this spirit of resignation, held more fully than before, that she met him again at breakfast. she was in the breakfast-room first and seized the paper, determined to behave as cheerfully as if she had arrived, and not as if she was going away. she was going to make a successful effort to start her new life at once, her life with oxford behind her. she was not going to be found by him, when he entered, silent and reminiscent of last evening. when the warden came in she put down the paper with the air of one who has seen something that suggests conversation. "i suppose," she said, starting straight away without any preliminary but a smile at him and an inclination of her head in answer to his old-fashioned courteous bow as he entered--"i suppose when i come back to oxford--say in ten years' time, if any one invites me--i shall find things changed. the new oxford we talked of with mr. bingham will be in full swing. you will perhaps be vice-chancellor." the warden did not smile. "ah, yes!" he remarked, and he looked abstractedly at the coffee-pot and at the chair that may was about to seat herself in. "ah, yes!" he said again; then he added: "have i kept you waiting?" "not a bit," said may. "i ran in to see lena," he explained. may took her place opposite the coffee. he watched her, and then went and sat down at the opposite end of the table in his own seat. then he got up and went to the side table. try as they would they were painfully conscious of each other's movements. everything seemed strangely, cruelly important at that meal. may poured out the warden's cup, and that in itself was momentous. he would come and take it, of course! she moved the cup a little. he waited on her from the side table and then looked at his coffee. "is this for me?" he asked. "yes," said may; "it is yours." he took up the cup and went round with it to his place, as if he was carrying something rare and significant. they sat opposite each other, these two, alone together, and for the last time--possibly. they talked stiffly in measured sentences to each other, talk that merely served as a defence. and behind this talk both were painfully aware that the precious moments were slipping away, and yet nothing could be done to stay them. it was only when the meal was over, and there was nothing left for them to do but to rise and go, that they stopped talking and looked at each other apprehensively. "you are not going till the afternoon?" he questioned. "not till the afternoon," she answered, but she did not say whether she was going early or late. she rose from the table and stood by it. "the reason why i ask," he said, rising too, "is that i cannot be at home for lunch, and afterwards there is hospital business with which i am concerned." may had as yet only vaguely decided on her train, though she knew the trains by heart. she had now to fix it definitely, it was wrung from her. "i may not be able to get back in time to go with you to the station, but i hope to be in time to meet you there, to see you off," he said; and he added: "i hope to be in time," as if he doubted it nevertheless. "you mustn't make a point of seeing me off," said may. "and don't you think railway-stations are places which one avoids as much as possible?" she asked the question a little tremulously and smiled, but did not look at him. "ours is pretty bad," he said, without a smile. "but i hope it won't have the effect of making you forget that there is any beauty in our old city. i hope you will carry away with you some regret at parting--some memory of us." "of course i shall," said may; and detecting the plaintiveness of her own voice, she added: "i shall have to come and see it again--as i said--perhaps ten years hence, when--when it will be different! it will be most interesting." he moved slowly away as if he was going out, and then stopped. "i shall manage to be in time to see you off," he said, as if some alteration in his plans suddenly occurred to him. "i shall manage it." "you mustn't put off anything important for me," may called softly after him. "in these days women don't expect to be looked after; we are getting mighty independent," and there was much courage in her voice. he wavered at the door. "you don't forbid me to come?" he questioned, and he turned and looked at her. "of course not," said may, and she turned away quickly and went to the window and looked out. "i hope i am not brazenly independent!" she added this last sentence airily at the window and stared out of it, as if attracted by something in the quadrangle. she heard him go out and shut the door. she waited some little time doing nothing, standing still by the window--very still. then she went out of the room, up the staircase and into the corridor towards her aunt's bedroom. she knocked and went in. lady dashwood turned round and looked at her. something in may's face arrested her. "a lovely morning, may. just the day for seeing oxford at its best." and this forced may to say, at once, what she was going to say. she was going away in the afternoon. lady dashwood received may's news quietly. she gave may a look of meek resignation that was harder to bear than any expostulation would have been. "everybody is going," she said slowly, and lying back on her pillows with a sigh. "i must be going directly, as soon as i am up and about. i can't leave your uncle john alone any longer, and there is so much that even an old woman can do, and that i had to put aside to come here." may was standing at the foot of the bed looking at her very gravely. "i can't imagine you not doing a lot," she said. "i shall be all right in a couple of days," said lady dashwood. "what was wrong with me, dear, was nerves, nerves, nothing but nerves, and i am ashamed of it. when i am bouncing with vigour again, may, i shall go. i shall leave oxford. i shall leave jim." "i suppose you will have to," said may, vaguely. "jim will be horribly lonely," said lady dashwood. "i'm afraid so," said may, slowly. "imagine," said lady dashwood, "jim seeing me off at the station and then coming back here. imagine him coming back alone, crunching over the gravel and going up the steps into the hall. you know what the hall is like--a sweet place--and those dim portraits on the walls all looking down at him out of their faded eyes! all men!" may looked at her aunt lena gravely. "then see him look round! silence--nobody there. then see him go up that staircase. he looks into the drawing-room, that big empty room. nobody, my dear, but that fast-looking clergyman over the fireplace. that's not all, may. i can see him go out and go to his library. nobody there--everything silent--books--the cardinal--and the ghost." "oh!" said may. she did not smile. "now, my dear," said lady dashwood, "i'm not going to think about it any more! i've done with it. let's talk of something else." that, indeed, was the last that lady dashwood said about it. when lunch time came may found herself seized with a physical contraction over her heart that prevented food from taking its usual course downward. she endured as long as she could, but at last she got up from the long silent table just as robinson was about to go for a moment into the pantry. she threw a hurried excuse for going at his thin stooping back. she said she found she "hadn't time," and she examined her watch ostentatiously as she went out of the room. "i'm going to take my last farewell of oxford," may said, looking for a moment into lady dashwood's room. "i'm going for a walk. i am going to look at the high and at magdalen bridge." lady dashwood smiled rather sadly. "ah, yes," she said. may found louise packing with a slowness and an elaborate care that was a reproof somehow in itself. it seemed to say: "ungrateful! all is thrown away on you. you care not----" may put on her hat, and through the mirror she saw louise rolling up saint joseph with some roughness in a silk muffler. "madame does not like oxford?" said louise, drily, as she stuffed the saint into a hat. "i care for it very much, louise," said may, hastily putting on her coat. "oxford is a place one can never forget." "eh, bien oui," said louise, enigmatically. then may went out and said farewell to the towers and spires and the ancient walls, and went to look at the trees weeping by magdalen bridge. it was all photographed on her memory. in the squalid streets of london, where her work lay, she would remember all this beauty and this ancient peace. there would be no possibility of her forgetting it! she would dream of it at night. it would form the background of her life. * * * * * back again in the lodgings, she found that she had only a few minutes more to spare before she must leave. she took farewell of louise, and left her standing, her hand clasping money and her eyes luminous with reproach. there was, indeed, more than reproach, a curious incredulity, a wonder at something. may did not fathom what it was. she did not hear louise muttering below her breath-- "ah, mon dieu! these english people--this monsieur the warden--this madame la niece. ah, this lodgings! ah, this oxford!" in the drawing-room may found lady dashwood in a loose gown, seated on a couch and "not at home" to callers. only a few minutes more! "i'm afraid i've been very long," said may. "but it is difficult to part with oxford." "is it so difficult?" asked lady dashwood, then she suddenly pulled herself up and said: "oh, may, a note was left just after you went out by mrs. potten. she wouldn't come in. mark that, may! she had been seeing gwendolen off. the girl has gone to her mother. marian wants me to lunch with her to-morrow. i telephoned her a few moments ago that i would go and see her later in the week. i wonder if she wants to speak to me about gwen? i can't help wondering. oh dear, the whole thing seems like a dream now! don't you think so?" may was drinking a hurried cup of tea. "no, it seems very real to me," she said. lady dashwood looked at her silently. the warden had not returned. at least there was no sign of his being in the house. robinson came in to announce the taxi. "is the warden in?" asked lady dashwood, half raising herself. no, the warden was not in. "he will meet you at the station," said lady dashwood, nodding her head slowly at her niece. "he may not be able to," said may, going up to the sofa. she spoke as if it were a matter of unconcern. she must keep this up. she had counselled gwendolen to be brave! this thought brought with it a little sob of laughter that nearly choked her. "good-bye, aunt lena," she said, throwing her arms round lady dashwood, and the two rested their heads together for a moment in a silent embrace. then they parted. "good-bye," said lady dashwood. "look out for poor jim on the platform. look out for him!" they kissed once or twice in formal fashion, and then may walked away to the door and went out without looking back. the door closed behind her and lady dashwood was left alone. she lay back on the cushions. the sun was coming in through the windows much as it had done that afternoon when she was reading the telegram from may. "i can't do any more," she murmured half aloud; "i can't." her eyes wandered to the fire and up to the portrait over the fireplace. the light falling on the painted face obliterated the shadows at the corners of the mouth, so that he seemed to be smiling. chapter xxxii the warden hurries the warden was on his way to the station. for three days he had done what he could to keep out of may dashwood's presence. he had invented no excuses for seeing her, he had invented reasons for not seeing her. these three days of self-restraint were almost over. he could have returned home in time to take her to the railway-station himself if he had intended to do so. his business was over and he lingered, a desperate conscientiousness forcing him to linger. he allowed himself to be button-holed by other men, not completely aware of what was being said to him, because all the time in his imagination he saw may waiting for him. he pictured her going down the staircase to the hall and getting into her taxi alone. he pictured this while some one propounded to him plans, not only for successfully getting rid of party politics, but for the regeneration of the whole human race. it was at that point that he broke away. some one else proposed walking back to king's with him. "i'm going to the station," said the warden, and he struck off by himself and began to walk faster. he had run it too close, he risked missing her altogether. that he did not intend. he meant to arrive a moment before the train started. it was surely not part of his duty to be absolutely discourteous! he must just say "good-bye." he began to walk still faster, for it seemed likely that he might be too late even to say "good-bye." in beaumont street a taxi was in sight. he hailed it and got in. the man seemed an outrageously long time getting the car round and started. he seemed to be playing with the curb of the pavement. at last he started. the squalor of the approach to the station did not strike the warden this afternoon. it always had struck him before unpleasantly. just now he was merely aware of vehicles to be passed before he could reach the station, and he had his eyes on his watch continually to see how the moments were going. suppose the train moved off just as he reached the platform? the warden put his hand on the door ready to jump out. he had the fare already in the other hand. the station at last! he got out of the taxi swiftly. no, the train was there and the platform was sprinkled with people--some men in khaki; many women. he was just in time, but only just--not in time to help her, or to speak with her or say anything more than just "good-bye." a sudden rage filled him. he ran his eyes along the whole length of the platform. she was probably seated in a carriage already, reading, oxford forgotten perhaps! in that case why was he hurrying like this? why was he raging? no, there she was! the sight of her made his heart beat wildly. she was there, standing by an open carriage door, looking wistfully along the platform, looking for him! a porter was slamming the doors to already. the warden strode along and came face to face with her. under the large brimmed hat and through the veil, he could see that she had turned ashy pale. they stared for a moment at each other desperately, and he could see that she was trembling. the porter laid his hand on the door. "are you getting in, m'm?" only a week ago the warden had committed the one rash and foolish action of his life. he had done it in ignorance of his own personal needs and with, perhaps, the unconscious cynicism of a man who has lived for forty years unable to find his true mate. but since then his mind had been lit up with the flash of a sudden poignant experience. he knew now what he wanted; what he must have, or fail. he knew that there was nothing else for him. it was this or nothing. the sight of her face, her trembling, pierced his soul with an amazing joy, and it seemed as if the voice of some invisible controller of all human actions, great and small, breathed in his ear saying: "now! take your chance! this is your true destiny!" there was no one in the carriage but a young girl at the further end huddled behind a novel. but had there been twenty there, it would not have altered his resolution. the warden placed his hand on may's arm. "i am travelling with this lady as far as reading," he said to the porter, "but i have come too late to get a ticket. tell the guard, please." the warden showed no sign now of haste or excitement; he had regained his usual courteous and deliberate manner, for the purpose of his life was his again. he helped her in and followed her. the door was banged behind them. there was may's little bundle of rug and umbrella on the seat. he moved it on one side so that she could sit there. the train began to slide off. may sank into her seat too dazed to think. he sat down opposite to her. they both knew that the moment of their lives had come. then he leaned forward, not caring whether he was observed or not observed from the other end of the carriage. he leaned forward and grasping both of may's hands in his, he looked into her eyes with his own slow moving, narrow eyes that absorbed the light. the corners of her mouth were trembling, her eyelids trembling. they never spoke a word as the train moved away and left behind that fair ancient city enshrined in squalor and in raucous brick; left behind the flat meadows, the sluggish river and the leafless crooked willows; but a strange glory came from the west and flooded the whole earth and the carriage where they sat. the end printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles, england * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's notes | | | | obvious typographical errors have been corrected, with the | | exception of those contained within letters, which are thought to | | be deliberate. | | | | the oe ligature has been replaced by oe. | | | | where a word has been spelled inconsistently within the text (e.g. | | to-day and today), the spellings have been changed to the one more | | frequently used. | | | | all other spellings and punctuation are as in the original text. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ oxford and its story [illustration: oxford castle (_photogravure_)] oxford and its story by cecil headlam, m.a. author of "nuremberg," "chartres," etc. etc. [illustration] with twenty-four lithographs and other illustrations by herbert railton the lithographs being tinted by fanny railton london j. m. dent & sons, ltd. new york: e. p. dutton & co. _first edition_, _second and cheaper edition_, _all rights reserved_ almae matri filius indignus haud ingratus preface the story of oxford touches the history of england, social and political, mental and architectural, at so many points, that it is impossible to deal with it fully even in so large a volume as the present. even as it is, i have been unavoidably compelled to save space by omitting much that i had written and practically all my references and acknowledgments. yet, where one has gathered so much honey from other men's flowers not to acknowledge the debt in detail appears discourteous and ungrateful; and not to give chapter and verse jars also upon the historical conscience. i can only say that, very gratefully, _j'ai pris mon bien où je l'ai trouvé_, whether in the forty odd volumes of the oxford historical society, the twenty volumes of the college histories, the accurate and erudite monographs of dr rashdall ("mediæval universities") and sir henry maxwell lyte ("history of the university of oxford to the year ") or innumerable other works. where so much has been so well done by others in the way of dealing with periods and sections of my whole subject, my chief business has been to read, mark, digest, and then to arrange my story. but to do that thoroughly has been no light task. whether it be well done or ill-done, the story now told has the great merit of providing an occasion, excuse was never needed, for the display of mr herbert railton's art. contents .....page preface.....vii list of illustrations.....xi chapter i st frideswide and the cathedral..... chapter ii the mound, the castle and some churches..... chapter iii the origin of the university..... chapter iv the coming of the friars..... chapter v the mediÆval student..... chapter vi oxford and the reformation..... chapter vii the oxford martyrs..... chapter viii elizabeth, bodley and laud..... chapter ix the royalist capital..... chapter x jacobite oxford--and after..... index..... list of illustrations oxford castle (_photogravure_)..... _frontispiece_ _tinted lithographs_ magdalen tower from the water walks....._facing page... _ christ church....."... cornmarket street....."... entrance front, pembroke college....."... archway and turret, merton college....."... university college....."... garden front, s. john's college....."... wadham college, from the gardens....."... oriel college and merton tower....."... balliol college....."... s. mary's porch....."... s. alban hall, merton college....."... quadrangle, brasenose college....."... bell tower and cloisters, new college....."... the founder's tower, magdalen college....."... front quadrangle, corpus christi college....."... cloisters, christ church....."... grammar hall, magdalen college....."... president's lodge, trinity college....."... quadrangle, jesus college....."... the gardens, exeter college....."... oriel window, s. john's college....."... the cloisters, new college....."... quadrangle and library, all souls' college....."... list of illustrations _black and white illustrations_ .....page oxford cathedral (interior)....._facing _ oxford cathedral (exterior)..... hall stairway, christ church..... abingdon abbey..... the bastion and ramparts in new college....._facing _ city walls..... chapel of our lady..... bird's-eye view of oxford ( )....._facing _ oxford castle..... s. peter's in the east....._facing _ the "bishop's palace," s. aldate's..... the radcliffe library, from brasenose college..... gables in worcester college..... gateway, worcester gardens..... oriel college....._facing _ doorway, rewley abbey..... old gateway, merton college..... monastic buildings, worcester college..... oriel window, lincoln college..... the high street..... s. mary's spire from grove lane..... gables and tower, magdalen college..... open air pulpit, magdalen college..... magdalen college....._facing _ in new college..... kemp hall....._facing _ magdalen bridge and tower..... niche and sundial, corpus christi college..... south view of bocardo..... chapel in jesus..... cooks buildings, s. john's....._facing _ from the high street..... courtyard to palace....._facing _ view from the sheldonian theatre..... oriel window, queen's lane..... oxford & its story chapter i s. frideswide and the cathedral "he that hath oxford seen, for beauty, grace and healthiness, ne'er saw a better place. if god himself on earth abode would make he oxford, sure, would for his dwelling take." dan rogers, _clerk to the council of queen elizabeth_. "vetera majestas quædam et (ut sic dixerim) religio commendat." quintilian. it is with cities as with men. the manner of our meeting some men, and the moment, impress them upon our minds beyond the ordinary. and the chance of our approach to a city is full also of significance. london approached by the thames on an ocean-going steamer is resonant of the romance of commerce, and the smoke-haze from her factories hangs about her like folds of the imperial purple. but approach her by rail and it is a tale of mean streets that you read, a tale made yet more sad by the sight of the pale, drawn faces of her street-bred people. calcutta is the london of the east, but venice, whether you view her first from the sea, enthroned on the adriatic, or step at dawn from the train into the silent gondola, is always different yet ever the same, the enchanted city, queen of the seas. and many other ports there are which live in the memory by virtue of the beauty of the approach to them: lisbon, with the scar of her earthquake across her face, looking upon the full broad tide of the tagus, from the vantage ground of her seven hills; cadiz, lying in the sea like a silver cup embossed with a thousand watch towers; naples, the siren city; sidney and constantinople; hong-kong and, above all, rio de janeiro. but among inland towns i know none that can surpass oxford in the beauty of its approach. beautiful as youth and venerable as age, she lies in a purple cup of the low hills, and the water-meads of isis and the gentle slopes beyond are besprent with her grey "steeple towers, and spires whose silent finger points to heaven." and all around her the country is a harmony in green--the deep, cool greens of the lush grass, the green of famous woods, the soft, juicy landscapes of the thames valley. you may approach oxford in summer by road, or rail, or river. most wise and most fortunate perhaps is he who can obtain his first view of oxford from headington hill, her fiesole. from headington has been quarried much of the stone of which the buildings of oxford, and especially her colleges, have been constructed. oxford owes much of her beauty to the humidity of the atmosphere, for the thames valley is generally humid, and when the floods are out, and that is not seldom, oxford rises from the flooded meadows like some superb venice of the north, centred in a vast lagoon. and just as the beauty of venice is the beauty of coloured marbles blending with the ever-changing colour of water and water-laden air, so, to a large extent, the beauty of oxford is due to this soft stone of headington, which blends with the soft humid atmosphere in ever fresh and tender harmonies, in ever-changing tones of purple and grey. by virtue of its fortunate softness this stone ages with remarkable rapidity, flakes off and grows discoloured, and soon lends to quite new buildings a deceptive but charming appearance of antiquity. arriving, then, at the top of headington hill, let the traveller turn aside, and, pausing awhile by "joe pullen's" tree, gaze down at the beautiful city which lies at his feet. her sombre domes, her dreaming spires rise above the tinted haze, which hangs about her like a delicate drapery and hides from the traveller's gaze the grey walls and purple shadows, the groves and cloisters of academe. for a moment he will summon up remembrance of things past; he will fancy that so, and from this spot, many a mediæval student, hurrying to learn from the lips of some famous scholar, first beheld the scene of his future studies; this, he will remember, is the oxford of the reformation, where, as has been said,[ ] the old world and the new lingered longest in each other's arms, like mother and child, so much alike and yet so different; the oxford also of the catholic reaction, where the young elizabethan revivalists wandered by the isis and cherwell framing schemes for the restoration of religion and the deliverance of the fair mary; the loyal and chivalrous oxford of the caroline period, the nursery of knights and gentlemen, when camp and court and cloister were combined within her walls; the oxford of the eighteenth century, still mindful of the king over the water, and still keeping alive in an age of materialism and infidelity some sparks of that loftier and more generous sentiment which ever clings to a falling cause. it is the oxford, again, of the tory and high churchman of the old school; the home of the scholar and the gentleman, the wellesleys, the cannings, the grenvilles and the stanleys. but the wesleys call her alma mater also, and, not less, newman. methodism equally with the high church movement originated here. old as the nation, yet ever new, with all the vitality of each generation's youth reacting on the sober wisdom of its predecessor, oxford has passed through all these and many other stages of history, and the phases of her past existence have left their marks upon her, in thought, in architecture and in tradition. to connect events with the traces they have left, to illustrate the buildings of oxford by her history, and her history by her buildings, has been the ideal which i have set before myself in this book. let our traveller then at length descend the hill and passing over magdalen bridge, beneath the grey tower of ever-changing beauty, the bell-tower of magdalen, enter upon the "stream-like windings of that glorious street," the high. so, over shotover, down a horse path through the thick forest the bands of mediæval scholars used to come at the beginning of each term, and wend their way across the moor to the east gate of the city. there is no gate to stop you now, no ford, no challenge of sentinels on the walls. the bell-towers of s. frideswide and osney have long been levelled to the dust, but the bells of christ church and magdalen greet you. but not altogether unfortunate, though perhaps with less time to ruminate, will he be who first approaches oxford by means of the railway. if he is wise, he will choose at paddington a seat on the off side of the carriage, facing the engine. after leaving radley the train runs past low-lying water-meadows, willow-laden, yellow with buttercups, purple with clover and the exquisite fritillary, and passing the reservoir ere it runs into the station, which occupies the site of osney abbey, it gives the observant traveller a splendid view of the town; of tom tower, close at hand, and merton tower; of the spires of the cathedral and s. aldate's; of s. mary's and all saints'; of radcliffe's dome and the dainty tower of magdalen further away; of lincoln spire and s. michael's tower, and of s. martin's at carfax. and at last, very near at hand, the old fragment of the castle: "there, watching high the least alarms, the rough, rude fortress gleams afar like some bold veteran, grey in arms and marked with many a seamy scar." of the approaches to oxford so much may be said; and as to the time when it is most fit to visit her, all times are good. but best of all are the summer months. in the spring or early summer, when the nightingales are singing in magdalen walks and the wild flowers [illustration: magdalen tower from addison's walk] spring in bagley woods, when the meadows are carpeted with purple and gold: "the frail, white-leaved anemony, dark blue-bells drenched with dews of summer eves, and purple orchises with spotted leaves;" in june, in eights' week, when the university is bravely ploughing its way through a storm of gaiety and athleticism into the inevitable maelstrom of examinations, when the streets are crowded with cricketers, oarsmen, and their sisters, when the schools and college quads are transformed into ball-rooms and many a boat lingers onward dreamily in the golden light of the setting sun beneath the willows that fringe the cherwell--at these times oxford seems an enchanted city, a land where it is always afternoon. but you will come to know her best, and to love her perhaps more dearly, if you choose the later summer months, the long vacation. then all the rich meadow-lands that surround her are most tranquil, green and mellow, and seem to reflect the peace of the ancient city, freed for a while from the turmoil of university life. then perhaps you will best realise the two-sided character of this janus-city. for there are two oxfords in one, as our story will show, upon the banks of the isis--a great county town besides a great university. and as to the mood in which you shall visit her, who shall dictate a mood in a place so various? something of the emotion that wordsworth felt may be yours: "i could not print ground where the grass had yielded to the steps of generations of illustrious men unmoved. i could not always pass through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, wake where they waked, range that inclosure old, that garden of great intellects, undisturbed;" or something of the charming fancifulness of charles lamb which may lead you to play the student, or fetch up past opportunities, and so "pass for nothing short of a seraphic doctor." or it may please you best to spend not all your time among the bricks and stone and mortar, ever-changing as they are in hue and aspect, or amid the college groves and gardens, rich as is their beauty, perfect as is their repose. the glories of the surrounding country may tempt you most. you may wander many happy miles through cool green country, full of dark-leaved elms and furzy dingles, with the calm, bright river ever peeping at you through gaps in woods and hedges, to godstow, where rosamund clifford lived and died; to cumnor, the warm green-muffled cumnor hills, and those oaks that grow thereby, on which the eyes of amy robsart may have rested. you may choose to track the shy thames shore "through the wytham flats, red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among, and darting swallows and light water-gnats--" and, with the poet, learn to know the fyfield tree, the wood which hides the daffodil: "what white, what purple fritillaries the grassy harvest of the river-fields, above by ensham, down by sandford, yields, and what sedged brooks are thames's tributaries." whichever way you choose you will turn now and again to look back upon the spires and towers of oxford and radcliffe's dome, clustering together among rich gardens and noble trees, watered by the winding, willow-fringed cherwell and the silver stream of isis, "rivulets," as wood quaintly phrases it, "which seem to the prying spectator as so many snakes sporting themselves therein." and so gazing you will let your fancy roam and think of her past history and her future influence on thought and the affairs of state. * * * * * within fifty years of their first landing the northern hordes had conquered the greater part of britain. mercia, the border kingdom of the marches, had been formed, embracing the site of oxford; its heathen king penda had lived and died, the mercians had embraced christianity, and dorchester had become the seat of a christian bishop. but it was not till the eighth century a.d. that the vill of oxford, an unfortified border town on the confines of the kingdoms of mercia and wessex, came into existence; it was not till the year , one hundred and thirty years after s. augustine's mission to england, that a religious community settled there. the history of that settlement is bound up with the story of s. frideswide--fritheswithe, "the bond of peace." for although the details of the legend are evidently in part due to the imagination of the monastic chroniclers, yet there is no reason to doubt the main facts of time and place. that frideswide, the daughter of an under-king named didan, founded a nunnery at a spot where a bank of gravel ran up from what is now christ church meadow, and offered a dry site, raised above the wandering, unbarred streams, set amid lush meadows untainted as yet by human dwellings, and fringed by the virgin forests that clad the surrounding hills, we need not hesitate to believe, or that here didan presently built a little church, some traces of which yet remain in christ church cathedral. for the rest, how frideswide escaped by a miracle to binsey and lived there in the woods, in dread of the hot courtship of a young and spritely prince; how that prince was miraculously deprived of his sight when about to assault the city in revenge for his disappointment, and how from that time forward disaster dogged the footsteps of any king who entered oxford; how the virgin frideswide returned at last to oxford, and, after performing many miracles there, died and was buried in her church--are not all these things told at length in the charming prose of anthony wood? the lady chapel of the cathedral, on the north side of the choir aisle, is the architectural illustration of this story in oxford. it was enlarged in the thirteenth century, and has the early english pillars and vaulting of that period, but the eastern wall carries us back to s. frideswide's day. and on the floor is a recent brass which marks the spot where the bones of the virgin saint are now supposed to rest. here too is the shrine of s. frideswide--that shrine which used to be visited twice a year by the vice-chancellor and the principal members of the university in solemn procession "to pray, preach and offer oblations at her shrine in the mother church of university and town." this is the site of s. frideswide's first church. the lady chapel is in a line with what was the ancient nave, the central apse of that church, and there, at the east end of it and of the adjoining aisle, are the rough rag-stone arches which were built for her, and which led, according to the ancient eastern plan, into three apses. and inseparably connected with s. frideswide too is the adjacent latin chapel, by virtue of that window designed by sir e. burne-jones, one of the earliest and one of the most beautiful of the artist's designs, so lovely in its conception that, if you take each picture separately, it seems like some perfect poem by rossetti translated into colour by a mediæval craftsman. but take it as a whole and the effect is quite other than this. it is so full of subjects and dabs of bright colour that it is dazzling and almost unintelligible. burne-jones had not grasped, even if he had studied the glazier's art. apart from the fact that the great predominance of fiery reds offends the eye, the design is essentially one that has been made on paper and not in glass, drawn with pencil and brush and not in lead. worked out on a flat, opaque surface the fussy effect of the window would not be foreseen; but the overcrowded and broken character of the design is painfully obvious when set up as a window. the scenes here depicted form an illustrated history of the story of s. frideswide. the splendid fourteenth-century glass of the latin chapel contains also, besides figures of s. catherine, the patroness of students in divinity, two representations of s. frideswide. this chapel was built on to the rest at two periods; the first bay from [illustration: oxford cathedral (interior)] the west is part of the transept aisle, the second bay belongs to the thirteenth century, the third and fourth were added in the fourteenth, from which period the decorated vaulting, with its bosses of roses and water-lilies, dates. the chapel was used till recently as a lecture-room by the regius professor of divinity. the carved wood-work of the stalls and desks should be noticed. didan's or s. frideswide's church was burnt on s. brice's day, , when the general massacre of danes, which Æthelred the unready, in a fit of misguided energy, had ordered to take place on that day throughout the country, was carried out at oxford. the danes in their extremity rushed to s. frideswide's church, burst open the doors, and held the tower as a fortress against their assailants. the citizens failed to drive them out. as a last resource they set fire to the wooden roof and burned the church, "together with the ornaments and books thereof." the danes perished in the burning. nothing now remains, save the parts that i have mentioned, of the church which was then gutted. but after the massacre the king made a vow that he would rebuild s. frideswide's, and the church he then began to erect forms the main part of the cathedral as we see it to-day. those arches, so plain and massive, over the western bays of the north choir aisle and lady chapel, were part of Æthelred's transept aisle; the south transept aisle, now s. lucy's chapel; the walls of the south choir aisle; the pillars of the choir and the open triforium of the south transept--these are the chief portions of the cathedral which are thought to be unrestored parts of Æthelred's work. it is now generally admitted that the saxons, at the date of the conquest, were more advanced than the normans in the fine arts. their sculpture was more highly finished and their masonry more finely jointed. we need not therefore be surprised at the excellence and ornamentation of the work in oxford cathedral, which is attributed to this date, nor, when we remember that Æthelred was the brother-in-law of richard-le-bon, the great church-builder of normandy, need we wonder at the unwonted magnificence of Æthelred's plans for this church. the danes soon took ample revenge for that treacherous massacre. they ravaged berkshire and burned oxford ( ). the climax came when sweyn arrived. the town immediately submitted to him, and "he compelled the men of oxford and winchester to obey his laws" (saxon chronicle). Æthelred's work was interrupted by the coming of sweyn, and the king's flight to richard's court in normandy. in the south-east pier of the cathedral tower there is a noticeable break in the masonry, which marks, it is supposed, the cessation of building that coincided with the close of anglo-saxon rule. when sweyn died Æthelred returned, and for three years held cnut in check. the work at s. frideswide's was probably resumed then. the richly carved, weather-beaten capitals of the choir, with their thick abaci and remarkable ornamentation, partly saxon and partly oriental in character, are eloquent of the exile of Æthelred and of the influence of the eastern monks whom he met at the court of his brother in normandy. and they speak not only of byzantine influence, passing through normandy into england, but also, through the existing traces of exposure to rain and wind, of the ruinous state into which the church had fallen when "whether by the negligence of the seculars or the continuall disturbance of the expelled regulars, it was almost utterly forsaken and relinqueshed, and the more especially because of that troublesome warre betweene king harold and william the conqueror." for the nunnery which s. frideswide founded had soon ceased to be a nunnery. by the irony of fate, soon after her death, the nuns were removed, and the priory was handed over to a chapter of married men, the secular canons, whom s. dunstan, in his turn, succeeded in suppressing. but the nuns never came back, for, after many vicissitudes, the priory was finally restored, under henry i. ( ), as a house of the canons regular of s. augustine. some have thought that guimond, the first prior ( ), was responsible for the building of the whole church, but he more probably found enough to do in re-establishing order and restoring the monastic buildings. his successor, robert of cricklade, perhaps it was who restored Æthelred's church on the old plan and inserted most of the later norman work, especially the clerestory and presbytery. the triforium and clerestory in the nave (roofed in with sixteenth-century wood-work) give us an interesting example of the latest norman or transitional style. the clerestory consists of a pointed arch enriched with shafts at the angles, and supported on either side by low circular arches which form the openings of a wall passage. the arrangement of the triforium is remarkable. the massive pillars of the nave are alternately circular and octagonal. from their capitals, which are large, with square abaci, spring circular arches with well-defined mouldings. these are, in fact, the arches of the triforium, which is here represented by a blind arcade of two arches set in the tympanum of the main arch. the true arches of the nave spring from half capitals, set against the pillars, and are plain, with a circular moulding towards the nave. the crown of these arches is considerably below the main capitals of the pillars, from which the upper or triforium arches spring. the half capitals assist in carrying the vaulting of the aisles. the whole arrangement, rare on the continent, is extremely unusual in england, but occurs, for instance, in the transept of romsey abbey. the pillars of the choir date, as has been said, from Æthelred's day; the rest is twelfth-century restoration, save the rich and graceful pendent roof, which accords so strangely well with the robust norman work it crowns. the clerestory was converted into perpendicular, and remodelled to carry this elaborate vaulting, which should be compared with that of the old divinity school, or henry vii.'s chapel at westminster, and attributed, not in accordance with tradition to the time of wolsey, but to the close of the fifteenth century. the very effective east end is a conjectural restoration of the old norman design, and was the work of sir gilbert scott, who also opened the lantern-story and made many other sweeping changes and restorations, necessitated by the previous restorations of seventeenth-century dean duppa, and the neglect of his successors. when cricklade's restoration was finished, or nearly so, it was decided, in order to revive the once so famous memory of s. frideswide, to translate her relics from their obscure resting-place (probably the southernmost of the three saxon apses) to some notable place in the church. the king, the archbishop, many bishops, and many of the nobility and clergy gathered together to take part in this great ceremony. the bones of the saint were taken up, set in a rich gilt coffin and placed on the north side of the choir. miracles were wrought at the new shrine, and pilgrims crowded thither. the money brought in by these means was badly needed, both for the purpose of the restoration which had been in process, and which was further necessitated by the great fire which destroyed a large part of oxford in , and, whilst damaging the church, much injured the monastic buildings. the fine old norman doorway of the chapter house, which is attributed to prior guimond ( ), still bears the red marks of that fire. the chapter house itself is a very perfect chamber of the early english period. the rich and graceful carving of the capitals, the bosses of the roof, and the curious corbels, the superb glass in the side windows, the beautiful arcade of five arches, pierced for light, which fills the entire east end, complete and confirm, so pure are they in style, so excellent in detail, the just proportions of this noble room. early in the thirteenth century was built also the upper portion of the tower, and that lowly spire was added, which appears scarce [illustration: oxford cathedral] peeping above the college buildings, modestly calling attention to the half-concealed site of the smallest cathedral in england. oxford is a city of towers, and domes, and steeples, all of which possess their own peculiar character and beauty. as different as possible from the perfect proportions of magdalen tower or the ornate magnificence of the elaborate spire of the university church, this spire is low and simple--squat almost in appearance. its lowliness is easily explained. it was perhaps the very first spire built in england. the masons were cautious, afraid of their own daring in attempting to erect so lofty a construction, octagonal, upon the solid base of the norman lower story. in this first effort they did not dream of the tapering elegance of the soaring spire of salisbury, any more than of the rich ornamentation, the profusion of exuberant pinnacles, the statues and buttresses, gargoyles, crockets and arabesques, with which their successors bedecked s. mary's or the clocher neuf of chartres. strength and security was their chief aim here, though the small turrets, terminating in pyramidal octagons, which surmount the angles of the tower, are the forerunners of that exuberant ornamentation. in the bones of s. frideswide were again translated. they were put in a new and more precious shrine, placed near where the old one stood. fragments of the marble base of this shrine have been found, pieced together and set up in the easternmost arch between the lady chapel and the north choir aisle. these fragments of a beautiful work are themselves beautiful; they are adorned with finely carved foliage, intended to symbolise s. frideswide's life when she took refuge in the woods. the story of the destruction of the shrine is a strange one. before the reformation the church of s. frideswide and her shrine had enjoyed a high reputation as a place of sanctity. privileges were conceded to it by royal authority. miracles were believed to be wrought by a virtue attaching to it; pilgrims from all parts resorted to it--among them queen catherine of aragon. such practices and privileges seemed to the zealous reformers to call for summary interference. the famous shrine was doomed to destruction, and was actually destroyed. the fragments were used either at the time, or not long afterwards, to form part of the walls of a common well. the reliques of the saint, however, were rescued by some zealous votaries, and carefully preserved in hope of better times. meantime catherine (the wife of peter martyr, a foreign protestant theologian of high repute, who had been appointed regius professor of theology) died, and was buried near the place lately occupied by the shrine. over her grave sermons were preached, contrasting the pious zeal of the german protestant with the superstitious practices that had tarnished the simplicity of the saxon saint. then came another change. the roman church, under mary tudor, recovered a brief supremacy. the body of peter martyr's wife was, by order of cardinal pole, contemptuously cast out of the church, and the remains of s. frideswide were restored to their former resting-place. but it does not appear that any attempt was made to restore the shrine. party zeal still prevailed. angry contests continued between the adherents of the two parties even after the accession of elizabeth. at length the authorities of christ church were commissioned to remove the scandal that had been caused by the inhuman treatment of catherine martyr's body. on january th, , the bones of the protestant catherine and the catholic s. frideswide were put together, so intermingled that they could not be distinguished, and then placed together in the same tomb: "iam coeunt pietas atque superstitio." under the easternmost arch, between the lady chapel and the latin chapel, is the fine chantry tomb, an elaborately wrought and very beautiful example of perpendicular workmanship, which is supposed to have been the third and more splendid shrine of s. frideswide, or else to have served as a "watching chamber," as it is [illustration: hall stairway christchurch herbert railton oxford] commonly called, to protect the gold and jewels which hung about the earlier shrine. under the prior guimond there was certainly a school connected with the convent. whatever the origin of the university may have been--and there are those who maintain that it sprang from the schools of s. frideswide as naturally as that of paris from the schools of notre dame--it is pleasant to remember, when you stand in the middle of tom quad, that you are on the site of this, the first educational institution of oxford, just as when you stand in the lady chapel of the cathedral you are on the site of the old priory, the mother church of the university and town. another faint echo of the priory days may be traced in the annual cakestall in s. olds, which is a survival of the fair of s. frideswide that used to last seven days. during that time the keys of the city passed from mayor to prior, and the town courts were closed in favour of the pie-powder court,[ ] held by the steward of the priory for the redress of all disorders committed during the fair. the entrance to the cathedral is through the two arches in the cloisters, directly opposite to you as you pass into tom quad beneath tom tower. this curious entrance reminds you at once of the peculiar position of the cathedral as three parts college chapel. tom quad is the largest quadrangle in oxford ( by feet), and was begun by wolsey on a scale which is sufficient evidence of the extreme magnificence of his plans for "cardinal's college." it was begun, but has never been finished. the shafts and marks of the arches, from which the vaults of the intended cloister were to spring, are, however, plainly visible. of the old cloister of the monastery no trace remains save the windows and door of the chapter house; the fifteenth-century cloisters that do exist are not to be compared with those of new college or magdalen. one side of them was destroyed by wolsey to make room for the college hall. on the south side of the cloister is the old library, which was formerly the refectory of the monastery. with the chapter house doorway it survives as a relic of the old conventual buildings, in quiet contrast to the splendour of the superb kitchen, and the still more magnificent hall, with its valuable collection of portraits. the vaulted chamber, which contains the staircase by which this hall is approached, is one of the most beautiful things in oxford. the lovely fan-tracery of the vault and the central pillar were the work of "one smith, an artificer from london," and were built as late as , in the reign of charles ii. it affords a striking instance of the fact in architectural history, that good gothic persisted in oxford long after the influence of italian work had destroyed it elsewhere. to make room for this magnificent quadrangle of his the cardinal also destroyed the three western bays of the church of s. frideswide. he had intended to build a new chapel along the north side of tom quad which should rival the chapel of king's college at cambridge. but this work was interrupted by his fall. the foundations of the chapel have been traced, and they show that the west end ran in a line with the octagonal turrets in s. aldate's street, and the walls reached nearly to fell's passage into peckwater. for its massive walls wolsey used some of the stones from the demolished osney abbey. the building at the time of his fall had risen some feet above the ground. dean fell, it is supposed, used it as a quarry for the construction of his own quadrangle. now, there had been constructed a new straight walk in the meadows, and fell, anxious to improve it, carted the chippings from his own work to lay on it. the chippings were white, so the walk got the name of white. this was corrupted at the end of the eighteenth century to wide walk, and hence to broad [illustration: christ's church] walk--its present name--which really describes it now better than the original phrase. the destruction of the western bays of the church by wolsey accounts for the shortened aspect of the nave, slightly relieved though it is by the new western bay which serves as a sort of ante-chapel to the nave and choir which now form the college chapel of christ church. but the appearance of the cathedral owes something of its strangeness to the fact that it represents, in general plan, the design of king Æthelred's church reared upon the site of s. frideswide's. chapter ii the mound, the castle and some churches the property of s. frideswide's nunnery formed one of the chief elements in the formation of the plan of oxford. the houses of the population which would spring up in connection with it were probably grouped on the slope by the northern enclosure wall of the nunnery, and were themselves bounded on the north by the road which afterwards became the high street, and on the west by that which was afterwards named southgate street, then fish street, and is now known as s. aldate's. this road, giving access from wessex to mercia, was probably one of the direct lines from the north-west to london in the tenth century. it led down to the old fords over the shallows which once intersected the meadows of south hincksey, and gave, as some suppose, its name to the town.[ ] the fords were superseded by the old grand pont, and grand pont in turn by folly bridge. folly bridge, as it now stands, was built a little south of grand pont, the old river-course to the north having been filled up by an embankment. the river now marks the shire boundary which was once marked hereabouts by the shire ditch. crossing the bridge to the berkshire shore, the road, wherein you may still trace the piers of the old grand pont "linked with many a bridge," leads up to hincksey. there the modern golf-links are, and the "lone, sky-pointing tree" that clough and arnold loved. and this road it was which, in the poetic imagination of matthew arnold, was haunted by the scholar gipsy. the main road leads over the hill, which is crowned by bagley wood, to abingdon. that charming village, where once the great monastery stood, was separated in early days from the city by a great oak forest. wandering therein, book in hand, a certain student, so the story runs, was met by a ferocious wild boar, which he overcame by thrusting his aristotle down the beast's throat. the boar, having no taste for such logic, was choked by it, and his head, borne home in triumph, was served up, no doubt, at table in the student's hall with a sprig of rosemary in its mouth. the custom of serving a boar's head on christmas day at queen's college, whilst the tabarder sang: "the boar's head in hand bear i bedecked with bays and rosemary, and i pray you masters merry be-- quotquot estis in convivio. chorus--_caput apri defero_ _reddens laudes domino_," _etc._, is said to have originated in that incident. s. aldate's road, after leaving the river, skirted the enclosure of s. frideswide, and gradually ascended the sloping gravel bank in a northerly direction. here it was met by another road which, coming from the east, connected oxford with the wallingford district. the crossing of these roads came to be known as the four ways, quadrifurcus, corrupted into carfax. and carfax was the second of the chief elements in the formation of oxford. for at this point, as if to mark its importance in the history of the town, was erected s. martin's church, which has always been the city church, and in the churchyard of which town councils (portmannimotes) perhaps were held. it was founded under a charter of cnut ( ) by the wealthy and vigorous abbey of abingdon, which, together with the foundation at eynsham, seems to have thrown the monastery of s. frideswide very much into the shade both as to energy and influence. [illustration: abingdon abbey] the tower, restored by mr t. g. jackson, is the only remaining fragment of the old church. a modern structure was wisely removed in to broaden the thoroughfare. two quaint figures, which in bygone days struck the quarters on the old church, have been restored to a conspicuous position on the tower. shakespeare, who on his way to stratford used to stop at the crown inn, a house then situated near the cross in the cornmarket, is said to have stood sponsor in the old church to sir william davenant in . john davenant, father of the poet and landlord of the inn, was mayor of oxford. his wife was a very beautiful woman. scandal reported that shakespeare was more than godfather to sir william. but if the tower be all that remains of the original structure, "s. martin's at carfax" still commands the high street, and, serene amidst the din of trams, of skurrying marketers and jostling undergraduates, recalls the days when the town was yet in the infancy of its eventful life. the third element in the formation of the place was the mound. mediæval towns usually began by clustering thickly round a stronghold, and there is reason to believe that at the beginning of the tenth century oxford was provided with a fortress. in the year oxford is mentioned for the first time in authentic history. for there is an entry in the saxon chronicle to the effect that "this year died Æthelred, ealdorman of the mercians, and king edward took possession of london and oxford and of all the lands which owed obedience thereto." the danes were ravaging the country. mercia had been over-run by them the year before. the chronicle for several years presents a record of the danes attacking various places, and either eadward or his sister Æthelflæd defending them and building fortresses for their defence. they fortified, for instance, tamworth and warwick and runcorn, and at each of these places the common feature of fortification is a conical mound of earth. take a tram from carfax to the railway station, and stop at the county courts and gaol on your way. the county gaol you need not visit, or admire its absurd battlements, but within the sham façade is the tower that remains from the castle of robert d'oigli, and beside the tower is just such a conical mound of earth--the castle mound. against raids and incursions oxford was naturally protected on three sides. for the thames on the west and south and the cherwell on the east cut her off from the attack of land forces, whilst even against danes coming up the thames from reading, marsh lands and minor streams within the belt of these outer waters protected her. for in those early days, when nature had things almost entirely her own way, there were many more branches of the river, many minor tributary streams flowing where now you see nothing but houses and streets. the trill mill stream, for instance, which left the main stream on the west of what is now paradise square, is now covered over for the greater part of its course; whilst the main stream, after passing beneath the road some seventy yards outside south gate, gave off another stream running due south, parallel with the road to folly bridge, but itself evidently continued its own course across merton fields by the side of what is now broad walk, and finally found its way into the cherwell. and besides this stream, which ran under s. frideswide's enclosure, there were, on the east, the minor streams which now enclose the magdalen walks. but what oxford needed to strengthen her was some wall or fosse along the line occupied afterwards by the northern wall of the city, along the line, that is, of george street, broad street and holywell, and also some _place d'armes_, some mound, according to the fashion of the times, with accompanying ditches. with these defences it seems probable that she was now provided. thus fortified oxford becomes the chief town of oxfordshire, the district attached to it. and during the last terrible struggle of england with the danes its position on the borders of the mercian and west-saxon realms seems for the moment to have given it a political importance under Æthelred and cnut strikingly analogous to that which it acquired in the great rebellion. after sweyn's death oxford was chosen as the meeting-place of the great gemot of the kingdom. the gemots, which were now and afterwards held at oxford, were probably held about the mound, where houses were erected for the royal residence. in one of these Æthelweard, the king's son, breathed his last; one was the scene of another dastardly murder of danes, when eadric ( ) ensnared sigeferth and morkere into his chamber, and there slew them. and here it was, according to henry of huntingdon, that king edmund, who had been making so gallant a struggle against the conquering cnut, was murdered by eadric's son. eadric, we know, was a traitor, and well-skilled in murders at oxford. he, when his son had stabbed edmund by his directions, came to cnut and [illustration: cornmarket street] "saluted him, saying, 'hail, thou art sole king.' when he had laid bare the deed done, the king answered, 'i will make thee on account of thy great deserts higher than all the tall men of england.' and he ordered him to be beheaded and his head to be fixed on a pole on the highest tower of london. thus perished edmund, a brave king." and cnut, the dane, reigned in his stead. beneath the shadow of the mound, built to repel the danish incursions, the danish king now held an assembly of the people. at this gemot "danes and angles were unanimous, at oxford, for eadgar's law." the old laws of the country were, then, to be retained, and his new subjects were reconciled to the danish king. but these subjects, the townsmen of those days, are but dim and shadowy beings to us. it is only by later records that we see them going on pilgrimage to the shrines of winchester, or chaffering in their market-place, or judging and law-making in their husting, their merchant-guild regulating trade, their reeve gathering his king's dues of tax or honey, or marshalling his troop of burghers for the king's wars, their boats floating down the thames towards london and paying the toll of a hundred herrings in lent-tide to the abbot of abingdon by the way. for the river was the highway, and toll was levied on it. in edward the confessor's time, in return for the right of making a passage through the mead belonging to abingdon, it was agreed that all barges that passed through carrying herrings during lent should give to the cook of that monastery a hundred of them, and that when the servant of each barge brought them into the kitchen the cook should give him for his pains five of them, a loaf of bread and a measure of ale. in the seventeenth century the river had become so choked that no traffic was possible above maidenhead till an act was passed for the re-opening of it. it was at oxford that a great assembly of all the witan was held to elect cnut's successor harold, and at oxford, so pernicious a place for kings, that harold died. at oxford again when the northumbrian rebels, slaying and burning, had reached it ( ), the gemot was held which, in renouncing tostig, came to the decision, the direct result of which was to leave england open to the easy conquest of william of normandy when he landed in the following year. five years later we find robert d'oigli in peaceful possession of oxford, busy building one of those norman castles, by which william made good his hold upon england, strongholds for his norman friends, prisons for rebellious englishmen. the river he held by such fortresses as this at oxford, and the castles of wallingford and windsor. oxford had submitted without resistance to the conqueror. there is no evidence that she suffered siege like exeter or york, but many historians, freeman among them, state that she was besieged. they have been misled by the error of a transcriber. savile printed _urbem oxoniam_, for _exoniam_, in his edition of "william of malmesbury," and the mischief was done. a siege at this time has been supposed to explain a remarkable fact which is recorded in the domesday survey. "in the time of king edward," so runs the record of domesday book: "oxeneford paid for toll and gable and all other customs yearly--to the king twenty pounds, and six measures of honey, and to earl algar ten pounds, besides his mill within the [city]. when the king went out to war, twenty burgesses went with him in lieu of the rest, or they gave twenty pounds to the king that all might be free. now oxeneford pays sixty pounds at twenty-pence to the ounce. _in the town itself, as well within the wall as without, there are houses that pay geld, and besides these there are houses unoccupied and ruined (tam vastæ et destructæ) so that they can pay no geld._ the king has twenty wall mansions, which were earl algar's in the time of king edward, paying both then and now fourteen shillings less twopence; and one mansion paying sixpence, belonging to shipton; another paying fourpence, belonging to bloxham; a third paying thirty pence, belonging to risborough; and two others paying fourpence, belonging to twyford in buckinghamshire; one of these is unoccupied. they are called wall mansions because, if there is need and the king command it, they shall repair the wall.... all the burgesses of oxeneford hold in common a pasture outside the wall that brings in six shillings and eightpence.... if any stranger who chooses to live in oxeneford, and has a house, dies there without relatives, the king has all that he leaves." the extraordinary proportion of ruined and uninhabited houses enumerated in this record, however, was probably due not to any siege by the normans and not mainly to harsh treatment at their hands, but to the ravaging and burning of that rebellious band of northumbrians who had come upon oxford "like a whirlwind" in . robert d'oigli himself is recorded to have had "forty-two inhabited houses as well within as without the wall. of these sixteen pay geld and gable, the rest pay neither, on account of poverty; and he has eight mansions unoccupied and thirty acres of meadow near the wall and a mill of ten shillings. the whole is worth three pounds and for one manor held he holds with the benefice of s. peter...." (sentence incomplete). these houses belonged wholly to holywell manor,[ ] and the mill referred to is no doubt that known as _holywell mill_, supplied with water from the cherwell. thus domesday book gives us a glimpse of a compact little town within a vallum, half a mile from east to west, and a quarter of a mile south to north. we may think of the gravel promontory as covered with houses and their gardens, and inhabited by some thousand souls. a market-place there would have been at or near carfax, and fairs must have been held there, though we have no mention of them till the reign of henry i. the "wall" of the enceinte, which, according to domesday book, the inhabitants of the mural mansions were compelled to repair, was probably a vallum of earth faced with stone, protected by a deep ditch in front, and surmounted by wood-work to save the soldiers from arrows. d'oigli, we may presume, put the existing fortifications of the town in order. the fortifications, which were constructed in the reign of henry iii., followed in the main the line of the vallum repaired by d'oigli. they consisted of a curtain wall and outer ditch, protected by a parapet and by round towers placed at regular intervals and advanced so as to command besiegers who might approach to attack the wall. there were staircases to the top of the towers. a good idea of them and the general scheme of the fortifications may be obtained by a visit to the fragment of the city wall which yet remains within the precincts of new college. the slype, as it is called, forms a most picturesque approach to new college gardens, and the old-bastioned wall forms part of the boundary between the new college property and holywell street. it is indeed owing to this fact that the wall still remains there intact, for the licence to found a college there was granted to william of wykeham on condition of keeping the city wall in repair and of allowing access to the mayor and burgesses once in three years to see that this was done, and to defend the wall in time of war. from new college the city wall ran down to the high street.[ ] the east gate hotel, facing the new schools, marks the site of the old entrance to the city hereabouts. it is a recent construction in excellent taste by mr e. p. warren. from this point the wall ran on to merton, and thence to christ church. the south wall of the cathedral chapter house is on the line of the old city wall. it is said that some of the old wall was taken down for the erection [illustration: the bastion and ramparts in new college] of the college hall. along the north side of brewer street (lambard's lane, slaying lane or king's street) are here and there stones of the city wall, if not remnants of the walling. at the extreme end of brewer street the arch of slaying lane well is just visible, once described as "under the wall." [illustration: city walls] the south gate spanned s. aldate's, close to the south-west corner of christ church; little gate was at the end of brewer street, and the west gate was in castle street, beyond the old church of s. peter-le-bailly. from the south gate faint traces in "the friars" indicate its course, and the indications are clear enough by new inn hall street, ship inn yard and bullock's alley. cornmarket street was crossed by s. michael's church, where stood the north gate. the gate house of the north gate was used as the town prison. it rejoiced in the name of bocardo, jestingly so called from a figure in logic; for a man once committed to that form of syllogism could not expect to extricate himself save by special processes. old bastions and the line of the ditch are found behind the houses opposite balliol college. the site of balliol college was then an open space, and broad street was canditch. this name was derived by wood from candida fossa, a ditch with a clear stream running along it. wood's etymology is not convincing. mr hurst has suggested a more likely derivation in camp ditch. as a street name it reached from the angle of balliol to smith gate. an indication of the old fosse, filled up, is to be found in the broad gravel walk north of the wall near new college. from bocardo the wall ran towards the sheldonian theatre. the outer line of the passage between exeter chapel and the house to the north of it was the line of the south face of the old city wall. a bastion was laid bare in in the north quad of exeter. the wall passed in a diagonal line across the quadrangle south of the clarendon building, turned northwards in cat's street, and ran up to the octagonal chapel of our lady by smith gate. the remains of this little chapel, with a beautiful little "annunciation" in a panel over the south entrance, have recently been revealed to the passer-by by the new buildings of hertford college, between which and the feeble mass of the indian institute it seems strangely out of place. [illustration: chapel of our lady.] from smith gate the wall returned to new college, and so completed the circuit of the town. a reference to the map will elucidate this bare narration of mine. but to return to robert d'oigli, the conqueror's castellan. from what little we know of him, he would appear to have been a typical norman baron, ruthless, yet superstitious, strong to conquer and strong to hold. very much the rough, marauding soldier, but gifted with an instinct for government and order, he came over to the conquest of england in the train of william the bastard and in the company of roger d'ivry, his sworn brother, to whom, as the chronicler tells us, he was "iconfederyd and ibownde by faith and sacrament." oxfordshire was committed to his charge by the conqueror, to reduce to final subjection and order. he seems to have ruled it in rude soldierly fashion, enforcing order, tripling the taxation of the town and pillaging without scruple the religious houses of the neighbourhood. for it was only by such ruthless exaction that the work which william had [illustration: bird's-eye view of oxford by ralph agas ( ): from the engraving by whittlesey ( ).] set him to do could be done. he had indeed been amply provided for, so far as he himself was concerned, by the conqueror, chiefly through a marriage with a daughter of wiggod of wallingford, who had been cupbearer to edward the confessor; but money was needed for the great fortress which was now to be built to hold the town, after the fashion of the normans, and by holding the town to secure, as we have said, the river. "in the year ," it is recorded in the chronicle of osney abbey, "was built the castle of oxford by robert d'oigli." and by the castle we must understand not the mound which was already there, nor such a castle as was afterwards built in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but at least the great tower of stone which still exists and was intended to guard the western approach to the castle. s. george's tower, for so it was called because it was joined to the chapel of s. george's college within the precincts, was upon the line of the enceinte. the walls are eight feet four inches thick at the bottom, though not more than four feet at the top. the doorway, which is some twelve feet from the ground, was on the level of the vallum or wall of fortification, and gave access to the first floor. there are traces of six doorways above the lead roof, which gave access to the "hourdes." these were wooden hoardings or galleries that could be put up outside. they had holes for the crossbows, and holes for the pouring down of stones, boiling pitch or oil on to the heads of threatening sappers. they were probably stored in the top room of the tower, which is windowless. the construction of the staircase of the tower is very peculiar. ascend it and you will obtain a magnificent view of oxford, of iffley and sandford lock, shotover and the chiltern hills, hincksey, portmeadow, godstow, woodstock and wytham woods. on the mound close at hand there was, after d'oigli's day, a ten-sided keep built in the style of henry iii. to reach the mound you go within the gaol, and pass by a pathetic little row of murderers' graves, sanded heaps, distinguished by initials. under the mound is a very deep well, covered over by a groined chamber of transitional design. five towers were added later to the castle, as agas' map ( ) shows us. after the civil war, colonel draper, governor of oxford, "sleighted," as wood expresses it, the work about the city, but greatly strengthened the castle. but in the following year ( ), when the scots invaded england, he, for some reason, "sleighted" the castle works too. the five towers, shown in agas' map, and other fortifications then disappeared. s. george's tower alone survives. stern and grim that one remaining fragment of the old castle stands up against the sky, a landmark that recalls the good government of the norman kings. but the most romantic episode connected with it occurred amidst the horrors of the time when the weakness and misrule of stephen, and the endeavours of matilda to supplant him, had plunged the country into that chaos of pillage and bloodshed from which the norman rule had hitherto preserved it. after the death of his son, henry i. had forced the barons to swear to elect his daughter matilda as his successor. but they elected stephen of blois, grandson of the conqueror, whose chief claim to the crown, from their point of view, was his weak character. in a parliament at oxford ( ) he granted a charter with large liberties to the church, but his weakness and prodigality soon gave the barons opportunities of revolt. released from the stern control of henry they began to fortify their castles; in self-defence the great ministers of the late king followed their example. stephen seized the bishops of salisbury and lincoln at oxford, and forced them to surrender their strongholds. the king's misplaced violence broke up the whole system of government, turned the clergy against him and opened the way for the revolt of the adherents of matilda. the west was for her; london and the east supported stephen. victory at lincoln placed stephen a captive in the hands of matilda, and the [illustration: oxford castle] land received her as its "lady." but her contemptuous refusal to allow the claims of the londoners to enjoy their old privileges, and her determination to hold stephen a prisoner, strengthened the hand of her opponents. they were roused to renew their efforts. matilda was forced to flee to oxford, and there she was besieged by stephen, who had obtained his release. stephen marched on oxford, crossed the river at the head of his men, routed the queen's supporters, and set fire to the city. matilda shut herself up in the castle and prepared to resist the attacks of the king. but stephen prosecuted the siege with great vigour; every approach to the castle was carefully guarded, and after three months the garrison was reduced to the greatest straits. provisions were exhausted; the long-looked-for succour never came; without, stephen pushed the siege harder than ever. it seemed certain that matilda must fall into his hands. her capture would be the signal for the collapse of the rebellion. but just as the end seemed inevitable, matilda managed to escape in marvellous wise. there had been a heavy fall of snow; so far as the eye could see from the castle towers the earth was hidden beneath a thick white pall. the river was frozen fast. the difficulty of distinguishing a white object on this white background, and the opportunity of crossing the frozen river by other means than that of the guarded bridge, suggested a last faint chance of escape. matilda's courage rose to the occasion. she draped herself in white, and with but one companion stole out of the beleaguered castle at dead of night, and made her way, unseen, unheard through the friendly snow. dry-footed she stole across the river, and gradually the noise of the camp faded away into the distance behind her. for six weary miles she stumbled on through the heavy drifts of snow, until at last she arrived in safety at wallingford. the bird had flown, and the castle shortly afterwards surrendered to the baffled king (_gesta stephani_). during this siege the people were deprived of the use of the church of s. george, and to supply their spiritual needs a new church sprang into existence. it was dedicated to s. nicholas, and afterwards to s. thomas a becket. of the original church, just opposite the l. & n.w. railway station, part of the chancel remains. the tower is fifteenth century. the castle mill is mentioned in the domesday survey. the present mill no doubt occupies the same site; its foundations may preserve some of the same masonry as that which is thus recorded to have existed hereabouts before the conquest. you will notice that the castle occupies almost the lowest position in the town, and remembering all the other norman castles you have seen, windsor or durham, lincoln or william the bastard's own birth-place at falaise, the oxford site may well give you pause, till you remember that the position of the old tenth-century fort had been chosen as the one which best commanded the streams against the danes, whose incursions were mainly made by means of the rivers. if carfax had been clear, d'oigli would have built his castle at carfax; but it was covered with houses and s. martin's; and, shrinking from the expense that would have been involved, and the outcry that would have been raised, if he had cleared the high central point of the town, he was content to modify and strengthen the old fort. but as the descent of queen street from carfax threatened the castle, if the town were taken, there was no regular communication made between the castle and the town. a wooden drawbridge across the deep ditches that defended the castle led to the town, somewhere near castle street. this would be destroyed in time of danger. no other entrance to the town was allowed on this side. "all persons coming across the meadows from the west and all the goods disembarked at the hythe from the barges and boats would have to be taken in at the north gate of the town, the road passing along the north bank of the city ditch and following, probably, exactly the same course as that followed by george street to-day" (parker). and round about the castle itself an open space was preserved by the policy of the castellan, and known as the bailly (ballium, outer court). the church of s. peter le bailly recalls the fact. study the history of most cathedrals and you will discover that, like chartres or durham, "half house of god, half castle 'gainst the scot," they have served and were intended to serve at some period of their career as fortresses as well as churches. when bishop remigius removed the see from dorchester to lincoln, as he did at this time ( ), henry of huntingdon writes: "he built a church to the virgin of virgins, strong in a strong position, fair in a fair spot, which was agreeable to those who serve god and also, as was needful at the time, impregnable to an enemy." the tower of s. michael's at north gate is a good example of this mingling of the sacred with the profane, and the architectural feature of it is that it combines the qualities of a campanile with those of the tower of the castle. it was a detached tower, and not part and parcel of the church which stood at the north gate, as it is now. in the fifteenth century the city wall was extended northwards so as to include the church. the tower is placed just where we should expect to find that the need of fortification was felt. south and east, oxford was now protected by the thames and the cherwell as well as by her "vallum," and on the west was the castle. but the north gate needed protection, and d'oigli built the tower of s. michael's to give it, spiritual and temporal both. at a later date there was erected a chapel, also dedicated to s. michael, near the south gate, and with reference to this church and chapel and the churches of s. peter in the east and in the west, there is a mediæval couplet which runs as follows: "invigilat portæ australi boreæque michael, exortum solem petrus regit atque cadentem." "at north gate and at south gate too s. michael guards the way, while o'er the east and o'er the west s. peter holds his sway." the military character of s. michael's tower is marked by that round-headed doorway, which you may perceive some thirty feet from the ground on the north side. just as the blocked-up archways at the top of the castle tower once gave access to the wooden galleries which projected from the wall, so this doorway opened on to a lower gallery which guarded the approach to the adjoining gateway. on the south side of the tower you will find traces of another doorway, the base of which was about twelve feet from the level of the ground. it is reasonable to suppose that the tower projected from the north side of the rampart, and that this doorway was the means of communication between them. the other doorway, on the west side, level with the street, gave access from the road to the basement story of the tower. architecturally the tower may be said to be a connecting link between the romanesque and norman styles. the system of rubble, with long-and-short work at the angles, has not yet given place to that of surface ashlar masonry throughout, and the eight pilaster windows, it should be observed, of rude stone-work carved with the axe, present the plain, pierced arches, with mid-wall shafts, which preceded the splayed norman window and arches with orders duly recessed. the church itself adjoining the tower is of various periods, chiefly fourteenth century. it was, together with s. mildred's, united (in ) to all saint's church, which then was made a collegiate parish church by the foundation of lincoln college adjoining. not only was robert d'oigli a builder of walls and towers, but, in the end, of churches also. the chronicle of abingdon abbey records the story of his conversion. "in his greed for gain, says the chronicler, he did everywhere harass the churches, and especially the abbey of abingdon. amongst other evil deeds he appropriated for the use of the castle garrison a meadow that lay outside the walls of oxford and belonged to the abbey. touched to the quick the brethren assembled before their altar and cried to heaven for vengeance. meantime, whilst day and night they were thus calling upon the blessed mary, robert fell into a grievous sickness in which he continued many days impenitent, until one night he dreamed that he stood within the palace of a certain great king. and before a glorious lady who was seated upon a throne there knelt two of the monks whose names he knew and they said 'lady, this is he who seizes the lands of your church.' after which words were uttered she turned herself with great indignation towards robert and commanded him to be thrust out of doors and to be led to the meadow. and two youths made him sit down there, and a number of ruffianly lads piled burning hay round him and made sport of him. some tossed haybands in his face and others singed his beard and the like. his wife, seeing that he was sleeping heavily, woke him up and on his narrating to her his dream she urged him to go to abingdon and restore the meadow. to abingdon therefore he caused his men to row him and there before the altar he made satisfaction." there are two points to be noted in this story. first, that the meadow in question was doubtless that which bears the name of _king's mead_ to this day; second, that the river was a much used highway in those and in much later times, ere money and macadam, and afterwards george stephenson, had substituted roads and rails and made the water-way slow and no safer. to return to our chronicler. "and after the aforesaid vision which he had seen, how that he was tortured by evil demons at the command of the mother of god, not only did he devote himself to the building of the church of s. mary of abingdon but he also repaired at his own expense other parish churches that were in a ruined state both within and without the walls. a great bridge, also, was built by him on the north side of oxford (high or hythe (= haven) bridge). and he dying in the month of september was honourably buried within the presbytery at abingdon on the north side, and his wife lies in peace buried on his left." together with his sworn friend, roger d'ivry, he founded the "church of s. george in the castle of oxenford." this church stood adjacent to the castle tower, but it was removed in to make room for the prison buildings.[ ] probably, also, d'oigli founded a church, dedicated to s. mary magdalen, situated just without the north gate, and intended to supply the spiritual wants of travellers and dwellers without the walls. the church was on the site of the present church of s. mary magdalen; but no trace of the original work has been left by the early victorian restorers. it passed with the church of s. george to osney abbey, and then with its patron to the successors of the canons of s. frideswide's, the prebends or canons of christ church. d'oigli probably built also the church of s. michael at the north gate and s. peter's within the east gate; and as for his restorations, they may have included the parish church, s. martin's, and also s. mary's and s. ebbe's, which latter may possibly have been built in the time of edward the confessor. how very literally s. peter's guarded the east may be gathered by inspecting the two turrets at the east end of the church. there were small openings in these whence a watch could be kept over the streams and the approach to east gate. whether the crypt of this church, as we now have it, dates entirely from d'oigli's time is a moot point. it may be that it does, but the actual masonry, it will be noticed, the ashlar work, capitals and arches, are superior to that of the castle and s. michael's. the plan of the original crypt of s. george's in the castle shows that it had, in accordance with the general rule of eleventh-century work in this country, an apsidal termination. the crypt of s. peter's, as built in d'oigli's day, was, it is suggested, no exception. it had an apsidal termination which did not extend so far towards the east as the present construction. but, as happened again and again in the history of innumerable churches and cathedrals at [illustration: s. peter's in the east] home and abroad, of chartres, rochester, canterbury, for instance, the crypt was presently extended eastwards. the extension in the present case would enable the small apse to be changed into a larger choir with a rectangular east end. the result is, that looking eastwards, and noticing that there is no apparent break between the wall of the crypt and the wall of the chancel above, which evidently belongs to the middle of the twelfth century, you would be inclined to attribute the whole crypt to that date, if you did not notice the small doorways on either side and at the western end. looking westward, you see work which carries you back to the days when s. michael's and the castle tower were being built. for the three western arches, two of them doorways now blocked up and the central one open, indicate a type of crypt which is generally held not to have been used later than the beginning of the twelfth century. the essential features of this type were that the vault of the crypt was raised some feet above the level of the floor of the nave, and that both from the north and south side of the nave steps led down into the crypt. and in some cases there were central steps as well, or at least some opening from the nave. here then, as at repton, you have indications of this type, for behind each of the blocked-up doorways is a passage leading to some steps or clear traces of steps, and the central archway may have provided originally an opening to the nave, through which a shrine may have been visible, or else a communication by central steps. the entrance to this remarkable crypt, with its vaulting of semi-circular arches of hewn stone, is from the outside. the crypt has capitals of a peculiar design to several of the shafts, and four of the bases ornamented with spurs formed by the heads of lizard-shaped animals. the chancel and the south doorway afford remarkably rich examples of the late norman style. the fifteenth-century porch, with a room over it, somewhat hides, but has doubtless protected the latter. the early decorated tower, the exterior arcading of the chancel, the unique groining of the sanctuary ("s. peter's chain,") and the two beautiful decorated windows on the north, and the early english arcade of the nave, are all worthy of remark in this interesting church. of the old church of s. ebbe (s. Æbba was the sister of s. oswald), which was rebuilt in and again partially in , nothing now remains save the stone-work of a very rich late norman doorway, which was taken down and built into the south wall of the modern building. the other church which is mentioned at this period is s. aldate's. now, nothing is known of the saint to whom this church is supposed to have been dedicated, and from whom, as we have seen, the street which runs from carfax to folly bridge borrows its name. in no ancient martyrology or calendar does s. aldate appear. it is quite possible that there was such a saint, and if there was, he would not be the only one who survives in our memory solely by virtue of the churches dedicated to him. but the corruption--s. told's--s. old's is found in thirteenth-century chartularies and in popular parlance to-day. this corruption is curious, and may be significant. s. aldate's church at oxford lies just within the old south gate of the town; the only other church of the same name lies just within the old north gate of gloucester. in an old map of gloucester this latter church is called s. aldgate's; in an old map of oxford the same spelling occurs. at oxford the street now known as s. aldate's was once called south gate street. it seems likely, therefore, that aldate represents a corruption from old gate = aldgate = aldate, and that the name, when it had become so far corrupted, was supposed to be that of a saint. but the true meaning, as so often happens, lived on, when men spoke with unconscious correctness of s. old's. the church itself, as it now stands, is chiefly the product of a restoration in ,[ ] but the south aisle was built in by sir john docklington, a fishmonger who was several times mayor. over it there used to be an upper story which served as a library for the use of students in civil law who frequented the neighbouring hall, broadgates hall, which became pembroke college in , when thomas tesdale endowed it and named it after lord pembroke the chancellor, and king james assumed the honours of founder. in the library the refectory of the old hall survives. the rest of the front quadrangle was added in the seventeenth century and gothicised in the eighteenth. it was in a room over the gateway that dr johnson lived, when pembroke was "a nest of singing birds." the eighteenth-century chapel, decorated ( ) by mr kempe, and the new hall should tempt the visitor into the back quadrangle. in the days of robert d'oigli, then, oxford was provided with no less than eight churches, dedicated to s. frideswide, s. martin, s. george, s. mary magdalen, s. mary the virgin, s. peter, s. michael and s. ebbe. by the end of the reign of henry i. this number had been more than doubled. and seeing that much church building is and always was a sign of prosperity and security, the fact that eight new churches sprang up within so short a time after the norman conquest may be taken to prove that under her sheriffs and portreeves oxford enjoyed good government and made rapid progress in population and wealth. of these eight or ten new churches no trace remains of s. mildred's, save the pathway across the old churchyard which survives in the modern brasenose lane; and the church dedicated to s. eadward the martyr, which lay between s. frideswide's and the high, has likewise disappeared; the exact sites of the church of s. budoc, the chapel of the holy trinity and of s. michael at the south gate, cannot be identified; the chapel of s. clement, on the other side of magdalen bridge, gave way to a fourteenth-century church, and was wholly cleared away at the beginning of the nineteenth century; all saint's and s. peter's, in the bailey of the castle, were entirely rebuilt in the eighteenth century, and the latter re-erected on another site in the nineteenth. the old chancel arch in the church of s. cross (holywell) dates from the end of the eleventh century, and this church was probably founded about this time by robert d'oigli or his successors for the benefit of the growing population on holywell manor. the present church of s. clement, on the marston road, near the new magdalen and trinity cricket grounds, is an early victorian imitation of norman style, and well described as the "boiled rabbit." the castle tower, the tower of s. michael's, the crypt of s. peter's in the east, holywell and the castle mill, the chancel of s. cross, these are all landmarks that recall the days when d'oigli governed oxford, and the servants of william surveyed england and registered for him his new estate. but there is one other item in the domesday record which deserves to be noticed: "all burgesses of oxford hold in common a pasture without the wall which brings in s. d." how many oxford men realise, when they make their way to port meadow to sail their centre-boards on the upper river, that this ancient "port" (or "town") meadow is still set apart for its ancient purpose, that the rights of the freemen of oxford to have free pasture therein have been safeguarded for eight hundred years by the portreeve or shire-reeve (sheriff), annually appointed to fulfil this duty by the portmannimot (or town council)? robert d'oigli died childless. he was succeeded by his nephew, the second robert, who had wedded edith, a concubine of henry i. she, dwelling in the castle, was wont to walk in the direction of what is now the great western railway station and the cemetery, being attracted thither by the "chinking rivulets and shady groves." [illustration: entrance front pembroke college] and it is said that there one evening, "she saw a great company of pyes gathered together on a tree, making a hideous noise with their chattering, and seeming, as 'twere, to direct their chatterings to her." the experience was repeated, and the lady sent for her confessor, one radulphus, a canon of s. frideswide's, and asked him what the reason of their chattering might be. radulphus, "the wiliest pye of all," wood calls him, explained that "these were no pyes, but so many poor souls in purgatory that do beg and make all this complaint for succour and relief; and they do direct their clamours to you, hoping that by your charity you would bestow something both worthy of their relief, as also for the welfare of yours and your posterity's souls, as your husband's uncle did in founding the college and church of s. george." these words being finisht, she replied, "and is it so indeed? now de pardieux, if old robin my husband will concede to my request, i shall do my best endeavour to be a means to bring these wretched souls to rest." and her husband, as the result of her importunities, "founded the monastery of osney, near or upon the place where these pyes chattered ( ), dedicating it to s. mary, allotting it to be a receptacle of canon regulars of s. augustine, and made radulphus the first prior thereof." osney was rebuilt in . the legate proclaimed forty days' indulgence to anyone who should contribute towards the building of it. the result was one of the most magnificent abbeys in the country. "the fabric of the church," says wood, "was more than ordinary excelling." its two stately towers and exquisite windows moved the envy and admiration of englishmen and foreigners alike. when, in , oxford ceased to belong to the diocese of lincoln, and the new see was created, robert king, the last abbot of osney, was made first bishop of osney. but it was only for a few years that the bishop's stool was set up in the church of s. mary. in henry the viii. moved the see to s. frideswide's, and converted the priory, which wolsey had made a college, into both college and cathedral. and the abbey of osney was devoted to destruction. "sir," said dr johnson when he saw the ruins of that great foundation, stirred by the memory of its splendid cloister and spacious quadrangle as large as tom quad, its magnificent church, its schools and libraries, the oriel windows and high-pitched roofs of its water-side buildings, and the abbot's lodgings, spacious and fair, "sir! to look upon them fills me with indignation!" agas' map ( ) represents the abbey as still standing, but roofless; the fortifications in accounted for the greater part of what then remained. the mean surroundings of the railway station mark the site of the first cathedral of oxford. the cemetery chapel is on the site of the old nave. a few tiles and fragments of masonry, the foundations of the gateway and a piece of a building attached to the mill, are the only remains that will reward you for an unpleasant afternoon's exploration in this direction. better, instead of trying so to make these dead stones live, to go to the cathedral and there look at the window in the south choir aisle, which was buried during the civil war and, thus preserved from the destructive puritans, put up again at the restoration. this painted window, which is perhaps from the hand of the dutchman van ling ( ), represents bishop king in cope and mitre, and among the trees in the background is a picture of osney abbey already in ruins. the bishop's tomb, it should be added, of which a missing fragment has this year been discovered, lies in the bay between the south choir aisle and s. lucy's chapel. but there is one other survival of osney abbey of which you cannot long remain unaware. you will not have been many hours in the "sweet city of the dreaming spires" before you hear the "merry christ church bells" of dean aldrich's[ ] well-known catch ring out, or the cracked b flat of great tom, booming his hundred and one strokes, tolling the hundred students of the scholastic establishment and the one "outcomer" of the thurston foundation, and signalling at the same time to all "scholars to repair to their respective colleges and halls" and to all the colleges to close their gates ( . p.m.). and these bells, hautclerc, douce, clement, austin, marie, gabriel et john, as they are named in the hexameter, are the famous osney bells, which were held to be the finest in england in the days when bell-founding was a serious art and a solemn rite, when bells were baptized and anointed, exorcised and blessed by the bishop, so that they might have power to drive the devil out of the air, to calm tempests, to extinguish fire, and to recreate even the dead. they are hung within the bell-tower (above the hall-staircase of christ church), which mr bodley has built about the wooden structure which contains them, and which he intended to surmount with a lofty and intricate wooden superstructure. but tom is placed in his own tower, over the entrance from s. aldate's into the great quad to which he has given his name. the lower story of tom tower was built by wolsey (the faire gate it was called, and the cardinal's statue is over the gateway), but the octagonal cupola which gives to it its characteristic appearance was added by sir christopher wren. tom weighed , pounds, and bore the inscription:-- _in thomæ laude resono bim bom sine fraude_, but he was re-cast in ( ft. in. in diameter, and weighing over tons). the inscription records:-- _magnus thomas clusius oxoniensis renatus, ap. , ._ translated here, he has rung out, since the anniversary of the restoration on the th of may , nightly without intermission, save on that night some years ago when the undergraduates of christ church cut the rope as a protest when they were not allowed to attend the ball given at blenheim in honour of the coming of age of the duke of marlborough, and curfew did not ring that night. there is one other monument in oxford which is connected by popular tradition with the last abbot of osney, and that is the exceedingly picturesque old house[ ] in s. aldate's. richly and quaintly carved, this old timber mansion is known as the bishop's palace, and is said to have been the residence of bishop king, after the see was transferred from osney to christ church. [illustration: gables in st aldate's] the town, we have seen, had been ruined, and very many of the houses were "waste," when the normans conquered england. but in the new era of prosperity and security which their coming gave to the land, in the sudden development of industry and wealth which the rule of the conquerors fostered, oxford had her full share. the buildings of which remnants or records remain bear witness to the new order of things. such works as those which we have described could not then or now be done without money. the transformation of oxford at this period, from a town of wooden houses, in great part uninhabited, to a town of stone houses, with a castle and many churches of stone, is an indication of wealth. and that wealth was a product not only of the new régime of order and security, but also of the new policy of the foreign kings. the erection of stately castles and yet statelier abbeys which followed the conquest, says mr green, the rebuilding of almost every cathedral and conventual church, mark the advent of the jewish capitalist. from this time forward till the jew was protected in england and his commercial enterprise fostered. he was introduced and protected as a chattel of the king, and as such exempt from the common law and common taxation of englishmen. in oxford, as elsewhere, the jews lived apart, using their own language, their own religion and laws, their own peculiar commerce and peculiar dress. here the great and little jewries extended along fish street (s. old's) to the present great gate of christ church, and embraced a square of little streets, behind this line, which was isolated and exempt from the common responsibilities and obligations of the town. the church itself was powerless against the synagogue, which rose in haughty rivalry beside the cloister of s. frideswide. little wonder if the priory and jewry were soon at deadly feud. in we find prior phillip complaining of a certain deus-cum-crescat (gedaliah) son of mossey, who, presuming upon his exemption from the jurisdiction of any but the king, had dared to mock at the procession of s. frideswide. standing at his door as the procession of the saint passed by, the mocking jew halted and then walked firmly on his feet, showed his hands clenched as if with palsy and then flung open his fingers. then he claimed gifts and oblations from the crowd who flocked to s. frideswide's, on the ground that such recoveries of limb and strength were quite as real as any frideswide had wrought. but no earthly power, ecclesiastic or civil, ventured to meddle with deus-cum-crescat. the feud between jewry and priory lasted long. it culminated in in a daring act of fanaticism, which incidentally provides a curious proof of the strong protection which the jews enjoyed, and of the boldness with which they showed their contempt for the superstitions around them. as the customary procession of scholars and citizens was returning on ascension day from s. frideswide's, a jew suddenly burst from the group of his friends in front of the synagogue, and snatching the crucifix from its bearer, trod it underfoot. but even in presence of such an outrage, the terror of the crown shielded the jewry from any burst of popular indignation. the king condemned the jews of oxford to make a heavy silver crucifix for the university to carry in the processions, and to erect a cross of marble where the crime was committed; but even this punishment was in part remitted, and a less offensive place was allotted for the cross in an open plot by merton college. but the time of the jews had almost come. their wealth and growing insolence had fanned the flames of popular prejudice against them. protected by the kings whose policy it was to allow none to plunder them but their royal selves, they reaped a harvest greater than even the royal greed could reap.[ ] their position as chattels of the king, outside the power of clergy or barons, and as citizens of little towns within towns in whose life they took no part except to profit by it, stirred the jealousy of the various classes. wild stories were circulated then, as on the continent still, of children carried off to be circumcised or crucified. the sack of jewry after jewry was the sign of popular hatred and envy during the barons' war. soon the persecution of the law fell upon these unhappy people. statute after statute hemmed them in. they were forbidden to hold real property, to employ christian servants, and to move through the streets without two tell-tale white tablets of wool on their breasts. their trade, already crippled by the competition of bankers, was annihilated by the royal order which bade them renounce usury, under the pain of death. at last edward, eager to obtain funds for his struggle with scotland, yielded to the fanaticism of his subjects and bought the grant of a fifteenth from the clergy and laity at the price of driving the jews from his realm. from the time of edward to that of cromwell no jew touched english soil. there is no reason to suppose with many historians that the jews of oxford contributed through their books, seized at this time, to the cultivation of physical and medical science, or that it was through the books of the rabbis that roger bacon was enabled to penetrate to the older world of research. the traces which they have left in oxford, save in the indirect manner i have suggested, are not many. the rising ground, now almost levelled, between the castle and broken hayes, on the outer edge of the castle ditch on the north side, was long known as the mont de juis, but being the place of execution, the name may more likely be derived from justice than from jews. a more interesting reminiscence is provided by the physic garden opposite magdalen college. henry ii. had granted the jews the right of burial outside of every city in which they dwelt. at oxford their burial place was on the site where s. john's hospital was afterwards built, and was then transferred to the place where the physic garden now stands. this garden, the first land publicly set apart for the scientific study of plants, was founded by henry, earl of danby ( ), who gave the land for this purpose. mr john evelyn visiting it a few years later was shown the sensitive plant there for a great wonder. there also grew, he tells us, canes, olive trees, rhubarb, but no extraordinary curiosities, besides very good fruit. curious, however, the shapes of the clipped trees were, if we may believe tickell, who writes enthusiastically: "how sweet the landskip! where in living trees, here frowns a vegetable hercules; there famed achilles learns to live again and looks yet angry in the mimic scene; here artful birds, which blooming arbours shew, seem to fly higher whilst they upwards grow." the gateway was designed by inigo jones, and the figures of charles i. and ii. were added later, the expense being defrayed out of the fine levied upon anthony wood for his libel upon clarendon. about the same time that osney abbey was finished the palace which henry beauclerk had been building at beaumont, outside the north gate of the city, was finished also. to satisfy his love of hunting he had already ( ) constructed a palace and park at woodstock. within the stone walls of the enclosure there he nourished and maintained, says john rous, lions, leopards, strange spotted beasts, porcupines, camels, and such like animals, sent to him by divers outlandish lords. the old palace at beaumont lay to the north-east of worcester college. its site, chosen by the king "for the great pleasure of the seat and the sweetness and delectableness of the air," is indicated by beaumont street, a modern street which has revived the name of the palace on the hill,--bellus mons. when not occupied with his books or his menagerie, the scholar-king found time to grant charters to the town, and he let to the city the collective dues or fee-farm rent of the place. henry ii. held important councils at beaumont. the one romance of his life is connected with woodstock and godstow. one of the most charming of the many beautiful excursions by road or river from oxford takes you to the little village of godstow, "through those wide fields of breezy grass where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering thames." to sail here from folly bridge or the upper river, to fish here, to play bowls or skittles here, to eat strawberries and cream here, has for centuries been the delight of oxford students. "so on thy banks, too, isis, have i strayed a tasselled student, witness you who shared my morning walk, my ramble at high noon, my evening voyage, an unskilful sail, to godstow bound, or some inferior port, for strawberries and cream. what have we found in life's austerer hours delectable as the long day so loitered?" just opposite the picturesque old trout inn and the bridge which spans the river here you may see an old boundary wall, enclosing a paradise of ducks and geese, at one corner of which is a ruined chapel with a three-light perpendicular window. these are the only remaining fragments of the once flourishing nunnery, which was the last home of rosamund, rosa mundi, the rose of the world. during his residence at oxford, henry granted the growing city an important charter, confirming the liberties they had enjoyed under henry i., "and specially their guild merchant, with all liberties and customs, in lands and in goods, pastures and other accessories, so that any one who is not of the guildhall shall not traffic in city or suburbs, except as he was wont at the time of king henry, my grandfather. besides i have granted them to be quit of toll and passenger tax, and every custom through all england and normandy, by land, by water, by sea-coast, _by land and by strand_. and they are to have all other customs and liberties and laws of their own, which they have in common with my citizens of london. and that they serve me at my feast with those of my butlery, and do their traffic with them, within london and without, and everywhere." oxford then ( ) enjoyed customs and liberties in common with london; her charter was copied from that of the londoners, and on any doubtful matter she was bound to consult the parent town. she was soon provided with aldermen, bailiffs, and chamberlains, whose titles were borrowed from the merchant guild, and with councilmen who were elected from the citizens at large. the mayor was formally admitted to his office by the barons of the exchequer at westminster, and on his return thence, he was met always by the citizens in their liveries at trinity chapel, without eastgate, where he stayed to return thanks to god for his safe return, and left an alms upon the altar. the merchant guild was originally distinct from the municipal government, though finally the guildhall became the common hall of the city. in practice the chief members of the merchant guild would usually be also the chief members of the court-leet. the business of the merchant guild was to regulate trade. its relation to the craft guilds is analogous to that which exists between the university and the colleges. the crafts, to which, as to the freedom of the city, men obtained admission by birth, apprenticeship, or purchase, were numerous, flourishing and highly organised. every trade from cordwainers to cooks, from tailors, weavers, and glovers to butchers and bakers, was a brotherhood, with arms and a warden, beadle, and steward of its own, and an annually elected headmaster. the various guilds had special chapels in the different churches where they burnt candles and celebrated mass, on particular days. the glovers held mass on trinity monday in all saints' church; the tailors in the same church, and they also founded a chantrey in s. martin's. "a token of this foundation is a pair of tailor's shears painted in the upper south window of the south aisle" (wood). the cooks celebrated their chief holiday in whitsun week, when they showed themselves in their bravery on horseback. the tailors had their shops in wincheles row, and they had a custom of revelling on the vigil of s. john the baptist. "caressing themselves with all joviality in meats and drinks they would in the midst of the night dance and take a circuit throughout all the streets, accompanied by divers musical instruments, and using some certain sonnets in praise of their profession and patron." but such customs led to disturbances and were finally prohibited. the barbers, a company which existed till fifty years ago, maintained a light in our lady's chapel at s. frideswide's. some of the regulations by which they bound themselves when they were incorporated by order of the chancellor in are typical. the barbers, it should be added, were the mediæval physicians too. their ordinances provided that no person of that craft should work on a sunday or shave any but such as were to preach or do a religious act on sundays. no servant or man of the craft should reveal any infirmity or secret disease he had to his customers or patients. a master of the craft was to be chosen every year, to whom every one of his craft should be obedient during his year of office. every apprentice that was to set up shop after his time was expired should first give the master and wardens with the rest of the society a dinner and pay for one pound of wax, and that being done, the said master and wardens with three other seniors of the craft should bring him to the chancellor upon their shoulders, before whom he was to take his oath to keep all the ordinations and statutes of the craft, and pay to our lady's box eightpence and the like sum to the chancellor. the same procedure must be observed by any foreigner that had not been prenticed in oxford but desired to set up a shop to occupy as barber, surgeon, or waferer or maker of singing bread. all such as were of the craft were to receive at least sixpence a quarter of each customer that desired to be shaved every week in his chamber or house. if any member of the craft should take upon him to teach any person not an apprentice, he should pay s. d., whereof s. d. should go to the craft, s. d. to the chancellor, and s. d. to the proctors. rules are also given for the observance of the barbers' annual holiday and the election of their master. stimulated by the presence of the kings without its walls and the growth of the university within, trade flourished so greatly that it was soon necessary to regulate it by minute provisions. in the reign of edward ii. ( ) the mayor and bailiffs were commanded to "prevent confusion in the merchandising of strangers, and those who were not free of any guild from thrusting out those who were." all traders and sellers who came to oxford on market days--wednesdays and saturdays--were to know each one their places. "the sellers of straw, with their horses and cattle that bring it," so ran the regulation, "shall stand between east gate and all saints' church, in the middle of the king's highway. the sellers of wood in carts shall stand between shidyard (oriel) street and the tenement of john maidstone and the tenement on the east side of the swan inn (now king edward's street, the ugly row of smug, commonplace houses which has been erected on the site of swan yard). the sellers of bark shall stand between s. thomas' hall (swan inn) and s. edward's lane (alfred street). the sellers of hogs and pigs shall stand between the churches of s. mary and all saints; the ale sellers between s. edward's lane and the chequer inn; the sellers of earthen-pots and coals by the said lane of s. edward on the north side of the high street. the sellers of gloves and whitawyers (dresses of white leather) shall stand between all saints' church and the house on the west side of the mitre inn; the furriers, linen and woollen drapers by the two-faced pump (which perhaps stood on the site of the later conduit at carfax. this conduit was erected in and water brought to it from the hill springs above north hincksey. it was removed in and presented to earl harcourt, who re-erected it at nuneham park some five miles from oxford, where it may still be seen, on a slope commanding an extensive view of the thames valley between abingdon and oxford.) "the bakers," the regulation continued, "shall stand between carfax and north gate, and behind them the foreign sellers of fish and those that are not free or of the guild. the tanners shall stand between somner's inn and carfax; the sellers of cheese, milk, eggs, beans, new peas and butter from the corner of carfax towards the bailly; the sellers of hay and grass at the pillory; the cornsellers between north gate and mauger hall (the cross inn)." besides these market-stands the permanent trades and resident guilds had distinct spheres allotted to them. the cutlers, drapers, cooks and cordwainers had their special districts; the goldsmiths had their shops in all saints' parish, the spicery and vintnery[ ] lay to the south of s. martin's; fish street extended to folly bridge, the corn market stretched away to north gate, the stalls of the butchers ranged in their butchers' row along the road to the castle (queen's street). as for the great guild of weavers, there was a wool market in holywell green. part of the ground since included in magdalen college grove was known as parry's mead, and here twenty-three looms were working at once, and barges came up to it on the cherwell. thus then oxford had attained to complete municipal self-government. she stood now in the first rank of municipalities. her political importance is indicated by the many great assemblies that were held there. the great assembly under cnut had closed the struggle between englishman and dane; that under stephen ended the conquest of the norman, whilst that under henry iii. begins the regular progress of constitutional liberty. in , simon de montfort issued writs from woodstock summoning the famous parliament to which towns sent members for the first time. oxford no doubt was among the number, but the sheriff's returns are lost and it is not till that the names of two burgesses elected to represent her in the national council are recorded. the university did not obtain members until the first parliament of james i. ( ), although her advice had often been consulted by kings and parliaments before.[ ] so far, then, we have followed the growth of a town of increasing political and commercial importance. we have now to trace the growth within its borders of a new and rival body, which was destined, after a century or more of faction and disorder, to humble her municipal freedom to the dust. chapter iii the origin of the university the chroniclers of every mediæval town like to begin from jove--or genesis. the oxford historians are no exception. famous antiquaries of ancient days carried back the date of the city to fabulous years. wood gives the year b.c. as the authentic date, when memphric, king of the britons, built it and called it caer memphric. but these famous antiquaries, as we shall see, had an axe to grind. whatever the origin of oxford may have been, a few bronze weapons and some pottery, preserved in the museum, are the only remains of the british period that have been discovered. great as were the natural advantages of the place, lying as it does on the banks of the chief river of the country at a point where a tributary opens up a district to the north, it would yet seem that there was no british settlement of importance at oxford, for it was dangerous borderland between the provinces into which britain was divided, liable to frequent hostile incursions, and therefore left uninhabited. and this would seem to be the reason why, when the road-making romans were driving their great streets through the neighbourhood, they left this seductive ford severely alone. the first chronicler to associate oxford with the name of king memphric was john rous, an imaginative historian, no respecter of facts, who died, full of years and inventions, in . hear him discourse in his fluent, pleasantly circumstantial style: "about this time samuel the servant of god was judge in judea, and king magdan had two sons, that is to say mempricius and malun. the younger of the two having been treacherously slain by the elder, the fratricide inherited the kingdom. in the twentieth year of his reign, he was surrounded by a large pack of very savage wolves, and being torn and devoured by them, ended his existence in a horrible manner. nothing good is related of him except that he begot an honest son and heir, ebrancus by name, and built one noble city which he called from his own name caer-memre, but which afterwards in course of time was called bellisitum, then caerbossa, at length ridohen, and last of all oxonia, or by the saxons oxenfordia, from a certain egress out of a neighbouring ford. there arose here in after years an universal and noble seat of learning, derived from the renowned university of grek-lade. "it is situated between the rivers thames and cherwell which meet there. the city, just as jerusalem, has to all appearance been changed; for as mount calvary, when christ was crucified, was just outside the walls of the city, and now is contained within the circuit of the walls, so also there is now a large level space outside oxford, contiguous to the walls of the town, which is called belmount, which means beautiful mount, and this in a certain way agrees with one of the older names of the city before named and recited; that is to say bellisitum; whence many are of opinion that the university from greklade was transferred to this very bellus mons or bellesitum before the coming of the saxons and while the britons ruled the island, and the church of s. giles, which was dedicated under the name of some other saint, was the place for the creation of graduates, as now is the church of s. mary, which is within the walls...." the origin of the city is, of course, not the same thing as the origin of the university, and john rous, it will be observed, has adopted the story according to which the university was said to have been transplanted to oxford from "grekelade." this story is found in its earliest form in the oxford _historiola_, the account of the university prefixed to the official registers of the chancellor and proctors. it was probably written towards the end of the reign of edward iii., somewhere in the third quarter of the fourteenth century. the sound of greek in the name cricklade is quite [illustration: the turret quad merton college] enough, in the minds of those who have studied mediæval chronicles--histories "farct with merry tales and frivolous poetry"--to account for the origin of the myth as to the greek philosophers. do you not find for instance, the name of lechelade suggesting latin schools (latinelade) at that place by an analogous etymological conceit? saith the _historiola_, then, after premising that the university is the most ancient, the most comprehensive, the most orthodox and the most richly endowed with privileges:-- "very ancient british histories imply the priority of its foundation, for it is related that amongst the warlike trojans, when with their leader brutus they triumphantly seized the island, then called albion, next britain, and lastly england, certain philosophers came and chose a suitable place of habitation upon this island, on which the philosophers who had been greek bestowed the name which they have left behind them as a record of their presence, and which exists to the present day, that is to say grekelade...." the grounds of the other statements quoted from john rous are yet more fanciful. the assertion that the university was transferred from without to within the city walls is a vague echo of a worthless story, and the name given to the town bellesitum is obviously a confusion arising from the latinised form of beaumont, the palace which henry i. built on the slope towards s. giles. the names of caer-bossa and ridochen (rhyd-y-chen) are equally unhistorical, and are based upon the fantastic welsh equivalents of oxenford, invented by the fertile genius of geoffrey of monmouth for the purposes of his romance (twelfth century). it would scarcely have been worth while to mention even so briefly the ingenious myths of the early chroniclers if it had not been for the fact that they have swamped more scientific history and that they were used with immense gusto by the champions in that extraordinary controversy which broke out in the days of elizabeth, and lasted, an inky warfare of wordy combatants, almost for centuries. it was a controversy in which innumerable authorities were quoted, and resort was had even to the desperate device of forgery. it arose from the boast of the cambridge orator, who on the occasion of a visit of elizabeth to cambridge, declared: "to our great glory all histories with one voice testify that the oxford university borrowed from cambridge its most learned men, who in its schools provided the earliest cradle of the _ingenuæ artes_, and that paris also and cologne were derived from our university." with that assertion the fat was in the fire. assertions were issued, and counter-assertions, commentaries and counter-commentaries. it is impossible to follow the course of the controversy here. suffice it to say that when the war had been waged for some years, it seemed evident that the victory would lie with the oxonians, who claimed alfred as their founder, if they could prove their claim. and the claim appeared to be proved by a passage attributed to asser, the contemporary historian of alfred's deeds, and surreptitiously inserted into his edition of that author by the great camden. but that passage occurs in none of the manuscripts of asser, and certainly not in the one which camden copied. it was probably adopted by him on the authority of an unscrupulous but interested partisan who, having invented it, attributed it to a "superior manuscript of asser." the university cannot, then, claim alfred the great either as her founder or restorer. all the known facts and indications point the other way. it was not till , some years after alfred's death, that edward the elder obtained possession of oxford, which was outside alfred's kingdom; asser knew nothing of this foundation. it was not till the days of edward iii., that ralph higden's _polychronicon_ apparently gave birth to the myth with the statement that alfred-- "by the counsel of s. neot the abbot, was the first to establish schools for the various arts at oxford; to which city he granted privileges of many kinds." and from that time the myth was repeated and grew. but if king alfred did not found the university who did? or how did it come into existence? briefly the case stands thus. before the second half of the twelfth century--the age of universities--there are no discoverable traces of such a thing at oxford, but in the last twenty years of that century references to it are frequent and decided. the university was evidently established, and its reputation was widely spread. there abounded there, contemporaries inform us, "men skilled in mystic eloquence, weighing the words of the law, bringing forth from their treasures things new and old." and the university was dubbed by the proud title "the second school of the church." she was second, that is, to paris, as a school of theology, and to paris, the researches of modern experts like dr rashdall lead us to believe, she owed her origin. the universities, the greatest and perhaps the most permanent of mediæval institutions, were a gradual and almost secret growth. for long centuries europe had been sunk in the gloom of the dark ages. the light of learning shone in the cloister alone, and there burned with but a dim and flickering flame. in spain not one priest in a thousand about the age of charlemagne could address a common letter of salutation to another. scarcely a single person could be found in rome who knew the first elements of letters; in england, alfred declared that he could not recollect one priest at the time of his accession who understood the ordinary prayers. learning lay buried in the grave of bede. at court, emperors could not write, and in the country contracts were made verbally for lack of notaries who could draw up charters. but towards the end of the eleventh century europe began to recover from this state of poverty and degradation. christendom had gained a new impulse from the crusades. trade revived and began to develop, some degree of tranquillity was restored, and the growing wealth of the world soon found expression in an increasing refinement of manners, in the sublime and beautiful buildings of the age of cathedrals, and in a greater ardour for intellectual pursuits. a new fervour of study arose in the west from its contact with the more cultured east. everywhere throughout europe great schools which bore the name of universities were established. the long mental inactivity of europe broke up like ice before a summer's sun. wandering teachers, such as lanfranc or anselm, crossed sea and land to spread the new power of knowledge. the same spirit of restlessness, of inquiry, of impatience with the older traditions of mankind, either local or intellectual, that had hurried half christendom to the tomb of its lord, crowded the roads with thousands of young scholars, hurrying to the chosen seats where teachers were gathered together. a new power, says an eloquent historian, had sprung up in the midst of a world as yet under the rule of sheer brute force. poor as they were, sometimes even of a servile race, the wandering scholars, who lectured in every cloister, were hailed as "masters" by the crowds at their feet. this title of "master" suggests, of course, the nomenclature of the guilds. a university, in fact, was a guild of study. the word implies[ ] a community of individuals bound together for any purpose, in this case for the purpose of teaching. it was applied to the whole body of students frequenting the "studium," and hence the term came to be used as synonymous with "studium" to denote the institution itself. the system of academical degrees dates from the second half of the twelfth century. after the manner of mediæval craftsmen in other trades, the profession of teaching was limited to those who had served an apprenticeship in a university or guild of study and were qualified as masters of their art. nobody was allowed to teach without a licence from such a guild, just as no butcher or tailor was allowed to ply his trade without having served his proper term and having been approved by the masters of his guild. a university degree, therefore, was originally simply a diploma of teaching, which afterwards came to be regarded as a title, when retained by men who had ceased to lecture or teach. "bachelor" was the term applied to students who had ceased to be pupils but had not yet become teachers. the word was generally used to denote an apprentice or aspirant to knighthood, but in the universities came to have this technical signification. the degree of bachelor was in fact an important step on the way to the higher degree of master or doctor. one of the first symptoms of the twelfth century renaissance may be traced in the revival in italy of the study of jurisprudence as derived from the laws of justinian. for early in the twelfth century a professor named irnerius opened a school of civil law at bologna, and lombardy was soon full of lawyers. teachers of that profitable art soon spread from bologna throughout europe, and their university was the first to receive from frederic barbarossa the privileges of legal incorporation. it presently became known as the special university of young archdeacons, whose mode of life gave rise to the favourite subject of debate "can an archdeacon be saved?" but it was the school of philosophy at paris which chiefly attracted the newly-kindled enthusiasm of the studious. the tradition of the schools of charlemagne may have lingered there, although no direct connection between them and the university which now sprang into being can be proved. as early as william of champeaux opened a school of logic, and it was to his brilliant and combative pupil, peter abelard, that the university owed its rapid advancement in the estimation of mankind. the multitude of disciples who flocked to his lectures, and listened with delight to his bold theories and his assertion of the rights of reason against authority, showed that a new spirit of enquiry and speculation was abroad. the poets and orators of antiquity were, indeed, beginning to be studied with genuine admiration, and the introduction into europe of some of the arabian writings on geometry and physics was opening the door to the development of mathematical science. but the flower of intellectual and scientific enquiry was destined to be nipped in the bud by the blighting influence of scholasticism. already among the pupils of abelard was numbered peter lombard, the future author of "the sentences," a system of the doctrines of the church, round which the dogmatic theology of the schoolmen, trammelled by a rigid network of dialectics, was to grow up. it was the light before a dawn which never broke into day. but as yet the period was one of awakening and promise. students from all parts crowded to paris, and the faculty[ ] of arts in the university was divided into four "nations"--those of france, picardy, normandy and england. john of salisbury became famous as one of the parisian teachers. becket wandered to paris from his school at merton. after spending twelve years at paris, john of salisbury, the central figure of english learning in his time, finally returned to england. s. bernard recommended him to archbishop theobald, and in the archbishop's household at canterbury he found in existence a very school of literature, where scholars like vacarius came to lecture on civil law, where lectures and disputations were regularly held, and men like becket and john of poictiers were trained. "in the house of my lord the archbishop," writes peter of blois, "are most scholarly men, with whom is found all the uprightness of justice, all the caution of providence, every form of learning. they after prayers and before meals, in reading, in disputing, in the decision of causes constantly exercise themselves. all the knotty questions of the realms are referred to us...." this archiepiscopal school was in fact a substitute for the as yet undeveloped universities. besides this school there were, in england, schools in connection with all the great cathedral establishments and with many of the monasteries as well as the houses of the nobles. there were, for instance, great schools at s. alban's and at oxford. but these _studia_ were not _studia generalia_; they were schools merely, not universities. it was perhaps to the school which had sprung up in connection with s. frideswide's monastery that vacarius lectured, if he lectured at oxford at all. it was in such a monastic school, in connection with s. frideswide's, osney, or s. george's in the castle, that robert pullen of paris lectured on the bible for five years ( ), and theobaldus stampensis taught. henry beauclerc endeavoured to retain the services of the former by offering him a bishopric, but he refused it and left england; stephen, on the other hand, bade vacarius cease from lecturing, since the new system of law, which he taught and which had converted the continent, was inconsistent with the old laws of the english realm. as to theobaldus stampensis, he styles himself magister oxenefordiæ, and letters from him exist which show that he, a norman ecclesiastic who had taught at caen, taught at oxford before . an anonymous reply to a tractate in which he attacked the monks, is responsible for the statement that this former doctor of caen had at oxford "sixty or a hundred clerks, more or less." but one school or one lecturer does not make a university. it has, however, been held, that just as the university of paris developed from the schools of notre dame, so the university of oxford grew out of the monastic schools of s. frideswide's. such a growth would have been natural. but if this had been the real origin of the university, it may be regarded as certain that the members of it would have been subjected to some such authority as that exercised by the chancellor of notre dame over the masters and scholars of paris. but at oxford, the masters and scholars were never under the jurisdiction of the prior or abbot of s. frideswide's or osney. if they had been, some trace or record of their struggle for emancipation must have survived. the chancellor, moreover, when he is first mentioned, proves to be elected by the masters and scholars and to derive his authority, not from any capitular or monastic body in oxford, but from the bishop of lincoln. and the university buildings themselves, in their primitive form, bear silent witness to the same fact, that the schools or studium in connection with which the university grew up were in no way connected with conventual churches and monasteries. for the schools were not near s. frideswide's but s. mary's. the independence of the oxford masters from any local ecclesiastical authority is a significant fact. combined with another it seems to admit of but one explanation. that other fact is the suddenness with which the reputation of oxford sprang up. before there is, as we have shown, no evidence of the existence of a _studium generale_ there, but there are indications enough that in the next few years students began to come, clerks from all parts of england. the account of the visit of giraldus cambrensis ( - ) reveals the existence of a studium on a large scale, with a number of masters and faculties. it is a studium generale by that time without a doubt. and in richard of devizes speaks of the clerks of oxford as so numerous that the city could hardly feed them. what, then, is the explanation of this so sudden development? probably it lies in a migration of scholars to oxford at this time. the migratory habits of mediæval masters and scholars are familiar to everyone who has the smallest acquaintance with the history of the universities. the universities of leipzig, reggio, vicenza, vercelli, and padua, for instance, were founded by migrations from one university or another. the story of oxford itself will furnish instances in plenty of the readiness of the university to threaten to migrate and, when hard pressed, to fulfil their threat. migrations to cambridge, stamford, and northampton are among the undoubted facts of our history. such a migration then would be in the natural course of things, though it would not satisfy the pride of the inventors of the alfred myth. but a migration of this kind did not take place without a cause. a cause however is not to seek. at this very period the quarrel of henry ii. with thomas a becket was the occasion for a migration from paris, the ordinary seat of higher education for english ecclesiastics. a letter from john of salisbury to peter the writer in contains this remark: "france, the most polite and civilised of all nations, has expelled the foreign students from her borders." this, as dr rashdall suggests, may possibly have been a measure of hostility aimed by the french king against the oppressor of holy church and against the english ecclesiastics, who as a body sided with their king against their not yet canonised primate. henry ii., on the other hand, took the same measures to punish the partisans of becket. all clerks were forbidden to go to or from the continent without leave of the king, and all clerks who possessed revenues in england were summoned to return to england within three months, "as they love their revenues." this would produce an exodus from paris. a large number of english masters and scholars must have been compelled to return home. according to the usual procedure of mediæval students they were likely to collect in some one town and set up under their old masters something of their old organisation. these ordinances were promulgated between the years and . the ports were strictly watched in order to enforce this edict. the migrating scholars would land at dover and lodge, perhaps, for a night or two at the benedictine priory there, before going on to canterbury. here, if they had been so minded, they might have stayed, and swelled the great literary circle, with its teachers and libraries, which had been formed there. but they left gervase at canterbury to write his history, and nigel to compose his verses and polish his satires. passing northwards, they might, had they come a little later, have been absorbed at lambeth, and the scheme of archbishop baldwin for setting up a college there, which should be a centre of ecclesiastical learning, emancipated from monastic restrictions, might then have been realised. or, if they had wished to attach themselves to any existing establishment, the monastic schools of st alban's might have welcomed them. but they chose otherwise. it may be that their experience of paris led them to choose a place which was neither a capital nor a see-town. at any rate the peculiar position of oxford, which was neither of these and yet an important commercial and political centre, made it admirably suited for the free development of a university, unharassed by bishops and unmolested by lord mayors. at oxford, too, was the palace of the king, and henry ii. was a champion of literary culture by his very descent. his grandfather had earned the title of henry beauclerk, the scholar king; and fulk the good, who had told king lothar that an unlearned king is a crowned ass, was a lineal ancestor of his. and apart from his own hereditary tastes, the position of henry as the most powerful king of the west, and the international correspondence which that position involved, tended to make the court a centre of literary activity. learning was sought not for itself only, but as a part of the equipment of a man of the world. for whatever reason, whether they were influenced by a desire, springing from experience of paris, to establish themselves where they might be most independent, or by the physical advantages of oxford, or the hope of favour from the king who had recalled them, and who at his court and about his palace of beaumont had gathered round him all that was enlightened and refined in english and norman society, or whether they were directed by mere chance, settling for a session and staying for centuries, it was to oxford they came. here ready to receive them they would find a town which stood in the front rank of municipalities, commanding the river valley along which the commerce of southern england mainly flowed. the mitred abbey of austin canons, the priory of s. frideswide, the castle of the d'oiglis, and the royal palace without the vallum marked the ecclesiastical and political importance of the place; the settlement of one of the wealthiest of the english jewries in the very heart of the town indicated, as it promoted, the activity of its trade. it was still surrounded on all sides by a wild forest country. the moors of cowley and bullingdon fringed the course of the thames; the great woods of shotover and bagley closed the horizon on south and east. but oxford was easy of access, for there were the great roads that crossed at carfax and there was the thoroughfare of the thames. and facility of communication meant regularity of supplies, a matter of great importance to a floating population of poor students. here, then, the migrating masters and scholars set up their schools, and within a very short time the reputation of the university was established throughout the length and breadth of the land. giraldus cambrensis, a welshman, who had achieved fame as a lecturer at paris, has given us an interesting account of his visit to oxford in . he came there with the purpose of reading aloud portions of his new work, as herodotus read his history at the panathenaic festival at athens or at the national games of greece. giraldus had written a book on ireland--topographia--and he chose this method of publishing and advertising it. he writes of himself in the third person, without any excessive modesty. you might almost think he was a modern author, asking his critics to dinner and writing his own "press notices." "in course of time, when the work was finished and revised, not wishing to hide his candle under a bushel, but wishing to place it in a candlestick so that it might give light, he resolved to read it before a vast audience at oxford, where the clergy in england chiefly flourished and excelled in clerkly lore. and as there were three distinctions or divisions in the work, and each division occupied a day, the readings lasted three successive days. on the first day he received and entertained at his lodgings all the poor people of the whole town; on the second all the doctors of the different faculties, and such of their pupils as were of fame and note; on the third the rest of the scholars with the milites of the town, and many burghers. it was a costly and noble act, for the authentic and ancient times of the poets were thus in some measure renewed; and neither present nor past time can furnish any record of such a solemnity having ever taken place in england." it is evident from this passage that the schools at oxford were by this time of considerable note and size. there was a university here now in fact if not in name or by charter. a few years later the records reveal to us the first known student in it. he was a clerk from hungary named nicholas, to whom richard i. who had been born in the palace of beaumont, made an allowance of half a mark weekly for his support during his stay at oxford for the purpose of study. thus, then, by the beginning of the reign of king john, we may be sure that there was established at oxford a university, or place of general study, and this university had attracted to itself an academic population, which was estimated by contemporaries at no less than three thousand souls. and now, just as the country won its great charter of liberties from that oppressive and intolerable angevin monarch, so documentary evidence of the independent powers of the university was first obtained, as the result of a series of events, in which the citizens of oxford had been encouraged to commit an act of unjust revenge by their reliance on john's quarrel with the pope and the clergy. the pope had laid the whole country under an interdict; the people were forbidden to worship their god and the priests to administer the sacraments; the church-bells were silent and the dead lay unburied on the ground. the king retaliated by confiscating the land of the clergy who observed the interdict, by subjecting them in spite of their privileges to the royal courts, and often by leaving outrages on them unpunished. "let him go," he said, when a welshman was brought before him for the murder of a priest, "he has killed my enemy." such were the political conditions, when at oxford a woman of the town was found murdered in circumstances which pointed to the guilt of a student. the citizens were eager for vengeance, and they took the matter into their own hands ( ). the offender had fled, but the mayor and burgesses invading his hostel arrested two innocent students who lodged in the same house. they hurried them outside the walls of oxford, and, with the ready assent of john, who was then at woodstock, hung them forthwith. this was a defiance of ecclesiastical liberty. for it was a chief principle of the church that all clerks and scholars, as well as all higher officials in the hierarchy, should be subject to ecclesiastical jurisdiction alone. for this principle becket had died, and in defence of this principle a quarrel now arose between the university and the town which bade fair to end in the withdrawal of the former altogether from oxford. in protest the masters and scholars migrated from the town, and transferred their schools to paris, to reading and to cambridge. it is, indeed, to this migration that the studium generale on the banks of the cam may owe its existence. the halls of oxford were now deserted, the schools were empty. so they remained as long as john's quarrel with the pope endured. but when the king had knelt before the papal legate, pandulf ( ), and sworn fealty to the pope, the church succeeded in bringing the citizens, who had no doubt found their pockets severely affected in the meantime, to their senses. a legatine ordinance of the following year is the university's first charter of privilege. the citizens performed public penance; stripped and barefooted they went daily to the churches, carrying scourges in their hands and chaunting penitential psalms. when they had thus obtained absolution, and the university had returned, the legate issued a decree by which the townsmen were bound in future, if they arrested a clerk, to deliver him up on demand to the bishop of lincoln, the archdeacon of oxford or his official, to the chancellor set over the scholars by the bishop, or some other authorised representative of the episcopal power. and thus was established that immunity from lay jurisdiction which, under slightly different conditions, is still enjoyed by every resident member of the university. this is the first allusion in any authentic document to the existence of the chancellorship. among the minor penalities to which the townsmen were now subjected was the provision that for ten years one-half the rent of existing hostels and schools was to be altogether remitted, and for ten years more rents were to remain as already taxed before the secession by the joint authority of the town and the masters. further, the town was forever to pay an annual sum of fifty-two shillings to be distributed among poor scholars on the feast of s. nicholas, the patron of scholars, and at the same time to feast a hundred poor scholars on bread and beer, pottage and flesh or fish. victuals were to be sold at a reasonable rate, and an oath to the observance of these provisions was to be taken by fifty of the chief burgesses, and to be annually renewed at the discretion of the bishop. the payment of the fine was transferred by an agreement with the town to the abbey of eynsham in , and by an ordinance of bishop grossetete the money was applied to the foundation of a "chest." the size and importance of the university was shortly afterwards increased by a somewhat similar disturbance which took place in paris ( ). a brawl developed into a serious riot, in which several scholars, innocent or otherwise, were killed by the provost of paris and his archers. the masters and students failing to obtain redress departed from paris in anger. henry seized this opportunity of humiliating the french monarchy by fomenting the quarrel and at the same time inviting "the masters and the university of scholars at paris" to come to study in england, where they should receive ample liberty and privileges. a migration to oxford was the result of this royal invitation, which was highly appreciated not only by the english students at paris but also by many foreigners. two years later the king was able to boast that oxford was frequented by a vast number of students, coming from various places over the sea, as well as from all parts of britain. the university remained till well towards the end of the thirteenth century a customary rather than a legal or statutory corporation. and in its customs it was a reproduction of the society of masters at paris. the privileges and customs of paris were, in fact, the type from which the customs and privileges of all the universities which were now being founded in europe were reproduced, and according to which they were confirmed by bulls and charters. thus in innocent v. enjoined grossetete to see that in oxford nobody exercised the office of teaching except after he had qualified according to the custom of the parisians. whilst then the idea of a university was undoubtedly borrowed from the continent, and oxford, so far as her organisation was concerned, was framed on the continental models, yet the establishment of a university in england was an event of no small importance. teaching was thereby centralised, competition promoted, and intellectual speculation stimulated. at a university there was more chance of intellectual freedom than in a monastic school. if such was the origin of the university, alfred did not found it, still less did he found university college. university college, "the hall of the university," may undoubtedly claim with justice to be the earliest university endowment. but it was at one time convenient to that college, in the course of a lawsuit in which their case was a losing one, to claim, when forgeries failed them, to be a royal foundation. the alfred myth was to hand, and they used it with unblushing effrontery and a confident disregard of historical facts and dates. their impudence for the time being fulfilled its purpose, and it also left its mark on the minds of men. the tradition still lingers. the college chapel was dedicated at the end of the fourteenth century to s. cuthbert, durham's saint, but the seventeenth-century bidding prayer still perpetuates the venerable fiction, and first among the benefactors of the "college of the great hall of the university," the name of king alfred is cited. in the college even celebrated, by the english method of a dinner, the supposed thousandth anniversary of its existence. at that dinner the chancellor of the exchequer, robert lowe (lord sherbrooke), wittily upheld the tradition of his college. for, he argued, if oxford was in the hands of the danes at the time when alfred founded the university, that fact only strengthened their case. for king alfred was a man so much in advance of his age that it is not surprising to find that he had anticipated the modern political doctrine, which teaches us that the surest way to earn popularity, is to give away the property of our opponents. [illustration: university college] the story of the lawsuit will be found to be instructive if discreditable. in the college by two purchases obtained possession of considerable property in land and houses which had been the estate of philip gonwardy and joan his wife. after the college had been in possession some fourteen years, however, a certain edmund francis and idonea his wife came forward to dispute the right to it. they maintained that philip gonwardy and his wife had had no true title to the estate, for it, or part of it, had been bequeathed to them by one john goldsmith in . and he, they asserted, had by a later document settled the same property upon them. the case was tried at westminster; transferred to oxford, where the college obtained a verdict in their favour, and then taken back on appeal to westminster. it was at this point that the document known as the french petition--it is written in the court french of the day--was filed. finding, apparently, that the case was going against them, the college determined to use the myth about alfred, claim to be a royal foundation and thus throw the matter, and their liberties along with it, into the king's hands, leaving the case to be decided by the privy council. "to their most excellent and most dread and most sovereign lord the king," so ran the petition, "and to his most sage council, shew his poor orators, the master and scholars of his college, called mickle university hall in oxenford, which college was first founded by your noble progenitor, king alfred, whom may god assoil, for the maintenance of twenty-six divines for ever; that whereas one edmund francis, citizen of london, hath in virtue of his great power commenced a suit in the king's bench, against some of the tenants of the said masters and scholars, for certain lands and tenements, with which the college was endowed ... and from time to time doth endeavour to destroy and utterly disinherit your said college of the rest of its endowment.... that it may please your most sovereign and gracious lord king, since you are our true founder and advocate, to make the aforesaid parties appear before your very sage council, to show in evidences upon the rights of the aforesaid matter, so that upon account of the poverty of your said orators your said college be not disinherited, having regard, most gracious lord, that the noble saints, john of beverley, bede, and richard armacan (fitzralph, archbishop of armagh), and many other famous doctors and clerks, were formerly scholars in your said college, and commenced divines therein, and this for god's sake, and as a deed of charity." this deed, then, and others, these mere children in litigation did deliberately forge, attaching the chancellor's seal thereto, in order to substantiate their absurd, but profitable, pretension. the device was successful for a time, although the very petition contains within itself glaring historical contradictions, which either show supreme ignorance on the part of the masters and scholars or a cynical assumption of the historical ignorance of lawyers. if the college was founded by king alfred who came to the throne in , it would seem a little unwise to instance as famous scholars of that foundation "noble saints" like john of beverley, who was archbishop of york in , and the venerable bede who died in . as to the real founder of university college all the evidence points to william, archdeacon of durham, who is mentioned as one of the five distinguished english scholars who left paris in , in consequence of the riots between the townsfolk and the university. henry's invitation to the paris masters to come and settle at oxford was immediately accepted by the other four. their example was probably soon followed by william, after a sojourn at angers. he was appointed rector of wearmouth, and is said to have "abounded in great revenues, but was gaping after greater." some litigation with the bishop of durham led him to appeal to the papal court. his appeal was successful, but it availed him little, for on his journey home he died at rouen ( ). his bones are said by skelton to lie in the chapel of the virgin in the cathedral there. he left marks in trust to the university to invest for the benefit and support of a certain number of masters. it was actually the first endowment of its kind, but it is to alan basset, who died about , that the credit of providing the first permanent endowment for an oxford scholar is due. for he conceived the idea of combining a scholarship with a chantry. he left instructions in his will in accordance with which his executors arranged with the convent of bicester for the payment of eight marks a year to two chaplains, who should say mass daily for the souls of the founder and his wife, and at the same time study in the schools of oxford or elsewhere. this was a step in the direction of founding a college, and indeed the original plan of william was hardly more imposing. the university placed durham's money in a "chest," and used it partly on their own business and partly in loans to others, barons in the barons' war for instance. such loans were seldom repaid, and only marks remained. this sum was expended in purchasing houses. the first house bought ( ) by the university was at the corner of school street and st mildred's lane (_tenementum angulare in vico scholarum_). the site of this the first property held by the university for educational purposes[ ] is now included in the front, the noisy, over-decorated front, of brasenose college. it was called, naturally enough, first the hall of the university and afterwards the little hall of the university. a second purchase was made in , when a tenement called drogheda hall, the then first house in the high street on the north side, was bought. it stands almost opposite to the present western gate of the college. brasenose hall was the next purchase under william's bequest ( ), and ( ) a quit rent of fifteen shillings, charged on two houses in s. peter's parish, was the last. william of durham had not founded a college. there is nothing to show that the purchase of houses by the university was originally made with any other object than that of securing a sound investment of the trust money. there is nothing to show, that is, either that the houses were bought originally and specifically as habitations for the pensioned masters (though they _may_ have lodged there), or that it was originally intended, either by the university or the founder, that they should form a community. statutes were not granted to the masters admitted to the benefits of this foundation until the year , and by that time a precedent had been created. from the year , then, may be dated the incorporation of what is now known as university college. a very small society of poor masters were, according to the revised plan, to live together on the bounty of william of durham and devote themselves to the study of theology. and this idea of association was evidently adopted from the rule for merton hall laid down by merton six years before. the revenue from the fund increased rapidly, so that by , the society was increased from "four poor masters" to one consisting of two classes of scholars, the seniors receiving six and eightpence a year more than the juniors, and having authority over them. other clerks of good character, not on the foundation, were permitted to hire lodgings in the hall, prototypes of the modern commoner. funds and benefactions accrued to the hall. a library was built, and the society gradually enlarged. members of it were enjoined to live like saints and to speak latin. in the election of new fellows a preference was given to those "born nearest to the parts of durham." and a graduated fine was imposed, according to which a scholar who insulted another in private was to pay a shilling, before his fellows two shillings, and if in the street, in church or recreation ground, six and eightpence. for the administration of the college funds a bursar was annually appointed, whose accounts were subsequently approved and signed by the chancellor. this practice of university supervision was maintained till . yet another body of statutes was promulgated in . the study of theology and the preference given to those who hailed from durham were emphasised in accordance with the founder's wishes. the senior fellow was required to be ordained, but any fellow who was appointed to a benefice of five marks a year now forfeited his election. this latter regulation, which occurs in substance in most of the fourteenth century foundations--by the statutes of queens, indeed, a fellow who refused a benefice forfeited his fellowship--shows that fellowships were intended not as mere endowments of learning but as stepping-stones to preferment. it does not, on the other hand, show that the founders did not contemplate the existence of life-fellows. i think that it is tolerably clear walter de merton did. the office of master of the college grew out of the position of the senior fellow; his authority was asserted by new statutes given in . it was in that the scholars of william of durham moved from the corner house on the north side of the high street, if that was where they abode, to the site of their present college, bounded by logic lane and grove street, and forming in the southern curve of the high street, one of the most effective and noble features in that splendid sweep which embraces, on the other side, queen's, all souls', st mary's, brasenose, and all saints'. the society had received large benefactions from a generous donor, philip ingleberd of beverley, and they now purchased spicer's (formerly durham's) hall, the first house in st mary's parish, which stood near the present western gateway of university college. further benefactions made further purchases possible. white hall and rose hall in kybald street were bought, and lodelowe hall, on the east of spicer's hall ( ). spicer's hall soon came to be known as the university hall; the hall next to it, when acquired, was distinguished as great university hall. the reversion to the remainder of the high street frontage, between lodelowe hall and the present logic lane, was not secured till , when the munificence of walter skirlaw, bishop of durham, enabled the society to extend their property and their numbers. the tenements thus acquired were called little university hall and the cock on the hoop. the next purchase of the college involved them in that lawsuit which has had so curious a result upon the imaginations of its subsequent members. thus, then, the foundation of william had become a college, "the first daughter of alma mater." being the first "hall" acquired by the university it came to be spoken of as "the hall of the university," and the members of the foundation, as "scholars of university hall." their proper title, "scholars of the hall of william of durham," gradually fell out of use. strangers to the university system usually find themselves confused by the relations of the university and the colleges. the university, then, let it be said, is a corporation existing apart from the colleges; the colleges are separate incorporated foundations, independent though practically subordinate to it. the old thatched halls of wood and clay were used till it became necessary to rebuild in . a smaller version of the seventeenth century quadrangle then constructed was finished in . for in had died dr john radcliffe, a famous and witty doctor, whose skill had secured him the post of court physician and whose wit had deprived him of it. for he offended william iii. by remarking to that dropsical monarch, that he would not have his two legs for his two kingdoms. it had long been known that the worthy doctor intended to make his college and his university his heirs. his munificence was rewarded by a public funeral of unexampled splendour and a grave in the nave of st mary's. the bulk of his fortune he devoted to specific purposes benefiting the university, but he left a large sum to university college "for the [illustration: radcliffe library from brasenose quad.] building of the front down to logic lane, answerable to the front already built, and for building the master's lodging therein, and chambers for his two travelling fellows," whom he endowed. the radcliffe quadrangle commemorates his benefaction to his college; the radcliffe infirmary (woodstock road, ), the radcliffe observatory, built - , on a site given by george, duke of marlborough; and last, but not least the radcliffe library, or as it is more usually termed the camera bodleiana (james gibbs, architect, - ) stand forth in the city as the noble monuments of his intelligent munificence. the magnificent dome of the latter forms one of the most striking features among oxford buildings.[ ] * * * * * neither the university of oxford nor university college can justly claim to be connected with the name of alfred the great. but there are relics of alfred and alfred's time preserved at oxford which should be of interest to the visitor. in the bodleian may be seen certain coins which have led historians to assume that alfred set up a mint at oxford, and to argue from this supposed fact that his rule was firmly established over mercia. the coins in question, which were all found in lancashire, are variations of the type bearing these letters;-- _obverse._ orsna, then in another line elfred, and in the third line forda. _reverse_ bernv + + + aldnº it is assumed that these words indicate that bernwald was a moneyer who was authorised by alfred to strike coins at oxford. but why oxford should be written orsnaforda and why, instead of the usual practice of abbreviation, the name of the place of the mint should have been written wrongly and at excessive length is not explained. i do not think there is any sufficient reason to connect the orsnaforda coins with oxford at all. whether alfred's sceptre held sway over mercia so that it can be stated definitely that "wessex and mercia were now united as wessex and kent had long been united by their allegiance to the same ruler" (green) or not, the fact is not to be deduced from an imaginary mint at oxford, any more than from the forged documents in the archives of university college or from the presence of what is known as king alfred's jewel in the university galleries, (beaumont street). this beautiful specimen of gold enamelled work was found in somersetshire in and added to the ashmolean collections a little later. the inscription "aelfred mee heht gevvrcan" (alfred ordered me to be made) which it bears has earned it its title. * * * * * the promotion of edmund rich, the abingdon lad who was first made an archbishop and then a saint, to the degree of master of arts, is the earliest mention of that degree in oxford. the story of his life there gives the best illustration we have of the early years and growth of the university. in the ardour of knowledge and the passionate purity of youth he vowed himself to a life of study and chastity. in the spirit of mystical piety which was ever characteristic of him, secretly as a boy he took mary for his bride. perhaps at eventide, when the shadows were gathering in the church of s. mary and the crowd of teachers and students were breaking up from the rough schools which stood near the western doors of the church in the cemetery without, he approached the image of the virgin and slipped on mary's finger a gold ring. on that ring was engraved "that sweet ave with which the angel at the annunciation had hailed the virgin." devout and studious, the future saint was not without boyish tastes. he paid more attention to the music and singing at s. mary's, we are told, than to the prayers. on one occasion he was slipping out of the church before the service was finished in order to join the other students at their games. but at the north door a divine apparition bade him return, and from that time his devotion grew more fervent. it is recorded with astonishment by his biographers as a mark of his singular piety, that when he had taken his degree as master he would attend mass each day before lecturing, contrary to the custom of the scholars of that time, and although he was not yet in orders. for this purpose he built a chapel to the virgin in the parish where he then lived. his example was followed by his pupils. "so study," such was the maxim he loved to impress upon them, "as if you were to live for ever; so live as if you were to die to-morrow." how little the young scholar, to whom oxford owes her first introduction to the logic of aristotle, cared for the things of this world is shown by his contemptuous treatment of the fees which the students paid to the most popular of their teachers. he would throw down the money on the window-sill, and there burying it in the dust which had accumulated, "dust to dust, ashes to ashes," he would cry, celebrating its obsequies. and there the fee would lie till a student in joke or earnest theft ran off with it. so for six years he lectured in arts. but even knowledge brought its troubles. the old testament, which with the copy of the decretals long formed his sole library, frowned down upon a love of secular learning, from which edmund found it hard to wean himself. the call came at last. he was lecturing one day in mathematics, when the form of his dead mother appeared to him. "my son," she seemed to say, "what art thou studying? what are these strange diagrams over which thou porest so intently?" she seized edmund's right hand, and in the palm drew three circles, within which she wrote the names of the father, son and the holy ghost. "be these thy diagrams henceforth, my son," she cried. and so directed, the student devoted himself henceforth to theology. this story, green observes, admirably illustrates the latent opposition between the spirit of the university and the spirit of the church. the feudal and ecclesiastical order of the old mediæval world were both alike threatened by the new training. feudalism rested on local isolation. the university was a protest against this isolation of man from man. what the church and empire had both aimed at and both failed in, the knitting of christian nations together into a vast commonwealth, the universities of the time actually did. on the other hand, the spirit of intellectual inquiry promoted by the universities, ecclesiastical bodies though they were, threatened the supremacy of the church. the sudden expansion of the field of education diminished the importance of those purely ecclesiastical and theological studies, which had hitherto absorbed the whole intellectual energies of mankind. for, according to the monastic ideal, theology was confined to mere interpretation of the text of scripture and the dicta of the fathers or church. to this narrow science all the sciences were the handmaids. they were regarded as permissible only so far as they contributed to this end. but the great outburst of intellectual enthusiasm in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries created a momentary revolution in these matters. the whole range of science as revealed by the newly discovered treasures of greek thinkers and roman jurists was now thrown open to the student. and this faint revival of physical science, this temporary restoration of classical literature, a re-discovery as it were of an older and a greater world, and contact with a larger, freer life, whether in mind, in society or politics, introduced a spirit of scepticism, of doubt, of denial, into the realms of unquestionable belief. but the church was alive to the danger. fiercely she fought [illustration: garden front s john's college] the tide of opposition, and at last won back the allegiance of the universities. through the schoolmen ecclesiasticism once more triumphed, and the reign of theology was resumed. soon scholasticism absorbed the whole mental energy of the student world. the old enthusiasm for knowledge died down; science was discredited, and literature in its purer forms became extinct. the scholastic philosophy, so famous for several ages, has passed away and been forgotten. we cannot deny that roscelin, anselm, abelard, peter lombard, albertus magnus, thomas aquinas, duns scotus and ockham were men of acute and even profound understanding, the giants of their own generation. but all their inquiries after truth were vitiated by two insurmountable obstacles--the authority of aristotle and the authority of the church. for aristotle, whom the scholastics did not understand, and who had been so long held at bay as the most dangerous foe of mediæval faith, whom none but anti-christ could comprehend, was now turned, by the adoption of his logical method in the discussion and definition of theological dogma, into its unexpected ally. it was this very method which led to that "unprofitable subtlety and curiosity" which lord bacon notes as the vice of the scholastic philosophy. yet the scholastic mode of dispute, admitting of no termination and producing no conviction, was sure in the end to cause scepticism, just as the triviality of the questions on which the schoolmen wasted their amazing ingenuity was sure at last to produce disgust. what could be more trifling than a disquisition about the nature of angels, their means of conversing, and the morning and evening states of their understanding, unless perhaps it were a subtle and learned dispute as to whether a chimæra, buzzing in a vacuum, can devour second intentions? john of salisbury observed of the parisian dialecticians in his own time, that after several years absence he found them not a step advanced, and still employed in urging and parrying the same arguments. his observation was applicable to the succeeding centuries. after three or four hundred years the scholastics had not untied a single knot or added one equivocal truth to the domain of philosophy. then men discovered at last that they had given their time for the promise of wisdom, and had been cheated in the bargain. at the revival of letters the pretended science had few advocates left, save among the prejudiced or ignorant adherents of established systems. and yet, in the history of education and of the historical events which education directs, the discussions of the schoolmen hold a place not altogether contemptible. their disputes did at least teach men to discuss and to define, to reason and to inquire. and thus was promoted the critical spirit which was boldly to challenge the rights of the pope, and to receive and profit by the great disclosures of knowledge in a future age. of the early schools and the buildings which sprang into existence to mark the first beginnings of the university, no trace remains. the church of s. giles in north oxford, which, as we have seen, is the church claimed by rous as the s. mary's of his imaginary university in beaumont fields, is the only architectural illustration of this period. it was consecrated by s. hugh, the great bishop of lincoln, and is of interest as affording one of the earliest examples of lancet work in england ( - ?). the high placed windows in the north wall of the nave are norman; the tower is in the transition style. chapter iv the coming of the friars scarcely had the university established itself in oxford, when an immigration into that city took place, which was destined to have no inconsiderable influence on its history. bands of men began to arrive and to settle there, members of new orders vowed to poverty and ignorance, whose luxury in after years was to prove a scandal, and whose learning was to control the whole development of thought. in the thirteenth century the power of the priesthood over christendom was at its height, but it was losing its religious hold over the people. the whole energy of the church seemed to be absorbed in politics; spiritually the disuse of preaching, the decline of the monastic orders into rich landowners, the non-residence and ignorance of parish priests combined to rob her of her proper influence. grossetete issued ordinances which exhorted the clergy, but in vain, not to haunt taverns, gamble or share in drinking bouts, and in the rioting and debauchery of the barons. it was in these circumstances that dominic and francis, men so strangely different in other ways, were moved to found orders of new brethren, who should meet false sanctity by real sanctity; preaching friars who should subsist on the alms of the poor and carry the gospel to them. the older monasticism was reversed; the solitary of the cloister was exchanged for the preacher, the monk for the friar. everywhere the itinerant preachers, whose fervid appeal, coarse wit and familiar stories brought religion into the market-place, were met with an outburst of enthusiasm. on their first coming to oxford, the dominicans or black friars were received with no less enthusiasm than elsewhere. lands were given to them in jewry; buildings and a large school were erected for them by benefactors like walter malclerk, bishop of carlisle, and isabel de boulbec, countess of oxford, or the friendly canons of st frideswide. so greatly did they flourish that they soon outgrew their accommodation. they sold their land and buildings, and with the proceeds built themselves a house and schools and church "on a pleasant isle in the south suburbs," which was granted them by henry iii. ( ). the site of their new habitation at the end of speedwell street (preachers' lane) is indicated by the blackfriars road and blackfriars street in the parish of st ebbe. their library was large and full of books; the church was dedicated to s. nicholas. it was situated near preachers' bridge, which spanned the trill mill stream. the grey friars followed hard on the heels of the black. for in the year nine franciscans arrived at dover. five of them went to canterbury, four to london, whence two of them made their way to oxford--richard of ingeworth and richard of devon. their journey was eventful. night drew on as they approached oxford. the waters were high and they were fain to seek shelter in a grange belonging to the monks of abingdon "in a most vast and solitary wood" (culham?). "humbly knocking at the door, they desired the monks for god's love to give them entertainment for that night. the porter who came to the door looked upon them (having dirty faces, ragged vestments, and uncouth speech) to be a couple of jesters or counterfeits. the prior caused them to be brought in that they might quaff it and show sport to the monks. but the friars said they were mistaken in them; for they were not such kind of people, but the servants of god, and the professors of an apostolic life. whereupon the expectation of the monks being thus frustrated, they vilely spurned at them and caused them to be thrust out of the gate. but one of the young monks had compassion on them and said to the porter: 'i desire thee for the love thou bearest me that when the prior and monks are gone to rest thou wouldest conduct those poor people into the hayloft, and there i shall administer to them food.' which being according to his desire performed, he carried to them bread and drink, and remaining some time with them, bade them at length a good night, and devoutly commended himself to their prayers. "no sooner had he left them, solacing their raging stomachs with refreshment, but he retired to his rest. but no sooner had sleep seized on him, than he had a dreadful dream which troubled him much. he saw in his sleep christ sitting upon his throne calling all to judgment; at length with a terrible voice he said: 'let the patrons of this place be called to me.' when they and their monks appeared, came a despised poor man in the habit of a minor friar, and stood opposite them saying to christ these words: 'o just judge, the blood of the minor friars cryeth to thee, which was the last night by those monks standing there endangered to be spilt; for they, when they were in great fear of perishing by the fury of hunger and wild beasts, did deny them lodging and sustenance--those, o lord, who have leaved all for thy sake and are come hither to win souls for which thou dying hast redeemed--have denied that which they would not to jesters.' these words being delivered, christ with a dreadful voice said to the prior: 'of what order art thou?' he answered that he was of the order of s. benedict. then christ, turning to s. benedict said, 'is it true that he speaks?' s. benedict answered, 'lord, he and his companions are overthrowers of my religion, for i have given charge in my rule that the abbot's table should be free for guests, and now these have denied those things that were but necessary for them.' then christ, upon this complaint, commanded that the prior before mentioned should immediately be hanged on the elm-tree before the cloister. afterwards the sacrist and cellarer being examined did undergo the same death also. these things being done, christ turned himself to the young monk that had compassion on the said friars, asking him of what order he was. who thereupon, making a pause and considering how his brethren were handled, said at length, 'i am of the order that this poor man is.' then christ said to the poor man, whose name was as yet concealed, 'francis, is it true that he saith, that he is of your order?' francis answered, 'he is mine, o lord, he is mine; and from henceforth i receive him as one of my order.' at which very time as those words were speaking, francis embraced the young monk so close that, being thereupon awakened from his sleep, he suddenly rose up as an amazed man; and running with his garments loose about him to the prior to tell him all the passages of his dream found him in his chamber almost suffocated in his sleep. to whom crying out with fear, and finding no answer from him, ran to the other monks, whom also he found in the same case. afterwards the said young monk thought to have gone to the friars in the hayloft; but they fearing the prior should discover them, had departed thence very early. then speeding to the abbot of abingdon, told him all whatsoever had happened. which story possessing him for a long time after with no small horror, as the aforesaid dream did the said young monk, did both (i am sure the last) with great humility and condescension come afterwards to oxon, when the said friars had got a mansion there, and took upon them the habit of s. francis." this quaint story of the first coming of the grey friars to oxford illustrates very plainly the hostility between the old orders of the friars and the new; the opposition of the parochial priesthood to the spiritual energy of the mendicant preachers, who, clad in their coarse frock of grey serge, with a girdle of rope round their waist, wandered barefooted as missionaries over asia, battled with heresies in italy and gaul, lectured in the universities and preached and toiled among the poor. the grey friars were hospitably received by the black, till richard le mercer, a wealthy burgess, let them a house in st ebbe's parish, "between the church and water-gate (south-gate), in which many honest bachelors and noble persons entered and lived with them." perhaps it was this increase in their numbers which compelled them to leave their first abode somewhere by the east end of beef lane, and to hire a house with ground attached from richard the miller. this house lay between the wall and freren street (church street). all sorts and conditions of men flocked to hear them. being well satisfied, it is said, as to their honest and simple carriage and well-meaning as also with their doctrine, they began to load them with gifts and to make donations to the city for their use. one of their benefactors, agnes, the wife of guy, for instance, gave them "most part of that ground which was afterwards called paradise" (_cf._ paradise square). a small church was built, and bishops and abbots relinquishing their dignities and preferments became minorites. they scorned not "the roughness of the penance and the robe," but "did with incomparable humility carry upon their shoulders the coul and the hod, for the speedier finishing this structure." the site chosen by the grey friars for their settlement is not without significance. the work of the friars was physical as well as moral. rapid increase of the population huddled within the narrow circle of the walls had resulted here as elsewhere in overcrowding, which accentuated the insanitary conditions of life. a gutter running down the centre of unpaved streets was supposed to drain the mess of the town as well as the slops thrown from the windows of the houses. garbage of all sorts collected and rotted there. within the houses the rush-strewn floors collected a foul heritage of scraps and droppings. personal uncleanliness, encouraged by the ascetic prohibitions and directions of a morbid monasticism, which, revolting from the luxury of the roman baths and much believing in the necessity of mortifying the flesh, regarded washing as a vice and held that a dirty shirt might cover a multitude of sins, was accentuated by errors of diet, and had become the habit of high and low. little wonder that fever or plague, or the more terrible scourge of leprosy, festered in the wretched hovels of the suburbs of oxford as of every town. well, it was to haunts such as these that s. francis had pointed his disciples. at london they settled in the shambles of newgate; at oxford they chose the swampy suburb of s. ebbe's. huts of mud and timber, as mean as the huts around them, rose within the rough fence and ditch that bounded the friary; for the order of st francis fought hard, at first, against the desire for fine buildings and the craving for knowledge which were the natural tendencies of many of the brethren. in neither case did the will of their founder finally carry the day. "three things," said friar albert, minister general, "tended to the exaltation of the order--bare feet, coarse garments, and the rejecting of money." at first the oxford franciscans were zealous in all those respects. we hear of adam marsh refusing bags of gold that were sent him; we hear of two of the brethren returning from a chapter held at oxford at christmas-time, singing as they picked their way along the rugged path, over the frozen mud and rigid snow, whilst the blood lay in the track of their naked feet, without their being conscious of it. even from the robbers and murderers who infested the woods near oxford the barefoot friars were safe. but it was not long before they began to fall away from "the rule," and to accumulate both wealth and learning. under the ministry of agnellus and his successor the tendency to acquire property was rigorously suppressed, but under haymo of faversham ( ) a different spirit began to prevail. haymo preferred that "the friars should have ample areas and should cultivate them, that they might have the fruits of the earth at home, rather than beg them from others." and under his successor they gained a large increase of territory. by a deed dated nov. , , henry iii. granted them "that they might enclose the street that lies under the wall from the watergate in s. ebbe's to the little postern in the wall towards the castle, but so that a wall with battlements, like to the rest of the wall of oxford, be made about the dwelling, beginning at the west side of watergate, and reaching southward to the bank of the thames, and extending along the bank westward as far as the land of the abbot of bec in the parish of s. bodhoc, and then turning again to the northward till it joins with the old wall of the borough, by the east side of the small postern." in he made a further grant. "we have given the friars minor our island in the thames, which we bought of henry, son of henry simeon, granting them power to build a bridge over the arm of the thames (trill stream) which runs between the island and their houses, and enclose the island with a wall." when it was completed, then, the convent of the grey friars could compare favourably with any convent or college in oxford, except perhaps s. frideswide's or osney. on the east side of it, where the main entrance lay, at the junction of the present littlegate street and charles street, was the road leading from watergate to preacher's bridge; on the south side, trill mill stream; on the west, the groves and gardens of paradise; on the north, as far as west-gate, ran the city wall. "their buildings were stately and magnificent; their church large and decent; and their refectory, cloister and libraries all proportionable thereunto." the traditional site of this church is indicated by church place as it is called to-day. the cloisters probably lay to the south of the church, round "penson's gardens." as the franciscans fell away by degrees from the ideal of poverty, so also they succumbed to the desire of knowledge. "i am your breviary, i am your breviary," s. francis had cried to a novice who had asked for a psalter. the true doctors, he held, were those who with the meekness of wisdom show forth good works for the edification of their neighbours. but the very popularity of their preaching drove his disciples to the study of theology. their desire not only to obtain converts but also to gain a hold on the thought of the age had led the friars to fasten on the universities. the same purpose soon led them to establish at oxford a centre of learning and teaching. their first school at oxford was built by agnellus of pisa, and there he persuaded robert grossetete, the great reforming bishop of lincoln, to lecture. agnellus himself was a true follower of s. francis and no great scholar. "he never smelt of an academy or scarce tasted of humane learning." he was indeed much concerned at the results of grossetete's lectures. for one day when he entered this school to see what progress his scholars were making in literature, he found them disputing eagerly and making enquiries whether there was a god. the scandalised provincial cried out aloud in anger, "hei mihi! hei mihi! fratres! simplices coelos penetrant, et literati disputant utrum sit deus!" the miracles which were afterwards reputed to be performed at the grave of this same excellent friar caused the church of the grey friars to be much frequented. the friars now began to accumulate books and we soon find mention of two libraries belonging to them. the nucleus of them was formed by the books and writings of grossetete, which he bequeathed to the brethren. and they collected with great industry from abroad greek, hebrew and mathematical writings, at that time unknown in england. the fate of this priceless collection of books was enough to make wood "burst out with grief." for, when the monasteries had begun to decay, and the monks had fallen into ways of sloth and ignorance and were become "no better than a gang of lazy, fat-headed friars," they began to sell their books for what they would fetch and allowed the remainder to rot in neglect. meanwhile the teaching of such scholars as grossetete and adam marsh (de marisco), the first of the order to lecture at oxford, was not without result. from the school of the franciscans came forth men who earned for the university great fame throughout europe. friars were sent thither to study, not only from scotland and ireland, but from france and acquitaine, italy, spain, portugal, and germany; while many of the franciscan schools on the continent drew their teachers from oxford. duns scotus and william ockham were trained by these teachers; roger bacon, the founder of modern scientific enquiry, ended his days as one of the order. his life, which stretched over the greater portion of the thirteenth century, was passed for the most part at oxford; his aspirations and difficulties, his failures and achievements form an epitome, as it were, of the mental history of his age. it was only when he had spent forty years and all his fortune in teaching and scientific research that, having gained the usual reward of scholarship, and being bankrupt in purse, bankrupt in hope, he took the advice of grossetete, and became a friar of the order of s. francis. "unheard, buried and forgotten," as a member of an order which looked askance on all intellectual labour not theological, he was forbidden to publish any work under pain of forfeiture, and the penance of bread and water. even when he was commanded by the pope to write, the friars were so much afraid of the purport of his researches that they kept him in solitude on bread and water, and would not allow him to have access even to the few books and writings available in those days. science, they maintained, had already reached its perfection; the world enjoyed too much light; why should he trouble himself about matters of which enough was known already? for as an enquirer bacon was as solitary as that lone sentinel of science, the tuscan artist in valdarno. from the moment that the friars settled on the universities, scholasticism had absorbed the whole mental energy of the student world. theology found her only efficient rivals in practical studies such as medicine and law. yet, in spite of all difficulties and hindrances, so superhuman was bacon's energy, and so undaunted his courage, that within fifteen months the three great works, the opus majus, the opus minus, and the opus tertium were written. if this had been true of the opus majus alone, and if that work had not been remarkable for the boldness and originality of its views, yet as a mere feat of industry and application it would have stood almost if not quite unparalleled. for the opus majus was at once the encyclopædia and the novum organum of the thirteenth century. of the opus minus the only ms. of the work yet known is a fragment preserved in the bodleian library (digby, no. ). the amazing friar met with no reward for his labours. according to one story, indeed, his writings only gained for him a prison from his order. his works were sold, allowed to rot, or nailed to the desks that they might do no harm. for bacon's method of study exposed him to the charge of magic. it was said that he was in alliance with the evil one, and the tradition arose that through spiritual agency he made a brazen head and imparted to it the gift of speech, and that these magical operations were wrought by him while he was a student at brazen nose hall. necromancy, you see, _was_ practised by the more daring students, for was there not a certain clerk in billyng hall who, when he had summoned the devil into his presence by his art, observed with astonishment that he did reverence when a priest carrying the sacrament passed without. "thereupon the student was much disturbed and came to the conclusion that god was much the greater and that christ should be his lord...." and later, was not dr thomas allen of gloucester hall, the astrologer and mathematician to whom bodley left his second best gown and cloak--a common sort of bequest in those days--suspected by reason of his figuring and conjuring, so that his servitor found a ready audience when, wishing to impose upon freshmen and simple people, he used to say that sometimes he would meet the spirits coming up his master's stairs like bees? apart from the tradition of the brazen nose, bacon's long residence in oxford left other marks on the nomenclature of the place. wood tells us that in his day a fragment of the ruined friary was pointed out as the room where the great wizard had been wont to pursue his studies. and at a later time tradition said that friar bacon was wont to use as an observatory the story built over the semi-circular archway of the gate on the south bridge, and it was therefore known as friar bacon's study. the little "gate-house" must have resembled bocardo. it was leased to a citizen named welcome, who added a story to it, which earned it the name of "welcome's folly." so the bridge came to be called folly bridge, and though gate and house have disappeared, the new bridge still retains the name. [illustration: gables in worcester college] the black and the grey friars were followed to oxford some years later by the white or carmelite friars. nicholas de meules or molis, sometime governor of the castle, gave them a house on the west side of stockwell street,[ ] now part of worcester college. they would seem, like the other orders, soon to have forgotten their traditional austerity. lands accrued to them; they erected suitable buildings with planted groves and walks upon a large and pleasant site. but not content with this, they presently obtained from edward ii. the royal palace of beaumont. thus they presented the curious paradox of an order of monks who derived their pedigree in regular succession from elijah, and trod in theory in the footsteps of the prophets who had retired into the desert, living at oxford in the palace of a king. "when king edward i. waged war with the scots ( ) he took with him out of england a carmelite friar, named robert baston, accounted in his time the most famous poet of this nation, purposely that he should write poetically of his victories. again, when king edward ii. maintained the same war after the death of his father, he entertained the same baston for the same purpose. at length the said king encountering robert bruce, was forced with his bishops to fly. in which flight baston telling the king that if he would call upon the mother of god for mercy he should find favour, he did so accordingly, with a promise then made to her that if he should get from the hands of his enemies and find safety, he would erect some house in england to receive the poor carmelites.... soon after, baston and some others were not wanting to persuade him to give to the carmelites his palace at oxford" ( ), where richard coeur de lion had been born. beaumont palace, whilst it remained in the hands of the carmelites, was used not merely as a convent for the habitation of twenty-four monks, but also as a place of education for members of this order throughout england; as well as for seculars who lived there as "commoners." cardinal pole is said to have been educated in this seminary. the library and the church of the white friars were unusually fine. the austin friars (or friars eremite of s. augustine) came also to oxford and gradually acquired property and settled "without smith gate, having holywell street on the south side of it and the chief part of the ground on which wadham college now stands on the north." the austin friars were famous for their disputations in grammar, and soon drew to themselves much of the grammatical training of the place. they engaged also in violent philosophical controversies with the other orders, so that at last they were even threatened with excommunication if they did not desist from their quarrelling. it was in their convent that the weekly general disputations of bachelors, known for centuries after as "austins," were held. [illustration: wadham college, from the gardens] in the penitentiarian friars or brothers of the sack, so called because they wore sackcloth, obtained from henry iii. a grant of land which formed the parish of s. budoc and lay to the west of the property of the franciscans. the order was soon afterwards suppressed and the franciscans acquired their house and lands. the brethren of the holy trinity also made a settlement in oxford ( ). their house, afterwards known as trinity hall, was situated outside the east gate (opposite magdalen hall). they also acquired the old trinity chapel adjoining and the surrounding land. the trinitarians had, besides, a chapel within the east gate, which was purchased by wykeham to make room for new college. the crossed or cruched friars, after one or two moves, settled themselves in the parish of s. peter's in the east. the older religious orders were presently stimulated by the example and the success of the friars to make some provision for the education of their monks. but they never aimed at producing great scholars or learned theologians. historians of their order and canonists who could transact their legal business were the products which the monastic houses desired. a chapter-general held at abingdon in imposed a tax on the revenues of all the benedictine monasteries in the province of canterbury with a view to establishing a house at oxford where students of their order might live and study together. john giffard, lord of brimsfield, helped them to achieve their object. gloucester hall, adjoining the palace of beaumont, had been the private house of gilbert clare, earl of gloucester, who built it in the year . it passed to sir john giffard, who instituted it a "nursery and mansion-place solely for the benedictines of s. peter's abbey at gloucester." the buildings were afterwards enlarged to provide room for student-monks from other benedictine abbeys. of the lodgings thus erected by the various abbeys for their novices, indications may still be traced in the old monastic buildings which form the picturesque south side of the large quadrangle of worcester college. for over the doorways of these hostels the half-defaced arms of different monasteries, the griffin of malmesbury or the cross of norwich, still denote their original purpose. [illustration: gateway, worcester gardens] at the dissolution, the college was for a short while made the residence of the first bishop of oxford. after his death it was purchased by sir thomas white, and by him converted into a hall for the use of his college of s. john. gloucester hall, now become s. john baptist hall, after a chequered career, was refounded and endowed in as worcester college out of the benefaction of sir thomas cookes. in the latter half of the eighteenth century the hall, library and chapel were built and the beautiful gardens of "botany bay" were acquired. the benedictines also held durham hall, on the site of the present trinity college, having secured a property of about ten acres with a frontage of about feet (including kettell hall) on broad street, and feet on the "kingis hye waye of bewmounte." it was here that richard de bury, bishop of durham, founded the first public library in oxford. bury had studied at oxford and was the tutor of edward iii.; statesman and churchman, he was above all gateway in garden of worcester college things a book-lover. he had more books, it is recorded, than all the other bishops put together and, wherever he was residing, so many books lay about his bed-chamber that it was hardly possible to stand or move without treading upon them. in the _philobiblon_ the bishop describes his means and methods of collecting books. in the course of his visitations he dug into the disused treasures of the monasteries, and his agents scoured the continent for those "sacred vessels of learning." the collection of books so made he intended for the use of scholars, not merely for himself alone. "we have long cherished in our heart of hearts," he writes, "the fixed resolve to found in perpetual charity a hall in the reverend university of oxford, and to endow it with the necessary revenues, for the maintenance of a number of scholars; and, moreover, to enrich the hall with the treasures of our books, that all and every one of them should be in common as regards their use and study, not only to the scholars of the said hall, but by their means to all the students of the aforesaid university for ever." and he proceeds to lay down strict regulations based on those of the sorbonne, for the use and preservation of his beloved books and the catalogue he had made of them. richard of hoton, prior of durham monastery, had begun in the erection of a college building to receive the young brethren from that monastery, whom his predecessor, hugh of darlington, had already begun to send to oxford to be educated. this colony of durham students it was apparently richard de bury's intention to convert into a body corporate, consisting of a prior and twelve brethren. and in gratitude for the signal defeat of the scots at halidon hill, edward iii. took the proposed college under his special protection. bury, however, died, and died in debt, so that he himself never succeeded in founding the hall he intended. his successor, bishop hatfield, took up the scheme, and entered into an agreement with the prior and convent of durham for the joint endowment of a college for eight monks and eight secular scholars. this project was completed, by agreement with his executors, after his death ( ). but what became of the books of the bishop and bibliophile, richard de bury? some of them, indeed, his executors were obliged to sell, but we need not distrust the tradition which asserts that some of them at least did come to oxford. there, it is supposed, they remained till durham hall was dissolved by henry viii., when they were dispersed, some going to duke humphrey's library, others to balliol college, and the remainder passing into the hands of dr george owen, who purchased the site of the dissolved college. whatever happened to bury's books, it is certain that the room which still serves as a library was built in , and it may be taken to form, happily enough, the connecting link between the old monastic house and the modern trinity college. some fragments of the original "domus et clausura" may also survive in the old bursary and common room. the stimulating effect of the friars upon the old orders is shown also by the foundation of rewley abbey, of which the main entrance was once north-west of hythe bridge street. rewley (_locus regalis_ in north osney) was built for the cistercians. richard, earl of cornwall, brother of henry iii., who like the king had often been at oxford, directed in his will that a foundation should be endowed for three secular priests to pray for his soul. his son edmund, however, founded an abbey of regulars instead, cistercian monks from thame. he gave sixteen acres to the west of the abbey for walks and for private use. to represent the twenty-one monks of the foundation, twenty-one elm-trees were planted within the gates, and at the upper end a tree by itself to represent the abbot. it was to this abbey, then, that the cistercian monks came up to study, till archbishop chichele founded s. bernard's for them ( ). the college which chichele founded for the bernardines, the "black" cistercians who followed the reformed rule of s. bernard, was built on the east side of s. giles', "after the same [illustration: oriel college] mode and fashion for matters of workmanship as his college of all souls." it is the modern college of s. john baptist. but a large part of the buildings date from chichele's foundation, and the statue of s. bernard still stands in its original niche to recall to the modern student the bernardines whom he has succeeded. the abbey was dissolved by henry viii., who gave the site to the cathedral of christ church. the ruins were still standing in wood's day, "seated within pleasant groves and environed with clear streams." only a fragment of a wall and doorway now remain. a memorial stone, purchased from the site of rewley by hearne the antiquarian for half a crown, is preserved in the ashmolean. it bears the name of ella longepée, the benevolent countess of warwick, "who made this chapel." in addition to the numerous parish churches and convents and colleges, there were now innumerable smaller religious foundations in oxford. there was the house of converts; there were several hospitals and hermitages and "ancherholds"--solitary little cells and cabins standing in the fields and adjoining abbeys or parish churches. [illustration: doorway, rewley abbey] the house of converts was founded by henry iii. ( ), and here "all jews and infidels converted to the christian faith were ordained to have sufficient maintenance." after the expulsion of the jews and when the number of converts began to fail, it was used as a hall for scholars and known as cary's inn. later it was the magnificent old inn, the blue boar, which spanned the old south boundary of little jewry, blue boar, bear or tresham lane. the whole of its site is occupied by the modern town hall. the hospital of s. bartholomew, which lay about half a mile to the east of the city, was founded by henry i. for leprous folk. it consisted of one master, two healthful brethren, six lepers and a clerk. the chapel and buildings were given in by edward iii. to oriel college. in the fourteenth century forty days' indulgence or pardon of sins was granted by the bishop of lincoln to all who would pay their devotions at the chapel of s. bartholomew, on the feast of that saint, and give of their charity to the leprous alms-folk. the result was that multitudes resorted there, and the priests and poor people benefited considerably. but after the reformation the custom died out. later, it was revived, for charitable reasons, by the fellows of new college. they changed the day to may-day, and then "after their grave and wonted manner, early in the morning, they used to walk towards this place. they entered the chapel, which was ready decked and adorned with the seasonable fruits of the year. a lesson was read, and then the fellows sung a hymn or anthem of five or six parts. thereafter one by one they went up to the altar where stood a certain vessel decked with tuttyes, and therein offered a piece of silver; which was afterwards divided among the poor men. after leaving the chapel by paths strewn with flowers, they in the open space, like the ancient druids, the apollinian offspring, echoed and warbled out from the shady arbours harmonious melody, consisting of several parts then most in fashion." and wood adds that "the youth of the city would come here every may-day with their lords and ladies, garlands, fifes, flutes, and drums, to acknowledge the coming in of the fruits of the year, or, as we may say, to salute the great goddess flora, and to attribute her all praise with dancing and music." the income of the hospital had previously been much augmented by the relics which it was fortunate enough to possess. s. edmund the confessor's comb, s. bartholomew's skin, as well as his much revered image, the bones of s. stephen and one of the ribs of s. andrew the apostle, all helped to draw to this shrine without the walls the worship and the offerings of the sick and the devout. it is difficult to realise with what reverential awe men regarded the jaw-bone of an ancient cenobite, the tooth or even the toe-nail of a saint or martyr. charms, in those days, were considered more efficacious than drugs, and the bones of saints were the favourite remedies prescribed by the monkish physicians. comb your hair with this comb of saint edmund, then, and you would surely be cured of frenzy or headache; apply the bones of s. stephen to your rheumatic joints, and your pains would disappear. so it was most firmly believed; and faith will remove mountains. there was a saint for every disease. to touch the keys of s. peter or to handle a relic of s. hubert was deemed an effectual mode of curing madness. s. clare, according to monkish leechcraft, cured sore eyes; s. sebastian the plague, and s. apollonia the toothache. the teeth of s. apollonia, by the way, were by a fortunate dispensation almost as numerous as the complaint which she took under her charge was common. it is said that henry vi., disgusted at the excess of this superstition, ordered all who possessed teeth of that illustrious saint to deliver them to an officer appointed to receive them. obedient crowds came to display their saintly treasures, and lo! a ton of the veritable teeth of s. apollonia were thus collected together. were her stomach, says fuller, proportionate to her teeth, a country would scarce afford her a meal. the relics at s. bartholomew's were so highly prized that oriel college thought it desirable to remove them to their church of s. mary--where more people might have the benefit of them. s. bartholomew's hospital was used as a common pest-house for the plague in , and shortly after was completely demolished. the chapel fared no better, for it was put to base uses by the parliamentarians, and the roof, which was of lead, was melted down to provide bullets for "the true church militant." the buildings and chapel were, however, restored by the patrons, oriel college. if you follow the cowley road towards cowley marsh, you will find on your left, opposite the college cricket grounds, and just short of the military college and barracks, a ruined building which is the old chapel of s. bartholomew, and contains the screen put up in the time of the commonwealth. the letters o. c., , mark it. they stand for oriel college, not oliver cromwell, we must suppose. there was a hospital in stockwell street, at the back of beaumont palace; there was a hospital of bethlehem at the north end of s. giles' church and alms-house place in holywell. of hermitages we may mention that known as s. nicholas chapel on the west side of south bridge. the hermits who lived there successively were called the hermits of grand pont. they passed their lives, we are told, in continual prayer and bodily labour--"in prayer against the vanities of the world, for poor pilgrims and passengers that steered their course that way, receiving of them something of benevolence for that purpose; in bodily labour by digging their own graves and filling them up again, as also in delving and making highways and bridges." "our lady in the wall" was the name of another hermitage near s. frideswide's grange, which was in great repute at one time for the entertainment of poor pilgrims who came to be cured by the waters of s. edmund's well (cowley place). the hospital of s. john baptist was founded some time before the end of the thirteenth century for the relief of poor scholars and other miserable persons. among the property granted or confirmed to it by henry iii. in a very liberal charter, was the mill known as king's mill at the headington end of the path now called mesopotamia, because it runs between the two branches of the river. as a site for rebuilding the hospital the brethren were given ( ) the jews' garden, outside the east gate of oxford, but it was provided that a space should be reserved for a burial-ground for the jews. this ground formed part of the present site of magdalen college, and part of the site of the physic garden, which lies on the other side of the high street, facing the modern entrance to that college. the latter site was that reserved for the jews' cemetery; the hospital buildings were erected on the other portion. when waynflete began to enlarge and remodel his foundation of magdalen hall ( ), he obtained a grant from the king whereby the hospital (which had ceased to fulfil its purpose) and its possessions were assigned to the president and fellows of the hall. two years later a commission was appointed by the pope, which confirmed the suppression of the hospital and its incorporation in the college which waynflete had been licensed to found, "whereby he proposed to change earthly things to heavenly, and things transitory to things eternal, by providing in place of the hospital a college of a president, secular scholars and other ministers for the service of god and the study of theology and philosophy; of whom some are to teach these sciences without fee at the cost of the college." of the buildings which were once part of the old hospital very little remains. in the line of the present college, facing the street, a blocked-up doorway to the west of the tower marks one of the entrances to the hospital. and wood was probably correct in saying that the college kitchen was also part of the original fabric. there is a little statue of a saint over a doorway inside the kitchen which appears to bear out this statement. * * * * * the various religious orders were, then, well represented at oxford. their influence on the university was considerable; their relations with it not always amicable. at first, doubtless, they did much to stimulate mental activity, whilst the friendship which grossetete, who as bishop of lincoln exercised a sort of paternal authority over the university, manifested towards his "faithful counsellor," adam marsh, and the franciscans in general, helped to reconcile their claims with the interests of the university. but the university was always inclined to be jealous of them; to regard them bitterly, and not without reason, as grasping bodies, who were never tired of seeking for peculiar favours and privileges and always ready to appeal to the pope on the least provocation. before long, indeed, it became evident that their object was to gain control of the university altogether. and this endeavour was met by a very strenuous and bitter campaign against them. for, as at paris, the friars soon outlived their welcome, and as at paris, it was deemed advisable to set a limit to the number of friar doctors and to secure the control of the university to the regular graduates.[ ] the friars who were sent up to oxford had usually completed their eight years' study of arts in the friars' schools, and were probably chosen for the promise they had shown in the course of their earlier studies. their academic studies were confined to the faculty of theology, in its wide mediæval sense, and of canon law, the hand-maid of theology. but though the regulars were for the most part subject to the same regulations as the secular students in these faculties, yet the orders were bound before long to find themselves in antagonism with the customs of the university. the rules of the preaching friars forbade them to take a degree in arts; the university required that the student of theology should have graduated in arts. the issue was definitely raised in , and became the occasion of a statute, providing that for the future no one should incept in theology unless he had previously ruled in arts in some university and read one book of the canon, or of the sentences, and publicly preached in the university. this statute was challenged some fifty years later by the dominicans, and gave rise to a bitter controversy which involved the mendicant orders in much odium. the dominicans appealed first to the king and then to the pope, but the award of the arbitrators appointed upheld the statute. the right of granting dispensations, however, or graces to incept in theology, to those who had not ruled in arts, was reserved to the chancellor and masters. a clause which prohibited the extortion of such "graces" by means of the letters of influential persons was inserted, but was not altogether effective. certain friars who had used letters of this kind are named in a proclamation of the year . "these are the names of the wax-doctors who seek to extort graces from the university by means of letters of lords sealed with wax, or because they run from hard study as wax runs from the face of fire. be it known that such wax-doctors are always of the mendicant orders, the cause whereof we have found; for by apples and drink, as the people fables, they draw boys to their religion, and do not instruct them after their profession, as their age demands, but let them wander about begging, and waste the time when they could learn in currying favour with lords and ladies." from an educational point of view no doubt the university was right in insisting on the preliminary training in arts. roger bacon speaks with contempt of the class that was springing up in his day--people who studied theology and nothing but theology, "and had never learnt anything of real value. ignorant of all parts and sciences of mundane philosophy, they venture on the study of philosophy which demands all human wisdom. so they have become masters in theology and philosophy before they were disciples." the tendency and the danger of our modern educational system is to specialise, not in theology but in science, without any proper previous training in the humanities. whilst the university was engaged in desperate combat with the friars in defence of its system, the regulars had succeeded in securing almost a monopoly of learning. the same fight and the same state of affairs prevailed at paris. and just as at paris in order to save the class of secular theologians from extinction, robert de sorbonne established his college ( ) for secular clerks, so now at oxford, walter de merton took the most momentous step in the history of our national education by founding a college for twenty students of theology or canon law, who not only were not friars or monks, but who forfeited their claims to his bounty if they entered any of the regular orders. and that his object was achieved the names of walter burley, the doctor perspicuus, thomas bradwardine, the profound doctor, and perhaps john wycliffe stand forth to prove. as an institution for the promotion of academical education under a collegiate discipline but secular guidance, the foundation of merton college was the expression of a conception entirely new in england. it deserves special consideration, for it became the model of all other collegiate foundations, and determined the future constitution of both the english universities. walter de merton was born at merton in surrey. he studied at oxford and won such high honour with the king that he was made chancellor of the kingdom. ranged on the side opposite to that of simon de montford, he was enabled perhaps by the very success of his opponent and the leisure that so came to him, to perfect the scheme which he had early begun to develop. at first he set aside his estates of malden, farleigh and chessington to support eight of his young kinsmen in study at the university. but in he made over his manor-house and estate of malden to a "house of scholars of merton," with the object of supporting twenty students preferably at oxford. the first statutes were granted in the following year. the scholars in whom the property of this house was vested were not allowed to reside within its walls for more than one week in the year, at the annual audit. the house was to be occupied by a warden and certain brethren or stewards. it was their business to [illustration: old gateway, merton college herbert railton oxford] administer the estate and pay their allowances to the scholars. the scholars themselves were all originally nephews of the founder. their number was to be filled up from the descendants of his parents, or failing them, other honest and capable young men, with a preference for the diocese of winchester. they were to study in some university where they were to hire a hall and live together as a community. it was in the very year of the secession to northampton that the statutes were issued, and it would have been obviously inexpedient to bind the students to one university or one town. the studium might be removed from oxford or the scholar might find it desirable to migrate from that university, to stamford, cambridge, or even paris. the founder, indeed, in view of such a possibility did acquire a house at cambridge for his college (pythagoras hall). the little community thus established at oxford was to live simply and frugally, without murmuring, satisfied with bread and beer, and with one course of flesh or fish a day. a second body of statutes given to the community in fixed their abode definitely at oxford and regulated their corporate life more in detail. a sub-warden was now appointed to preside over the students in oxford, as well as one to administer at malden. strict rules of discipline were laid down. at meals all scholars were to keep silence save one, who was to read aloud some edifying work. all noisy study was forbidden. if a student had need to talk, he must use latin. in every room one socius, older and wiser than the others, was to act as præpositus, control the manners and studies of the rest and report on them. to every twenty scholars a monitor was chosen to enforce discipline. one among so many was not found to suffice, and by the final statutes of merton one monitor to ten was appointed. thus originated the office of decanus (dean). a new class of poor students--"secondary scholars"--was also now provided for. they were to receive sixpence a week each from michaelmas to midsummer, and live with the rest at oxford. in these secondary scholars may be seen the germ of the distinction, so characteristic of english colleges, between the full members of the society, afterwards known as fellows or socii, and the scholars or temporary foundationers. socii originally meant those who boarded together in the same hall. it was the founder of queen's who first used the word to distinguish full members of the society from foundationers, who were still later distinguished as "scholares." wykeham followed his example, distinguishing the _verus et perpetuus socius_ from the probationer. and from these secondary scholars it is probable that a century later willyot derived his idea of the institution of a separate class of _portionistae_, the merton postmasters. they originally received a "stinted portion," compared with the scholars. merton became chancellor once more on the death of henry. he was practically regent of the kingdom till the return of edward from the crusades. as soon as he resigned the seals of office in , he set himself to revise the statutes of his college at oxford, before taking up his duties as bishop of rochester. the wardens, bailiffs and ministers of the altar were now transferred from malden to oxford, which was designated as the exclusive and permanent home of the scholars. the statutes now given remained in force till , and are, to quote the verdict of the late warden, "a marvellous repertory of minute and elaborate provisions governing every detail of college life. the number and allowances of the scholars; their studies, diet, costume, and discipline; the qualifications, election and functions of the warden; the distribution of powers among various college officers; the management of the college estates and the conduct of the college business are here regulated with remarkable sagacity. the policy which dictates and underlies them is easy to discern. fully appreciating the intellectual movement of his age, and unwilling to see the paramount control of it in the hands of the religious orders--the zealous apostles of papal supremacy--walter de merton resolved to establish within the precincts of the university a great seminary of secular clergy, which should educate a succession of men capable of doing good service in church and state. "the employment of his scholars was to be study--not the _claustralis religio_ of the older religious orders, nor the more practical and more popular self-devotion of the dominicans and franciscans. he forbade them ever to take vows; he enjoined them to maintain their corporate independence against foreign encroachments; he ordained that all should apply themselves to studying the liberal arts and philosophy before entering on a course of theology; and he provided special chaplains to relieve them of ritual and ceremonial duties. he contemplated and even encouraged their going forth into the great world. no ascetic obligations were laid on them, but residence and continual study were strictly prescribed, and if any scholar retired from the college with the intention of giving up study, or even ceased to study diligently, his salary was no longer to be paid. if the scale of these salaries and statutable allowances was humble, it was chiefly because the founder intended the number of scholars to be constantly increased as the revenues of the house might be enlarged." in this foundation walter de merton was the first to express the only true idea of a college. once expressed, it was followed by every succeeding founder. the collegiate system revolutionised university life in england. merton was never tired of insisting upon the one great claim which his community should have to the loyalty, affection and service of its members. it was this idea which has produced all that is good in the system. to individual study in the university schools was added common life; to private aims the idea of a common good. "the individual is called to other activities besides those of his own sole gain. diversities of thought and training, of taste, ability, strength and character, brought into daily contact, bound fast together by ties of common interest, give birth to sympathy, broaden thought, and force enquiry, that haply in the issue may be formed that reasoned conviction and knowledge, that power of independent thought, to produce which is the great primary aim of our english university education" (henderson). the founder, who had long been busy acquiring property in oxford, had impropriated the church of s. john the baptist for the benefit of the college, and several houses in its immediate neighbourhood were made over to the scholars. the site thus acquired ( - ) became their permanent home and was known henceforth as merton hall. of the buildings which were now erected and on which the eyes of the founder may have rested in pride and hope, little now remains. the antique stone carving over the college gate, the great north door of the vestibule of the hall, with its fantastic tracery of iron, perhaps the treasury and outer sacristy are relics of the earliest past. but chapel, hall, library and quadrangle are later than the founder. as if to emphasise the ecclesiastical character of the english college, he had begun at once to rebuild the parish church as a collegiate church. the high altar was dedicated in the year of his death, ; the rest of the chapel is of later dates. the choir belongs to the end of the thirteenth century ( ), (pure decorated); the transepts (early decorated, with later perpendicular windows and doors) were finished in , but begun perhaps as early as the choir; and the massive tower, with its soaring pinnacles, a fine specimen of perpendicular work, was completed in . it will be noticed that the chapel has no nave, but that, probably in imitation of william of wykeham's then recently finished naveless chapel at new college, the nave which had evidently been intended was omitted at merton (after ). two arches blocked with masonry in the western wall and the construction of the west window indicate this original intention of adding a nave. the old thirteenth century glass in the geometrical windows of the chancel is of great interest. the arms of castile and the portrait [illustration: oriel college] of elinor of castile (d. ) will be noticed. merton chapel is very rich both in glass and brasses. on entering the college you are struck at once by the fact that merton is not as other colleges arranged on a preconceived plan. but the irregular and disconnected arrangement of the buildings of the quadrangle are themselves suggestive of the fact that it was from merton and the plans of its founder that the college quadrangles may trace their origin; as it is from merton that they derive their constitution. the hall, the chapel, the libraries and the living rooms, as essentials for college life, were first adopted here, and these buildings were disposed in an unconnected manner about a quadrangular court after the fashion of the outer curia of a monastery. the regular disposition of college quadrangles was first completed by wykeham, and whilst other colleges have conformed to the perfected shape, merton remains in its very irregularity proudly the prototype, the mother of colleges. of the college buildings the most noteworthy is the library, the oldest example of the mediæval library in england. it was the gift of william rede, bishop of chichester ( ). the dormer and east windows and the ceiling are later, but the library as it is, though enriched by the improvements of succeeding centuries, beautiful plaster-work and panelling, noble glass and a sixteenth century ceiling, is not very different from that in which the mediæval student pored over the precious manuscripts chained to the rough sloping oaken desks which project from the bookcases. these bookcases stand out towards the centre of the room and form, with a reader's bench opposite to each of the narrow lancet windows, a series of reader's compartments. how the books were fastened and used in those days, you may gain a good idea by examining the half case numbered forty-five. it was in this library that the visitors of edward vi. took their revenge on the schoolmen and the popish commentators by destroying in their stupid fanaticism not only innumerable works of theology, but also of astronomy and mathematical science. "a cart-load," says thomas allen, an eye-witness, "of such books were sold or given away, if not burnt, for inconsiderable nothings." in this library anthony wood was employed in the congenial occupation of "setting the books to rights," and here is preserved, according to tradition, the very astrolabe which chaucer studied. and, for a fact, a beautiful copy of the first caxton edition of his works is stored in the sacristy--a building which up till was used as a brew-house. the charming inner quadrangle, in which the library is, rejoices in the name "mob" quad--a name of which the derivation has been lost. like the treasury, it probably dates from about . the high-pitched roof of the latter, made of solid blocks of ashlar, is one of the most remarkable features of merton. the outer sacristy is on the right of the main entrance passage to mob quad, and thence an old stone staircase leads to the treasury or muniment room. another passage from the front quadrangle leads to patey's quad. the fellows' quadrangle was begun in , and the large gateway with columns of the four orders (roman-doric, ionic, corinthian, and composite) is typical of the architectural taste of the times. the quadrangle itself, very similar to that of wadham, is one of the most beautiful and charming examples of late gothic imaginable. it would have been a fortunate thing if this had been the last building added to merton. but it was destined that the taste of the victorian era should be painfully illustrated by the new buildings which were erected in by mr butterfield. the architect was eager and the college not disinclined at that time to destroy part of the library and the mob quad. the abominable building which replaced the beautiful enclosure known as the grove, combines with the new buildings of christ church to spoil what might have been one of the most beautiful effects of water, wood and architecture in the world--the view of oxford from the christ church and broad walks. inspired by the example of merton and a similar dislike of monks and friars, walter de stapeldon, the great bishop of exeter, ordained that the twelve scholars whom he originally endowed ( ) should not study theology or be in orders. the society, afterwards known as exeter college, was housed at first in hart hall and arthur hall, in the parish of s. peter in the east, and was intended by the founder to be called stapeldon hall. in the following year he moved his scholars, eight of whom, he stipulated, must be drawn from devonshire and four from cornwall, to tenements which he had bought between the turl and smith gate, just within the walls. the founder added a rector to their number and gave them statutes, based on those of merton, which clearly indicated that his object was to give a good education to young laymen. the college was practically refounded in by sir william petre, a successful servant of the tudors. of the pre-reformation buildings, nothing unhappily remains save a fragment of the tower. the rest is seventeenth century or nineteenth, the front on turl street dating from , and the unlovely "modern gothic" front on broad street from . sir gilbert scott, who designed the latter, destroyed the old chapel and replaced it with a copy of the sainte chapelle. ten years later another daughter of merton was born. for in adam de brome, almoner of edward ii. and rector of s. mary's, obtained the royal licence to found a college of scholars, bachelor fellows, who should study theology and the ars dialectica. the statutes of this "hall of the blessed mary at oxford," afterwards known as king's hall and oriel college, were copied almost verbatim from those of merton. tackley's inn, on the south side of high street (no. ), and perilous hall, on the north side of horsemonger, now broad street, were purchased for the college. but in it was refounded by the king, endowed with the advowson and rectory of the church of s. mary, and ordered to be governed by a provost, chosen by the scholars from their own number. the first provost was the founder, who was also rector of s. mary's, and the society now established itself in the rectory house on the south side of the high street (st mary hall), at the north end of schidyard (oriel) street. the college gradually acquired property stretching up to st john's (now merton) street, and in so doing became possessed of the tenement at the angle of merton and oriel street called /p, or, for some uncertain reason, but probably on account of its possessing one of the architectural features indicated by that word, la oriole. it was here, then, that the society fixed its abode and from this hall it took its name. the present front quadrangle, resembling the contemporary front quadrangles of wadham and university, and endowed with a peculiar charm by the weather-stained and crumbling stone, stands on the site of la oriole and other tenements. it was completed in the year of the outbreak of the civil war, _regnante carolo_, as the legend on the parapet between the hall and chapel records, and the statue of charles i. above it indicates. the garden quadrangle was added in the eighteenth century. the monks and friars have gone their way and the place of their habitation knows them no more. but they have left their mark upon oxford in many ways. though their brotherhoods were disbanded by henry viii. and most of their buildings demolished, the quadrangles and cloisters of many colleges recall directly the monastic habit, and the college halls the refectory of a convent. whilst the college of s. john dates back from the scholastic needs of the cistercians, and the canterbury quad and gate at christ church keep alive by their names the recollection of the canterbury college founded by archbishop islip ( ) for the benedictines of canterbury, the old hostels, which were once erected to receive the benedictine students from other convents, survive in those old parts of worcester which lie on your left as you approach the famous gardens of that college. trinity college occupies the place of durham, and wadham has risen amid the ruins of a foundation of augustines, whose disputative powers were kept in memory in the exercises of the university schools down to . the monks of s. frideswide's priory, s. george's church, the abbey of osney, have all disappeared with the friaries. but christ church is a magnificent monument to the memory of the abbots and canons regular whom it has succeeded. the very conception of an academical college was no doubt largely drawn from the colleges of the regular religious orders, which, unlike those of the mendicants, were entirely designed as places of study. [illustration: monastic buildings, worcester college] we have seen how the foundation of merton, and therefore of exeter and oriel, was directly due to the coming of the friars. and it is to their influence that yet another great and once beautiful college, beautiful no longer, but greater now and more famous than ever by virtue of the services in politics and letters of its successful alumni, owes its origin. for it was under the guidance of a franciscan friar, one richard de slikeburne, that the widow of sir john de balliol carried out her husband's intention of placing upon a thoroughly organised footing his house for poor scholars. he, the lord of barnard castle, father of the illustrious rival of the bruce, having about the year "unjustly vexed and enormously damnified" the church of tynemouth and the church of durham, was compelled by the militant bishop whose hard task it was to keep peace on the border, to do penance. he knelt, in expiation of his crime, at the door of durham abbey, and was there publicly scourged by the bishop. he also undertook to provide a perpetual maintenance for certain poor scholars in the university. balliol's original scheme of benefaction had little in common with the peculiarly english college-system inaugurated by walter de merton. it was drawn up on the lines of the earlier foundations of paris. for the hall of balliol was originally a college for artists only who lost their places when they took a degree in arts. their scholarships meanwhile supplied them only with food and lodging of a moderate quality. but these youthful students, according to the democratic principles on which the halls were carried on, made their own statutes and customs, and it was in accordance with this code that the principal was required to govern them. balliol's scholars were established in oxford by june , and were at first supported by an annual allowance from him. he granted them a commons of eightpence a week. the hostel in which he lodged them was a house he hired in horsemonger street (broad street), facing the moat and city wall. but before he had made any provision for the permanent endowment of his scholars balliol died. a close connection had apparently from the first been established between the hall and the franciscans. one of the agents by whom balliol's dole had been distributed was a franciscan friar. now, under the guidance and probably at the instigation of the friar richard of slikeburne, whom she appointed her attorney in the business, lady dervorguilla of galloway, the widow of john of balliol, set herself to secure the welfare of her husband's scholars. since his death the very existence of the newly formed society had been in jeopardy. the lady dervorguilla, then, addressed a letter to the procurators or agents of balliol's dole, instructing them to put in force a code of statutes which was no doubt in great part merely a formal statement of customs already established at the old balliol hall. she next fitted up the north aisle of the parish church (s. mary magdalen) for the use of her scholars; she endowed them with lands in northumberland, and purchased for their dwelling-place three tenements east of old balliol hall. these tenements, which were south-west of the present front quadrangle, and faced the street, were soon known as new balliol hall or mary hall. the whole of the site of the front quadrangle was acquired by the society as early as . a few years later ( ) the scholars built themselves a chapel, part of which, said to be preserved in the dining-room of the master's house, forms an interesting link between the original scholars of balliol and the modern society which is connected with the name of dr jowett. the statutes, which had been much tinkered by subsequent benefactors and bishops, were finally revised by bishop fox, the enlightened and broad-minded founder of c.c.c. fox gave balliol a constitution, not altogether in harmony with his own ideals as expressed in the statutes of corpus, but such as he thought best fitted to fulfil the intentions of the founders. he divided the society into two halves:--ten juniors, _scholastici_, and ten fellows, _socii_, each of whom had a definite duty. in their hands the whole government of the college was placed. according to the new regulations the scholars or servitors of balliol were to occupy a position humbler than that of the younger students at any other college. they were to wait upon the master and the graduate fellows and to be fed with the crumbs that should fall from the table of their superiors. they were to be nominated by the fellow whom they were to serve, to be from eighteen to twenty-two years of age, and if they proved themselves industrious and well-behaved they were to be eligible to fellowships even though they had not taken the degree of b.a. commoners, as in most other colleges, were to be allowed to lodge within the walls of the college, and to take their meals with the members of the society. the fellowships, which entitled the holder to a "commons" of s. d. a week, were thrown open to competition, candidates being required, however, to be bachelors of arts, of legitimate birth, good character, proficient in their studies, and in need of assistance, for any cure of souls, or a private income of more than s. a year, was accounted a reason for disqualification. fox had a weakness for metaphors. in the statutes of corpus he "spoke horticulturally; his metaphor was drawn from bees." on the present occasion he uses a metaphor as elaborate and appropriate. the college is described as a human body. the master was the head, endued with the five senses of seeing clearly, hearing discreetly, smelling sagaciously, tasting moderately, and touching fitly; the senior fellow was the neck; the deans were the shoulders; the two priests the sides; the bursars the arms and hands; the fellows the stomach; the scholars the legs; and the servants the feet, whose function it is to go whithersoever they are bidden. just as the body when sick would require a physician, so it was said would the college sometimes require a visitor. the master and fellows were given the unusual privilege of choosing their own visitor. in the fifteenth century the whole quadrangle was rebuilt; the old hall, the old library, the master's house, and the block of buildings and gateway facing broad street being then erected. of these the shell of the master's house, the old hall, now converted into an undergraduates' library, and the old library, much defaced by wyatt, survive. the east wall of the library was used to form the west end of the chapel, which was built in to replace the old oratory. the sixteenth century chapel was removed and the present building erected as a memorial to dr jenkins, under whom balliol had begun to develop into a college of almost national importance. mr butterfield, the architect who had done his best to ruin merton, and who perpetrated keble, was entrusted with this unfortunate method of perpetuating the worthy master's memory. [illustration: balliol college] mr waterhouse is responsible for the present front of the college, the east side of the first quadrangle, the north side of the garden quadrangle and the new hall therein ( - ). not content with fighting the university, the oxford friars soon began to fight each other. rivalries sprang up between the orders; enormous scandals of discord, as matthew paris phrases it. jealousy found its natural vent in politics as in the schools. politically, the oxford franciscans supported simon de montfort; the dominicans sided with the king. the mad parliament met in the convent of the black friars. in philosophy the franciscans attacked the doctrine of the dominican, s. thomas aquinas, who had made an elaborate attempt to show that natural and revealed truth were complementary the one of the other. in order to establish this thesis and to reconcile human philosophy and the christian faith, the angelic doctor, for so he was commonly termed, had written an encyclopædia of philosophy and theology, in which he advanced arguments on both sides of every question and decided judicially on each in strict accordance with the tenets of the church. the light of this "sparkling jewel of the clergy, this very clear mirror of the university of paris, this noble and illuminating candlestick," was somewhat dimmed, however, when the great franciscan hero, the "subtle doctor," duns scotus, took up the argument, and clearly proved that the reasoning of this champion of orthodoxy was itself unorthodox. the world of letters was divided for generations into the rival camps of scotists and thomists. but the two doctors have fared very differently at the hands of posterity. thomas was made a saint, judged to be a "candlestick," and awarded by dante a place high in the realms of paradise. duns scotus, on the other hand, whose learning and industry were as great and his merit probably not much inferior, survives chiefly in the english language as a "dunce." the name of the great oxford scholar stands to the world chiefly as a synonym for a fool and a blockhead. for when the humanists, and afterwards the reformers, attacked his system as a farrago of needless entities and useless distinctions, the duns men, or dunses, on their side railed against the new learning. the name of dunce, therefore, already synonymous with cavilling sophist or hair-splitter, soon passed into the sense of dull, obstinate person, impervious to the new learning, and of blockhead, incapable of learning or scholarship. such is the justice of history. duns scotus had carried the day and the church rallied to the side of the franciscans. but such a successful attack involved the orders in extreme bitterness. the dominicans retorted that these franciscans, who claimed and received such credit throughout europe for humility and christlike poverty, were really accumulating wealth by alms or bequests. the charge was true enough. the pride and luxury of the friars, their splendid buildings, their laxity in the confessional, their artifices for securing proselytes, their continual strife with the university and their endeavours to obtain peculiar privileges therein had long undermined their popularity. they were regarded as "locusts" who had settled on the land and stripped the trees of learning and of life. duns scotus held almost undisputed sway for a while. his works on logic, theology and philosophy were text-books in the university. but presently there arose a new light, a pupil of his own, to supplant him. william of ockham, the "singular" or "invincible" doctor, revived the doctrine of nominalism. at once the glory and reproach of his order, he used the weapons of scholasticism to destroy it. but if in philosophy the "invincible doctor" was a sceptic, in theology he was a fanatical supporter of the extreme franciscan view that the ministers of christ were bound to follow the example of their master, and to impose upon themselves absolute poverty. it was a view which found no favour with popes or councils. but undeterred by the thunders of the church, ockham did not shrink from thus attacking the foundations of the papal supremacy or from asserting the rights of the civil power. paris had been, as we have seen, the first home of scholasticism, but with the beginning of the fourteenth century, oxford had taken its place as the centre of intellectual activity in europe. the most important schoolmen of the age were all oxonians, and nearly all the later schoolmen of note were englishmen or germans educated in the traditions of the english "nation" at paris. and when the old battle between nominalism and realism was renewed, it was fought with more unphilosophical virulence than before. "it was at this time that philosophy literally descended from the schools into the street, and that the _odium metaphysicum_ gave fresh zest to the unending faction fight between north and south at oxford, between czech and german at prague" (rashdall). yet this was not without good results. for scholasticism began now to come in contact with practical life. the disputants were led on to deal with the burning questions of the day, the questions, that is, as to the foundations of property, the respective rights of king and pope, of king and subject, of priest and people. the day was now at hand when the trend of political events, stimulated by the influence of the daring philosophical speculations of the oxford schoolmen, was to issue in a crisis. the crisis was a conflict between the claims of papal supremacy and the rights of the civil power, and for this crisis oxford produced the man--john wycliffe. born on the banks of the tees, he, the last of the great schoolmen, was educated at balliol, where he probably resided till he was elected master of that college in . in he accepted a college living and left oxford for a while, but was back again in , and resided in queen's college. he combined his residence there and his studies for a degree in theology with the holding of a living at ludgershall in bucks. some suppose that he was then appointed warden of canterbury hall,[ ] but this supposition is probably incorrect. at any rate he was already a person of importance, not only at oxford, but at the court. when parliament decided to repudiate the annual tribute to the pope which john had undertaken to pay, wycliffe officially defended this repudiation. he continued to study at oxford, developing his views. that he was in high favour at court is shown by the fact that he was nominated ( ) by the crown to the rectory of lutterworth and appointed one of the royal commissioners to confer with the papal representatives at bruges. but he continued lecturing at oxford and preaching in london. politically he threw in his lot with the lancastrian party. for he had been led in the footsteps of his italian and english predecessors, marsiglio and ockham, to proclaim that the church suffered by being involved in secular affairs, and that endowments were a hindrance to the proper spiritual purpose of the church. so it came about that the "flower of oxford," as he was called, the priest who desired to reform the clergy, found himself in alliance with john of gaunt, the worldly statesman, who merely desired to rob them. he soon found himself in need of the duke's protection. the wealthy and worldly churchmen of the day were not likely to listen tamely to his lectures. he was summoned before bishop courtenay of london to answer charges of erroneous teaching concerning the wealth of the church ( ). the duke of lancaster accepted the challenge as given to himself. he stood by wycliffe in the consistory court at s. paul's, and a rude brawl between his supporters and those of courtenay, in which the duke himself is said to have threatened to drag the bishop out of the church by the hair of his head, put an end to the trial. papal bulls were now promulgated against wycliffe. the university was directed to condemn and arrest him, if he were found guilty of maintaining certain "conclusions" extracted from his writings. the oxford masters, however, were annoyed at the attack made upon a distinguished member of their body, and they resented, as a threatened infringement of their privileges, the order of the archbishop and bishop of london, which commanded the oxford divines to hold an enquiry and to send wycliffe to london to be heard in person. what they did, therefore, was simply to enjoin wycliffe to remain within the walls of black hall, whilst they, after considering his opinions, declared them orthodox, but liable to misinterpretation. but wycliffe could not disobey the archbishop's summons to appear at lambeth. there he proved the value of a schoolman's training. the subtlety of "the most learned clerk of his time" reduced his opponents to silence. the prelates were at a loss how to proceed. they were relieved from their dilemma by the arrival of a knight from the court, who brought a peremptory message from the princess of wales, mother of richard ii., forbidding them to issue any decree against wycliffe. the session was dissolved by an invasion of the london crowd. wycliffe escaped scot-free. then followed the scandal of the great schism, when two, or even three, candidates each claimed to be the one and only vicar of christ. it is the great schism which would appear to have converted wycliffe into a declared opponent of the papacy. pondering on the problems of church and state which had hitherto occupied his energies, he was now forced to the conclusion that the papal, and therefore the sacerdotal power in general must be assailed. it was a logical deduction from his central thesis, the doctrine of "dominion founded on grace." he organised a band of preachers who should instruct the laity in the mother tongue and supply them with a bible translated into english. thus under his auspices oxford became the centre of a widespread religious movement. there the poor or simple priests, as they were called, had a common abode, whence, barefooted and clad in russet or grey gowns which reached to their ankles, they went forth to propagate his doctrines. and since the friars, who owed their independence of the bishops and clergy to the privilege conferred upon them by the popes, were strong supporters of the papal autocracy, wycliffe attacked them, by his own eloquence and that of his preachers, and that at a time when their luxurious and degenerate lives laid them open to popular resentment. already ( ) richard fitzralph, archbishop of armagh, who like wycliffe had been a scholar of balliol and in had held the office of vice-chancellor, had attacked the friars for their encroachments upon the domain of the parish priests; their power, their wealth, their mendicancy, he maintained, were all contrary to the example and precepts of christ and therefore of their founder. he charged them also with encroaching upon the rights of parents by making use of the confessional to induce children to enter their convents and become friars. this was the reason, he asserted, why the university had fallen to one-fifth of its former numbers, for parents were unwilling to send their sons thither and preferred to bring them up as farmers. this attack furnished wycliffe with a model for his onslaught. in his earlier days he had treated the friars with respect and even as allies--"a franciscan" he had said, "is very near to god"--for then he had been attacking the endowments of the church, and it was the monks or "possessioners" and the rich secular clergy to whom he was opposed. in theory the mendicant orders were opposed to these by their poverty and in practice by their interests. but the friars were the close allies and chief defenders of the pope. now, therefore, when wycliffe passed from political to doctrinal reform, his attitude towards the mendicant orders becomes one of uncompromising hostility. he and his followers denounced them with all the vehemence of religious partisanship and all the vigour of the vernacular. iscariot's children, they called them, and irregular procurators of the fiend, adversaries of christ and disciples of satan. wycliffe indeed went so far as to attribute an outbreak of disease in oxford to the idleness and intellectual stagnation of the friars. "being inordinately idle and commonly gathered together in towns they cause a whole sublunary unseasonableness." finally, wycliffe aimed at undermining the power of the priesthood by challenging the doctrine of transubstantiation. according to this doctrine the priest had the power of working a daily miracle by "making the body of christ." wycliffe, in the summer of , first publicly denied that the elements of the sacrament underwent any material change by virtue of the words uttered by the priest. the real presence of the body and blood of christ he maintained, but that there was any change of substance he denied. the heresy was promulgated at oxford. an enquiry was immediately held by the chancellor (william berton) and twelve doctors, half of them friars, and the new "pestiferous" doctrines were condemned. the condemnation and injunction forbidding any man in future to teach or defend them in the university was announced to wycliffe as he was sitting in the augustinian schools, disputing the subject. he was taken aback, but at once challenged chancellor or doctor to disprove his conclusions. the "pertinacious heretic," in fact, continued to maintain his thesis, and made a direct appeal, not to the pope, but to the king. the university rallied to his side and tacitly supported his cause by replacing berton with robert rygge in the office of vice-chancellor. rygge was more than a little inclined to be a wycliffite. and wycliffe meanwhile appealed also to the people by means of those innumerable tracts in the english tongue, which make the last of the schoolmen the first of the english pamphleteers. whilst he was thus entering on his most serious encounter with the church, suddenly there broke out the peasant revolt. the insurrection blazed forth suddenly, furiously, simultaneously and died away, having spent its force in a fortnight. it was a sporadic revolt with no unity of purpose or action except to express the general social discontent. but the upper classes were seriously frightened and some of the odium was reflected on the subversive doctrines of wycliffe, whose lollard preachers had doubtless dabbled not a little in the socialism which honey-combed the middle ages. when order was again restored, courtenay, now become archbishop, began to take active measures to repress the opinions of wycliffe. he summoned a synod at the blackfriars in london to examine them. the first session was interrupted by an earthquake, which was differently interpreted as a sign of the divine approval or anger. the earthquake council had no choice but to condemn such doctrines as those they were asked to consider, that god ought to obey the devil, for instance, or that no one ought to be recognised as pope after urban vi. when these doctrines were condemned, wycliffe does not appear to have been present, nor was any action at all taken against him personally. it is supposed that his popularity at oxford rendered him too formidable a person to attack. he was left at peace and the storm fell upon his disciples. the attack was made on "certain children of perdition," who had publicly taught the condemned doctrines, and "who went about the country preaching to the people, without proper authority." all such preachers were to be visited with the greater excommunication. as oxford, however, was the centre of the movement a separate mandate was sent thither. the archbishop sent down a commissary, peter stokes, a carmelite friar, to oxford, to prohibit the teaching of incorrect doctrines, but avoiding any mention of the teacher's name. the university authorities were by no means pleased at this invasion, so they held it, of their ancient privileges. the chancellor rygge had just appointed nicholas hereford, a devoted follower of wycliffe, to preach before the university; he now appointed a no less loyal follower, philip repyngdon to the same office. his sermon was an outspoken defence of the lollards. stokes reported that he dared not publish the archbishop's mandate, that he went about in the fear of his life; for scholars with arms concealed beneath their gowns accompanied the preachers and it appeared that not the chancellor only, but both the proctors were wycliffites, or at least preferred to support the wycliffites to abating one jot of what they considered the privileges of the university. and for once the mayor was of the same opinion as the rulers of the university. still, when the chancellor was summoned before the archbishop in london, he did not venture to disobey, and promptly cleared himself of any suspicion of heresy. the council met again at the blackfriars, and rygge submissively took his seat in it. on his bended knees he apologised for his disobedience to the archbishop's orders, and only obtained pardon through the influence of william of wykeham. short work was made of the oxford wycliffites; they were generally, and four of them by name, suspended from all academical functions. rygge returned to oxford, with a letter from courtenay which repeated the condemnation of the four preachers, adding to their names the name of wycliffe himself. the latter was likened by the archbishop to a serpent which emits noxious poison. but the chancellor protested he dared not execute this mandate, and a royal warrant had to be issued to compel him. meanwhile he showed his real feeling in the matter by suspending a prominent opponent of the wycliffites who had called them by the offensive name of lollards ("idle babblers"). but the council in london went on to overpower the party by stronger measures.[ ] wycliffe had apparently retired before the storm burst upon oxford. john of gaunt was appealed to by the preachers named. but the great duke of lancaster had no desire to incur the charge of encouraging heresy. he pronounced the opinions of hereford and repyngdon on the nature of the eucharist utterly detestable. the last hope of lollardism was gone. wycliffe himself retired unmolested to lutterworth, where he died and was buried. "admirable," says fuller "that a hare so often hunted with so many packs of dogs should die at last quietly sitting in his form." just as he owed his influence as a reformer to the skill and fame as a schoolman which he had acquired at oxford, so now his immunity was due to his reputation as the greatest scholastic doctor in the "second school of the church." the statute "de haeretico comburendo" did its work quickly in stamping out lollardy in the country. the tares were weeded out. in oxford alone the tradition of wycliffe died hard. a remarkable testimonial was issued in october by the chancellor and masters, sealed with the university seal. some have thought it a forgery, and at the best it probably only represented, as maxwell lyte suggests, the verdict of a minority of the masters snatched in the long vacation. but it is in any case of considerable significance. it extols the character of john wycliffe, and his exemplary performances as a son of the university; it extols his truly catholic zeal against all who blasphemed christ's religion by voluntary begging, and asserts that he was neither convicted of heretical pravity during his life, nor exhumed and burned after death. he had no equal, it maintains, in the university as a writer on logic, philosophy, theology or ethics. here then, archbishop arundel ( ) an oriel man, who with his father had built for that college her first chapel, found it necessary to take strong steps. he held a provincial council at oxford and ordered that all books written in wycliffe's time should pass through the censorship, first of the university of oxford or cambridge, and secondly of the archbishop himself, before they might be used in the schools. the establishment of such a censorship was equivalent to a fatal muzzling of genius. if it silenced the wycliffite teaching, it silenced also the enunciation of any original opinion or truth. two years later arundel risked a serious quarrel with the university in order to secure the appointment of a committee to make a list of heresies and errors to be found in wycliffe's writings. he announced his intention of holding a visitation of the university with that object. he met with violent opposition. the opponents of the archbishop were not all enthusiastic supporters of wycliffe's views. not all masters and scholars were moved by pure zeal either for freedom of speculation or for evangelical truth. the local patriotism of the north countryman reinforced the religious zeal of the lollard. the chronic antipathy of the secular scholars to the friars, of the realists to the nominalists, of the artists to the higher faculties, and the academic pride of the loyal oxonians--these were all motives which fought for wycliffe and his doctrines. least tangible but not least powerful among them was the last, for when civil or ecclesiastical authority endeavoured to assert itself over corporate privileges in the middle ages, a very hornet's nest of local patriotism and personal resentment was quickly roused. the oxford masters were impatient of all interference ecclesiastical as well as civil. they had thrown off the yoke of the bishop of lincoln and the archdeacon of oxford. and, with a view to asserting their independence of the primate, they had succeeded in obtaining a bull from boniface ix. in which he specifically confirmed the sole jurisdiction of the chancellor over all members of the university whatever, priests and monks and friars included. the university, however, was compelled to renounce the bull, and to submit to the visitation of the archbishop. but the submission was not made without much disturbance and bitterness of feeling. the lollards, the younger scholars and the northerners, with their lawless allies the irish, were in favour of active resistance. the behaviour of three fellows of oriel will show how the university was divided against itself. these men, so runs the complaint against them, "are notorious fomenters of discord." "they lead a band of ruffians by night, who beat, wound, and spoil men and cause murder. they haunt taverns day and night, and do not enter college before ten or eleven or twelve o'clock, and even scale the walls to the disturbance of quiet students, and bring in armed strangers to spend the night. thomas wilton came in over the wall at ten and knocked at the provost's chamber, and woke up and abused him as a liar, and challenged him to get up and come out to fight him. against the provost's express orders, on the vigil of s. peter, these three had gone out of college, broken the chancellor's door and killed a student of law. the chancellor could neither sleep in his house by night nor walk in the high street by day for fear of these men." the arrival of the archbishop at oxford then, to hold a visitation at s. mary's was a signal for an outbreak. s. mary's was barricaded and a band of scholars armed with bows, swords and bucklers awaited the primate. notwithstanding the interdict laid on the church, john birch of oriel, one of the proctors, took the keys, opened the doors, had the bell rung as usual, and even celebrated high mass there. s. mary's, it will be remembered, belonged to oriel. hence, perhaps, the active resistance of these oriel fellows and of the dean of oriel, john rote, who asked "why should we be punished by an interdict on our church for other people's faults?" and he elegantly added, "the devil go with the archbishop and break his neck." the controversy was at last referred to the king. the chancellors and proctors resigned their office. the younger students who had opposed the archbishop were soundly whipped, much to the delight of henry iv. the bull of exemption was declared invalid; the university acknowledged itself subject to the see of canterbury, thanks to the mediation of the prince of wales, mad-cap harry, and the archbishop arundel made a handsome present of books to the public library of oxford. the committee desired by arundel was eventually constituted. two hundred and sixty-seven propositions were condemned and the obnoxious books solemnly burnt at carfax. not long after, a copy of the list of condemned articles was ordered to be preserved in the public libraries, and oaths against their maintenance were enjoined upon all members of the university on graduation. the methods of the archbishop met with the success which usually attends a well-conducted persecution. history notices the few martyrs who from time to time have laid down their lives for their principles, but it often fails to notice the millions of men who have discarded their principles rather than lay down their lives. so the wycliffite heresy was at length dead and buried. but the ecclesiastical repression which succeeded in bringing this about succeeded also in destroying all vigour and life in the thought of the university. henceforth the schoolmen refrained from touching on the practical questions of their day. they struck out no new paths of thought, but revolved on curves of subtle and profitless speculation, reproducing and exaggerating in their logical hair-splitting all the faults without any of the intellectual virtues of the great thinkers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. it was against these degenerate dullards that the human mind at last rebelled, when intellect was born again in the new birth of letters. what wonder then if, suddenly freed from the dead weight of their demoralising stupidities, men broke out in the exuberance of their spirits into childish excesses, confused the master with his foolish and depressing pupils, strewed the quadrangle of new college with the leaves of dunce, and put them to the least noble of uses, as though they had been the chronicles of volusius. the archbishop's right of visitation was confirmed in parliament and with it the suppression of lollardy, of free speech and thought, in the schools and pulpits of oxford. the issue of the struggle practically closes the history of lollardism as a recognised force in english politics, and with it the intellectual history of mediæval oxford. up to that time the university had shown itself decidedly eager for reform, and for a few years the same spirit survived. oxford had consistently advocated the summoning of a general council to settle the claims of the rival popes and to put an end to the schism which was the scandal of christendom. but for fifteen years such pacific designs were eluded by the arts of the ambitious pontiffs, and the scruples or passions of their adherents. at length the council of pisa deposed, with equal justice, the popes of rome and avignon. in their stead, as they intended, but in addition to them as events were to prove, the conclave, at which the representatives of oxford and cambridge were present, unanimously elected peter philargi. this franciscan friar from crete, who had taken his degree of bachelor of theology at oxford, assumed the title of alexander v., and remains the only wearer of the tiara who has graduated at oxford or cambridge. he was shortly afterwards succeeded by john xxiii., the most profligate of mankind. it remained for the council of constance to correct the rash proceedings of pisa, and to substitute one head of the church in place of the three rival popes ( ). but before the opening of this council the university of oxford had drawn up and presented to the king a document of a very remarkable character. it consisted of forty-six articles for the reformation of the church. the oxford masters suggested that the three rival popes should all resign their claims; they complained of the simoniacal and extortionate proceedings of the roman court, and of the appointment of foreigners to benefices in england; they accused the archbishops of encroaching on the rights of their suffragans, and charged the whole order of prelates with nepotism and avarice. abbots, they contended, should not be allowed to wear mitres and sandals as if they were bishops, and monks should hot be exempt from ordinary episcopal jurisdiction. friars should be restrained from granting absolution on easy terms, from stealing children, and from begging for alms in the house of god. secular canons should be made to abandon their luxurious style of living, and masters of hospitals to pay more regard to the wants of the poor. parish priests, who neglected the flocks committed to their care, are described as ravening wolves. the masters also complained of the non-observance of the sabbath and of the iniquitous system of indulgences. shades of the founder of lincoln college, what a document is this! it is wycliffism alive, rampant and unashamed. not perhaps altogether unashamed or at least not indiscreet, for the masters go out of their way to call for active measures against the lollards. but the whole of this manifesto is a cry from oxford, in , for reformation; it is a direct echo of the teaching and declamation of wycliffe, and an appeal for reformation as deliberate and less veiled than "the vision of william langland concerning piers plowman," that sad, serious satirist of those times, who, in his contemplation of the corruption he saw around him in the nobility, the government, the church and the friars, "all the wealth of the world and the woe too," saw no hope at all save in a new order of things. oxford's zeal for reformation at this time was made very clear also by her representatives at constance, where a former chancellor, robert halam, bishop of salisbury, and henry abingdon, a future warden of merton, very greatly distinguished themselves. yet it was by a decree of this very council of constance ( ) that the remains of wycliffe were ordered to be taken up and cast out far from those of any orthodox christian. this order was not executed till twelve years later, when bishop fleming, having received direct instructions from the pope, saw to it. wycliffe's remains were dug up, burnt and cast into the swift, but, as it has been said, the swift bore them to the avon, the avon to the severn, and the severn to the sea to be dispersed unto all lands: which things are an allegory. for though in england the repression of his teaching deferred the reformation, which theologically as well as politically wycliffe had begun, for more than a hundred years, yet abroad, in bohemia, the movement which he had commenced grew into a genuine national force, destined to react upon the world. bishop fleming, who had been proctor in , seems to have thought that the snake was scotched but not killed. for though he had been a sympathiser with the lollards in his youth, in his old age he thought it worth while to found a "little college of theologians," who should defend the mysteries of the sacred page "against these ignorant laics, who profaned with swinish snout its most holy pearls." the students in this stronghold of orthodox divinity were to proceed to the degree of b.d. within a stated period; they must swear not to favour the pestilent sect of wycliffites, and if they persisted in heresy were to be cast out of the college "as diseased sheep." it was in that fleming obtained a charter permitting him to unite the three parish churches of all saints', s. michael's, and s. mildred's into a collegiate church, and there to establish a "collegiolum," consisting of a rector and seven students of theology, endowed with the revenue of those churches. no sooner had he appointed the first rector, purchased a site and begun to erect the buildings just south of the tower, than he died. the energy of the second rector, however, dr john beke, secured the firmer foundation of the college. he completed the purchase of the original site, which is represented by the front quadrangle and about half the grove; and thereon john forest, dean of wells, completed ( ) the buildings as fleming had planned them, including a chapel and library, hall and kitchen, and rooms. modern lincoln is bounded by brasenose college and brasenose lane, the high street and the turl,[ ] the additional property between all saints' church and the front quadrangle having been bestowed upon the college during the period - . of forest's buildings the kitchen alone remains untouched, and a very charming fragment of the old structure it is. the foundation of lincoln was remodelled and developed by thomas rotherham, chancellor of cambridge, and afterwards archbishop of york. his benefactions to the cause of learning were munificent and unceasing, and, so far as lincoln is concerned, he may fairly be called the college's second founder. the origin of his interest in the college arose from a picturesque incident. when he visited the college as bishop of the diocese in , the rector, john tristrope, urged its claims in the course of a sermon. he took for his text the words from the psalm, "behold and visit this vine, and the vineyard which thy right hand hath planted," and he earnestly exhorted the bishop to complete the work begun by his predecessor. for the college was poor, and what property it had was at this time threatened. so powerful and convincing was his appeal that, at the end of the sermon, the bishop stood up and announced that he would grant the request. he was as good as his word. he gave the college a new charter and new statutes ( )--a code which served it till the commission of ; he increased its revenues and completed the quadrangle on the south side. there is a vine which still grows in lincoln, on the north side of the chapel quadrangle, and this is the successor of a vine which was either planted alongside the hall in allusion to the successful text, or, being already there, suggested it. [illustration: oriel window, lincoln college] chapter v the mediÆval student "a clerk ther was of oxenford also, that unto logik hadde longe ygo.... for him was lever have at his beddes heed twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, of aristotle and his philosophye than robes riche, or fithele or gay sautrye. but al be that he was a philosophre, yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; but al that he mighte of his freendes hente, on bokes and on lerninge he it spente, and bisily gan for the soules preye of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye. of studie took he most cure and most hede. noght o word spak he more than was nede, and that was seyd in forme and reverence, and short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. souninge in moral vertu was his speche, and gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche." as you drive into oxford from the railway station, you pass, as we have seen, monuments which may recall to mind the leading features of her history and the part which she took in the life of the country. the castle mound takes us back to the time when saxon was struggling against dane; the castle itself is the sign manual of the norman conquerors; the cathedral spire marks the site upon which s. frideswide and her "she-monastics" built their saxon church upon the virgin banks of the river. carfax, with the church of s. martin, was the centre [illustration: the porch & gate s. mary the virgins.] of the city's life and represents the spirit of municipal liberty which animated her citizens, and the progress of their municipal freedom. the bell which swung in carfax tower summoned the common assembly to discuss and to decide their own public affairs and to elect their own mayor. and this town-mote of burghers, freemen within the walls, who held their rights as burghers by virtue of their tenure of ground on which their tenement stood, met in carfax churchyard. justice was administered by mayor and bailiff sitting beneath the low shed, the "penniless bench"[ ] of later times, without its eastern wall. and around the church lay the trade guilds, ranged as in some vast encampment. carfax church, with all its significance of municipal life, stands at the top of high street, the most beautiful street in the world. still, by virtue of the splendid sweep of its curve comparable only to the grand canal of venice or the bend of windermere, and by virtue of the noble grouping of its varied buildings, the most beautiful street in the world; in spite of modern tramways and the ludicrous dome of the shelley memorial, "a thing resembling a goose pye," as swift wrote of sir john vanburgh's house in whitehall; in spite of the disquieting ornamentation of brasenose new buildings and the new schools; in spite even of the unspeakably vulgar and pretentious façade of lloyd's bank, a gross, advertising abomination of unexampled ugliness and impertinence, which has done all that was possible to ruin the first view of this street of streets. let us leave it behind us with a shudder and pass down the high till we find on our left, at what was once the end of "schools street," the lovely twisted columns of the porch which forms the modern entrance to s. mary's church. what carfax was to the municipal life of oxford, s. mary's was to the university. it was the centre of the academical and ecclesiastical life of the place. and the bell which swung in s. mary's tower summoned the students of the university sometimes to take part in learned disputations among themselves, sometimes to fight the citizens of the town. here then, between the churches of s. martin and s. mary, the life of this mediæval university town ebbed and flowed. in the narrow, ill-paved, dirty streets, streets that were mere winding passages, from which the light of day was almost excluded by the overhanging tops of the irregular houses, crowded a motley throng. the country folks filled the centre of the streets with their carts and strings of pack-horses; at the sides, standing beneath the signs of their calling, which projected from their houses, citizens in varied garb plied their trades, chaffering with the manciples, but always keeping their bow-strings taut, ready to promote a riot by pelting a scholar with offal from the butchers' stall, and prompt to draw their knives at a moment's notice. to and fro among the stalls moved jews in their yellow gaberdines; black benedictines and white cistercians; friars black, white and grey; men-at-arms from the castle, and flocks of lads who had entered some grammar school or religious house to pass the first stage of the university course. here passed a group of ragged, gaunt, yellow-visaged sophisters, returning peacefully from lectures to their inns, but with their "bastards" or daggers, as well as their leather pouches, at their waists. here a knot of students, fantastically attired in many-coloured garments, whose tonsure was the only sign of their clerkly character, wearing beards, long hair, furred cloaks, and shoes chequered with red and green, paraded the thoroughfare, heated with wine from the feast of some determining bachelor. here a line of servants, carrying the books of scholars or doctors to the schools, or there a procession of colleagues escorting to the grave the body of some master, and bearing before the corpse a silver cross, threaded the throng. here hurried a bachelor in his cape, a new master in [illustration: the high street on the left university college. on the right all saints' church, brasenose college, church of s. mary the virgin, all souls' & queen's colleges.] his "pynsons" or heelless shoes, a scholar of exeter in his black boots, a full-fledged master with his tunic closely fastened about the middle by a belt and wearing round his shoulders a black, sleeveless, close gown. here gleamed a mantle of crimson cloth, or the budge-edged hood of a doctor of law or of theology. and in the hubbub of voices which proceeded from this miscellaneous, parti-coloured mob, might be distinguished every accent, every language, and every dialect.[ ] for french, german and spanish students jostled in these streets against english, irish, scottish and welsh; kentish students mingled with students from somersetshire or yorkshire, and the speech of each was quite unintelligible to the other. s. mary's church was the only formal meeting place of these students, thus drawn together in the pursuit of knowledge from various parts of europe. it was here that all university business, secular and religious, was transacted, till the building of the divinity school and the sheldonian theatre allowed the church to be reserved for sacred purposes. then at last it ceased to be the scene of violent altercations between heads of houses or the stage where the terræ filius of the year should utter his scurrilous banalities.[ ] but still every sunday morning during term the great bell of s. mary's rings out and summons the university to assemble in formal session there to hear a sermon. the bedels of the four faculties with their silver staves lead the way; and the vice-chancellor is conducted to his throne, the preacher to his pulpit; the doctors of the several faculties in their rich robes follow and range themselves on either side of their official head; below them the proctors, representatives of the masters of arts, wearing the white hoods of their office, take their seats. the masters and bachelors fill the body of the church, the undergraduates are crowded into the galleries. we must not think of s. mary's as merely a meeting-house for university business or as merely a parish church. for centuries it has been the centre of christian oxford; where each successive movement in english theology has been expounded and discussed. from the old stone pulpit, of which a fragment is fixed over the southern archway of the tower, peter martyr delivered his testimony and cole sent cranmer to the stake; from its nineteenth century successor, john keble began the oxford movement; dr pusey preached a sermon for which he was suspended, and newman (vicar ) entered on the path to rome. the church is mentioned in domesday book, and the north wall of the lady chapel, commonly known as adam de brome's chapel because the tomb of the founder of oriel is therein, may have been part of the church as it stood at the time of the domesday survey. the tower and the spire date from the early fourteenth century. s. mary's as we have it now is very much a tudor building. when william of wykeham built new college chapel he set a fashion which soon converted oxford into a city of pinnacles.[ ] in the perpendicular style pinnacles were erected on merton tower and transept, on all souls' chapel, on magdalen chapel, hall and tower; nearly a hundred pinnacles decorated the schools and library; the nave, aisles and chancel of s. mary's received the same ornaments, and pinnacles in the same style were added to the clusters of the fourteenth century tower and spire. these were not high but observed a true proportion. it was the grave fault of the excessively lofty pinnacles (beautiful no doubt in themselves) which were added in ,[ ] that they destroyed the true beauty of proportion and the effect of gradual transition which the fourteenth century builders had succeeded in giving to the tower and spire, and with which the ancient statues in [illustration: s. mary's spire from grove lane] their canopied niches were in perfect harmony. for the massive tower-buttresses are crowned with turrets, showing canopied niches containing twelve over-life-size statues and decorated with ball-flower ornament. two of the statues on the buttresses facing south are modern; nine others are copies ( ) of the old statues, stored now in the ancient congregation house, which still exhibit the carefully calculated gestures and the studied designs of the original fourteenth century workers. they form a series which recalls that on the west front of wells cathedral, a rare example of english sculpture in a _genre_ which is so plentifully and superbly illustrated by the french cathedrals. on the face of the south buttress of the west front stood the statue, beautifully posed, of the virgin with the infant christ, the lady of the church thus occupying the most important angle of the tower; on the left, s. john the evangelist with the cup. between the evangelist and s. john the baptist, patron saint of the chapel of merton, walter of merton looks out towards the college he founded. these three are from new designs by mr frampton. on the n.w. angle of the tower is s. cuthbert of durham, facing northwards. he holds in his hand the head of s. oswald, the christian king slain by penda, and looks towards his own north country and durham, the great diocese so intimately connected through its bishops and monastery with the early collegiate foundations of the universities. northwards, too, towards his cathedral church of lincoln, faces s. hugh, with the wild swan of stowe nestling to him as was his wont, with its neck buried in the folds of his sleeve. this statue is on the eastern buttress at the n.e. angle, and on the eastern face of the same buttress is an equally noble statue of edward the confessor. on the s.e. angle stands, it may be, the murdered becket, and among the other figures edmund rich may perhaps be counted. the chancel and nave are, it will be seen, splendid examples of late perpendicular. the chancel, in fact, began to be rebuilt in and the nave - . for the church "was so ruinated in henry vii. reign that it could scarce stand," and though it was and is really a parish church, yet so closely was it bound up with the life and procedure of the university that the university at length took measures to collect money for its repair. they begged, after the approved manner of the great church-builders of the middle ages, from the archbishop downwards, and their begging was so successful that they built the nave, as we now have it, and the chancel. in order to secure an appearance of uniformity, the architect unfortunately altered adam de brome's chapel, encasing the outer walls in the new style, and inserting larger windows. not content with this, he likewise converted the old house of congregation by substituting a row of large for two rows of small windows, giving thereby a false impression from the outside, as if the upper and lower stories were one. the university had no right to the use of s. mary's. the church was merely borrowed for sermons and meetings of congregation, just as s. peter's in the east was borrowed for english sermons and s. mildred's for meetings of the faculty of arts. for the university in its infancy had little or no property of its own. it could not afford to erect buildings for its own use. the parish churches, therefore, were used by favour of the clergy, and lectures were delivered in hired schools. the need for some university building was, however, severely felt. at last it was provided for in a small way. "that memorable fabric, the old congregation house," and the room above it were begun in by the above-mentioned adam de brome, at the expense of thomas cobham, bishop of worcester. the latter had undertaken to enlarge the old fabric of s. mary's church by erecting a building two stories high immediately to the east of the tower, on the very site, that is, on which the university had previously endeavoured to found a chantry. he intended that the lower room should serve primarily as a meeting-place for the congregations of regent-masters, and at other times for parochial purposes. the upper room was to be used partly as an oratory, and partly as a general library. but the good bishop's books, which were to form the nucleus of this library, met with the same fate as richard de bury's. his executors pawned them to defray the expenses of his funeral, and to pay his debts. oriel college at their suggestion redeemed the books, and being also the impropriating rectors of the church, they claimed to treat both building and library as their own property. but the masters presently asserted their supposed rights by coming "with a great multitude" and forcibly carrying away the books from oriel, "in autumn, when the fellows were mostly away." they lodged the books in the upper chamber, and oriel presently acknowledged the university's proprietary rights. the old university library, then, found its home in the upper room of the old congregation house, and there remained until the books were moved to duke humphrey's library ( ). from that time till the erection of laud's convocation house, the upper room was used as a school of law, and also as another congregation house, distinguished by the name of "upper." meantime a salary was provided for a librarian, who, besides taking care of the books in the upper chamber, was to pray for the soul of the donors. other books were acquired by the university, either by purchase, bequest, or as unredeemed pledges. some of these were kept in chests, and loaned out on security like cash from the other chests, whilst others were books given or bequeathed to the university, which were kept chained in the chancel of the church, where the students might read them. others, in the upper room, were secured to shelves by chains that ran on iron bars. these shelves, with desks alongside, would run out from the walls, between the seven windows, in a manner clearly shown by such survivals of mediæval libraries as exist at the bodleian, merton and corpus. the catalogue was in the form of a large board suspended in the room. at first these books were open for the use of all students at the specified times, but by later statutes ( ), made when the library had been increased by further donations and time had brought bitter experience, the use of them was stringently limited to graduates or religious of eight years' standing in philosophia. these regulations were intended to provide against the overcrowding of the small library, the disturbance of readers and the destruction of books by careless, idle and not over-clean boy students. with the object of preserving the books, a solemn oath was also exacted from all graduates on admission to their degree, that they would use them well and carefully. the lower room fulfilled its founder's intention, and here the congregation of regents met, whilst the convocation, or great congregation of regents and non-regents, was held in the chancel of the church. here, then, we may imagine the chancellor sitting, surrounded by doctors and masters of the great congregation as the scene was formerly depicted in the great west window of s. mary's, and is still represented on the university seal. i have referred to the "chests" which were kept in the upper chamber. this was in fact the treasure-house of the university, and here were stored in great chests doubly and trebly locked, like the "bodley" chest in the bodleian, the books and money with which the university had been endowed for the benefit of her scholars. mr anstey (_munimenta academica_) has given a brilliant little sketch of the scene which the fancy may conjure up when the new guardians of the chests were appointed and the chests opened in their presence. it is the eve of the festival of s. john at the latin gate, in the year of grace . to-morrow is the commemoration day of w. de seltone, founder of the chest known by his name. master t. parys, principal of s. mary hall, and master lowson are the new guardians, the latter the north countryman of the two. high mass has just been sung with commemoration collects, and solemn prayers for the repose of the souls of w. de seltone and all the faithful departed. it is not a reading (legible) day, so the church is full. but now all have left, except a few ragged-looking lads, who still kneel towards the altar, and seem to be saying their pater nosters and ave marias, according to their vow, for their benefactor. master parys and master lowson, however, have left earlier; they have passed out of the chancel and made their way into the old congregation house for their first inspection of the seltone chest. each of the guardians draws from beneath his cape a huge key, which he applies to the locks. at the top lies the register of the contents, in which is recorded particulars, dates, names and amounts of the loans granted. the money remaining in one corner of the chest is carefully counted and compared with the account in the register. here and there among valuable mss. lie other pledges of less peaceful sort but no less characteristic of a mediæval student's valuable possessions. here perhaps are two or three daggers of more than ordinary workmanship, and there a silver cup or a hood lined with minever. that man in an ordinary civilian's dress, who stands beside master parys, is john more, the university stationer, and it is his office to fix the value of the pledges offered, and to take care that none are sold at less than their real value. it is a motley group that stands around; there are several masters and bachelors, but more boys and young men in every variety of coloured dress, blue, red, medley or green. many of these lads are but scantily clothed, and all have their attention riveted on the chest, each with curious eye watching for his pledge, his book or his cup, brought from some country village, perhaps an old treasure of his family, and now pledged in his extremity. for last term he could not pay the principal of his hall seven and sixpence due for the rent of his miserable garret, or the manciple for his battels, but now he is in funds again. the remittance, long delayed on the road, has arrived, or perhaps he has succeeded in earning or begging a sufficient sum to redeem his pledge. he pulls out the coin from the leathern money-pouch at his girdle. but among the group you may see one master, whose bearing and dress plainly denote superior comfort and position. he is wearing the academical costume of a master, cincture and biretta, gown and hood of minever. can it be that he too has been in difficulties? he might easily have been, for the post was irregular, and rents were not always punctual in those days. but in this case it is master henry sever, warden of merton, who has lately been making some repairs in the college, and he has borrowed from the seltone chest the extreme sum permitted by the ordinance, sixty shillings, for that purpose. the scholars plainly disapprove of his action. they are jealous of his using the funds of the chest which, they think, were not intended for the convenience of such as he. master sever, however, is filled with anxiety at the present moment. he has pledged an illuminated missal which far exceeds in value the sum he has borrowed, and this he omitted to redeem at the proper time. it is not in the chest. he inquires, and is told that it has been borrowed for inspection by an intending purchaser, who has left a silver cup in its place, of more intrinsic value by the stationer's decision, but not in mr sever's opinion. satisfied that he will be able to effect an exchange, he departs with the cup in search of the owner. other cases are now considered. some redeem their pledges, some borrow more monies, some are new customers, and they sorrowfully deposit their treasures and slink sadly away, not without a titter from the more hardened bystanders. but before the iron lid closes again, and the bolts slide back, "ye shall pray," says master parys, addressing the borrowers, "for the soul of w. de seltone and all the faithful departed." we may pass from this scene in the old convocation house to another not less typical of the mediæval university. the chancellor's court is being held, and the chancellor himself is sitting there, or, in his absence, his commissary. the two proctors are present as assessors, and these three constitute the court. it is before this tribunal that every member of the "privilege" must be tried. for it was only in a university court that they could be sued in the first instance. here then, if we attend this court and glance through the records of ages, we shall find the chancellor administering justice, exercising the extensive powers which he holds as a justice of the peace and as almost the supreme authority over members of the university. true, he had not the power of life and death, but he could fine or banish, imprison and excommunicate. and as to the townsmen, he exercised over them a joint jurisdiction with the mayor and civic authorities. the accused was entitled to have an advocate to defend him, and he could appeal to the congregation of masters, and thereafter to the pope. no spiritual cause terminable within the university could be carried out of it. but in all temporal cases the ultimate appeal was to the king. the truculent student, however, was often inclined to appeal to force. master john hodilbeston, it is recorded in the acts of the chancellor's court ( ), when accused of a certain offence, was observed to have brought a dagger into the very presence of the chancellor, contrary to the statutes, "wherefore he lost his arms to the university and was put in bocardo." the next case on the list of this mediæval police court is that of thomas skibbo. he is not a clerk, but he too finds his way to bocardo, for he has committed many crimes of violence. highway robbery and threats of murder were nothing to him, as a scholar of bekis-inn comes forward to depose, and, besides, he has stolen a serving boy. after the scholar and the ruffian, the warden of canterbury college steps forward. he has come to make his submission to the commissary, whom he had declared to be a partial judge, and whose summons he had refused to obey. also, he has added injury to insult by encouraging his scholars to take beer by violence in the streets. the commissary graciously accepts his apology and his undertaking to keep the peace in future. the master of the great hall of the university now comes forward. evil rumours have been rife, and he wishes to clear his character of vile slanders that have connected his name with those of certain women. he brings no charge of slander, but claims the right of clearing himself by making an affidavit. this was the system of compurgation, by which a man swore that he was innocent of a crime, and twelve good friends of his swore that he was speaking the truth. in this case the master was permitted to clear himself by oath before the commissary in merton college chapel, and mistress agnes bablake and divers women appeared and swore with him that rumour was a lying jade. on another occasion the principal of white hall wished to prove his descent from true english stock. he insisted on being allowed to swear that he was not a scotsman. a discreditable rumour to that effect had doubtless got abroad, without taking tangible form. but he was, he maintained, a loyal englishman. "it was greatly to his credit" doubtless. _qui s'excuse, s'accuse_, we are inclined to think in such cases. the appalling penalties which awaited the perjurer probably gave the ceremony some force at one time. but dr gascoigne enters his protest in the chancellor's book ( ) against the indiscriminate admission of parties to compurgation. national feeling and clan feeling ran high. gascoigne says that he has known many cases in which people have privately admitted that they have perjured themselves in public. moreover, he added, no townsman ventures to object to a person being admitted to compurgation, for fear of being murdered or at least maimed. no good end, therefore, can be answered by it. but what is the cause of robert wright, esquire-bedel? he has some complaint against the master and fellows of great university hall ( ). the chancellor listens for a moment, and then suggests, like a modern london police magistrate, that they should settle their quarrel out of court. they decide to appoint arbitrators, and bind themselves to abide by their award. the commissary is frequently appointed arbitrator himself, and his award is usually to the effect that one party shall humbly ask pardon of the other, pay a sum of money and swear to keep the peace. other awards are more picturesque. thus, when broadgates and pauline halls decided to settle their quarrel in this way, the arbitrators ordered the principals mutually to beg reconciliation from each other for themselves and their parties, and to give either to the other the kiss of peace and swear upon the bible to have brotherly love to each other, under a bond of a hundred shillings. david phillipe, who struck john olney, must kneel to him and ask and receive pardon. as an earnest of their future good-will, it is often decreed that the two parties shall entertain their neighbours. two gallons of ale are mentioned sometimes as suitable for this purpose; a feast is recommended at others, and the dishes are specified. as thus:--( ) the arbiter decides that neither party in a quarrel which he has been appointed to settle, shall in future abuse, slander, threaten or make faces at the other. as a guarantee of their mutual forgiveness and reconciliation, they are commanded to provide at their joint charges an entertainment in s. mary's college. the arbiter orders the dinner; one party is to supply a goose and a measure of wine, the other bread and beer. many and minute are the affairs of the chancellor. at one time he is concerned with the taverners. he summons them all before him, and makes them swear that in future they will brew wholesome beer, and that they will supply the students with enough of it; at another he imprisons a butcher who has been selling "putrid and fetid" meat, or a baker who has been using false weights; at another banishes a carpenter for shooting at the proctors, or sends a woman to the pillory for being an incorrigible prostitute or to bocardo for the mediæval fault of being a common and intolerable scold. next he fines the vicar of s. giles' for breaking the peace, and confiscates his club. then he dispatches the organist of all souls' to bocardo, for thomas bentlee has committed adultery. but the poor man weeps so bitterly, that the warden of that college is moved to have good hope of the said thomas, and goes surety for him, and the "organ-player" is released after three hours of incarceration. the punishment of a friar who is charged with having uttered a gross libel in a sermon, and has refused to appear when cited before the chancellor's court, is more severe. he is degraded in congregation and banished. the jurisdiction which we have seen the chancellor wielding in this court had not been always his, and it was acquired not without dust and heat. at the beginning of the thirteenth century he was both in fact and in theory the delegate of the bishop of the diocese; not the presiding head, but an external authority who might be invoked to enforce the decrees of the masters' guild. before that time the organisation of the university extended at least so far as to boast of a "master of the schools," who was probably elected by the masters themselves, and whose office was very likely merged into that of the chancellor. as an ecclesiastical judge, deriving his authority from the bishop of lincoln, the chancellor exercised jurisdiction over students by virtue of their being "clerks," not members of the university. over laymen he exercised jurisdiction only so far as they were subject to the authority of the ordinary ecclesiastical courts. at oxford he had no prison or cathedral dungeon to which he could commit delinquents. he was obliged to send them either to the king's prison in the castle, or to the town prison over the bocardo gate. but from this time forward by a series of steps, prepared as a rule by conflicts between town and gown, the office of chancellor was gradually raised. first it encroached on the liberties of the town, and then shook itself free of its dependence on the see of lincoln. the protection of the great, learned and powerful bishop of lincoln and the fact that, in the last resort, the masters were always ready to stop lecturing and withdraw with all the students to another town, for the university, as such, had not yet acquired any property to tie them to oxford, were weapons which proved of overwhelming advantage to the university at this early stage of its existence. again and again we find that, when a dispute as to police jurisdiction or authority arose between the university and the town, pressure was brought to bear in this way. the masters ceased to lecture; the students threatened to shake the dust of oxford off their feet; the enthusiastic grossetete, throwing aside the cares of state, the business of his bishopric, and the task of translating the ethics of aristotle, came forward to intervene on behalf of his darling university and to use his influence with the king. the pope, innocent iv. ( ), was also induced to take the university under his protection. he confirmed its "immunities and liberties and laudable, ancient and rational customs from whomsoever received," and called upon the bishops of london and salisbury to guard it from evil. against the combined forces of the church, the crown, and the evident interests of their own pockets, it was a foregone conclusion that the citizens would not be able to maintain the full exercise of their municipal liberty. it was in that the first important extension of the chancellor's jurisdiction was made. some students had made a raid upon jewry and sacked the houses of their creditors. they were committed to prison by the civil authorities. grossetete insisted on their being handed over to the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. as the outcome of this riot henry iii. presently issued a decree of great importance. by it all disputes concerning debts, rents and prices, and all other "contracts of moveables," in which one party was an oxford clerk, were referred to the chancellor for trial. this new power raised him at once to a position very different from that which he had hitherto enjoyed as the mere representative of the bishop of lincoln. "he was invested henceforth with a jurisdiction which no legate or bishop could confer and no civil judge could annul." a charter followed in , which authorised the chancellor and proctors to assist at the assaying of bread and beer by the mayor and bailiffs. on admission to office the latter were required to swear to respect the liberties and customs of the university, and the town, in its corporate capacity, was made responsible for injuries inflicted on scholars. the chancellor's jurisdiction was still further extended in . to his spiritual power, which he held according to the ordinary ecclesiastical law and to the civil jurisdiction conferred upon him in , a new charter now added the criminal jurisdiction even over laymen, for breach of the peace. by this charter henry iii. provided that, "for the peace, tranquillity and advantage of the university of scholars of oxford, there be chosen four aldermen and eight discreet and legal burghers associated with them, to assist the mayors and bailiffs to keep the peace and hold the assizes and to seek out malefactors and disturbers of the peace and night-vagabonds, and harbourers of robbers. two officers shall also be elected in each parish to make diligent search for persons of suspicious character, and every one who takes a stranger in under his roof for more than three nights must be held responsible for him. no retail dealer may buy victuals on their way to market or buy anything with the view of selling again before nine in the morning, under penalty of forfeit and fine. if a layman assault a clerk, let him be immediately arrested, and if the assault prove serious, let him be imprisoned in the castle and detained there untill he give satisfaction to the clerk in accordance with the judgment of the chancellor and the university. if a clerk shall make a grave or outrageous assault upon a layman, let him be imprisoned in the aforesaid castle untill the chancellor demand his surrender; if the offence be a light one, let him be confined in the town prison untill he be set free by the chancellor. "brewers and bakers are not to be punished for the first offence (of adulteration or other tradesman's tricks); but shall forfeit their stock on the second occasion, and for the third offence be put in the pillory." (one of these "hieroglyphic state machines" stood opposite the cross inn at carfax; another, with stocks and gallows, at the corner of longwall and holywell streets. in the former one tubb was the last man to stand ( ), for perjury, though not the last to deserve it.) "every baker," the charter continues, "must have his own stamp and stamp his own bread so that it may be known whose bread it is; every one who brews for sale must show his sign, or forfeit his beer. wine must be sold to laymen and clerks on the same terms. the assay of bread and ale is to be made half yearly, and at the assay the chancellor or his deputy appointed for that purpose must be present; otherwise the assay shall be invalid." a few years later a royal writ of edward i. ( ) conferred on the chancellor the cognizance of all personal actions whatever wherein either party was a scholar, be he prosecutor or defendant. and in , by judgment of king and parliament, after a conflict between the town and university, when a bailiff had resisted the authority of the chancellor in the students' playground, beaumont fields, which embraced the university park and s. giles', the chancellor obtained jurisdiction in case of all crimes committed in oxford, where one of the parties was a scholar, except pleas of homicide and mayhem. his jurisdiction over the king's bailiffs was affirmed, but leave was granted them to apply to the king's court if aggrieved by the chancellor's proceedings. from this time forward the authority of the chancellor was gradually increased and extended. it was, indeed, not long before the office shook itself free from its historical subordination to the bishop of lincoln. after a considerable struggle over the point, the bishop was worsted by a papal bull ( ), which entirely abrogated his claim to confirm the chancellor elect. since that time the university has enjoyed the right of electing and admitting its highest officer without reference to any superior authority whatever (maxwell lyte). the precinct of the university was defined in the reign of henry iv. as extending to the hospital of s. bartholomew on the east, to botley on the west, to godstow on the north, and to bagley wood on the south. these were the geographical limits of the university, and within them the following classes of people were held ( ) to be "of the privilege of the university":--the chancellor, all doctors, masters and other graduates, and all students, scholars and clerks of every order and degree. these constituted a formidable number in themselves when arrayed against the town, for there were probably at least of them at the most flourishing periods. the archbishop of armagh indeed stated confidently at avignon ( ) that there had once been , , but that must have been a rhetorical exaggeration. there can never have been more than . but in addition to this army of scholars, all their "daily continual servants," all "barbers, manciples, spencers, cokes, lavenders," and all the numerous persons who were engaged in trades ancillary to study, such as the preparation, engrossing, illumination and binding of parchment, were "of the privilege" and directly controlled by the university. in what was afterwards known as schools street all these trades were represented as early as . over these classes, and within the limits defined, the jurisdiction of the chancellor was by the end of the fifteenth century established supreme. citizens and scholars alike had now to be careful how they lived. the stocks, the pillory and the cucking stool awaited offenders among the townsmen, fines or banishment the students who transgressed. local governments in the middle ages were excessively paternal. they inquired closely into the ways of their people and dealt firmly with their peccadilloes. did a man brew or sell bad beer he was burnt alive at nürnberg; at oxford he was condemned to the pillory; if a manciple was too fond of cards he was also punished by the chancellor's court. a regular tariff was framed of penalties for those breaches of the peace and street brawls, in which not freshmen only but heads of houses and vicars of parishes were so frequently involved. endeavours were made to promote a proper standard of life by holding "general inquisitions" at regular intervals. the town was divided into sections, and a doctor of theology and two masters of arts were told off to inquire into the morals of the inhabitants of each division. juries of citizens were summoned, and gave evidence on oath to these delegate judges who sat in the parish churches. the characters of their fellow-townsmen were critically discussed. reports were made to the chancellor, who corrected the offenders. excommunication, penance or the cucking stool were meted out to "no common" scolds, notorious evil-livers and those who kept late hours. it had formerly been enacted ( ) that since the absence of the chancellor was the cause of many perils, his office should become vacant if he were to absent himself from the university for a month during full term. but in the course of the fifteenth century the chancellor changed from a biennial and resident official to a permanent and non-resident one. he was chosen now for his power as a friend at court, and by the court, as it grew more despotic and ecclesiastically minded, he was used as an agent for coercing the university. to-day the chancellorship is a merely honorary office, usually bestowed on successful politicians. the chancellor appoints a vice-chancellor, but usage compels him to appoint heads of houses in order of seniority. this right of appointment dates from the time when the duke of wellington, as chancellor, dispensed with the formality of asking convocation for its assent to the appointment of his nominee. having sketched thus far the development of the office which represents the power and dignity of the university, we may now turn to consider the position of the young apprentices from their earliest initiation into this guild of learning. the scholars of mediæval universities were your true cosmopolitans. they passed freely from the university of one country to that of another by virtue of the freemasonry of knowledge. despising the dangers of the sea, the knight-errants of learning went from country to country, like the bee, to use the metaphor applied by s. athanasius to s. anthony, in order to obtain the best instruction in every school. they went without let or hindrance, with no passport but the desire to learn, to paris, like john of salisbury, stephen langton or thomas becket, if they were attracted by the reputation of that university in theology; to bologna, if they wished to sit at the feet of some famous lecturer in civil law. emperors issued edicts for their safe conduct and protection when travelling in their dominions--even when warring against the scots, edward iii. issued general letters of protection for all scottish scholars who desired to repair to oxford or cambridge--and when they arrived at their destination, of whatever nationality they might be, they found there as a rule little colonies of their own countrymen already established and ready to receive them. dante was as much at home in the straw-strewn schools street in paris as he would have found himself at padua or at oxford, had he chanced to study there. it has indeed been suggested that he did study there in the year . like chaucer, he may have done so, but probably did not. there is certainly a reference to westminster in the "inferno" (xii. ); but it is not necessary to go to oxford in order to learn that london and westminster are on the banks of the thames. in attending lectures at a strange university the mediæval students had no difficulty in understanding the language of their teachers. for all the learned world spoke latin. latin was the volapuk of the middle ages. mediæval latin, with all its faults and failing sense of style, is a language not dead, but living in a green old age, written by men who on literary matters talked and thought in a speech that is lively and free and fertile in vocabulary. the common use of it among all educated men gave authors like erasmus a public which consisted of the whole civilised world, and it rendered scholars cosmopolitan in a sense almost inconceivable to the student of to-day. that was chiefly in the earlier days of universities. gradually, with the growth of national feeling and the more definite demarcation of nations and the ever-increasing sense of patriotism, that higher form of selfishness, cosmopolitanism went out of fashion. nowadays only two classes of cosmopolitans survive--in theory, free traders, and in practice, thieves. i have spoken of the dangers of the sea; they were very great in those days of open sailing boats, when the compass was unknown; but the dangers of land-travelling were hardly less. the roads through the forests that lay around oxford were notoriously unsafe, not only in mediæval days but even a hundred years ago. armed therefore, and if possible in companies, the students would ride on their oxford pilgrimage. if they could not afford to ride, the mediæval pedagogue, the common carrier, would take them to their destination for a charge of fivepence a day. for there were carriers who took a regular route at the beginning of every university year for the purpose of bringing students up from the country. they would have a mixed company of all ages in their care. for though students went up to oxford as a rule between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, many doubtless were younger and many older. it was indeed a common thing for ecclesiastics of all ages to obtain leave of absence from their benefices in order to go up to the university and study canon law or theology there. you can fancy, then, this motley assembly of pack-horses and parish priests, of clever lads chosen from the monasteries or grammar schools, and ambitious lads from the plough, all very genuine philosophers, lovers of learning for its own sake or its advantages, working their way through the miry roads, passed occasionally by some nobleman's son with his imposing train of followers, and passing others yet more lowly, who were just trudging it on foot, begging their way, their bundles on their shoulders. you can fancy them at last coming over shotover hill, down the "horse path" past s. clement's, and so reaching safely their journey's end. once in oxford, they would take up their abode in a monastery to which they had an introduction; in a college, if, thanks to the fortune of birth or education, they had been elected to share in the benefits of a foundation; as menials attached to the household of some wealthier student, if they were hard put to it; in a hall or house licensed to take in lodgers, if they were foreigners or independent youths. on taking up his residence in one of these halls, the mediæval student would find that alma mater, in her struggles with the townsmen, had been fighting his battles. lest he should fall among thieves, it had been provided that the rents charged should be fixed by a board of assessors; lest the sudden influx of this floating population should produce scarcity, and therefore starvation prices, the transactions of the retailers were carefully regulated. they were forbidden to buy up provisions from the farmers outside the city, and so establish a "corner"; they were forbidden even to buy in oxford market till a certain hour in the morning. the prices of vendibles were fixed in the interests of the poor students. thus in the king ordained that "a good living ox, stalled or corn-fed, should be sold for s., and no higher; if fatted with grass for s. a fat cow, s. a fat hog of two years old, s. d. a fat mutton, corn-fed or whose wool is not grown, s. d. a fat mutton shorn, s. d. a fat goose, d. a fat hen or two chickens, one penny. four pigeons or twenty-four eggs, one penny." the halls were, at any rate originally, merely private houses adapted to the use of students. a common room for meals, a kitchen and a few bedrooms were all they had to boast. many of them had once belonged to jews, for they were large and built of stone. and the jews, being wealthy, had introduced a higher standard of comfort into oxford, and at the same time, being a common sort of prey, they probably found that stone houses were safer as well as more luxurious. moysey's hall and lombard's hall bore in their names evident traces of their origin. other halls derived their names from other causes. after the great fire in the citizens, in imitation of the londoners, and the jews, had rebuilt their houses of stone. [illustration: s. alban's hall merton college] "such tenements," says wood, "were for the better distinction from others called stone or tiled halls. some of those halls that were not slated were, if standing near those that were, stiled thatched halls. likewise when glass came into fashion, for before that time our windows were only latticed, that hall that had its windows first glazed was stiled, for difference sake, glazen hall. in like manner 'tis probable that those that had leaden gutters, or any part of their roofs of lead were stiled leaden hall, or in one instance leaden porch. those halls also that had staples to their doors, for our predecessors used only latch and catch, were written staple halls." other halls were called after their owners (peckwater's inn, alban hall, etc.), or from their position in the street or town, or the patron saint of a neighbouring church (s. edward's hall, s. mary's entry); many from other physical peculiarities besides those we have mentioned. angle hall, broadgates hall, white hall and black hall explain themselves easily enough, whilst chimney hall is a name which recalls the days when a large chimney was a rarity, a louvre above a charcoal fire in the middle of the room being sufficient to carry off the smoke. other halls, again, were named after signs that hung outside them, or over their gateways, like ordinary inns or shops. the towering and barbaric inn-signs always struck foreigners, when first visiting england, with astonishment not unmingled with dismay. they were thus probably thrown into a proper state of mind to receive their bills. the eagle, the lion, the elephant, the saracen's head, the brazen nose and the swan were some of the signs in oxford. there are a few survivals from this menagerie. the star inn, now the clarendon, was built on the site of one of these old halls, and the richly-carved wooden gables were visible in the house next to it. the roebuck was once coventry hall. the mitre preserved traces of burwaldscote hall. the angel had similar traces, but the angel itself has now given place to the new schools. many students, however, lodged singly in private houses. chaucer's _poor scholar_ lodged with a carpenter who worked for the abbot of osney. "a chamber had he in that hostelrie, alone, withouten any compagnie, ful fetisly ydight with herbes sote."... halls, it will have been observed, were known also by the name of entries and inns or (deriving from the french) hostels. and that in fact is what they were. the principal, who might originally have been the senior student of a party who had taken a house in which to study, or the owner of the house himself, derived a good income from keeping a boarding-house of this kind. he was responsible to the university for the good conduct of his men, and to his men, one must suppose, for their comfort. the position of principal was soon much sought after, and the ownership of a good hostel, with a good connection, would fetch a price like a public-house to-day. it was found necessary, however, to decree that the principal of a hall should be a master, and should not cater for the other inmates. payments for food were therefore made by the students to an upper servant, known as a manciple, whose duty it was to go to market in the morning and there buy provisions for the day, before the admission of the retail-dealers at nine o'clock. the amount which each student contributed to the common purse for the purchase of provisions was known as "commons." it varied from eight to eighteen pence a week. extra food obtained from the manciple to be eaten in private was called "battels." the principal could only maintain his position and fill his hall if he satisfied the students. the government of these halls was therefore highly democratic. a new principal could only succeed if he was accepted by the general opinion of the inmates and received their voluntary allegiance. on coming up to oxford the student, however little he might intend to devote his life to the church, adopted, if he had not done so before, clerical tonsure and clerical garb. by so doing he became entitled to all the immunities and privileges of the clerical order. he was, now, so long as he did not marry, exempt from the secular courts, and his person was inviolable. no examination or ceremony of any kind seems to have been required in order to become a member of the university. attendance at lectures, after a declaration made to a resident master to the effect that the student purposed to attend them, was enough to entitle him to the privileges of that corporation. the germ of the modern system of matriculation may perhaps be traced in the statute ( ), which required that all scholars and scholars' servants, who had attained years of discretion, should swear before the chancellor that they would observe the statutes for the repression of riots and disorders. among the students themselves, however, some form of initiation probably took place, comparable to that of the bejaunus, or yellow-bill, in germany, or of the young soldier, the young freemason, or the newcomer at an _atelier_ in paris to-day. horseplay at the expense of the raw youth, and much chaff and tomfoolery, would be followed in good time by a supper for which the freshman would obligingly pay. initiation of this kind is a universal taste, and, if kept within bounds, is not a bad custom for testing the temper and grit of the new members of a community. at oxford, then, freshmen were subject to certain customs at the hands of the senior scholars, or sophisters, on their first coming. so wood tells us, but he cannot give details. he compares the ceremony, however, to the "salting" which obtained in his own day. of this salting, as it was practised at merton, he gives the following account:-- "on feast days charcoal fires were lit in the hall of merton, and between five and six in the afternoon the senior undergraduates would bring in the freshmen, and make them sit down on a form in the middle of the hall. which done, everyone in order was to speak some pretty apothegm or make a jest or bull or speak some eloquent nonsense, to make the company laugh. but if any of the freshmen came off dull, or not cleverly, some of the forward or pragmatical seniors would _tuck_ them, that is, set the nail of their thumb to their chin just under the lower lip, and by the help of their other fingers under the chin, would give him a mark which would sometimes produce blood." on shrove tuesday a brass pot was set before the fire filled with cawdle by the college cook at the freshmen's expense. then each of them had to pluck off his gown and band and if possible make himself look like a scoundrel. 'which done they were conducted each after the other to the high table, made to stand upon a form and to deliver a speech.' wood gives us the speech he himself made on this occasion, a dreary piece of facetiousness. as a 'kitten of the muses and meer frog of helicon he croaked cataracts of plumbeous cerebrosity.' "the reward for a good speech was a cup of cawdle and no salted drink, for an indifferent one some cawdle and some salted drink, and for a bad one, besides the tucks, nothing but college beer and salt. "when these ceremonies were over the senior cook administered an oath over an old shoe to those about to be admitted into the fraternity. the freshman repeated the oath, kissed the shoe, put on his gown and band and took his place among the seniors." when the freshmen of the past year were solemnly made seniors, and probationers were admitted fellows, similar ceremonies took place. at all souls', for instance, on th january, those who were to be admitted fellows were brought from their chambers in the middle of the night, sometimes in a bucket slung on a pole, and so led about the college and into the hall, whilst some of the junior fellows, disguised perhaps, would sing a song in praise of the mallard, some verses of which i give: "the griffin, bustard, turkey and capon, let other hungry mortals gape on, and on their bones with stomachs fall hard, but let all souls' men have the mallard. hough the blood of king edward, by the blood of king edward, it was a swapping, swapping mallard. "the romans once admired a gander more than they did their best commander, because he saved, if some don't fool us, the place that's named from the scull of tolus. hough the blood of king edward, by the blood of king edward, it was a swapping, swapping mallard. "then let us drink and dance a galliard in the remembrance of the mallard, and as the mallard doth in the pool, let's dabble, dive and duck in bowle.[ ] hough, etc." in any attempt to appreciate the kind and character of the mediæval students and the life which they led, it is necessary first of all to realise that the keynote of the early student life was poverty. it was partly for the benefit of poor scholars and partly for the benefit of their founders' souls, for which these scholars should pray, that the early colleges and chantries were founded. morals, learning and poverty were the qualifications for a fellowship on durham's foundation. poverty, "the stepmother of learning," it is which the university in its letters and petitions always and truly represents as the great hindrance to the student "seeking in the vineyard of the lord the pearl of knowledge." books these poor seekers could not afford to buy, fees they could scarce afford to pay, food itself was none too plentiful. but the pearl for which the young student as he sat, pinched and blue, at the feet of his teacher in the schools, and the masters of arts, "when, in forlorn and naked chambers cooped and crowded, o'er the ponderous books they hung," alike were searching, was a pearl of great price. for learning spelt success. there was through learning a career open to the talents. the lowliest and neediest might rise, by means of a university education, to the highest dignity which the church, and that was also the world, could offer. for all great civilians were ecclesiastics. the church embraced all the professions; and the professors of all arts, of medicine, statesmanship or architecture, of diplomacy and even of law, embraced the church. and the reward of success in any of them was ecclesiastical promotion and a fat benefice. the university opened the door to the church, with all its dazzling possibilities of preferment, and the university itself was thrown open to the poorest by the system of the monastic houses and charitable foundations. promising lads, too, of humble origin were often maintained at the schools by wealthy patrons. from a villein one might rise to be a clerk, from a clerk become a master of the university--a fellow, a bursar, a bishop and a chancellor, first of oxford, then of england. at the university, of course, the students were not treated with the same absolute equality that they are now, regardless of birth or wealth. sons of noblemen did not study there, unless they had a strong bent in that direction. the days were not yet come when a university training was valuable as a social and moral as well as an intellectual education: when noblemen, therefore, did attend the schools, more was made of them. they wore hoods lined with rich fur, and enjoyed certain privileges with regard to the taking of degrees. like those idyllic islanders who lived by taking in each other's washing, the masters supported themselves on the fees paid by the students who attended their lectures, whilst the poorest students earned a livelihood by waiting on the masters, or wealthier students. servitors, who thus combined the careers of undergraduates with those of "scouts," continued in existence till the end of the eighteenth century. they were sent on the most menial errands or employed to transcribe manuscripts, and five shillings was deemed an ample allowance for their services. whitfield was a servitor, and the father of the wesleys also. such students, lads of low extraction, drawn from the tap-room or the plough, but of promising parts, would be helped by the chests which we have described, and which were founded for their benefit. when long vacation came, they would turn again from intellectual to manual labour. for long vacation meant for them, not reading-parties, but the harvest, and in the harvest they could earn wages. but there was another method of obtaining the means to attend lectures at the university which was popularised in the middle ages by the mendicants, by the theory of the poverty of christ and by the insistence of the church on the duty of charity. this was begging on the highway. "pain por dieu aus escoliers" was a well-known "street cry" in mediæval paris, and in england during vacations the wandering scholar, "often, starting from some covert place, saluted the chance comer on the road, crying, 'an obolus, a penny give to a poor scholar.'" and as they made their way along the high-road a party of such begging scholars would come perhaps to a rich man's house, and ask for aid by prayer and song. sometimes they would be put to the test as to their scholarship by being commanded to make a couplet of latin verses on some topic. they would scratch their heads, look wistfully at one another and produce a passable verse or two. then they would receive their reward and pass on. so popular, indeed, did this system become, that begging students had to be restricted. only those licensed by the chancellor and certified as deserving cases, like the scholars of aristotle's hall in , were presently permitted to beg. where poverty was so prevalent, the standard of comfort was not likely to be high. the enormous advance in the general level of material comfort, and even luxury, which has taken place in this country during the last hundred years, makes it difficult to describe the comfortless lives of these early students without giving an exaggerated idea of the sacrifices they were making and the hardships they were enduring for the sake of setting their feet on the first rung of this great ladder of learning. but it should be remembered that, as far as the ordinary appliances of decency and comfort, as we understand them, are concerned, the labourer's cottage in these days is better supplied than was a palace in those when princes "at matins froze and couched at curfew time," and when "lovers of truth, by penury constrained bucer, erasmus or melancthon, read before the doors or windows of their cells by moonshine, through mere lack of taper light." if we realise that this was the case, we shall not be surprised to find that the rooms in which these students and masters lived, so far from being spacious and luxurious, were small, dingy, overcrowded and excessively uncomfortable. it was rare for a student to have a room to himself--"alone, withouten any compagnie." the usual arrangement in halls and colleges would seem to have been that two or more scholars shared a room, and slept in that part of it which was not occupied by the "studies" of the inhabitants. for each scholar would have a "study" of his own adjoining the windows, where he might strain to catch the last ray of daylight. a "study" was a movable piece of furniture, a sort of combination of book-shelf and desk, which probably survives in the winchester "toys." the students shared a room, and they frequently shared a bed too. the founder of magdalen provided that in his college demies under the age of fifteen should sleep two in a bed. and in addition to their beds and lodgings, the poorest students were obliged to share an academical gown also. friends who had all things in common, might sleep at the same time, but could only attend lectures one by one, for lack of more than one gown amongst them. to these straits, it is said, s. richard was reduced. but such deprivation accentuates rather than spoils the happiness of student life, as anyone who is acquainted with the quartier latin will agree. when the heart is young and generous, when the spirit is free and the blood is hot, what matters hardship when there are comrades bright and brave to share it; what matters poverty when the riches of art and love and learning are being outspread before your eyes; what matters the misery of circumstance, when daily the young traveller can wander forth, silent, amazed, into "the realms of gold?" during the many centuries that the mansions of the wealthy and the palaces of princes were totally unprovided with the most indispensable appliances of domestic decency, it is not to be expected that the rooms of students should prove to be plentifully or luxuriously furnished. we know the stock-in-trade of chaucer's poor student: "his almageste and bokes grete and smale his astrelabie, longinge for his art, his augrim-stones layen faire apart on shelves couched at his beddes heed; his presse y-covered with a falding reed. and al above ther lay a gay sautrye on which he made a nightes melodye so swetely, that all the chambre rong; and angelus ad virginem he song." we can supplement chaucer's inventory of a poor student's furniture by an examination of old indentures. therein we find specified among the goods of such an one just such a fithele or "gay sautrye" as chaucer noted, an old cithara or a broken lute, a desk, a stool, a chair, a mattress, a coffer, a tripod table, a mortar and pestle, a sword and an old gown. another student might boast the possession of a hatchet, a table "quinque pedum cum uno legge," some old wooden dishes, a pitcher and a bowl, an iron twister, a brass pot with a broken leg, a pair of knives, and, most prized of all, a bow and twenty arrows. few could boast of so many "bokes at his beddes heed" as chaucer's clerk of oxenford. manuscripts were of immense value in those days, and we need hardly be surprised if that worthy philosopher, seeing that he had invested his money in twenty volumes clad in black and red, had but little gold remaining in his coffer. the books that we find mentioned in such indentures, are those which formed the common stock of mediæval learning, volumes of homilies, the works of boethius, ovid's _de remedio amoris_ and a book of geometry. these and other books, as articles of the highest intrinsic value, were always mentioned in detail in the last will and testament of a dying scholar. but, as the modern artist, on his death-bed in the quartier latin, summoned his dearest friend to his side and exclaimed, "my friend, i leave you my wife and my pipe. take care of my pipe"; so the mediæval student would often feel that though his books might be his most valuable legacy in some eyes, his bow and arrows, his cap and gown or his mantle, "blodii coloris," these were the truest pledges of affection that he could bequeath to the comrade of his heart. only the wealthier students, or the higher officials of the university, rejoiced in such luxuries as a change of clothes, or could reckon among their furniture several forms or chairs, a pair of snuffers and bellows. for of what use to the ordinary student were candlesticks and snuffers, when candles cost the prohibitive price of twopence a pound; or what should he do with bellows and tongs when a stove or fire was out of the question, save in the case of a principal? to run about in order not to go to bed with cold feet was the plan of the mediæval student, unless he anticipated the advice of mr jorrocks and thought of ginger. from his slumbers on a flock bed, in such quarters as i have described, the mediæval student roused him with the dawn. for lectures began with the hour of prime, soon after daybreak. he was soon dressed, for men seldom changed their clothes in those days, and in the centuries when the manuals of gallantry recommended the nobleman to wash his hands once a day and his face almost as often, when a charming queen like margaret of navarre, could remark without shame that she had not washed her hands for eight days, it is not to be expected that the ablutions of a mere student should be frequent or extensive. washing is a modern habit, and not widespread. to attend a "chapel" or a "roll-call" is the first duty of the modern undergraduate, but a daily attendance at mass was not required till the college system had taken shape; the statutes of new college, in fact, are the first to enforce it. all therefore that the yawning student had to do, before making his way to the lecture-room in the hall of his inn or college, or in the long low buildings of schools street, was to break his fast, if he could afford to do so, with a piece of bread and a pot o' the smallest ale from the "buttery." as a lecture lasted, not the one hour of a "stunde," but for two or three hours, some such support would be highly desirable, but not necessary. our forefathers were one-meal men, like the germans of to-day. civilisation is an advance from breakfast to dinner, from one meal a day to several. late dinner is the goal towards which all humanity presses. for dinner-time, as de quincey observed, has little connection with the idea of dinner. it has travelled through every hour, like the hand of a clock, from nine or ten in the morning till ten at night. but at oxford it travelled slowly. hearne growls at the colleges which, in , altered their dinner hour from eleven to twelve, "from people's lying in bed longer than they used to do." happily for him he did not live to see the beginning of the nineteenth century, when those colleges which had dined at three advanced to four, and those that had dined at four to five; or the close of it, when the hour of seven became the accepted time. the mediæval student took his one meal at ten or eleven in the morning. soup thickened with oatmeal, baked meat and bread was his diet, varied by unwholesome salt fish in lent. these viands were served in hall on wooden trenches and washed down by a tankard of college beer. during the meal a chapter of the bible or of some improving work in latin was read aloud, and at its conclusion the founder's prayer and a latin grace would be said. conversation, it was usually ordained, might only be carried on in latin; the modern student, on the contrary, is "sconced" (fined a tankard of beer) if he speaks three words of "shop" in hall. after dinner perhaps some disputations or exercises, some repetition and discussion of the morning's lecture would be held in hall, or the students would take the air, walking out two and two, as the founders directed, if they were good; going off singly, or in parties to poach or hawk or spoil for a row, if they were not. lectures or disputations were resumed about noon. seated on benches, or more usually and properly, according to the command of urban v., sitting on the rush-strewn floors of the school-room, the young seekers after knowledge listened to the words of wisdom that flowed from the regent master, who sat above them at a raised desk, dressed in full academical costume. literally, they sat at the feet of their gamaliels. in the schools they were enjoined to "sit as quiet as a girl," but they were far from observing this injunction. old and young were only too ready to quarrel or to play during lectures, to shout and interrupt whilst the master was reading the sentences of peter lombard, and bang the benches with their books to express their approval or disapproval of his comments thereon. supper came at five, and after that perhaps a visit to the playing fields of beaumont or a tavern, where wine would be mingled with song, and across the oaken tables would thunder those rousing choruses that students ever love: "mihi est propositum in taberna mori vinum sit appositum morientis ori, ut dicant, quum venerint, angelorum chori, 'deus sit propitius huic potatori.'" when curfew rang at length, all the students would assemble in hall and have a "drinking" or "collation." then, before going to bed, they would sing the antiphon of the virgin (salve regina), and so the day was finished. a dull, monotonous day it seems to us, varied only by sermons--and there was no lack of them--at s. mary's or s. peter's in the east, with the chance excitement of hearing a friar recant the unorthodox views he had expressed the previous sunday; but it was a day that was bright and social compared with the ordinary conditions of the time. in this daily round, so far as one has been able to reconstruct it, the absence of any provision for physical recreation is a noticeable thing to us, who have exchanged the mediæval enthusiasm for learning for an enthusiasm for athletics. both are excellent things in their way, but as the governor of an american state remarked when defending the practice of smoking over wine, both together are better than either separate. and nowadays in some cases the combination is happily attained. but in an age which inherited the monkish tradition of the vileness of the body and the need of mortifying it, games of all sorts were regarded as a weakness of the flesh. so far were founders from making any provision for recreation, that they usually went out of their way to prohibit it. games with bat and ball, and tennis, that is, or fives, were strictly forbidden as indecent, though in some cases students were permitted to play with a soft ball in the college courts. but "deambulation in the college grove" was the monastic ideal. nor did the founders frown only on exercise; amusements of the most harmless sort were also under their ban. on the long, cold, dark winter evenings the students were naturally tempted to linger in the hall after supper, to gather round the fire, if there was one, in the middle of the room, beneath the louvre, to tell tales there and sing carols, to read poems, chronicles of the realm or wonders of the world. but it was only on the eve of a festival that william of wykeham would allow this relaxation in his foundation. the members of trinity college were allowed to play cards in hall on holidays only, "but on no account for money." mummers, the chief source of amusement among the mediævals, were only permitted to enter new college once a year, on twelfth night. it was not till the dawn of the renaissance that plays began to be acted in the colleges and halls, and to bring the academic intellect into touch with the views and literature of the people. not only was it forbidden to play marbles on the college steps, but even the hard exercise of chess was prohibited as a "noxious, inordinate and unhonest game." and the keeping of dogs and hawks was anathema. by a survival of this mediæval view, the undergraduate is still solemnly warned by the statute book against playing any game which may cause injury to others; he is urged to refrain from hunting wild beasts with ferrets, nets or hounds, from hawking, "necnon ab omni apparatu et gestatione bombardarum et arcubalistarum." in the same way he is forbidden still to carry arms of any sort by day or night, unless it be bows and arrows for purposes of honest amusement. but to these injunctions, i fear, as to the accompanying threat of punishment at the discretion of the vice-chancellor, he does not pay over much attention. he does not consider them very seriously when he plays football or hunts with the "bicester," takes a day's shooting or runs with the christ church beagles. the restrictions which i have quoted above were mostly introduced by the founders of colleges. so far as the university was concerned, the private life of the student was hardly interfered with at all. the offence of night-walking, indeed, was repressed by the proctor who patrolled the streets with a pole-axe and bulldogs (armed attendants), but the student might frequent the taverns and drink as he pleased. his liberty was almost completely unrestricted, except as to the wearing of academic dress, the attendance of lectures and the observance of the curfew bell. offences against morality and order were treated as a rule, when they were dealt with at all, with amazing leniency. murder was regarded as a very venial crime; drunkenness and loose-living as hardly matters for university police. a student who committed murder was usually banished, and banishment after all meant to him little more than changing his seat of learning. the punishment, though it might cause inconvenience, did not amount to more than being compelled to go to cambridge. fines, excommunication and imprisonment were the other punishments inflicted for offences; corporal punishment was but seldom imposed by the university. but with the growth of the college system the bonds of discipline were tightened. not only did the statutes provide in the greatest detail for the punishment of undergraduate offences, stating the amount of the fine to be exacted for throwing a missile at a master and missing, and the larger amount for aiming true, but also the endowment of the scholar made it easy to collect the fine. the wardens and fellows, too, were in a stronger position than the principal of a hall, who owed his place to his popularity with the students, who, if he ceased to please them, might leave his hall and remove to another house where the principal was more lenient and could be relied upon to wink at their follies and their vices, even if he did not share them. thus the founders of the early colleges were enabled to enforce upon the recipients of their bounty something of the rigour and decency of monastic discipline. as the system grew the authority entrusted to the heads of colleges was increased, and the position of the undergraduate was reduced to that of the earlier grammar-school boy. the statutes of b.n.c. ( ) rendered the undergraduate liable to be birched at the discretion of the college lecturer. he might now be flogged if he had not prepared his lessons; if he played, laughed or talked in lecture; if he made odious comparisons, or spoke english; if he were unpunctual, disobedient or did not attend chapel. wolsey allowed the students of cardinal college to be flogged up to the age of twenty. impositions by a dean were apparently a sixteenth-century invention. then we find offending fellows who had played inordinately at hazard or cards, or earned a reputation for being notorious fighters or great frequenters of taverns, being ordered to read in their college libraries for a fortnight from to a.m. and the loss of a month's commons occasionally rewarded the insolence of undergraduates who did not duly cap and give way to their seniors, or who, yielding to that desire to adorn their persons which the mediæval student shared with his gaudy-waistcoated successors, wore "long undecent[ ] hair," and cloth of no clerical hue, slashed doublets and boots and spurs beneath their gowns. as to the academic career of the mediæval student; the course of his studies and "disputations" in the schools; the steps by which the "general sophister" became a "determining bachelor" and the bachelor, if he wished to teach, took a master's degree, first obtaining the chancellor's licence to lecture, and then, on the occasion of his "inception," when he "commenced master" and first undertook his duty of teaching in the schools, being received into the fraternity of teaching masters by the presiding master of his faculty--of these ceremonies and their significance and the traces of them which survive in modern academic life, as of the high feastings and banquetings with which, as in the trade guilds, the new apprentices and masters entertained their faculties, i have no space here to treat. the inceptor besides undertaking not to lecture at stamford, recognise any university but oxford and cambridge, or maintain lollard opinions, was also required to swear to wear a habit suitable to his degree. as an undergraduate he had had no academical dress, except that, as every member of the university was supposed to be a clerk, he was expected to wear the tonsure and clerical habit. the characteristic of this was that the outer garment must be of a certain length and closed in front. it was the cut and not the colour of the "cloth" which was at first considered important. but later regulations restricted the colour to black, and insisted that this garment must reach to the knees. in the colleges, however, it was only parti-coloured garments that were regarded as secular, and the "liveries" mentioned by the founders were usually clothes of the clerical cut but of uniform colour. the fellows of queen's, for instance, were required to wear blood-red. the colour of the liveries was not usually prescribed by statute, but differences of colour and ornament still survive at cambridge as badges of different colleges. the masters at first wore the cappa, which was the ordinary out-door full-dress of the secular clergy. and this "cope," with a border and hood of minever, came to be the official academical costume. the shape of the masters' cappa soon became stereotyped and distinctive; then a cappa with sleeves was adopted as the uniform of bachelors. as to the hood, it was the material of which it was made--minever--which distinguished the master, not the hood itself; for a hood was part of the ordinary clerical attire. bachelors of all faculties wore hoods of lamb's-wool or rabbit's-fur, but undergraduates were deprived of the right of wearing a hood in --nisi liripipium consuetum ... et non contextum--the little black stuff hood, worn by sophisters in the schools till within living memory. the cappa went out of use amongst the oxford m.a.'s during the sixteenth century. the regents granted themselves wholesale dispensations from its use. stripped of this formal, outer robe, the toga was revealed, the unofficial cassock or under-garment, which now gradually usurped the place of the cappa and became the distinctively academical dress of the masters of arts. but it was not at first the dull prosaic robe that we know. the mediæval master was clad in bright colours, red or green or blue, and rejoiced in them until the rising flood of prejudice in favour of all that is dull and sombre and austere washed away these together with almost all other touches of colour from the landscape of our grey island. the distinctive badge of mastership handed to the inceptor by the father of his faculty, was the biretta, a square cap with a tuft on the top, from which is descended our cap with its tassel. doctors of the superior faculties differentiated themselves by wearing a biretta (square cap) or pilea (round) as well as cappas, of bright hues, red, purple or violet. gascoigne, indeed, in his theological dictionary, declares that this head-dress was bestowed by god himself on the doctors of the mosaic law. whatever its origin, the round velvet cap with coloured silk ribbon, came to be, and still is, the peculiar property of the doctors of law and medicine. the oxford gowns of the present day have little resemblance to their mediæval prototypes. for the ordinary undergraduate or "commoner" to-day, academical dress, which must be worn at lectures, in chapel, in the streets at night, and on all official occasions, consists of his cap, a tattered "mortar-board," and a gown which seems a very poor relation of the original clerical garb. the sleeves have gone, and the length; only two bands survive, and a little gathering on the shoulders, and this apology for a gown is worn as often as not round the throat as a scarf, or carried under the arm. some years ago it was a point of honour with every undergraduate to wear a cap which was as battered and disreputable as possible. every freshman seized the first opportunity to break the corners of his "mortar-board" and to cut and unravel the tassel. yet once the tufted biretta, when it was the badge of mastership, was much coveted by undergraduates. first, they obtained the right of wearing a square cap without a tassel, like those still worn by the choristers of oxford colleges, and then they were granted the use of a tassel. the tuft in the case of the gentlemen commoners took the form of a golden tassel. snobs who cultivated the society of these gilded youths for the sake of their titles or their cash, or tutors, "rough to common men, but honeying at the whisper of a lord," gained from this fact the nick-name of tuft-hunters. the commoner, it should be explained, is one who pays for his commons, a student not on the foundation. the colleges were, in most cases, intended originally only for the fellows and scholars on the foundation. the admission of other students as commoners or boarders was a subsequent development, and various ranks of students came to be recognised--noblemen, gentlemen commoners, commoners, fellow-commoners, battelers, or servitors. these grades are now practically obsolete, the only distinction drawn among the undergraduates being between the scholars or students on the foundation and commoners, the ordinary undergraduates, who do not enjoy any scholarship or exhibition. the scholar, who must wear a larger gown with wide sleeves, is known by various names at various colleges. at merton he is a post-master, at magdalen a demy, so-called because he was entitled to half the commons of a fellow. the history of the commoner, the growth of an accretion that now forms the greater part of a college, may be illustrated by the records of the latter foundation. the statutes of new college had not made any provision for the admission of _commensales_, but william of waynflete, in drawing up the statutes of magdalen, was the first definitely to recognise the system that had grown up by which men who were not on the foundation lived as members of the college. waynflete limited the number of non-foundationers to twenty. they were to live at the charges of their own kindred; they were to be vouched for by "creancers"; and the privilege of admission was to be reserved for the sons of noble and powerful friends of the college. but within a hundred years the number of the commoners or battelers increased far beyond that allowed by the statutes. the position of these commoners was anomalous and led to "disorder and confusion," as certain fellows did most bitterly complain to the visitor. no provision, it appears, was made either for the instruction or the discipline of these supernumeraries. they were, in fact, regarded as the private pupils of the president or of one of the fellows. in attendance upon the wealthier of them or upon other members of the college came numerous "poore scholars," acting as their servants and profiting in their turn from such free teaching as the grammar school and the college lecturers might afford. the system, however, was already justified to some extent by the fact that among the pupils of the president were numbered bodley, camden, lyly and florio. the visitor, therefore, contented himself with enforcing the observation of the limits imposed by the statutes. the poor scholars were in future not to be more than thirteen in number, and were to be attached to the thirteen senior fellows. before long, however, the matriculations of non-foundationers began to increase very rapidly. a new block of buildings even was erected near the cherwell for their accommodation by . this is that picturesque group of gables which nestles under the great tower and forms so distinct a feature of the view from magdalen bridge. the number of "poore scholars" had also increased--servitors whose office forestalled that of the college "scout." they bridged the days when the junior members of a foundation "did" for themselves and the modern days of an [illustration: gables and tower magdalen college.] organised college service. it was decided, and this is where the scout has the advantage of his forerunners, that they should be required to attend the grammar school, and afterwards to perform all disputations and exercises required of members of the foundation. all commoners, also, "the sonnes of noblemen and such as are of great quality only excepted" were to be "tyed to the same rules." little more than a hundred years later edward gibbon matriculated at magdalen ( ) as a "gentleman commoner," and as a youth of fifteen commenced those fourteen months which he has told us were the most idle and unprofitable of his whole life. there are prigs of all ages. gibbon must have been intolerable in a common room. one can forgive the "monks of magdalen" for not discussing the early fathers with him after dinner, but one has no inclination on the other hand to revere the men who had already ( ), in their enthusiasm for the italian style, begun the "new buildings," and were still threatening to pull down the cloisters and to complete a large quadrangle in the same style, of which the new buildings were to form one end. the damage done by the succeeding generation was directed chiefly against the chapel and the hall, where under the guidance of the outrageous james wyatt, plaster ceilings were substituted for the old woodwork. the generosity of a late fellow has enabled mr bodley, with the aid of professor case, to repair this error by an extraordinarily interesting and successful restoration ( ). magdalen hall is now worthy of its pictures, its "linen-fold" panelling and splendid screen. bitter as is the account which gibbon has left us, it cannot be denied that there was much reason in his quarrel with the oxford of his day. i say oxford, for the state of magdalen was better rather than worse than that of the university at large. it should, however, in fairness be pointed out that as a gentleman commoner in those days he was one of a class which was very small and far from anxious to avail itself of the intellectual advantages of a university training. the commoners at magdalen were now very few in number. the founder's limitation was now so interpreted as to restrict them to the particular class of gentlemen commoners, sons of wealthy men, at liberty to study, but expected to prefer, and as a matter of fact usually preferring, to enjoy themselves. but the efforts of the more liberal-minded fellows were at length crowned with success. by the first university commission the college was allowed to admit as many non-foundationers as it could provide with rooms. the last gentleman commoner had ceased to figure in the _calendar_ by . the system of licensed lodgings introduced by the university soon caused the numbers of the ordinary commoners to increase, so that in one-third of the resident undergraduates were living in lodgings outside the college. it was clearly time for the college to provide accommodation for as many of these as possible within its own walls. the change which took place in magdalen during the last century, a change "from a small society, made up almost wholly of foundation-members and to a great extent of graduates, to a society of considerable numbers, made up of the same elements, in about the same proportion as most of the other colleges," is recorded therefore in the architecture of oxford. for it was to lodge the commoners that the buildings which are known as s. swithun's (so-called from the statue in a niche on the west side of the tower which is placed at the entrance of these buildings, and which reminds one that s. swithun was buried in winchester cathedral close to the beautiful shrine of william of waynflete) were designed by messrs bodley & garner and completed in . they face the high street, and you will pass them on your left as you come down to the new entrance gateway, which is in the line of the outer wall, parallel to the high. the old gateway, which was designed by inigo jones, stood almost at right angles to the site of the present gateway and lodge, looking west. it was removed in , and a new one designed by a. w. pugin erected in its stead. the present gateway ( ) follows the lines of the old design of pugin, and the niches are filled with statues of s. john the baptist, s. mary magdalen and of the founder, william of waynflete. s. john the baptist was the patron saint of the old hospital, and after s. john the quadrangle into which you now enter is called. opposite to you are the president's lodgings, built by messrs bodley & garner in on the site of the old president's lodgings. with the exquisite architecture of the chapel and cloisters on the right to guide them, these famous architects have not failed to build here something that harmonises in style and treatment with the rest. one might wish that s. swithun's were a little quieter. there is a slight yielding to the clamorous desire for fussy ornamentation which is so typical of this noisy age. but the president's lodgings are perfect in their kind. as you stand, then, in s. john's quadrangle you have, in the chapel and founder's tower, and the cloisters on your right, and in the picturesque old fragment of the grammar school, known as the grammar hall, facing you on your left, an epitome, as it were, of the old college foundations of oxford; and in those buildings of s. swithun and the gateway, which faces in a new direction, an epitome of the new oxford that has been grafted on the old. on the extreme right you see a curious open-air pulpit of stone, from which the university sermon used to be preached on s. john the baptist's day. on that occasion the pulpit, as well as the surrounding buildings, was strewn with rushes and boughs in token of s. john's preaching in the wilderness. [illustration: open air pulpit magdalen] in the middle ages the chief executive officers of the university were the proctors, who are first mentioned in . the origin of their office is obscure. they were responsible for the collection and expenditure of the common funds of the university, and as a record of this function they still retain in their robes a purse, a rudimentary organ, as it were, atrophied by disuse, but traceable in a triangular bunch of stuff at the back of the shoulder. apart from this duty and that of regulating the system of lectures and disputations, their chief business was to keep order. one can imagine that a proctor's life was not a happy one. he had to endeavour not only to keep the peace between the students and the townsmen, but also between the numerous factions among the scholars themselves. the friars and the secular clergy, the artists and the jurists, the nominalists and the realists, and, above all, the northerners and southerners were always ready to quarrel, and quarrels quickly led to blows, and blows to a general riot. for the rivalry of the nations was a peculiar feature of mediæval universities. at bologna and paris the masters of arts divided themselves into "four nations," with elective officers at their head. at oxford the main division was between northerners and southerners, between students, that is, who came from the north or the south of the trent. welshmen and irishmen were included among the southerners. and over the northern and southern masters of arts presided northern and southern proctors respectively, chosen by a process of indirect election, like the rectors of bologna and paris. contests and continual riots arising out of the rivalry of these factions took the place of modern football matches or struggles on the river. in , for instance, we read of an encounter between the northerners and the irish, which resulted in the death of several irishmen. so alarming, apparently, was this outbreak that many of the leading members of the university departed in fear, and only returned at the stern command of the king. the bishops, too, issued a notice, in which they earnestly exhorted the clerks in their dioceses to "repair to the schools, not armed for the fight, but rather prepared for study." but the episcopal exhortation had about as much effect as a meeting of the peace league in exeter hall would have now. quarrel after quarrel broke out between the rival nations. they plundered each others' goods and broke each others' heads with a zest worthy of an irish wake. in spite of their reputation for riotousness, however, the irish students were specially exempted by royal writ from the operation of the statute passed by parliament in , which ordered that all irishmen and irish clerks, beggars called chamberdekens, should quit the realm. graduates in the schools had been exempted in the statute. this exemption does not appear to have conduced to the state of law and order painfully toiled after by the mere saxon. for a few years later, in the first parliament of henry vi., the commons sent up a petition complaining of the numerous outrages committed near oxford by "wylde irishmen." these turbulent persons, it was alleged, living under the jurisdiction of the chancellor, set the king's officers at defiance, and used such threatening language, that the bailiffs of the town did not dare to stir out of their houses for fear of death. the commons therefore prayed that all irishmen, except graduates in the schools, beneficed clergy, professed monks, landowners, merchants and members of civic corporations, should be compelled to quit the realm. it was also demanded that graduates of irish extraction should be required to find security for their good behaviour, and that they should not be allowed to act as principals of halls. this petition received the royal assent. but it was stipulated that irish clerks might freely resort to oxford and cambridge, if they could show that they were subjects of the english king. it was in vain that students were compelled to swear that they would not carry arms; in vain were seditious gatherings and leagues for the espousal of private quarrels forbidden. in vain, after one great outbreak in , were formal articles of peace drawn up; in vain were the combatants bound over to keep the peace, and to give secret information to the chancellor if they heard of others who were preparing to break it. in vain was the celebration of the national festivals forbidden, and the masters and scholars prohibited, under pain of the greater excommunication, from "going about dancing in the churches or open places, wearing masks or wreathed and garlanded with flowers" ( ). in vain was it decreed that the two nations should become one and cease, officially, to have a separate existence ( ). though the faculty of arts might vote from this time forward as a single body, yet one proctor was always a borealis and the other an australis; and when, in , it was decreed that one of the three guardians of the rothbury chest should always be a southerner and another a northerner, the university admitted the existence of the two rival nations within its borders once more. only a few years after this, in fact ( ), its very existence was threatened by the violence of the factions. the northerners gave battle to the southerners, and so many rioters were arrested that the castle was filled to overflowing. many of the more studious clerks resolved to quit this riotous university for ever, and betook themselves to stamford, where there were already some flourishing schools. they were compelled at last to disperse or to return by the king, who refused to listen to their plea, that their right to study in peace at stamford was as good as that of any other person whatever who chose to live there. so serious was this secession, and so much was the rivalry of stamford feared, that all candidates for a degree were henceforth (till ) required to swear that they would not give or attend lectures there "as in a university." it was on the occasion of this migration that the members of brasenose hall, which adjoined s. mary's entry, salesbury hall, little university hall and jussel's tenement, carried with them, as a symbol of their continuity, the famous brazen nose knocker to stamford. there the little society settled; an archway of the hall they occupied there still exists, and now belongs to brasenose college. the knocker itself was brought back in to a place [illustration: quadrangle brasenose] of honour in the college hall. for in the meantime the old hall, after a career of over two hundred years, had been converted into a college, founded by william smyth, bishop of lincoln, and master sotton, very much as a protest against the new learning which was then being encouraged at corpus christi. the continuity of the society is indicated by the fact that the first principal of the college was the last principal of the old "aula regia de brasinnose." the foundation stone was laid in , as the inscription in the old quadrangle, to which a story was added in the time of james i., records. they were a turbulent crew, these oxonian forbears of ours. dearly they loved a fight, and they rose in rebellion against the masters when they were bringing in new statutes for the preservation of the peace. several were slain on both sides. nor was it easy to punish the unruly students. sometimes, after a brawl in which they were clearly in the wrong, the delinquents would flee to shotover, and there maintain themselves in the forest. at other times, when they had gone too far, and the thunder of the chancellor's sentence of excommunication had fallen on their heads as a punishment for attempting to sack the abbey of abingdon, or defiling the church of s. mary with bloodshed, for sleeping in a tavern, or fighting with the king's foresters, they would simply leave the university altogether and get away scathless. for the chancellor's jurisdiction did not extend beyond oxford. a joust or tourney was a certain cause of riot. the passions are easily roused after any athletic contest, whether it be a football match or a bull-fight. remembering this, we shall best be able to understand why the king found it necessary to forbid any joust or tournament to be held in the vicinity of oxford or cambridge ( ). "yea, such was the clashing of swords," says fuller, "the rattling of arms, the sounding of trumpets, the neighing of horses, the shouting of men all day time with the roaring of riotous revellers all the night, that the scholars' studies were disturbed, safety endangered, lodging straitened, charges enlarged. in a word, so many war-horses were brought thither that pegasus was himself likely to be shut out; for where mars keeps his terms, there the muses may even make their vacation." any excuse, indeed, was good enough to set the whole town in an uproar. a bailiff would hustle a student; a tradesman would "forestall" and retail provisions at a higher price than the regulations allowed; a rowdy student would compel a common bedesman to pray for the souls of certain unpopular living townsmen on the score that they would soon be dead. the bailiffs would arrest a clerk and refuse to give him up at the request of the chancellor; the chancellor, when appealed to by the townsmen to punish some offending students, would unsoothingly retort: "chastise your laymen and we will chastise our clerks." the records of town and university are full of the riots which arose from such ebullitions of the ever-present ill-feeling; of the appeals made by either party; and of the awards given by the king, who might be some english justinian, like edward i., or might not. the answer of the townsmen ( ) to the chancellor's retort quoted above was distinctly vigorous. they seized and imprisoned all scholars on whom they could lay hands, invaded their inns, made havoc of their goods and trampled their books under foot. in the face of such provocation the proctors sent their bedels about the town, forbidding the students to leave their inns. but all commands and exhortations were in vain. by nine o'clock next morning, bands of scholars were parading the streets in martial array. if the proctors failed to restrain them, the mayor was equally powerless to restrain his townsmen. the great bell of s. martin's rang out an alarm; ox-horns were sounded in the streets; messengers were sent into the country to collect rustic allies. the clerks, who numbered three thousand in all, began their attack simultaneously in various quarters. they broke open warehouses in the spicery, the cutlery and elsewhere. armed with bows and arrows, swords and bucklers, slings and stones, they fell upon their opponents. three they slew, and wounded fifty or more. one band, led by fulk de neyrmit, rector of piglesthorne, and his brother, took up a position in high street between the churches of s. mary and all saints, and attacked the house of a certain edward hales. this hales was a long-standing enemy of the clerks. there were no half measures with him. he seized his crossbow, and from an upper chamber sent an unerring shaft into the eye of the pugnacious rector. the death of their valiant leader caused the clerks to lose heart. they fled, closely pursued by the townsmen and country-folk. some were struck down in the streets, and others who had taken refuge in the churches were dragged out and driven mercilessly to prison, lashed with thongs and goaded with iron spikes. complaints of murder, violence and robbery were lodged straightway with the king by both parties. the townsmen claimed three thousand pounds' damage. the commissioners, however, appointed to decide the matter, condemned them to pay two hundred marks, removed the bailiffs, and banished twelve of the most turbulent citizens from oxford. then the terms of peace were formally ratified. following the example of their chancellor, who was gradually asserting his authority more and more in secular matters, and thought little of excommunicating a mayor for removing a pillory without his leave ( ), the clerks became continually more aggressive. quarrels with the townsmen were succeeded by quarrels with the bishop of lincoln, when the latter, in his turn, tried to encroach upon the jurisdiction of the chancellor. peace, perfect peace, it will be seen, had not yet descended upon the university. the triumph of dulness had not arrived, when the enraptured monarch should behold: "isis' elders reel, their pupils sport, and alma mater lie dissolved in port." certainly the elders gave their pupils sport enough after their kind, but the intellectual quarrels of the schoolmen, the furious controversies of the dominicans and the franciscans, the scotists and the thomists, the nominalists and the realists, were a part of it. when the excitement of local riots, theological disputes and political dissension failed, there were the exactions of a papal representative to be resisted. and when such resistance led to the citation of the chancellor and proctors and certain masters to appear within sixty days before the cardinal appointed by the pope to hear the case at avignon, there was the whole principle that no englishman should be dragged across the seas to judgment to be fought for (_circa_ ). for every man was a politician in those days, and the scholars of oxford not least. their quarrels and riotings were therefore not without political significance. thus when the mad parliament met in the "new house of the black friars at oxford," the behaviour of the barons was reflected by that of students. the "nations" pitched their field in "beaumont," and after a fierce fight in battle array, divers on both sides were slain and pitifully wounded. the northerners and welshmen were at last acknowledged to be conquerors. the position of the students with regard to the country, is indicated by the old rhyme: "mark the chronicles aright when oxford scholars fall to fight before many months expired england will with war be fired." it was oxford, the centre of english ecclesiasticism, which, by the riot that hounded the papal legate out of the city, gave the signal for a widespread outbreak of resistance to the wholesale pillage of excessive papal taxation. regardless of the gathering storm, the legate cardinal otho had arrived at oxford with his retinue of italians, and taken up his abode at osney. some members of the university, having sent him some delicacies for his table, went to pay their respects in person, and to ask of him a favour in return. the doorkeeper, however, a suspicious italian, absolutely refused to admit them to the guests' hall. irritated by this unexpected rebuff, they collected a great number of their comrades, and made a determined attack on the foreigners, who defended themselves with sticks, swords and flaming brands plucked from the fire. the fury of the clerks reached its height when the legate's chief cook took up a cauldron full of boiling broth, and threw its contents in the face of a poor irish chaplain, who had been begging for food at the kitchen door. a student thereupon drew his bow, and shot the cook dead on the spot, whilst others tried to set fire to the massive gates which had been closed against them. the terrified legate, hastily putting on a canonical cope, fled for refuge to the belfry of the abbey, and there lay hid for several hours, while the clerks assailed the building with bows and catapults. news of the fray soon reached henry iii., who happened to be staying at abingdon, and he lost no time in despatching some soldiers to the rescue. under their powerful escort the legate managed to ford the river by night, accompanied by the members of his suite. still as he galloped away, he seemed to hear the shouts of his adversaries ringing in his ears, "where is that usurer, that simoniac, that spoiler of revenues, and thirster after money, who perverts the king, overthrows the realm, and enriches strangers with plunder taken from us?" it was not long before the papal legate was forbidden the english shores, and his bulls of excommunication were flung into the sea. simon de montfort was the friend of adam marsh, and the confidant of grossetete, and it was appropriately enough at oxford that the great champion of english freedom secured the appointment of a council of twenty-four to draw up terms for the reform of the state. parliament met at oxford; the barons presented a long petition of grievances, the council was elected, and a body of preliminary articles known as the provisions of oxford was agreed upon. in the following year henry repudiated the provisions; civil war ensued, and ended by placing the country in the hands of simon de montfort. the struggle between henry and the barons then did not leave oxford unaffected. for any disturbance without was sure to be reflected in a conflict between clerks and laymen, in a town and gown row, of some magnitude. in the present case the appearance of prince edward with an armed force--he took up his quarters at the king's hall--in the northern suburb gave occasion for an outbreak. the municipal authorities closed the gates against him, and he resumed his march towards wales. the scholars now thought it was time that they should be allowed to go out of the city, and finding themselves prevented by the closed wooden doors of smith gate, they hewed these down and carried them away, like samson, into the fields, chanting over them the office of the dead: "a subvenite sancti fast began to sing as man doth when a dead man men will to pit bring." the mayor retorted by throwing some of them into prison, in spite of the chancellor's protest. further arrests were about to be made by the irate townsmen, but a clerk saw them advancing in a body down the high street, and gave the alarm by ringing the bell of s. mary's. the clerks were at dinner, but hearing the well-known summons they sprang to arms and rushed out into the street to give battle. many of the foe were wounded; the rest were put to flight. their banners were torn to pieces, and several shops were sacked by the victorious students, who, flushed with victory, marched to the houses of the bailiffs and set them on fire. "in the south half of the town, and afterwards the spicery they brake from end to other, and did all to robberie." the mayor, they then remembered, was a vintner. accordingly a rush was made for the vintnery; all the taps were drawn, and the wine flowed out like water into the streets. their success for a moment was complete, but retribution awaited them. the king was appealed to, and refused to countenance so uproarious a vindication of their rights. when they saw how the wind blew, they determined to leave oxford. it was a question whither they should go and where pitch their scholastic tents. now it happened that at cambridge, a town which had ceased to be famous only for eels and could boast a flourishing university of its own, similar disturbances had recently occurred with similar results. many masters and scholars had removed to northampton, and to northampton accordingly, to aid them in their avowed intention of founding a third university, the disconsolate oxford scholars departed. the situation was evidently serious. but the king induced the oxonians to return by promising that they should not be molested if they would only keep the peace. they returned, but almost immediately all scholars were commanded by a writ from the king to quit the town and stay at home until he should recall them after the session of parliament then about to be held at oxford. the king, it was officially explained, could not be responsible for the conduct of the fierce and untamed lords who would be assembled together there and would be sure to come into conflict with the students. perhaps the more urgent motive was fear lest the students should openly and actively side with the barons, with whom, it was known, the majority of them were in sympathy. the fact was that in the great struggle against the crown in which england was now involved, the clergy and the universities ranged themselves with the towns on the side of simon de montfort. ejected from oxford, many of the students openly joined his cause and repaired at once to northampton. for a time all went well with the king. as if to demonstrate his faith in the justice of his cause, he braved popular superstition and passing within the walls of oxford paid his devotions at the shrine of s. frideswide. the meeting of parliament failed to bring about any reconciliation. reinforced by a detachment of scottish allies--"untamed and fierce" enough, no doubt--henry left oxford and marched on northampton. foremost in its defence was a band of oxford students, who so enraged the king by the effective use they made of their bows and slings and catapults, that he swore to hang them all when he had taken the town. take the town he did, and he would have kept his oath had he not been deterred by the reminder that he would by such an act lose the support of all those nobles and followers whose sons and kinsmen were students. but the victorious career of the king was almost at an end. the vengeance of s. frideswide was wrought at the battle of lewes. simon de montfort found himself head of the state, and one of his first acts was to order the scholars to return to their university. such keen, occasionally violent, interest in politics seems, in these days, characteristic of the german or russian rather than the english university student. nowadays the political enthusiasm of the undergraduate is mild, and his discussion of politics is academic. in the debating hall of the union, or in the more retired meeting-places of the smaller political clubs, like the canning, the chatham, the palmerston or the russell, he discusses the questions of the day. but his discussions lack as a rule the sense of reality, and they suffer accordingly. occasionally, when a cabinet minister has been persuaded to dine and talk with one or other of these clubs, or when the speaker is one who is deliberately practising for the part he means to take in after-life, the debates are neither uninteresting nor entirely valueless. and at the worst they give those who take part in them a facility of speech and some knowledge of political questions. but it is not so that the university exercises any influence on current events. nor, except in so far as they warn practical men to vote the other way, are those [illustration: magdalen college.] occasional manifestoes, which a few professors sign and publish, of any great importance. but it is through the press and through parliament that the voice of young oxford is heard. it is through the minds and the examples of those statesmen and administrators, who have imbibed their principles of life and action within her precincts, and have been trained in her schools and on her river or playing-fields, that the influence of the university is reflected on the outer world. nor is it only the men like lord salisbury, lord rosebery and mr gladstone, who guide the country at home, or like lord milner and lord curzon, who give their best work to greater britain, that are the true sons of the university; it is the plain, hard-working clergymen and civilians, also, who, by their lives of honest and unselfish toil, hand on the torch of good conduct and high ideals which has been entrusted to them. oxford had some share in the events which led to the deposition of edward ii. the king wrote to the chancellor, masters and scholars calling upon them to resist his enemies. on the approach of roger de mortimer, a supporter of the queen, he wrote again enjoining them not to allow him to enter the city, but to keep smith gate shut, lest he should enter by that way. but when the king was a refugee in wales, the queen came to islip. she would not come to oxford till "she saw it secure." but when the burghers came to her with presents she was satisfied. she took up her residence at the white friars, and the mortimers theirs at osney. and a sermon was preached by the bishop of hereford, who demonstrated from his text, "my head grieveth me," that an evil head, meaning the king, not otherwise to be cured, must be taken away. the majority of scholars apparently agreed with him. the terrible scourge of the black death, which carried off half the population of england, fell hardly on oxford. those who had places in the country fled to them; those who remained behind were almost totally swept away. the schools were shut, the colleges and halls closed, and there were scarcely men enough to bury the dead. the effect upon learning was disastrous. there were not enough students forthcoming to fill the benefices, and the scarcity of students affected the citizens severely. the disorder of the time, which was to issue in wat tyler's rebellion, was shadowed forth at oxford by the extraordinary riot of s. scholastica's day ( ). the story of this riot, which was to bear fruit in further privileges being vouchsafed to the university at the expense of the town, has been recorded with infinite spirit by wood. "on tuesday, february , being the feast of s. scholastica the virgin, came walter de springheuse, roger de chesterfield, and other clerks to the tavern called swyndlestock (the mermaid tavern at quatervoix), and there calling for wine, john de croydon, the vintner, brought them some, but they disliking it, as it should seem, and he avouching it to be good, several snappish words passed between them. at length the vintner giving them stubborn and saucy language, they threw the wine and vessel at his head. the vintner therefore receding with great passion, and aggravating the abuse to those of his family and neighbourhood, several came in, who out of propensed malice seeking all occasions of conflict with the scholars, and taking this abuse for a ground to proceed upon, caused the town bell at s. martin's to be rung, that the commonalty might be summoned together in a body. which being begun, they in an instant were in arms, some with bows and arrows, others with divers sorts of weapons. and then they, without any more ado, did in a furious and hostile manner suddenly set upon divers scholars, who at that time had not any offensive arms, no, not so much as anything to defend themselves. they shot also at the chancellor of the university, and would have killed him, though he endeavoured to pacify them and appease the tumult. further, also, though the scholars at the command of the chancellor did presently withdraw themselves from the fray, yet the townsmen thereupon did more fiercely pursue him and the scholars, and would by no means desist from the conflict. the chancellor, perceiving what great danger they were in, caused the university bell at s. mary's to be rung out, whereupon the scholars got bows and arrows, and maintained the fight with the townsmen till dark night, at which time the fray ceased, no one scholar or townsman being killed, or mortally wounded, or maimed. "on the next day albeit the chancellor of the university caused public proclamation to be made in the morning both at s. mary's church in the presence of the scholars there assembled in a great multitude, and also at quatervois among the townsmen, that no scholar or townsman should wear or bear any offensive weapons, or assault any man, or otherwise disturb the peace (upon which the scholars, in humble obedience to that proclamation, repaired to the schools, and demeaned themselves peaceably till after dinner) yet the very same morning the townsmen came with their bows and arrows, and drove away a certain master in divinity and his auditors, who were then determining in the augustine schools. the baillives of the town also had given particular warning to every townsman, at his respective house, in the morning, that they should make themselves ready to fight with the scholars against the time when the town bell should ring out, and also given notice before to the country round about, and had hired people to come in and assist the townsmen in their intended conflict with the scholars. in dinner time the townsmen subtily and secretly sent about fourscore men armed with bows and arrows, and other manner of weapons into the parish of s. giles in the north suburb; who, after a little expectation, having discovered certain scholars walking after dinner in beaumont, issued out of s. giles's church, shooting at the same scholars for the space of three furlongs: some of them they drove into the augustine priory, and others into the town. one scholar they killed without the walls, some they wounded mortally, others grievously, and used the rest basely. all which being done without any mercy, caused an horrible outcry in the town: whereupon the town bell being rung out first, and after that the university bell, divers scholars issued out armed with bows and arrows in their own defence and of their companions, and having first shut and blocked up some of the gates of the town (lest the country people, who were then gathered in innumerable multitudes, might suddenly break in upon their rear in an hostile manner and assist the townsmen who were now ready prepared in battle array, and armed with their targets also) they fought with them and defended themselves till after vesper tide; a little after which time, entered into the town by the west gate about two thousand countrymen, with a black dismal flag, erect and displayed. of which the scholars having notice, and being unable to resist so great and fierce a company, they withdrew themselves to their lodgings: but the townsmen finding no scholars in the streets to make any opposition, pursued them, and that day they broke open five inns or hostels of scholars with fire and sword. such scholars as they found in the said halls or inns they killed or maimed, or grievously wounded. their books and all their goods which they could find, they spoiled, plundered and carried away. all their victuals, wine and other drink they poured out; their bread, fish, &c. they trod under foot. after this the night came on and the conflict ceased for that day, and the same even public proclamation was made in oxen, in the king's name, 'that no man should injure the scholars or their goods under pain of forfeiture.' "the next day being thursday (after the chancellor and some principal persons of the university were set out towards woodstock to the king, who had sent for them thither) no one scholar or scholar's servant so much as appearing out of their houses with any intention to harm the townsmen, or offer any injury to them (as they themselves confessed) yet the said townsmen about sun rising, having rung out their bell, assembled themselves together in a numberless multitude, desiring to heap mischief upon mischief, and to perfect by a more terrible conclusion that wicked enterprize which they had begun. this being done, they with hideous noises and clamours came and invaded the scholars' houses in a wretchless sort, which they forced open with iron bars and other engines; and entering into them, those that resisted and stood upon their defence (particularly some chaplains) they killed or else in a grievous sort maimed. some innocent wretches, after they had killed, they scornfully cast into houses of easement, others they buried in dunghills, and some they let lie above ground. the crowns of some chaplains, viz. all the skin so far as the tonsure went, these diabolical imps flayed off in scorn of their clergy. divers others whom they had mortally wounded, they haled to prison, carrying their entrails in their hands in a most lamentable manner. they plundered and carried away all the goods out of fourteen inns or halls, which they spoiled that thursday. they broke open and dashed to pieces the scholars' chests and left not any moveable thing which might stand them in any stead; and which was yet more horrid, some poor innocents that were flying with all speed to the body of christ for succour (then honourably carried in procession by the brethren through the town for the appeasing of this slaughter) and striving to embrace and come as near as they could to the repository wherein the glorious body was with great devotion put, these confounded sons of satan knocked them down, beat and most cruelly wounded. the crosses also of certain brethren (the friers) which were erected on the ground for the present time with a 'procul hinc ite profani,' they overthrew and laid flat with the cheynell. this wickedness and outrage continuing the said day from the rising of the sun till noon tide and a little after without any ceasing, and thereupon all the scholars (besides those of the colleges) being fled divers ways, our mother the university of oxon, which had but two days before many sons, is now almost forsaken and left forlorn." the casualty list was heavy. six members of the university were killed outright in the fray; twenty-one others, chiefly irishmen, were dangerously wounded, and a large number was missing. the bishop of lincoln immediately placed the town under an interdict. the king sent a commission to inquire into the cause of the riot. the sheriff was summarily dismissed from his office, two hundred of the townsmen were arrested, and the mayor and bailiffs committed to the tower. with a view to settling the deep-rooted differences, which, it was perceived, were the origin of this bloody combat, the university and the city were advised to surrender their privileges into the king's hands. edward iii. restored those of the university in a few days. the town was kept some time in suspense, whilst the king and the archbishop were striving to induce the scholars to return to oxford. in the end all their ancient rights were restored to the citizens, with the exception of those which had been transferred to the university. for by the new charter the king granted to the latter some of the old liberties of the town. this charter ( th june ) granted a free pardon to all masters and scholars and their servants who had taken part in the great riot. the university, the king declared, was the main source and channel of learning in all england, more precious to him than gold or topaz. to the chancellor, then, or his deputy, was granted the assay of bread and ale, the supervision of weights and measures, the sole cognisance of forestallers, retailers and sellers of putrid meat and fish; the power of excommunicating any person who polluted or obstructed the streets, and of assessing the tax to be paid by scholars' servants. it was also decreed that the sheriff and under-sheriff of the county should henceforth swear, on taking office, to uphold the privileges of the university. in compensation for the damage done in the recent riot, the city had to restore the goods and books of all scholars wherever found, and to pay down £ in cash. such was the price, in money and rights, that the commonalty had to pay before they could satisfy the civil authorities. from that time forth the university practically governed the town. the wrath of the church was not so soon appeased. it was not till that the interdict was removed, nor were the offences of the citizens against the holy church forgiven even then, except at the price of further humiliation. the mayor and bailiffs, and sixty of the chiefest burghers, such were the conditions, were to appear personally, and defray the expenses of a mass to be celebrated every year in s. mary's on s. scholastica's day, when prayers should be said for the souls of the clerks and others slain in that conflict. the mayor and these sixty substantial burghers were also to offer on that occasion one penny each at the great altar. forty pence out of this offering were to be given by the proctors to forty poor scholars, and the remainder to the curate. so humiliating did this condition appear, that it gave rise to the popular saying and, perhaps, belief that the mayor was obliged, on the anniversary of the riot, to wear round his neck a halter or, at best, a silken cord. it may well be imagined that the procession, as it took its way to s. mary's, did not escape the taunts and jeers of the jubilant clerks. under elizabeth, when prayer for the dead had been forbidden, this function was changed for a sermon, with the old offering of a penny. the service was retained in a modified form down to the time of charles ii. the political and religious divisions introduced by the lollard doctrines found their expression, of course, in students' riots. for the northerners sided with wycliffe, himself a yorkshireman, and the southerners, supported by the welsh, professed themselves loyal children of the church. a general encounter took place in ; several persons were killed, and many northerners left oxford. the chancellor was deposed by parliament for failing to do his duty in the matter. the strife was renewed at the beginning of lent next year. a pitched battle was arranged to be fought between the contending parties in the open country. this was only prevented by the active interference of the duke of gloucester. some turbulent welshmen were expelled. but this banishment only gave rise to a fresh outbreak. for as the welshmen knelt down to kiss the gates of the town, they were subjected to gross indignities by their exultant adversaries. and a party of northerners, headed by a chaplain named speeke, paraded the streets in military array, threatening to kill anyone who looked out of the window, and shouting, "war, war. slay the welsh dogs and their whelps." halls were broken open, and the goods of welsh scholars who lodged there were plundered. the welshmen retaliated, and the university only obtained peace, when, on the outbreak of owen glendower's rebellion, the welsh scholars returned to wales. the effect of the lawlessness of these mediæval students upon the history of the university was considerable. it is reflected in the statute book. it came to be recognised that their riotous behaviour was not only scandalous but also a veritable danger, which threatened the very existence of oxford as a seat of learning. politically, too, their behaviour was intolerable. each outbreak, therefore, and each revelation of the licence of unattached students, who were credited with the chief share in these brawls, were arguments in favour of the college system inaugurated by the founder of merton college. as early as it had been found necessary to provide that every scholar should have his own master, on whose roll his name should be entered, and from whom he should hear at least one lecture daily. and in henry v. issued some ordinances for academical reform, with the object of tightening the bonds of discipline. they were reduced to a statute of the university immediately. fines were imposed for threats of personal violence, carrying weapons, pushing with the shoulder or striking with the fist, striking with a stone or club, striking with a knife, dagger, sword-axe or other warlike weapon, carrying bows and arrows, gathering armed men, and resisting the execution of justice, especially by night. all scholars and scholars' servants, it was enacted, were, on first coming to oxford, to take the oath for keeping the peace, which had hitherto been taken by graduates only; they were no longer to lodge in the houses of laymen, but must place themselves under the government of some discreet principal, approved by the chancellor and regents. chamberdekens were to lodge at a hall where some common table was kept. thus the "unattached student," who has been recently revived, was legislated out of existence. it is not, then, surprising to find that, whilst the thirteenth century saw the beginning of the college system, the fourteenth was the era which saw its great development. already, sixteen years after the foundation of oriel, a north country priest, robert eglesfield, chaplain of queen philippa, had anticipated in conception the achievement of william of wykeham by proposing to establish a college which should be a merton on a larger scale. but the ideas of the founder of queen's were greater than his resources. in the hope of assistance, therefore, and not in vain, he commended his foundation to the queen and all future queens-consort of england. he himself devoted his closing years and all his fortune to the infant society, for whose guidance he drew up statutes of an original character. his aim seems to have been to endow a number of students of theology or canon law; to provide for the elementary education of many poor boys, and for the distribution of alms to the poor of the city. the ecclesiastical character of the college was marked by the endowment of several chaplains, and by precise directions for the celebration of masses, at which the "poor boys" were to assist as choristers, besides being trained in grammar and afterwards in logic or philosophy. the bent of eglesfield's mind is further indicated by the symbolism which pervades his ordinances. the fellowships, which were tenable for life and intended to be well endowed, were practically restricted to natives of the north country. and as there had been twelve apostles, so it was ordained that there should be twelve fellows, who should sit in hall on one side of the high table, with the provost in their centre, even as christ and his apostles, according to tradition, sat at the last supper. and, as a symbol of the saviour's blood, they were required to wear mantles of crimson cloth. the "poor boys," who were to sit at a side-table clad in a distinctive dress, from which they derived their name of tabarders, and who were to be "opposed" or examined by one of the fellows at the beginning of every meal, symbolised the seventy disciples. some traces of the symbolism which pleased the founder still survive at queen's. the students are still summoned to hall, as the founder directs, by the blasts of a trumpet; still on christmas day the college celebrates the "boar's head" dinner (see p. ); still on st january the bursar presents to each guest at the gaudy a needle and thread (aiguille et fil = eglesfield), saying, "take this and be thrifty." and the magnificent wassail cup given to the college by the founder is still in use. but of the original buildings scarcely anything remains. the old entrance in queen's lane has been supplanted by the front quadrangle opening on the high ( - ), in which hawksmoor, wren's pupil, achieved a fine example of the italian style. wren himself designed the chapel. the magnificent library in the back quadrangle (late seventeenth century) is housed in a room, which, with its rich plaster ceiling and carving by grinling gibbons, is a remarkable specimen of the ornate classical style. eglesfield had attempted a task beyond his means. forty years later william of wykeham adopted his ideas, developed them and carried them out. it is the scale on which he founded s. mary college, or new college, as it has been called for five hundred years to distinguish it from oriel, the other s. mary college, and the completeness of its arrangements that mark an era in the history of college foundations. son of a carpenter at wickham, william had picked up the rudiments of education at a grammar school and in a notary's office. presently he entered the king's service. he was promoted to be supervisor of the works at windsor; and made the most of his opportunity. _hoc fecit wykeham_ were the words he inscribed, according to the legend, on the walls of the castle at windsor; and it is equally true that he made it and that it made him, for so, to stop the mouths of his calumniators, he chose to translate the phrase. the king marked the admirable man of affairs; and rewarded him, according to custom, with innumerable benefices. wykeham became the greatest pluralist of his age. he grew in favour at court, until soon "everything was done by him and nothing was done without him." he was "so wise of building castles," as wycliffe sarcastically hinted, that he was appointed bishop of winchester and chancellor of england. yet in the midst of the cares of these offices he found time ( ) to set about establishing his college. his great genius as an architect, and his astonishing powers of administration under two kings, point him out as one of the greatest englishmen of the middle ages. he has left his mark on his country, not only in such architectural achievements as windsor and queenborough castles, the reconstruction of the nave of winchester cathedral (where is his altar tomb) or the [illustration: the bell tower & cloisters new college.] original plan of his collegiate buildings, but also as the founder of the public school system and the new type of college. it was as a lawyer-ecclesiastic that he had succeeded. but it was against the administration of ecclesiastical statesmen that the discontent of the time was being directed by the wycliffites and john of gaunt. himself a staunch supporter of the old régime in church and state, wykeham set himself to remedy its defects and to provide for its maintenance as well as for his own soul's health after death. oxford had reached the height of its prosperity in the fourteenth century. then the black death, the decadence of the friars, the french wars, the withdrawal of foreign students and the severance of the ties between english and foreign universities, commenced a decay which was accelerated by the decline of the ecclesiastical monopoly of learning, by the wycliffite movement and, later, by the wars of the roses. wykeham marked some of these causes and their effect. he believed in himself, and therefore in the canon law and lawyer-ecclesiastics; he noted the falling off in the number of the students, and therefore of the clergy, caused by the black death; he knew the poverty of those who wished to study, and the weak points in the system of elementary education. he wished to encourage a secular clergy who should fight the wycliffites and reform the church. therefore he determined to found a system by which they might be trained, and by which the road to success might be opened to the humblest youths--a system which should pay him in return the duty of perpetual prayers for his soul.[ ] as early as , then, he began to buy land about the north-eastern corner of the city wall; and ten years later, having obtained licence from richard ii., he enclosed a filthy lane that ran alongside the north wall and began to build a home for the warden, seventy scholars, ten stipendiary priests or chaplains, three stipendiary clerks and sixteen chorister boys of whom his college was to be composed. eglesfield had proposed to establish seventy-two young scholars on his foundation. wykeham borrowed and improved upon the idea. he provided a separate college for them at winchester, and in so doing he took a step which has proved to be of quite incalculable consequence in the history of the moral and intellectual development of this country. for he founded the first english public school. from the scholars of winchester, when they had reached at least the age of fifteen years, and from them only the seventy scholars of "s. marie college" were to be chosen by examination. a preference was given to the founder's kin and the natives of certain dioceses. these young scholars, if they were not disqualified by an income of over five marks or by bodily deformity, entered at once upon the course in arts, and, after two years of probation and if approved by examination, might be admitted true and perpetual fellows. small wonder if golden scholars became sometimes silver bachelors and leaden masters! a fellow's allowance was a shilling a week for commons and an annual "livery." but it was provided that each young scholar should study for his first three years under the supervision of one of the fellows, who was to receive for each pupil five shillings. this was a new step in the development of the college system. though designed merely to supplement the lectures of the regents in the schools, the new provision of tutors was destined to supplant them. another step of far-reaching consequence taken by wykeham was the acquisition of benefices in the country, college livings to which a fellow could retire when he had resided long enough or failed to obtain other preferment. the government of the college was not entrusted to the young fellows, but to the warden, sub-warden, five deans, three bursars and a few senior fellows. but even the youngest of the fellows was entitled to vote on the election of a warden. [illustration: in new college] the warden of this new foundation was to be a person of no small importance. wykeham intended him to live in a separate house, with a separate establishment and an income (£ ) far more splendid than the pittance assigned to the master of balliol or even the warden of merton. the buildings of merton had been kept separate; only by degrees, and as if by accident, had they assumed the familiar and charming form of a quadrangle. the genius of wykeham adopted and adapted the fortuitous plan of merton. at new college we have for the first time a group of collegiate buildings, tower-gateway (the tower assuredly of one "wise of building castles!") chapel, hall, library, treasury, warden's lodgings, chambers, cloister-cemetery, kitchen and domestics offices, designed and comprised in one self-sufficing quadrangle ( - ). just as the statutes of new college are the rule of merton enormously elaborated, so the plan of the buildings is that of merton modified and systematised. the type of new college served as a model for all subsequent foundations. the most noticeable features in this arrangement are that the hall and chapel are under one roof, and that the chapel consists of a choir, suitable to the needs of a small congregation, and of a nave of two bays, stopping short at the transepts, and forming an ante-chapel which might serve both as a vestibule and as a room for lectures and disputations. the chapel, which contains much very beautiful glass and the lovely if inappropriate window-pictures of sir joshua reynolds, must have been in wykeham's day, when it was adorned with a magnificent reredos and "works of many colours," a thing of even greater beauty than it now is. the chapels of magdalen, all souls' and wadham were directly imitated from it. but, with the hall, it suffered much at the hands of wyatt and sir gilbert scott. the latter was also responsible for the atrocious new buildings. the proportions of the front quadrangle were spoilt by the addition of a third story and the insertion of square windows in the seventeenth century. the importance of the chapel architecturally, dominating the quadrangle as it does and absorbing the admiration of the visitor or the dweller in those courts, is indicative of the ecclesiastical aspect of the new foundation, which the great opponent of wycliffe intended to revivify the church by training secular priests of ability. this ecclesiastical aspect is still more prominent in the case of all souls', which, like magdalen, may fitly be described as a daughter of new college, so much do they both owe, as regards their rule and their architectural design, to the great foundation of wykeham. the deterioration and ignorance of the parochial clergy were amongst the most serious symptoms of the decadence of the fifteenth century. himself a wykehamist and a successful ecclesiastical lawyer, the great archbishop chichele therefore followed wykeham's example and founded a college which might help to educate and to increase the secular clergy. out of the revenues of the suppressed alien priories he endowed a society consisting of a warden and forty fellows, of doctors and masters who were to study philosophy, theology and law. his college was not, therefore, and happily is not (though now it takes its full share of educational work), a mere body of teachers, but of graduate students. the prominence given to the study of law and divinity resulted in a close connection with the public services which has always been maintained. but "all souls'" was a chantry as well as a college. as head of the english church and a responsible administrator of the crown, chichele had devoted all his powers to the prosecution of that war with france, for which shakespeare, following hall, has represented him as being responsible. the college is said to have been the archbishop's expiation for the blood so shed. whatever his motive, his object is stated clearly enough. it was to found a "college of poor and indigent clerks bounden with all devotion to pray for the souls of the glorious memory of henry v., lately king of england and france, the duke of clarence and the other lords and lieges of the realm of england, whom the havoc of that warfare between the two realms hath drenched with the bowl of bitter death, and also for the souls of all the faithful departed." chichele had already undertaken the foundation of s. bernard's college. he now (september ) purchased bedford hall, or charleton's inn, at the corner of cat street,[ ] directly opposite the eastern end of s. mary's church. on this site, in the following february, was laid the foundation stone of the college afterwards incorporated under the title of "the warden and all soulen college," or "the warden and college of all faithful souls deceased at oxford." as adam de brome had persuaded edward ii. to be the foster-founder of oriel, so chichele asked henry vi. to be the nominal founder of his college. the royal patronage proved advantageous in neither case. the front quadrangle of all souls' remains very much as the founder left it; the hall and the noble codrington library in the italian style, the cloister of the great quadrangle and the odd twin towers belong to the first half of the eighteenth century. the latter are curious specimens of that mixture of the gothic and renaissance styles (nicholas hawksmoor), of which the best that can be said is that "the architect has blundered into a picturesque scenery not devoid of grandeur" (walpole). the political and social troubles of the fifteenth century brought about a period of darkness and stagnation in the university. the spirit of independence and reform had been crushed by the ecclesiastics. oxford had learnt her lesson. she took little part in politics, but played the time-server, and was always loyal--to one party or the other. she neglected her duties; she neither taught nor thought, but devoted all her energies and resources to adorning herself with beautiful colleges and buildings. and for us the result of this meretricious policy is the possession of those glorious buildings which mark the interval between the middle ages and the renaissance. for the university now built herself schools that were worthy of her dower of knowledge. there was a vacant spot at the end of schools street belonging to balliol college, lying between the town wall on the north and exeter college on the west. on this site it was determined to erect a school of divinity ( ). donations flowed in from the bishops and monasteries. but in spite of all economy funds ran short. the building had to be discontinued for a while ( ). the gift of marks from the executors of cardinal beaufort, a former chancellor, enabled the graduates to proceed with their work. they made strenuous efforts to raise money. they put a tax on all non-resident masters and bachelors; they offered "graces" for sale; they applied to the pope and bishops for saleable indulgences. in return for a contribution of one hundred pounds from the old religious orders, they agreed to modify the ancient statutes concerning the admission of monks to academical degrees. some of these methods of raising the necessary monies are doubtless open to criticism, but we cannot cavil when we look upon the noble building which the graduates were thus enabled to raise. the divinity school, to which, casaubon declared, nothing in europe was comparable, was, with its "vaulting of peculiar skill," used, though not completed, in . it remained to construct an upper story where the books belonging to the university might be kept and used. for generous gifts of books ( - ) by humphrey, duke of gloucester, uncle of henry vi., had greatly increased the university library. the fashion of large and gorgeous libraries was borrowed by the english from the french princes. the duke had taken his opportunity during his campaigns in france. he seized the valuable collection of books at the louvre, and many of them had now found their way to oxford. they were stored at first in the cobham library, but more room was needed. accordingly, in , the university addressed a letter to the duke in which they informed him of their intention to erect a new building suitable to contain his magnificent gift, and on a site far removed from the hum of men. of this building, with that gratitude which is in part at least a lively sense of favours to come, they asked permission of the very learned and accomplished duke to inscribe his name as founder. the duke humphrey library forms now the central portion of the great reading room of the bodleian library. it still answers, by virtue of its position and the arrangement of its cubicles, to the description and intention of the promotors--to build a room where scholars might study far removed _a strepitu sæculari_, from the noise of the world. the three wheat-sheaves of the kempe shield, repeated again and again on the elaborate groined roof of the divinity school, commemorate the bounty of thomas kempe, bishop of london, who ( ) promised to give marks for the completion of the school and the library. a grateful university rewarded him with anniversary services; his name is still mentioned in the "bidding prayer" on solemn occasions. nor was duke humphrey forgotten. his name still heads the list of benefactors recited from time to time in s. mary's. religious services were instituted also for his benefit. he was more in need of them, perhaps, than the bishop. for the "good duke humphrey" was good only so far as his love of learning and his generosity to scholars may entitle him to be considered so. the patron of lydgate and occleve, and the donor of hundreds of rare and polite books to the university was as unscrupulous in his political intrigues as immoral in his private life. but in his case the good he did lived after him. the "good duke" was a reader as well as a collector. it was not merely the outsides of books or the title-pages which attracted him. "his courage never doth appal to study in books of antiquity." so wrote lydgate, who knew. even when he presented his books to the university, he took care to reserve the right of borrowing them, for were they not, according to the inscription which he was wont to insert lovingly in them, all his worldly wealth (_mon bien mondain_)? it is perhaps not surprising to find from the list of books which he gave to the university, that the duke's taste in literature was for the classics, for the works of ovid, cato, aulus gellius and quintilian, for the speeches of cicero, the plays of terence and seneca, the works of aristotle and plato, the histories of suetonius and josephus, of beda and eusebius, higden and vincent of beauvais. a fancy for medical treatises and a pretty taste in italian literature are betrayed by the titles of other books, for the duke gave seven volumes of boccaccio, five of petrarch and two of dante to the university. duke humphrey promised to give the whole of his collection to the university, together with a hundred pounds to go towards the [illustration: kemp hall] building of the library. but he died suddenly, and the university never, as it appears, received full advantage of his generosity. it was not till that the books were removed from s. mary's. for the completion of the library was delayed by an order from edward iv. the workmen employed upon the building were summoned by him to windsor, where he had need of them, to work at s. george's chapel. those who were not employed on the chapel were handed over to william of waynflete, who restored them to the university along with some scaffolding which had been used in the building of magdalen. william patten or barbour of waynflete, an oxford man, who had been master of the school at winchester, had been appointed first master and then provost of eton by the founder, henry vi., and was rewarded for his success there by the bishopric of winchester. in he had founded a hall for the study of theology and philosophy, situated between the present schools and logic lane, and called it, probably after the almshouse at winchester, of which he had been master, the hall of s. mary magdalen. when he became lord chancellor he immediately took steps to enlarge this foundation, transferred it to the site of the hospital of s. john, and styled it the college of s. mary magdalen (september ). waynflete resigned the chancellorship just before the battle of northampton. after some years, during which he was "in great dedignation with edward iv.," he received full pardon from his late master's conqueror. the yorkist monarch (whose fine statue is over the west doorway of the chapel) also confirmed the grants made to waynflete's college in the last reign. after an interval, then, the foundation stone of the most beautiful college in the world, "the most absolute building in oxford," as james i. called it when his son matriculated there, was laid "in the midst of the high altar" ( th may ). already enclosing walls had been built about the property, which was bounded on the east by the cherwell, on the south by the high street, on the west by what is now long wall street, and on the north by the lands of holywell. the "long wall" bounded the "grove," famous, since the beginning of the eighteenth century, for its noble timber and herd of deer. most of the trees in the present grove are elms planted in the seventeenth century, but there are two enormous wych elms, measured by oliver wendell holmes in , which would have dwarfed that venerable oak which stood near the entrance into the water-walk, and was blown down "into the meadow" in . it was over seven hundred years old (girth ft. in., height ft. in.), and thought to be the same as that named by the founder for a northern boundary. in the arrangement of his buildings waynflete followed wykeham. chapel, hall and library were designed on the same plan. but the beautiful "founder's tower," rendered now still more lovely by the drapery of creepers which hangs about it, formed the principal entrance into cloisters, which were part of the buildings of the main quadrangle, carried an upper story of chambers, and were adorned with grotesques symbolical of the vices and virtues. the entrance now used was originally meant to serve only as the entrance from the cloister to the chapel. it was adorned (_circa_ ) with a gateway similar to that designed by inigo jones for the main entrance to the college. the statutes were based on those of new college, but, in addition to those of which we have already had occasion to speak, there were certain notable improvements. the society was to consist of a president and seventy scholars besides four chaplains, eight clerks and sixteen choristers. forty of these scholars were fellows forming one class, and thirty were demies, forming another, whose tenure was limited and who were given half the allowance of the fellows. they had no special claim to promotion to fellowships. for their instruction a grammar master and an usher were provided; when they were well skilled in grammar, they were to [illustration: the founder's tower magdalen college] be taught logic and sophistry by the college lecturers, whilst three "readers," in natural and moral philosophy and theology, chosen out of the university, were to provide the higher teaching in arts and theology. and all this teaching, in theology and philosophy and also in grammar, was to be given free to all comers at the expense of the college. in waynflete, full of pride in his new foundation, "the most noble and rich structure in the learned world," persuaded edward iv. to come over from woodstock and see it. the king came at a few hours' notice. but as the royal cavalcade drew near the north gate of the town, a little after sunset, it was met by the chancellor and the masters of the university and a great number of persons carrying lighted torches. the king and his courtiers were hospitably received at magdalen. on the morrow the president delivered a congratulatory address, and the king made a gracious reply; then he and his followers joined in a solemn procession round the precincts and the cloisters of the college. two years later richard iii. was very similarly welcomed by the university and entertained at magdalen. on this occasion the king was regaled with two disputations in the hall. richard declared himself very well pleased; and it is just possible that he was. for one of the disputants was william grocyn, who was rewarded with a buck and three marks for his pains. the university continued its policy of political time-serving, and, after the battle of bosworth field, congratulated henry vii. as fulsomely as it had congratulated richard iii. a few months before. henry retorted by demanding the surrender of robert stillington, bishop of bath and wells, who was staying within the limits of the university. this prelate was accused of "damnable conjuracies and conspiracies," which may have included complicity in the rebellion of lambert simnel. for the future scullion was a native of oxford. the university prevaricated for a while; and at last, when hard pressed, they explained that they would incur the sentence of excommunication if they used force against a prelate of the catholic church. the king then took the matter into his own hands, and committed the offender to prison at windsor for the remainder of his life. he soon afterwards visited oxford, offered a noble in the chapel of magdalen college, and, by way of marking his approval of the university, undertook the maintenance of two students at oxford. in he established at university college an obit for the widow of warwick the king-maker. some years later, in , he endowed the university with ten pounds a year in perpetuity for a religious service to be held in memory of him and his wife and of his parents. on the anniversary of his burial a hearse, covered with rich stuff, was to be set up in the middle of s. mary's church before the great crucifix, and there the chancellor, the masters and the scholars were to recite certain specified prayers. among the articles in the custody of the verger of the university is a very fine ancient pall of rich cloth of gold, embroidered with the arms and badges of henry vii., the tudor rose and the portcullis, that typify the union of the houses of york and lancaster. penurious in most matters, henry vii. showed magnificence in building and in works of piety. in westminster abbey he erected one of the grandest chantries in christendom; and it was for the exclusive benefit of the monks of westminster that he established at oxford three scholarships in divinity, called after his name, and each endowed with a yearly income of ten pounds (maxwell lyte). of henry's parents, his mother, the lady margaret, countess of richmond,[ ] took a warm interest in oxford as in cambridge, where she founded two colleges. it was she who founded the [illustration: magdalen bridge & tower] two readerships in divinity at oxford ( ) and cambridge, the oldest professorial chairs that exist in either university. his characteristically frugal offering was not the only sign of his favour which henry vouchsafed to magdalen. he sent his eldest son, prince arthur, frequently to oxford. when there the boy stayed in the president's lodgings and the purchase of two marmosets for his amusement is recorded in the college accounts. one of the old pieces of tapestry preserved in the president's lodgings represents the marriage of the prince with catherine of aragon. it was probably presented to the president (mayhew) by him. it is possible that henry vii. also contributed to the cost of building that bell tower, which is the pride of magdalen and the chief ornament of oxford. the tower was built between the years and . wolsey was a junior fellow when the tower was begun, and though popular tradition ascribes to him the credit of the idea and even the design of that exquisite campanile, the fact that not he, but another senior fellow (gosmore by name) was appointed to superintend the work, is evidence, so far as there is any evidence, that wolsey had no particular share in the design. he was, however, senior bursar in . but the story that he left the college because he had wrongly applied some of its funds to the building of the tower, is not borne out by any evidence in the college records. he ceased to be a fellow of magdalen about , having been instituted to the rectory of lymington. but he had filled the office of dean of divinity after his term as senior bursar was over. we have referred to the close connection of the house of lancaster with waynflete's foundation. by a curious freak of popular imagination the name of henry vii. as well as that of the future cardinal has been intimately connected with this tower. besides other benefactions, he granted a licence for the conveyance to the college of the advowsons of slymbridge and of findon. in return the college undertook to keep an obit for him every year. this celebration was originally fixed on the nd or rd of october, but it has been held on the st of may since the sixteenth century. the coincidence of this ceremony with the most interesting and picturesque custom of singing on magdalen tower has given rise to the fable that a payment made to the college by the rectory of slymbridge was intended to maintain the celebration of a requiem mass for the soul of henry vii. and the hymn that is now sung is the survival, says the popular myth, of that requiem. for in the early morning of may day all the members of waynflete's foundation, the president and fellows and demies with the organist and choir, clad in white surplices ascend the tall tower that stands sombre, grey and silent in the half-light of the coming day. there are a few moments of quiet watching, and the eye gazes at the distant hills, as the white mists far below are rolled away by the rising sun. the clock strikes five, and as the sound of the strokes floats about the tower, suddenly from the throats of the well-trained choir on the morning air rises the may day hymn. the hymn is finished, and a merry peal of bells rings out. the tower rocks and seems to swing to the sound of the bells as a well made bell tower should. and the members of the college having thus commemorated the completion of their campanile, descend once more to earth, to bathe in the cherwell, or to return to bed. for a repetition of an inaugural ceremony is what this function probably is, and it has nothing to do, so much can almost certainly be said, with any requiem mass. the hymn itself is no part of any use. it was written by a fellow of the college, thomas smith, and set to music as part of the college "grace" by benjamin rogers, the college organist, towards the end of the seventeenth century. whether or no the origin and meaning of the singing was to commemorate the completion of the tower, the singing itself would appear to have borne originally a secular character. "the choral ministers of this house," says wood, "do, according to an ancient custom, salute flora every year on the first of may, at four in the morning, with vocal music of several parts. which having been sometimes well performed, hath given great content to the neighbourhood, and auditors underneath." the substitution of a hymn from the college grace for the "merry concert of both vocal and instrumental music, consisting of several merry ketches, and lasting almost two hours," which was the form the performance took in the middle of the eighteenth century, was made on one occasion when the weather was very inclement. once made it was found easier and more suitable to continue it, and the observance came to be religious.[ ] magdalen tower is one of those rarely beautiful buildings, which strike you with a silent awe of admiration when first you behold them, and ever afterwards reveal to your admiring gaze new aspects and unsuspected charms. it is changeable as a woman, but its changes are all good and there is nothing else about it that is feminine. it conveys the impression that it is at once massive and slender, and its very slenderness is male. the chaste simplicity of the lower stories carries the eye up unchecked to the ornamented belfry windows, the parapet and surmounting pinnacles, and thus enhances the impression of perfect and reposeful proportion. the growth of the colleges had influenced the halls. statutes imposed by the authority of the university, began to take the place of the private rule of custom and tradition approved and enforced by the authority of the self-governing scholars. the students quickly ceased to be autonomous scholars and became disciplined schoolboys. the division between don and undergraduate began to be formed and was rapidly accentuated. thus, at the close of the mediæval period, a change had been wrought in the character of the university, which rendered it an institution very different from that which it had been in the beginning. the growth of nationalism, the separation of languages and the establishment of the collegiate system--these and similar causes tended to give the universities a local and aristocratic character. the order introduced by the colleges was accompanied by the introduction of rank, and of academical power and influence stored in the older, permanent members of the university. learning, too, had ceased to be thought unworthy of a gentleman; it became a matter of custom for young men of rank to have a university education. thus, in the charter of edward iii., we even read that "to the university a multitude of nobles, gentry, strangers and others continually flock"; and towards the end of the century we find henry of monmouth, afterwards henry v., as a young man, a sojourner at queen's college. but it was in the next century that colleges were provided, not for the poor, but for the noble. many colleges, too, which had been originally intended for the poor, opened their gates to the rich, not as fellows or foundation students, but as simple lodgers, such as monasteries might have received in a former age. this change has continued to be remarkably impressed upon oxford and cambridge even down to this day. the influence of other political classes was now also introduced. never, as newman said, has a learned institution been more directly political and national than the university of oxford. some of its colleges came to represent the talent of the nation, others its rank and fashion, others its wealth; others have been the organs of the government of the day; while others, and the majority, represented one or other division, chiefly local, of opinion in the country. the local limitation of the members of many colleges, the west country character of exeter, the north country character of queen's or university, the south country character of new college, the welsh character of jesus college, for instance, tended to accentuate this peculiarity. the whole nation was thus brought into the university by means of the colleges, which fortunately were sufficiently numerous, and no one of them overwhelmingly important. a vigour and a stability were thus imparted to the university such as the abundant influx of foreigners had not been able to secure. as in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, french, german and italian students had flocked to oxford, and made its name famous in distant lands; so in the fifteenth all ranks and classes of the land furnished it with pupils, and what was wanting in their number or variety, compared with the former era, was made up by their splendour or political importance. the sons of the nobles came up to the university, each accompanied by an ample retinue; the towns were kept in touch with the university by means of the numerous members of it who belonged to the clerical order. town and country, high and low, north and south, had a common stake in the academical institutions, and took a personal interest in the academical proceedings. the degree possessed a sort of indelible character which all classes understood; and the people at large were more or less partakers of a cultivation which the aristocracy were beginning to appreciate. oxford, in fact, became the centre of national and political thought. not only in vacations and term time was there a stated ebbing and flowing of the academical youth, but messengers posted to and fro between oxford and all parts of the country in all seasons of the year. so intimate was this connection, that oxford became, as it were, the selected arena for the conflicts of the various interests of the nation. chapter vi oxford and the reformation in christendom was shocked by the news that the turks had taken constantinople. the home of learning and the citadel of philosophy was no more. the wisdom of hellas, so it seemed to contemporary scholars like Æneas sylvius, was destined likewise to perish. in fact, it was but beginning to be diffused. scholars fled with what mss. they could save to the hospitable shores of italy. and at the very time that these fugitives were hastening across the adriatic, it is probable that the sheets of the mazarin bible were issuing from the press at maintz. thus whilst italy was rescuing from destruction the most valuable thought of the ancient world, germany was devising the means for its diffusion in lands of which strabo never heard, and to an extent of which the sosii never dreamed. the italians acquired the greek language with rapidity and ardour. the student flung aside his scholastic culture; cast away the study of an aristotle that had been conformed to christian theology, and the sentences in which that theology was enshrined, and tried to identify himself in feeling with the spirit of cultivated paganism. the cowl and the gown were discarded for the tunic and the toga. but the new learning did not make its way at once to england. and when at length the englishmen who had travelled and studied in italy brought back with them something of the generous enthusiasm with which they had been fired, their ideas were but coldly welcomed by the followers of thomas or the disciples of duns. at oxford the new movement took but a momentary hold of only a small part of the university, and then was shaken off by the massive inertness of the intellectual stagnation characteristic of the country. "they prefer their horses and their dogs to poets," wrote poggio; "and like their horses and their dogs they shall perish and be forgotten." the majority of englishmen are always slow to accept new ideas. they move ponderously and protestingly in the wake of the continent. the new learning was as unwelcome at oxford as if it had been a motor car. the schoolmen were still busily chopping their logic, when the medicis were ransacking the world for a new play, when poggio was writing his "facetiæ" or editing tacitus, and pope nicholas was founding the vatican library at rome. and the renaissance, when it did begin to work in england, took the form of a religious reformation; the religious genius of the nation led it to the worship, not of beauty, but of truth. the english were equally late in adopting the new german art of printing. when caxton introduced it, it had almost reached its perfection abroad. block books--books printed wholly from carved blocks of wood--had come in and gone out. arising out of them, the idea of movable types had long been invented and developed on the continent. the bamberg and mazarin bibles, the first two books to be printed from movable type, had been produced by gutenberg, fust and schöffer as early as . but it was not till that caxton set up his press at westminster. a year later the first book was issued from an oxford press. this was the famous small quarto of forty-two leaves, "exposicio sancti jeronimi in simbolum apostolorum," written by tyrannius rufinus of aquileia. the colophon of this book, however, distinctly states that it was printed in : "impressa oxonie et ibi finita anno domini m.cccc.lxviij, xvij die decembris." but there is every reason to suppose that an x has been omitted from this date and that the true year was . such a misprint is not uncommon. exactly the same error occurs in books published at venice, at barcelona and at augsburg. the workmanship is very much the same as, but slightly inferior to, that of the next two books which came from the oxford press in . and in the library of all souls' there is a copy of each of these, which were originally bound up together. a break of eleven years between the production of the first and subsequent books is both inconceivable and inexplicable. the press from which these books and twelve others were issued at oxford during the eight years, - , was apparently set up by one theodore rood of cologne. the first three books, however, namely the "exposicio" mentioned, the "Ægidius de originali peccato," and "textus ethicorum aristotelis per leonardum aretinum translatus," bear no printer's name, but the type was either brought from cologne or directly copied from cologne examples. it strongly resembles that used by gerard ten raem de berka or guldenschaff. still, it cannot be proved that rood printed these first three books, or that he ever used the type in which they alone are printed. the colophon of the fourth book, a latin commentary on the "de anima" of aristotle by alexander de hales, a folio printed from new type, gives the name of the printer, theodore rood, and bears the date . a copy of it was bought in the year of publication for the library of magdalen, where it still remains. the price paid was thirty-three shillings and fourpence. a very beautiful copy of the next book, "commentary on the lamentation of jeremiah," by john lattebury, , is in the library of all souls'. four leaves survive in the bodleian and four in the merton library, of the "cicero pro milone," the first edition of a classic printed in england. two leaves of a latin grammar are to be found in the british museum. rood went into partnership with an oxford stationer named thomas hunt, and together they produced eight other books with a type more english in character than the preceding ones. one of these books, "phalaris," (wadham and corpus libraries), has a curious colophon in verse, which describes the printers and their ambition to surpass the venetians in their work. the partners ceased to produce books after . rood probably returned to cologne, and the german art found no exponents in oxford for the remainder of the century. subsequently we find leicester advancing money to set up joseph barnes with a new press. laud and fell were other great patrons of the university press. meantime the return of the pope to rome had attracted many foreign travellers and students to italy, who could not fail to be impressed by the new birth of art and intellectual life that was taking place in that country. among the pupils of guarino of verona at ferrara the names of at least five students from oxford occur. of these, robert fleming, a relative of the founder of lincoln college, was an author of some distinction, and he compiled a græco-latin dictionary at a time when greek was almost unknown in england. he brought back from his travels in italy many precious books, which he gave to the library of lincoln college. william grey, another of guarino's pupils, enriched the library of balliol with many fine manuscripts redolent of the new learning. john tiptoft, earl of worcester, was another scholar who, before paying for his share in politics with his head, presented to the university the valuable collection of manuscripts, which he had made in the course of his travels. william selling, a member of the recent foundation of all souls', was perhaps the earliest englishman of influence to catch from italy the inspiration of the greek muse. on his return from that country, he was appointed to the conventual school at canterbury. his knowledge of greek, and his enthusiasm for greek literature, became the germ of the study in england. thomas linacre was one of his pupils, who, after studying at oxford under vitelli, journeyed to italy with selling. he was introduced to politian at florence. thence he proceeded to rome, and there perhaps formed his taste for the scientific writings of aristotle and his devotion to the study of medicine, which afterwards found expression in the foundation of the college of physicians and of the two lectureships at merton, now merged into the chair which bears his name. linacre returned to oxford and lectured there awhile before being appointed physician to henry viii. his translation of five medical treatises of galen was, erasmus declared, more valuable than the original greek. we have said that he studied under vitelli. it was cornelio vitelli who, some time before , first "introduced polite literature to the schools of oxford," by a lecture as prelector of new college, upon which the warden, thomas chandler, complimented him in a set latin speech. this was probably that cornelius who, in company with two other italians, cyprian and nicholas by name, dined with the president of magdalen on christmas day, . and from the lips of this pioneer william grocyn himself learned greek. grocyn was a fellow of new college ( - ), but he afterwards removed to magdalen as reader in theology. he completed his study of greek and latin by a sojourn of two years ( ) at florence, under demetrius chalcondylas and politian. on his return to oxford he took rooms in exeter college ( ), and gave a course of lectures on greek. a few years later ( - ) the first step in the revolution against the system under which the study of the bible had been ousted by the study of the sentences was taken. a course of lectures by john colet on the epistles of s. paul was the first overt act in a movement towards practical christian reform. it was from grocyn and linacre that thomas more and erasmus learnt greek. for gibbon's epigram that erasmus learned greek at oxford and taught it at cambridge is true, if we qualify it by the reminder that he knew a little before he came to england and learned more in the years which intervened between the time when, much to the chagrin of colet, he left oxford and went to cambridge as an instructor in that language. erasmus had taught at paris. he went to oxford ( ) to learn and to observe. his return home from london had been delayed unexpectedly. he determined to use the opportunity of paying a visit to oxford. the reputation of the learned men there attracted him more than the company of "the gold-chained courtiers" of the capital. he was received as an inmate of s. mary's college, which had been built as a house for students of his own augustinian order ( ). this house, when it was dissolved ( ), was converted into a hall for students, and then into a charitable institution (bridewell). the site, on the east side of new inn hall street, is occupied by a house and garden, now called frewen hall, which was chosen in as the residence of the prince of wales during his studies at oxford. the west gateway, a few remains of groining and the wall facing the street north of the gate are practically all that remains of the building as erasmus saw it, unless we reckon the roof of the chapel of b.n.c., which is said to have been taken from the chapel of s. mary's college. erasmus had nothing to complain of in his welcome to oxford. he found the prior of his college, richard charnock, an intelligent companion and useful friend. colet, having heard from charnock of his arrival, addressed to him a letter of welcome, which in the midst of its formal civility has a characteristic touch of puritan sincerity. to this erasmus replied in his own rhetorical fashion with a letter of elaborate compliment. his wit, his learning and the charm of his brilliant conversation soon won him friends. delightful himself, he found everybody delightful. the english girls were divinely pretty, and he admired their custom of kissing visitors. erasmus made a fair show in the hunting-field, and was charmed with everything, even with our english climate. "the air," he wrote from oxford, "is soft and delicious. the men are sensible and intelligent. many of them are even learned, and not superficially either. they know their classics and so accurately that i seem to have lost little in not going to italy. when colet speaks i might be listening to plato. linacre is as deep and acute a thinker as i have ever met. grocyn is a mine of knowledge, and nature never formed a sweeter and happier disposition than that of thomas more. the number of young men who are studying ancient literature here is astonishing." in one of his letters he gives a very lively picture of a gathering of witty divines at the house of his "sweet and amiable friend" colet, when the latter "spoke with a sacred fury" and erasmus himself, finding the conversation growing too serious for a social gathering, entertained the company with a happily invented tale. at oxford, then, the great centre of theological study, he was learning something of the methods of the theologians. they were not strange to him, for he knew paris. but the oxford school was in his mind when he poured forth his shafts of ridicule upon scholastic divines in his brilliant satire, "the praise of folly." yet it was at oxford that colet had taught him to detest the authority of thomas aquinas, and to apply to the study of the new testament the knowledge and methods indicated by the study of greek literature. his "moria" and his "novum instrumentum," therefore, the books which prepared the way for the reformation, were his protest, and the protest of the christian laity along with him, against the authority of the clergy and against the popular theology which was based on the errors of the vulgate. erasmus laid the egg and luther hatched it--a very different bird, as the former declared. the fact was that throughout europe the growing intelligence of the educated class was slowly but surely developing in antagonism, not merely to specific doctrines, but to the whole spirit of mediæval theology. the old learning was threatened with destruction. it rose in arms against greek and heresy. bishops fulminated. the clergy cried antichrist, and clamoured for sword and faggot. the universities forbade the sale of erasmus's writings, and, seeing what came of the study of greek, declared that they would have no more of it. oxford divided itself into two bodies, who called themselves greeks and trojans, the trojans enormously preponderating. the "greeks," the adherents of the new learning, were assailed with every kind of ridicule. they were openly derided in the streets and abused from the pulpit. in after years tyndale, who had been a student at magdalen hall, could recall how "the old barking curs, duns' disciples and like draff called scotists, the children of darkness, raged in every pulpit against greek, latin and hebrew, and what sorrow the schoolmasters that taught the true latin tongue had with them, some beating the pulpit with their fists for madness, and roaring out with open and foaming mouth, that if there were but one terence or vergil in the world, and that same in their sleeve, and a fire before them, they would burn them therin, though it should cost them their lives." news of what was going on reached the court at abingdon. at the king's command, more wrote to the governing body of the university to rebuke the intemperance of the trojan clique. but the heads of houses were sleeping over a volcano, and more's letter could not rouse them from their slumber. for the present the result was that the little band of pioneers in the new learning one by one departed out of their coasts. "the cardinal of york," more writes, "will not permit these studies to be meddled with." wolsey, of course, as well as the king, more and archbishop warham, the chancellor, was on the side of the new learning. he defrayed the expenses of many lectures, for which the university repeatedly thanked him. he engaged a famous spanish scholar, juan luis vives, to occupy his new chair of rhetoric; and he sent a rising english scholar, thomas lupset, from paris to lecture on the classics at oxford. vives was the first professor of humanity (or latin) at corpus christi, the first of the renaissance colleges. his special function it was to banish all "barbarism" from the "bee-hive," as the founder fondly called his college, by lecturing daily on the classics. tradition says that the professor was welcomed to his new home by a swarm of bees, which, to signify the incomparable sweetness of his eloquence, settled under the leads of his chambers. [illustration: niche & sundial, corpus christi college] the founder of c.c.c., richard foxe, bishop of winchester, was a prelate, statesman, architect, soldier, herald and diplomatist, who, in the very encyclopædic nature of his talents, was a typical product of the renaissance. he had been bishop of exeter, of bath and wells and of durham before he was translated to winchester; he had been keeper of the privy seal and secretary of state, and had played an important part in the history of his country; he had been chancellor of cambridge and master of pembroke college there; but it was chiefly upon oxford that he lavished the wealth he had acquired. having bought some land between merton and s. frideswide's, he proposed at first to establish a college, after the manner of durham college, directly in connection with the monastery of s. swithun at winchester. but before the building was completed, he determined to make it a college for secular students. holinshed gives us the words in which hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, who was intimately associated with him in the work--his arms are to be seen in various places in the existing buildings--persuaded him to this course. "what, my lord, shall we build houses and provide livelihood for a company of bussing monks, whose end and fall we ourselves may live to see? no, no. it is more meet a great deal that we should have care to provide for the increase of learning, and for such as by their learning shall do good in the church and commonwealth." the broad-minded founder accepted this view. he drew up statutes, by means of which he hoped to train men who should help the church to recognise, to lead and to control the new movement. the verdict of his contemporaries with regard to his work and intentions is expressed by erasmus, who wrote that "just as rhodes was once famous for the colossus, and caria for the tomb of mausolus, so the new college at oxford dedicated to the most profitable literature would be recognised throughout the civilised world as one of the chief ornaments of britain." the influence of the renaissance is writ large over foxe's statutes. what is remarkable in them is the provision he made for the teaching of the new learning. as he furnished his students with a library, rich in classical mss. and books in greek, latin and hebrew, a "bibliotheca trilinguis" which erasmus declared would attract more students than rome had done hitherto; so also, in addition to the twenty fellows and twenty scholars of his college, he endowed three readers, in greek, in latin, and in theology. natives of greece and italy were to be specially eligible for these offices; greek as well as latin might be spoken in hall, and some acquaintance with the works of roman poets, orators and historians, no less than with logic and philosophy, was to be required of candidates for scholarships, who must also prove their fitness by ability to compose verses and write letters in latin. cicero, sallust, valerius maximus, suetonius, pliny, livy and quintilian are enumerated in the statutes as the prose writers, and vergil, ovid, lucan, juvenal, terence and plautus as the poets to be expounded by the professor of humanity. the works of lorenzo valla, aulus gellius and politian are recommended as suitable subjects of study during the three vacations. the professor of greek, an officer unknown in any earlier college, was required to lecture, and to lecture to the whole university, not only on grammar, but also on the works of isocrates, lucian, philostratus, aristophanes, theocritus, euripides, sophocles, pindar, hesiod, demosthenes, thucydides, aristotle and plutarch. the third "reader" appointed by foxe was to expound the old testament and the new in alternate years. he was not, however, to be content with the comments of the schoolmen, but was "to follow so far as possible the ancient and holy doctors both latin and greek." it will be seen that these statutes form, as it were, at once a charter and a corpus of the new learning. patristic theology was to be restored to the place of honour whence the quibbles of the schoolmen had banished it; the masterpieces of the ancient world were, in future, to be studied instead of the second-rate philosophers and slovenly writers of the dark ages. apart from the fascinating hall and library, the buildings of corpus are less distinguished than her history. the curious sundial, surmounted by a pelican vulning herself in piety, which stands in the centre of the front quadrangle, was erected by a fellow in . as at all souls' and elsewhere, the name of the college is indicated by sculpture over the gateway--a group of angels bearing a pyx, the receptacle of the sacramental host, the body of christ (corpus christi). the pastoral staff, a chalice and paten, which belonged to the founder, are still preserved. they rank among the finest examples of the work of english mediæval silversmiths. the connection between magdalen and c.c.c. was always close. foxe, indeed, is said to have been at magdalen, and to have [illustration: first quadrangle corpus christi college.] left oxford on account of a pestilence. it is at any rate noteworthy that he makes special provision against plagues in his statutes. the severity and frequency of plagues of one sort or another were a serious obstacle to the prosperity of the university, and therefore of the city, throughout this century. the causes are not far to seek. for centuries filth and garbage had been allowed to accumulate in the ill-made, unswept streets. and though the king might write to the burghers and command them to remove the nuisances of this sort from before their doors, the efforts to deal with them were only spasmodic. brewers and bakers, again, were forbidden by the king's edict ( ) to make use of the foul waters of trill mill stream for the making of their bread and ale. but police was inefficient, and the health of the scholars frequently suffered from a renewal of this insanitary practice. regrators, who burned before their doors stinking fat and suet, were also forbidden by edward iii. to pursue their habits, and the citizens were enjoined to repair the pavements in front of their houses. but in spite of regulations and restrictions butchers persisted in slaughtering their beasts in their homes and fouling the trill mill stream with offal. inundations from the cherwell and the thames, not yet regulated and confined by the conservancy board, occasionally swamped even the cloisters of magdalen and left behind a legacy of mud, damp and malaria. sweating sickness--a kind of rheumatic fever--struck oxford hard in . in the following years other loathsome diseases, attributed to the noisome smells which arose from the marshy grounds around the city and the obstructed state of the thames, manifested themselves and caused the students to fly. frequent instances are recorded of fellows obtaining permission to leave oxford on account of the pestilence. in most of the members of oriel removed to a farm at dean; in the inmates of new college fled on the outbreak of some illness, and the fellows of university college dispersed on the same account in . from magdalen, in unhealthy seasons, there were frequent migrations of a large portion of the society to witney or to brackley, where the hospital had been indicated by the founder as a place to which such migrations might be made. but it was in that the sweating sickness broke out in its severest form. many persons died within a few hours of being attacked by the disease; public business was postponed, and the lecture rooms were closed. the festival of s. john was stopped. it was decreed that all clerks who thought themselves in danger might be absent until october. it might almost have been the influenza ( ). the plague broke out in , so that the university term had to be deferred. it broke out again in the following years, and culminated, in , in the "black assizes." rowland jencks, a bookbinder, had been seized and sent to london for railing against the commonwealth and the established religion. his house was searched for "bulls, libels, and suchlike things against the queen and religion." he was returned to oxford to be committed to prison. at the assizes, held in the court house at the castle-yard, he was condemned to lose his ears. no sooner was the prisoner removed from the crowded court than, as wood tells us, "there arose such an infectious damp or breath among the people, that many there present, to the apprehensions of most men, were then smothered and others so deeply infected that they lived not many hours after. above sickened in one night; and the day after, the infectious air being carried into the next villages, sickened there an hundred more. the number of persons that died in five weeks' space were in oxford, and and odd in other places; so that the whole number that died in that time were persons, of whom many bled till they expired." the description of the disease given by wood reminds one of thucydides' account of the plague at athens. the outbreak was attributed by some to the roman catholics, who were said to have used magic to revenge themselves for the cropping of jencks' ears, but the explanation suggested by a remark of bacon is more probable. "the most pernicious infection next to the plague," he says, "is the smell of the jail, when prisoners have been long and close nastily kept." in the plague again threatened. this time measures were taken to improve the sanitary conditions of the place. regulations were introduced, which do not greatly differ from the precautions of modern legislation. it was, for instance, ordained that-- "no person shall cast or lay any donge, dust, ordure, rubbish, carreyne or any other thing noyant into any the waters ryvers or streams or any the streets, wayes or lanes. but every person shall swepe together & take up the said things noyant out of the channel of the street so far as their ground reacheth and cause the same to be carried away twice every week. all privies & hogsties set or made over upon or adjoining to any the waters or streames leading to any brew-house shall be removed & taken away. no person shall keep any hogs or swine within the said city but only within their own several backsides; no butcher shall keep any slaughter house or kill any oxen kyne shepe or calves within the walls. all pavements shall be made and amended in places defective and all chimneys occupied with fire shall from henceforth be swept four times every year." these ordinances, it will be seen, provided against the customary crying evils of a mediæval town. similar provisions against similar evils are to be found in the archives of most cities in england or france in the sixteenth century. but ordinances are one thing and effective street-police is another. a hundred years later s. james's square was still the receptacle for all offal and cinders, for all the dead cats and dead dogs of westminster, whilst voltaire's scathing description of the streets of paris was no exaggeration. it was a state of affairs on which the plague of london was the grimmest of all possible commentaries. another outbreak of plague in produced an order against plays, which were said to bring too many people, and the plague with them, from london. regulations were also passed against overcrowding in the houses. at the beginning of the reign of james i., however, the infection spread once more from london to oxford. term was prorogued; the colleges broke up; and the citizens were so hard hit that they petitioned the university for aid. a weekly contribution from the colleges alleviated the distress that arose from this doleful sickness. the town was almost deserted; the shops were closed; and only the keepers of the sick or the collectors of relief appeared in the streets--"no not so much as dog or cat." the churches were seldom opened, and grass grew in the common market-place. next year and the next plague broke out again, by which time some arrangements had been made for a system of isolation. yet the mediæval attitude of mind towards medicine and sanitation would seem to have lasted on through the age of reason. for in , when small-pox had many times scourged the town, all attempts at inoculation were formally forbidden by the vice-chancellor and mayor. foxe had aided the rise and rejoiced in the success of wolsey. but that success was not universally popular. in spite of his benefactions to learning, and the university, it was an oxford laureate, one of our earliest satirists, who, when the cardinal was at the height of his power, more monarch than the king himself, attacked him with the most outspoken virulence. a crown of laurel would seem to have been the outward sign and symbol of a degree in rhetoric, and rhetoricians were occasionally styled poets laureate. john skelton, who was perhaps court poet to henry viii., was certainly tutor to prince henry and laureate of both universities. he was very proud of this distinction, and, not being troubled by any excess of modesty, he wrote a poem of lines in praise of himself: "a kynge to me myn habite gave; at oxforth the universyte, auvaunsed to that degre by hole consent of theyr senate, i was made poete laureate." so he says; and cambridge apparently followed suit and admitted him ( ) to a corresponding degree, and likewise encircled his brows with a wreath of laurel. skelton jeered at the cardinal's pride and pomp; at his low birth (his "greasy original") and his lack of scholarship. there was more truth in shakespeare's description of him as a "scholar and a right good one," for the "boy bachelor" had taken his degree of b.a. at fifteen years of age, "a rare thing and seldom seen." he held a fellowship at magdalen, and was bursar for a short while, as we have seen; for six months he acted as master of magdalen school, and in he was instituted to the rectory of lymington, thanks to the favour of the marquis of dorset, whose three sons had been his pupils at the school. it is not every man who is given even one chance in life, but at last to wolsey, as to wykeham, the opportunity came. he pleased the king by the speed with which he performed the first errand on which he was dispatched; and from that time he never ceased to advance in power and the confidence of his sovereign. the account of that episode, which he gave after his fall to george cavendish, is one of the most profitable lessons in history. it is the secret of success as recorded by a bankrupt millionaire. wolsey never allowed his ecclesiastical and political work and honours to make him forget the university which had given him his start in life. in he took his degree of bachelor of divinity. by the university the need for the codification of its statutes, and the unification of the mass of obscure customs and contradictory ordinances of which they were by this time composed, had long been felt. some efforts had indeed already ( ) been made in this direction, but they had come to nothing. graduates who swore to obey the statutes now found themselves in the awkward position of being really unable to find their way through the labyrinth of confused and contradictory enactments. now it happened that an outbreak of the sweating sickness in drove the king and his court from london to abingdon. queen catherine availed herself of the opportunity to pay a visit to oxford, to dine at merton and to worship at the shrine of s. frideswide, whilst wolsey, who escorted her from abingdon, attended a solemn meeting of the graduates at s. mary's and informed them of his design to establish certain daily lectures for the benefit of the university at large. for this purpose it was necessary to alter existing regulations. the graduates seized the opportunity of inviting the cardinal, their "mæcenas," whom they even came to address as "his majesty," to undertake a complete revision of their statutes. in so doing they disregarded the wishes of their chancellor, the archbishop warham. but their action was fruitless, for the cardinal had no time to examine and codify the chaotic enactments of the mediæval academicians. it was at wolsey's request that a charter was granted to the university ( ) which placed the greater part of the city at its mercy. it was now empowered to incorporate any trade, whilst all "members of the privilege" were exempted from having to apply to the city for permission to carry on business. many minor rights and immunities were granted to the chancellor, and no appeal was allowed from his court. "any sentence, just or unjust, by the chancellor against any person, shall be holden good, and for the same sentence, so just or unjust, the chancellor or his deputy shall not be drawn out of the university for false judgment, or for the same vexed or troubled by any written commandment of the king." prior to the issue of this charter there had been grievances arising from the favour shown by the crown to the university, as, for instance, when, a few years back, the colleges and other places of the university had been exempted from the subsidies charged upon the town. the jealousy which had been slumbering now burst into flames. the bailiffs flatly refused to summon a jury under the new terms. they were imprisoned. a writ was issued to enforce the university charter and for the appearance of the mayor and corporation to answer a suit in chancery. the same year ( ) the university, not being able to obtain the assistance of the bailiffs, ordered the bedels to summon a jury for their leet. the city bailiffs closed the door of the guildhall, so that the court thus summoned could not be held. this device they adopted repeatedly. on one occasion wolsey proposed to submit the question to the arbitration of more. but the city perceived their danger and unanimously refused, "for," they remarked, "by such arbitrements in time past, the commissary & procters & their officers of the university hath usurped & daily usurpeth upon the town of divers matters contrary to their compositions." the struggle passed through several stages. the mayor, one michael hethe by name, refused to take the customary oath at s. mary's to maintain the privileges of the university. proceedings were instituted against him. his answer, when he was summoned to appear at s. mary's church and show cause why he should not be declared perjured and excommunicate, was couched in very spirited terms: "recommend me unto your master and shew him, i am here in this town the king's grace's lieutenant for lack of a better, and i know no cause why i should appear before him. i know him not for my ordinary." the court pronounced him contumacious, and sentenced him to be excommunicated. he was obliged to demand absolution, but he did not abate the firmness of his attitude when he obtained it, for he flatly refused to promise "to stand to the law and to obey the commands of the church," though that promise was proposed as a necessary condition of absolution being granted. before the end of this year ( ) the town made a direct petition to the king against the university, in which the chief incidents in the hard-fought battle are recounted in detail. complaint is made, for instance, that the commissary "doth take fourpence for the sale of every horse-lode of fresh salmon, & one penny of every seme of fresshe herrings, which is extorcyon": and again "another time he sent for one william falofelde & demanded of him a duty that he should give him a pint of wine of every hogshead that he did set a-broach, for his taste. and the said william answered and said that he knew no such duty to be had, if he knew it he would gladly give it. and thereupon the said commissary said he would make him know that it was his duty & so sent him to prison: and so ever since, for fear of imprisonment, the said william falofelde hath sent him wine when he sent for it, which is to the great losse and hindrance of the said william falofelde." in order to compel submission on the part of the city, the mayor and twenty of the citizens were discommoned in , so that "no schollar nor none of their servants, should buy nor sell with none of them, neither eat nor drink in their houses, under pain of for every time of so doing to forfeit to the commissary of s. and d." for twenty years the quarrel dragged on, till at last both parties grew weary. in arbitrators were called in, and wolsey's charter was repealed. but under elizabeth, when in leicester they had elected a chancellor of sufficient power to represent their interests, the university began to endeavour to regain the privileges and franchises which, as they maintained, had only been in abeyance. an act of parliament was procured which confirmed the old obnoxious charter of , but with a clause of all the liberties of the mayor and town. this clause led the way to fresh acts of aggression on either side, and renewed recriminations and disputes until, on the report of two judges, a series of orders was promulgated by the privy council ( ), intended to set at rest the differences between the two bodies for ever. but the result fell short of the intention. the opposition at this time had been led by one william noble, who lived in the old house known as le swynstock. smarting under the sting of false imprisonment, noble commenced suits in the star chamber against the university, and presented petitions both against that body and the mayor and citizens. his popularity was such that he was elected member of parliament for the city. wolsey, as we have seen, had taken some steps towards establishing public lectureships in the university. but he provided no permanent endowment for these chairs. his designs developed into a grander scheme. he determined to found a college which, in splendour and resources, should eclipse even the noble foundations of wykeham and waynflete, a college where the secular clergy should study the new learning and use it as a handmaid of theology and in the service of the old church. and as wykeham had established in connection with his college a school at winchester, so wolsey proposed to found at his birth-place, ipswich, and at oxford, two sister-seats of learning and religion. through the darkness and stagnation of the fifteenth century a few great men had handed on the torch of learning and of educational ideals. the pedigree of christ church is clearly traceable through magdalen and new college back to merton. wolsey at magdalen had learnt to appreciate, in the most beautiful of all the homes of learning, something of the aims of the great school-master bishop, waynflete. and waynflete himself, can we doubt? had caught from wykeham the enthusiasm for producing "rightly and nobly ordered minds and characters." at oxford, at winchester and at windsor he had lived under the shadow of the great monuments of wykeham's genius, and learned to discern "the true nature of the beautiful and graceful, the simplicity of beauty in style, harmony and grace." so that in the architecture of his college--and architecture, as plato tells us, as all the other arts, is full of grace and harmony, which are the two sisters of goodness and virtue--he was enabled to fulfil the platonic ideal and to provide the youth whom he desired to benefit with a home where they might dwell "in a land of health and fair sights and sounds, and receive the good in everything, and where beauty, the effluence of fair works, might flow into the eye and ear like a health-giving breeze from a purer region, and insensibly draw the soul from earliest years into likeness and sympathy with the beauty of reason." inspired by such examples, wolsey set himself to build a college which should eclipse them, "though unfinished, yet so famous, so excellent in art and yet so rising, that christendom shall ever speak his virtue." indeed, says fuller, nothing mean could enter into this man's mind. immense as were his private resources, they could not bear the strain of his magnificent plans. he therefore seized upon the idea of appropriating the property of the regular clergy and applying it to the foundation and endowment of cardinal's college. the time was ripe for some such conversion. monasticism was outworn. whatever the merits of some few monasteries might be, whatever the piety of an occasional abbot samson, or the popularity of a monkish institution which did its duty of charity and instruction in this or that part of the country, the monks as a rule had ceased to live up to their original standard. they had accumulated wealth and lost their hold on the people. and where they were popular, it was in many cases with the people they had pauperised. to a statesman with so keen an insight and so broad a mind as wolsey, it must have seemed both wise and safe to take this opportunity of suppressing some of the english priories. had not chicheley, when the alien priories had been suppressed on political grounds, secured some of their lands for the endowment of his foundation, all souls' college? his first step was to obtain a bull from the pope and the assent of the king, authorising him ( ) to suppress the priory of s. frideswide and transfer the canons to other houses of the augustinian order. their house and revenues, amounting to nearly £ , were assigned to the proposed college of secular clerks. the scale of that college is indicated by the fact that it was to consist of a dean and sixty canons, forty canons of inferior rank, besides thirteen chaplains, twelve lay clerks, sixteen choristers and a teacher of music, for the service of the church. six public professors were to be appointed in connection with the college. a few months later another bull, which premised that divine service could not be properly maintained in monasteries which contained less than seven professed members, empowered wolsey to suppress any number of such small religious houses all over the country. this he proceeded to do, and to transfer the inmates to other monasteries. their revenues, to an amount not exceeding golden ducats, were to be devoted to the new college. the plan of thus concentrating the resources of the small and scattered religious houses was both economical and statesmanlike. but, in its execution, it gave rise to fear and irritation, of which wolsey's political enemies were quick to avail themselves. the perturbation of the monks is well expressed in fuller's happy metaphor: "his proceedings made all the forest of religious foundations in england to shake, justly fearing the king would finish to fell the oaks, seeing the cardinal began to cut the underwood." wolsey found it necessary to write to his royal master more than once to contradict the mis-representations of his opponents. the king had been informed that monks and abbots had been turned out to starve. wolsey declared that what he had done was "to the full satisfaction, recompense and joyous contentation" of all concerned. the king complained that some of the monasteries would not contribute to his necessities as much as they had contributed to the cardinal's scheme. wolsey replied that he had indeed received "from divers mine old lovers and friends right loving and favourable aids towards the edifying of my said college," but added that these had been justly obtained and exaggerated in amount. but he promised in future to take nothing from any religious person. meantime he had set about building cardinal's college with extraordinary energy and on an enormous scale. the foundation stone was laid on th july . whilst the chapter-house and refectory of the old monastery were kept, the western bays of the church were removed to make way for the great quadrangle. the chapel of s. michael at south gate was demolished, and part of the old town wall was thrown down. room was thus made for the buildings on the south side of the quadrangle. these, the first portion of the college to be finished, were the kitchen and that hall which, in its practical and stately magnificence, can scarcely be equalled in england or surpassed in europe. but the fact that it was the kitchen and dining-room which first reached completion gave an opportunity to the wits. "egregium opus. cardinalis iste instituit collegium, et absolvit popinam." so runs one epigram, which being freely translated is: "the mountains were in labour once, and forth there came a mouse;-- your cardinal a college planned, and built an eating-house!" it was part of wolsey's design to gather into his college all the rising intellect of europe. in pursuance of this plan, he induced certain scholars from cambridge to migrate thither. but they it was, so men afterwards complained, who first introduced the taint of heresy into oxford. for at first the university was as strictly orthodox as her powerful patron, who hated "the hellish lutherans," could wish. when martin luther ( ) nailed his ninety-five theses on the church door of wittenberg, in protest against what erasmus had called "the crime of false pardons," the [illustration: cloisters, christ church] sale of indulgences, his protest found no echo here. on the contrary, the masters in convocation gladly elected three representative theologians who attended wolsey's conference in london, and condemned the noxious doctrines of the german reformer. a committee of theologians was also held at oxford, and their condemnation of luther's teaching won the warm approval of the university. but the leaven of lutheranism had already been introduced. the cambridge students whom wolsey had brought to be canons of cardinal college, began to hold secret meetings and to disseminate lutheran treatises. they made proselytes; they grew bolder, and nailed upon the church doors at nights some famous "libels and bills." archbishop warham presently found himself obliged to take notice of the growing sect. he wrote to wolsey invoking his aid, "that the captains of the said erroneous doctrines be punished to the fearful example of all other. one or two cankered members," he explains, "have induced no small number of young and incircumspect fools to give ear unto them," and he proposes that the cardinal should give "in commission to some sad father which was brought up in the university to sit and examine them." active measures were now taken to stamp out the heresy in oxford. wolsey ordered the arrest of a certain thomas garret of magdalen, a pernicious heretic who had been busy selling tyndale's bible and the german reformer's treatises, not only to oxford students, but even to the abbot of reading. his friends managed to get him safely out of oxford, but for some reason or other he returned after three days. the same night he was arrested in bed in the house of one radley, a singing-man, where it was well known that the little lutheran community was wont to meet. garret was not detained in bocardo, but in a cellar underneath the lodgings of the commissary, dr cottisford, rector of lincoln. whilst the commissary was at evensong he managed to escape, and made his way to the rooms of anthony dalaber, one of the "brotherhood," at gloucester college. dalaber has left an account--it is a most tearful tale--of the events which ensued. he had previously had some share in getting garret away from oxford, and was greatly surprised to see him back. he provided him with a coat in place of his tell-tale gown and hood, and sent him off with tears and prayers to wales, whence he hoped to escape to germany. after reading the tenth chapter of s. matthew's gospel with many a deep sigh and salt tear, dalaber went to cardinal college to give master clarke, a leading brother, notice of what had occurred. on his way he met william eden, a fellow of magdalen, who with a pitiful countenance explained to him that they were all undone. dalaber was able to give him the joyful news of garret's escape, and proceeded to s. frideswide's. "evensong," he says, "was begun, and the dean and the other canons were there in their grey amices; they were almost at magnificat before i came thither. i stood at the choir door and heard master taverner play, and others of the chapel there sing, with and among whom i myself was wont to sing also. but now my singing and music were turned into sighing and musing. as i thus and there stood, in cometh dr cottysford, as fast as ever he could go, bareheaded, as pale as ashes--i knew his grief well enough, and to the dean he goeth into the choir, where he was sitting in his stall, and talked with him very sorrowfully." dalaber describes the interview which followed, outside the choir, between these two and dr london, the warden of new college, "puffing, blustering and blowing, like a hungry and greedy lion seeking his prey." the commissary was so much blamed, that he wept for sorrow. spies were sent out in every direction; and when dalaber returned to his rooms next morning, he found that they had been thoroughly searched. he had spent the night with the "brethren," supping at corpus ("at which supper we were not very merry"), sleeping at s. alban hall, consulting together and praying for the wisdom of the serpent, and the harmlessness of the dove. this request would appear to have been in some measure vouchsafed to him, for, when he was interrogated by the prior as to his own movements and those of garret, he was enabled to furnish forth a tale full of circumstantial detail but wholly untrue. "this tale," he observes, "i thought meetest, but it was nothing so." although it were nothing so, he repeated his convincing narrative on oath, when he was examined at lincoln college by cottisford, higdon (dean of cardinal's college) and london. he had sworn on a great mass book laid before him to answer truly, but, as he complacently observes, "in my heart nothing so meant to do." nor, perhaps, did he mean to betray twenty-two of his associates, and the storehouse of garret's books, when examined by dr london, whom he calls the "rankest, papistical pharisee of them all"--at any rate he omits to mention the fact in his narrative. of garret himself, however, no trace could be found; and the commissary, being "in extreme pensyfness," consulted an astrologer, who made a figure for him, and told him, with all the cheerful certainty of an eastern astrologer in these days, that garret, having fled south-eastward in a tawny coat, was at that time in london, on his way to the sea-side. consulting the stars was strictly forbidden by the catholic church, but the warden of new college, though a doctor of divinity, was not ashamed to inform the bishop of the astrologer's saying, or afraid to ask him to inform the cardinal, archbishop of york, concerning it. luckily for him the commissary did not rely wholly on the information either of dalaber or the astrologer. the more practical method of watching the seaport towns resulted a few days later in garret's recapture near bristol. many of the oxford brotherhood were also imprisoned and excommunicated. garret, who had written a piteous letter to wolsey, praying for release, not from the iron bonds which he said he justly deserved, but from the more terrible bonds of excommunication, and who had also made a formal recantation of all his heresies, was allowed to escape. but first he took part in a procession, in which most of the other prisoners also appeared, carrying faggots from s. mary's church to s. frideswide's, and on the way casting into a bonfire made at carfax for the purpose certain books which had most likely formed part of garret's stock. at least three of the prisoners, however, died in prison without having been readmitted to communion, either from the sweating sickness then raging, or, as foxe asserts, from the hardships they endured. for they were kept, he says, for nearly six months in a deep cave under the ground, on a diet of salt fish. by higdon's orders they did at least receive a christian burial. the heretics were crushed in oxford, but elsewhere the movement grew apace. the printing press scattered wide-cast books and pamphlets which openly attacked the corruption of the church and the monastic orders. henry determined to proscribe all books that savoured of heresy. a joint committee of oxford and cambridge theologians was summoned to meet in london. they examined and condemned the suspected books which were submitted to them. the publication of english treatises upon holy scripture without ecclesiastical sanction was forbidden by royal proclamation. versions of the bible in the vulgar tongue were at the same time proscribed. yet this orthodox king, to whom as "defender of the faith," leo x. had sent a sword still preserved in the ashmolean, was on the brink of a breach with rome. for henry, with his curious mania for matrimony, had determined to marry anne boleyn, but he failed to obtain from the papal legates in england a decree for the dissolution of his marriage. it was a failure fraught with enormous consequences. the fortunes of oxford were involved in it. the king gladly availed himself of the suggestion of a cambridge scholar, thomas cranmer, that the universities should be called on for their judgment. they were thus placed in a position analogous to that of an oecumenical council with power to control a pontifical decree. for the pope's predecessor had granted a dispensation for henry's marriage with catherine, his brother's wife. every learned man in europe, but for bribery or threats, would have condemned henry's cause on its merits. but it was evident that the question would not be decided on its merits. from a packed commission at cambridge a decision favourable to a divorce was with difficulty extorted; but even so it was qualified by an important reservation. the marriage was declared illegal, if it could be proved that catherine's marriage with prince arthur had been consummated. cambridge was praised by the king for her "wisdom and good conveyance." yet that reservation, if the testimony of the queen herself was to go for anything, amounted to a conclusion against the divorce. it was not expected that a favourable verdict would be obtained so easily from oxford. at the end of his first letter, in which the king called upon the university to declare their minds "sincerely and truly without any abuse," a very plain threat is added, which left no doubt as to the royal view of what could be considered "sincere and true": "and in case ye do not uprightly according to divine learning handle yourselves herein, ye may be assured that we, not without great cause, shall so quickly and sharply look to your unnatural misdemeanour therein that it shall not be to your quietness and ease hereafter." it was proposed that the question should be referred to a packed committee. but the masters of arts refused to entrust the matter wholly to the faculty of theology. they claimed to nominate a certain number of delegates. their attitude provoked sharp reproval and further threats from the imperious monarch. the youths of the university were warned not to play masters, or they would soon learn that "it is not good to stir up a hornets' nest." persuasion was used by the archbishop and the bishop of lincoln. the example of paris and cambridge was quoted. the aid of dr foxe, who had proved his skill by obtaining the decree at cambridge, was called in. learned arguments were provided by nicholas de burgo, an italian friar. but there was no doubt about the popular feeling on the question. pieces of hemp and rough drawings of gallows were affixed to the gate of the bishop's lodging; both he and father nicholas were pelted with stones in the open street; the women of oxford supported catherine with such vehemence, that thirty of them had to be shut up in bocardo. the king had dispatched two of his courtiers to oxford: the duke of suffolk and sir william fitzwilliam. the former imprisoned the women; the latter distributed money to the more venal of the graduates. "no indifferency was used in the whole matter." threats and bribes at last prevailed. a committee carefully packed was appointed with power to decide in the name of the university. a verdict was obtained which corresponded to the cambridge decree. the important reservation, "if the marriage had been consummated," was added to the decision that marriage with the widow of a deceased brother was contrary to the divine and human law. cranmer, who had succeeded warham as archbishop of canterbury, pronounced the king's marriage with catherine null and void. in the following year the university was asked to concur in the foregone decision in favour of separation from rome. the authority of the pope in england was abolished, and the monasteries were rendered liable to visitation by commission under the great seal. the act of supremacy followed. bishop fisher and sir thomas more were executed for denying the royal supremacy, and thomas cromwell was appointed vicar-general of england. his failure to procure a decree invalidating henry's marriage meant the downfall of wolsey. his downfall involved the fortunes of his college. it was rumoured at once that the buildings were to be demolished, because they bore at every prominent point escutcheons carved with the arms of the proud cardinal. wolsey had "gathered into his college whatsoever excellent thing there was in the whole realm." the rich vestments and ornaments with which he had furnished s. frideswide's church were quickly "disposed" by the king. the disposal of this and other property, lands, offices, plate and tapestries forfeited under the statute of praemunire, and carefully catalogued for his royal master by the fallen minister, had obvious pecuniary advantages. and as in london, york place, the palace which the cardinal had occupied and rebuilt as archbishop of york, was confiscated and its name changed to whitehall; so, when "bluff harry broke into the spence," he converted cardinal's college into "king henry viii.'s college at oxford" consisting of a dean and twelve canons only ( ). henry had been besought to be gracious to the college; but he replied that it deserved no favour at his hands, for most of its members had opposed his wishes in the matter of the divorce. the prospect of the dissolution of his college at oxford, foreshadowed by that of his great foundation at ipswich, caused wolsey infinite sorrow. to thomas cromwell he wrote that he could not sleep for the thought of it, and could not write unto him for weeping and sorrow. he appealed with all the passion of despair to the king and those in power, that the "sharpness and rigour of the law should not be visited upon these poor innocents." in response to a petition from the whole college, henry replied that he would not dissolve it entirely. he intended, he said, to have an honourable college there, "but not so great or of such magnificence as my lord cardinal intended to have, for it is not thought meet for the common weal of our realm. yet we will have a college honourably to maintain the service of god and literature." the purely ecclesiastical foundation of was not calculated to maintain the service of literature. it was surrendered twelve years afterwards to the king, whose commissioners received on the same day the surrender of the cathedral church of christ and the blessed virgin mary at osney, the new cathedral body formed at the ancient abbey upon the creation of the see and diocese of oxford ( ). the way was thus cleared for the final arrangement by which ( th november ) the episcopal see was transferred from osney and united with the collegiate corporation under the title it bears to-day, ecclesia christi cathedralis oxon; ex fundatione regis henrici octavi. thus s. frideswide's church became the cathedral church of christ in oxford, and also the chapel of the college now at last called christ church. the foundation now consisted of a dean, eight canons, eight chaplains, sixty scholars and forty children, besides an organist, singing men, servants and almsmen. it was still, then, a foundation of extraordinary magnificence. yet there were not wanting "greedy wretches to gape after the lands belonging to the colleges." they urged henry to treat them as he had treated the monasteries. but the king refused. "ah, sirrah," he replied to one, "i perceive the abbey lands have fleshed you, and set your teeth on edge, to ask also those colleges. and wheras we had a regard only to pull down sin by defacing the monasteries, you have a desire also to overthrow all goodness by subversion of colleges. i tell you, sirs, that i judge no land in england better bestowed than that which is given to our universities; for by their maintenance our realm shall be well governed when we be dead and rotten.... i love not learning so ill that i will impair the revenues of any one house by a penny, wherby it may be upholden." henry, in fact, may be credited with a genuine desire for the promotion of learning. he had, besides, no reason to quarrel with the university. it had proved subservient to his will; the colleges were nurseries of the secular clergy, who adopted the new order of things. they could not be regarded like the monks, as mercenaries of a foreign and hostile power. but academic enthusiasm was not to be promoted by the despotic methods of henry. the arbitrary restrictions of the six articles, "that sure touchstone of a man's conscience," struck at the root of intellectual liberty. the revival of academic life which had resulted from the stimulus of the catholic renaissance, was suddenly and severely checked by the early developments of the reformation. the monasteries had been dissolved, and the poor students whom they had supported trudged a-begging. another outbreak of plague helped to increase the depopulation of the university. the town suffered severely from both causes. the halls and hostels stood empty; very few degrees were taken. religious controversy usurped the place of education. the university became a centre of politics and ecclesiasticism. the schools were deserted or occupied by laundresses; and, whilst commissioners were busy applying tests, expelling honest fellows, destroying mss. and smashing organs, men began to discover that, through the invention of printing, it had become possible for them to educate themselves. they no longer needed to go to a monastery or college library to obtain a book; teaching needed no longer to be merely oral. the multiplication of books decentralised learning. with the monopoly of manuscripts and the universality of latin were taken almost at a moment's notice two of the chief assets of mediæval universities. a man might now read what he liked, and where he liked, instead of being obliged to listen to a master in the schools teaching set subjects that did not interest him. and no "test" was required of the independent reader. no wonder that, as one preacher dismally exclaimed, the wells of learning, oxford and cambridge, were dried up. the king had taken the charters of both university and town into his own hands in . he did not restore them till . two years later parliament made over all colleges and chantries to the king, "who gave them very good counsel." meanwhile, in , a visitation of the university had been held. dr london and richard layton were the chief visitors. their object was to establish ecclesiastical conformity, to supplant the old scholastic teaching and to promote classical learning. they confirmed the public lectures in greek and latin which they found, and established others, at magdalen, new college, and c.c.c., and they settled other lectures of the kind at merton and queen's. the other colleges, they found, could not afford to have such lectures, and accordingly they directed the students of these to attend the courses at the others daily. the study of aristotle and the holy scriptures was enjoined, and the king founded regius professorships in divinity, hebrew, greek, medicine and civil law. the university meantime was rewarded for its compliance by being exempted from the payment of tithes. at the same time the professors of the old learning were ousted from the academic chairs. duns scotus was dragged from his pedestal with an ignominy which recalled the fate of sejanus. "we have set duns in bocardo," wrote layton, "and have utterly banished him oxford for ever with all his blind glosses.... the second time we came to new college, after we had declared your injunctions we found all the great quadrant court full of the leaves of dunse, the wind blowing them into every corner. and there we found one mr. greenfield, a gentleman of buckinghamshire gathering up part of the same book leaves, as he said, to make him sewells or blawnshers to keep the deer within his wood, therby to have the better cry with his hounds." that day the downfall of scholasticism in england was at last complete. during the minority of edward vi. "there was great expectation in the university what religion would be professed." it was soon evident which way the wind was to blow. young men began to "protest" in magdalen chapel. in the protector somerset and cranmer determined to reform the university in the interests of the new anglican church. theologians were invited from the continent, and in default of melancthon, peter martyr arrived and lectured in the divinity schools on the epistles of s. paul and the eucharist. his teaching roused protest from the roman catholics, and polemical divinity, if no other study, flourished for a while in oxford. but a commission was now appointed with large powers, which proceeded to draw up a code of statutes calculated to eliminate all popery from the constitution of the university. these "edwardine statutes," as they were called, remained nominally in force till the "laudian" statutes replaced them. the commissioners dealt severely with the colleges. many of the fellows who had opposed the reformation fled forthwith; others they ejected and replaced by rigid calvinists. "all things," the roman catholics thought, "were turned topsy turvy." the disciplinary injunctions and acts of the commissioners were wholly admirable. unfortunately their fanaticism in other directions was of the deplorably iconoclastic sort. the ancient libraries were rifled; many mss., guilty of no other superstition than red letters in their titles, were condemned to the fire. "treatises on scholastical divinity were let loose from their chains and given away or sold to mechanics for servile uses, whilst those wherein angles or mathematical diagrams appeared were destroyed because accounted popish or diabolical or both." the works of the schoolmen were carried about the city "by certain rude young men" on biers and finally burnt in the market-place, a proceeding which they styled the funeral of scotus and scotists. some of the books from monasteries were sold at this time to grocers and soapsellers, and some by shiploads to bookbinders abroad, "to the wondering of foreign nations," says bale. from wall and window, the order had gone forth giving sanction to the popular movement, every picture, every image commemorating saint or prophet or apostle was to be extirpated. painted glass, as at new college, survives to show that the order was imperfectly obeyed. but everywhere the statues crashed from their niches, rood and rood-loft were laid low and the sun-light stared in white and stainless on the whitened aisles. at magdalen the high altar and various images and paintings were destroyed, the organ burnt and the vestments sold. at christ church the dean and chapter decided that all altars, statues, images, tabernacles, missals and other matters of superstition and idolatry should be removed out of the cathedral; and the other colleges and churches followed this example. the magnificent reredos in the chapel of all souls', of which the present work is a conjectural restoration, was smashed; most of the stained glass there was broken, and the altars were removed together with "the thing they call an organ." the edwardine commissioners proposed to abolish the grammar schools founded in connection with the colleges. the city, however, immediately petitioned the king on behalf of the schools: "where your poor orators have always had received and enjoyed by the means of your colleges founded by your grace's most noble progenitor's singular treasure, help & commodity for the education of their sons, and especially the more part of us being not otherwise able to bring up our children in good learning and to find them at grammar.... there be in danger to be cast out of some college thirty, some other forty or fifty, some other more or fewer, & the most part of them children of your poor orators, having of the said college meat, drink, cloth & lodging & were verie well brought up in learning in the common grammar scoole at the college of s. marie magdalen, & so went forward & attained to logicke & other faculties at the charges of the said college & likewise of other houses and little or nothing at the charge of their parents, after their admission into any of the said colleges, wh. thing hath always heretofore been a great succour unto your said poor orators." the petition was successful, though some schools were suppressed. magdalen college school, thus preserved, was intended by the [illustration: the grammar hall magdalen college] founder to be to magdalen what winchester was to new college. it had been housed in his life-time in a building ( ), a picturesque fragment of which yet remains, in what is known as the grammar hall. the grammar school buildings stood outside the west gate of the college, on the ground between the modern s. swithun's buildings and the present "grammar hall," which belonged in part to this school building and in part (including the south portion and the little bell-tower) to other buildings that were added to it ( ). all these buildings, save the fragment that remains to be used as undergraduates' rooms, were removed in together with the houses that faced the gravel walk between them and long wall. the present school-room, facing the high, was erected shortly afterwards (buckler), in the perpendicular style, and recently ( ), across the bridge, on the site once occupied by turrel's hall, a handsome house for the master and fifty boarders has been built (sir arthur blomfield). at the same time the ground by the river below the bridge was converted into gardens and a cricket ground for the choristers and schoolboys, a conversion which has greatly improved the aspect of the bridge. chapter vii the oxford martyrs the sufferings of the protestants had failed to teach them the value of religious liberty. the use of the new liturgy was enforced by imprisonment, and the subscription to the articles of faith was demanded by royal authority from all the clergy and schoolmasters. the excesses of the protestants led to a temporary but violent reaction. the married priests were driven from their churches; the images were replaced, the new prayer book was set aside, the mass restored. ridley and the others who had displaced the deposed bishops were expelled; latimer and cranmer were sent to the tower. after the failure of wyatt's rebellion and the defeat of the protestants, mary set herself to enforce the submission of england to the pope. with the restoration of the system of henry viii. the country was satisfied. but mary was not content to stop there. the statutes against heretics were revived. the bigotry of mary knew no restraint. she ferreted out protestants all over the country, and for three and a half years england experienced a persecution which was insignificant if judged by continental standards, but which has left an indelible impression on the minds of men. nearly three hundred protestants were burnt at the stake, and among them latimer, ridley and cranmer--all cambridge men--at oxford. the accession of mary had caused much dismay in the hearts of the protestants in that city. the queen's proclamation as to religion on th august , was followed two days after by letters to the chancellors of oxford and cambridge enjoining the full observance of the ancient statutes. a special letter from the queen was sent to magdalen annulling the ordinances made contrary to the statutes since the death of henry viii. prudent protestants who had made themselves prominent in their colleges now wisely took leave of absence from oxford. peter martyr left the country; and his place was soon afterwards taken by a spanish friar from the court of philip and mary. commissioners arrived, and were shocked to find that at magdalen, for example, there was no priest to say mass, and no fellow who would hear it; there was no boy to respond, no altar and no vestments. visitors were sent by stephen gardiner to new college, magdalen and c.c.c. many fellows were ejected, and mass was restored. the work of death had now begun. thomas cranmer, archbishop of canterbury, nicholas ridley, bishop of london, and hugh latimer, bishop of worcester, were removed from the tower in march and placed in the custody of the mayor and bailiffs of oxford. for preparations had been made to examine them before a commission appointed from both the universities. they were lodged at first in bocardo, the town prison, now become, as ridley observed, "a very college of quondams." shortly afterwards ridley was removed to the house of an alderman, and latimer elsewhere, in order that they might not confer together. presently "a solemn convocation was held in s. mary's chancel concerning the business forthwith to be taken in hand; which being concluded all the doctors and masters went in a solemn procession to carfax and thence to christ church, where they heard divine service, and so they went to dinner;[ ] afterwards they with some others, in number thirty-three, that were to dispute with the bishops, met in our lady's chapel on the north side of s. mary's church, and thence going into the chancel, placed themselves in a semi-circle by the high altar." to support the platform where they sat the finials of the stalls are said to have been then levelled. "soon after was brought in cranmer (with a great number of rusty billmen), then ridley, and last of all latimer, to subscribe to certain articles then proposed. they all denied them." on monday, the th april, the vice-chancellor and proctors met at exeter college and thence went to the divinity school, there to dispute with the bishops on the nature of the eucharist. the oxford and cambridge doctors took their places, and the moderator of the schools presided in his lofty chair. cranmer was brought in and set opposite to the latter in the respondent's place. by his side was the mayor of the city, in whose charge he was. next day it was ridley's turn, and on the third latimer's. so the solemn farce of the disputations, punctuated by "opprobrious checks and reviling taunts," was gone through; the bishops were pronounced no members of the church, cranmer was returned to bocardo, ridley taken to the sheriff's house and latimer to the bailiff's. the judicial sentence followed the academical judgment. in september a commission was sent down from london, and sat in the divinity school. the two bishops had looked death steadily in the face for two years, expecting it every day or hour. it was now come. ridley was urged to recant, but this he firmly refused to do or to acknowledge by word or gesture "the usurped supremacy of rome." his cap, which he refused to remove at the mention of the cardinals and the pope, was forcibly taken off by a beadle. latimer when examined was equally firm. he appeared "with a kerchief on his head and upon it a night cap or two and a great cap such as townsmen use, with two broad flaps to button under the chin, wearing an old threadbare bristol frieze gown, girded to his body with a penny leather girdle, at the which hanged by a long string of leather his testament and his spectacles without a case, depending about his neck upon his breast." bread was bread, the aged bishop boldly declared when asked for his views on transubstantiation, and wine was wine; there was a change in the sacrament it was true, but the change was not in the nature but the dignity. the two protestants were reprieved for the day and summoned to appear next morning at eight o'clock in s. mary's church. there, after further examination, the sentence of condemnation was pronounced upon them as heretics obstinate and incurable. and on th october the sentence was fulfilled. ridley and latimer were led out to be burnt, whilst cranmer, whose execution had been delayed, since it required the sanction of rome, remained in bocardo, and ascending to the top of the prison house, or, as an old print represents it, to the top of s. michael's tower, kneeled down and prayed to god to strengthen them. on the evening of the th there had been a supper at the house of irish, the mayor, whose wife was a bigoted and fanatical catholic. ridley, as we have seen, was in their charge, and the members of his family were permitted to be present. he talked cheerfully of his approaching "marriage"; his brother-in-law promised to be in attendance and, if possible, to bring with him his wife, ridley's sister. even the hard eyes of mrs irish softened to tears as she listened and thought of what was coming. the brother-in-law offered to sit up through the night, but ridley said there was no occasion; he "minded to go to bed and sleep as quietly as ever he did in his life." in the morning he wrote a letter to the queen. as bishop of london he had granted renewals of certain leases on which he had received fines. bonnor had refused to recognise them; and he entreated the queen, for christ's sake, either that the leases should be allowed, or that some portion of his own confiscated property might be applied to the repayment of the tenants. the letter was long; by the time it was finished the sheriff's officers were probably in readiness. bocardo, the prison over the north gate, spanned the road from the ancient tower of s. michael's, and commanded the approach to broad street. thither, to a place over against balliol college, "those special and singular captains and principal pillars of christ's church" were now led. the frontage of balliol was then much further back than it is now; beyond it lay open country, before it, under the town wall, ran the water of the tower-ditch. some years ago a stake with ashes round it was found on the site which is marked by a metal cross in the roadway, at the foot of the first electric lamp, as the site of the martyrs' death.[ ] to this spot then came the two bishops. lord williams of thame was on the spot by the queen's order; and the city guard was under arms to prevent disturbance. ridley appeared first. he wore "a fair black gown furred and faced with foins, such as he was wont to wear being bishop, and a tippet of velvet furs likewise about his neck, a velvet nightcap upon his head and a corner cap upon the same, going in a pair of slippers to the stake." he walked between the mayor and aldermen, and master latimer followed him in the same shabby attire as that which he had worn on the occasion of his examination. as they passed towards bocardo they looked up in the hope of seeing cranmer at the little glass window. it was from this window[ ] that the bocardo [illustration: south view of bocardo herbert railton] prisoners used to let down an old hat and cry, "pity the bocardo birds." for prisoners in those days depended for their daily sustenance on the charity of strangers, even as the prisoners in portugal or morocco do to-day, and "bread and meat for the prisoners" was a well-known cry in the london streets. the parisian version was, "aux prisonniers du palais." cranmer's attention at this moment was engrossed by a spanish friar, who was busy improving the occasion, and the martyr could not see him. but ridley spied latimer hobbling after him. "oh, be ye there?" he exclaimed. "yea," answered the old man. "have after as fast as i can follow!" when he reached the stake ridley ran to latimer, "and with a wondrous cheerful look embraced and kissed him" and comforted him, saying, "be of good heart, brother, for god will either assuage the fury of the flame, or else strengthen us to abide it." with that he went to the stake, kneeled down by it, kissed it and effectually prayed, and behind him master latimer kneeled, as earnestly calling upon god as he. the martyrs had now to listen to a sermon from dr smith, who denounced them as heretics, and exhorted them to recant. the lord williams of thame, the vice-chancellor and other commissioners sat upon a form close at hand. the martyrs asked leave of them to reply, but the bailiffs and the vice-chancellor ran up to ridley and stopped his mouth with their hands. the martyrs now commended their souls and their cause to god, and stripped themselves for the stake, ridley giving away to the eager crowd his garments, dials, napkins and nutmegs, whilst some plucked the points off his hose; "happy was he that might get any rag of him." they were chained to the stakes, and gunpowder was hung about their necks, thanks to the humane care of ridley's brother-in-law. then men brought a faggot kindled with fire, and laid the same down at dr ridley's feet, to whom master latimer spake in this manner: 'be of good comfort, master ridley, and play the man. we shall this day light such a candle, by god's grace, in england, as i trust shall never be put out.' then latimer crying aloud, "o father of heaven, receive my soul," bathed his hands in the flame that blazed up about him, and stroked his face. the powder exploded, and he "soon died with very little pain or none." ridley was less fortunate, for the fire being lit beneath and the faggots heaped above, the flames burnt his legs slowly away, and did not ignite the gunpowder round his neck. amid cries to heaven of "lord, lord, receive my soul," and "lord have mercy upon me," he screamed in his agony to the bystanders to let the fire come unto him. his brother-in-law with awkward kindness threw on more wood, which only kept down the flame. it was not till the lower part of his body had been burned away that he fell over, "and when the flame touched the gunpowder he was seen to stir no more." the lot of cranmer was still more pathetic, and made a yet deeper impression upon the popular mind. he, like the others, had been examined in s. mary's ( th september ). he had appeared, clad in a fair black gown with his hood on his shoulders, such as doctors of divinity used to wear, and in his hand was a white staff. the aged archbishop confronted there the pope's legate, who sat on a raised dais ten feet high, with cloth of state, very richly and sumptuously adorned, at the east end of the church. summoned to answer to a charge of blasphemy, incontinency and heresy, he refused as firmly as the others to recognise the authority of the bishop of rome within this kingdom. "i protest," he said, "i am no traitor. i have made an oath to the king and i must obey the king by god's law. by the scripture the king is chief and no foreign person in his own realm above him. the pope is contrary to the crown. i cannot obey both, for no man can serve two masters at once. you attribute the keys to the pope and the sword to the king. i say the king hath both." before further proceedings were taken against the archbishop, it was necessary to obtain sanction of the pope. it was not till the middle of the following february that the papal breve arrived and a new commission came down to oxford. sitting before the high altar in the choir of christ church, thirlby and bonnor announced that cranmer had been tried at rome, where, according to the preamble of the papal sentence, he had been allowed every opportunity to answer for himself. "o lord!" commented cranmer, "what lies be these!" they were directed, the commissioners continued, to degrade him, excommunicate him and deliver him up to the secular power. the form of degradation was begun when cranmer appealed to the next free general council. the appeal was refused; the degradation was continued. cranmer was stripped of his vestments, his hair was shorn, the sacred unction scraped from his finger-tips, and he was then dressed in a poor yeoman-beadle's gown, full bare and nearly worn, and handed over to the secular power. "now are you lord no longer!" cried bonnor when the ceremony was finished. "all this needed not," the archbishop replied; "i myself had done with this gear long ago." cranmer had been three years in prison; he was an old man, and his nerve may well have been upset by the prolonged delay and fear of death and the recent degradation which he had undergone. there is no authentic account of what happened to him during the next few hours. but protestant tradition relates that he was taken from the cathedral to the deanery of christ church, where he was entertained at his ease and exposed to the arguments and exhortations of soto, the spanish friar. he was warned at the same time that the queen's mind was so set, that she would either have cranmer a catholic or else no cranmer at all. he was taken back to his cell that night, and there his constancy at last gave way. he signed a series of recantations. but the queen refused to relent; she had humiliated her enemy, and now he must die. she fixed the th of march for the day of his execution. but first he was called upon to make a public confession of his recantation. it was a foul and rainy day when he was brought out of bocardo to s. mary's church. peers, knights, doctors, students, priests, men-at-arms and citizens thronged the narrow aisles, and through their midst passed the mayor and next the aldermen in their place and degree; after them came cranmer between two spanish friars, who, on entering the church, chanted the _nunc dimittis_. a stage was set over against the pulpit--the ledge cut for it may still be seen in the pillar to the left of the vice-chancellor's chair--and here cranmer was made to stand in his bare and ragged gown, and old square cap, whilst dr cole, the warden of new college, preached his funeral sermon, and justified the sentence that had been passed, by which, even though he had recanted, he was condemned to die. cole gave this reason and that, and added that there were others which had moved the queen and council "which were not meet and convenient for every one to understand." he congratulated the archbishop on his conversion, and promised him that a dirge should be sung for him in every church in oxford. finally, he called upon the whole congregation to kneel where they were and to pray for him. when the prayer was finished the preacher called upon the archbishop to make the public confession of his faith. "brethren," cried he, "lest any man should doubt of this man's earnest conversion and repentance, you shall hear him speak before you." but the spirit of revenge had overreached itself. cranmer's enemies had hoped to humiliate him to the uttermost; instead, they gave him the opportunity of redeeming his fame and adding his name to the roll of martyrs. "the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony.... more are men's ends marked than their lives before." to the astonishment of friends and foes alike, cranmer stood up before the congregation, and chanted the palinode of his forsworn opinions; he recanted his recantation. face to face with that cruel [illustration: the president's lodge trinity college] death, which in his weakness he had so desperately striven to avoid, he made the declaration of his true belief. "and now i come," he concluded, "to the great thing which so much troubleth my conscience, more than anything that ever i did or said in my whole life, and that is the setting abroad of a writing contrary to the truth; which now here i renounce and refuse as things written with my hand, contrary to the truth which i thought in my heart, and written for fear of death, and to save my life if it might be;... and forasmuch as my hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, my hand shall first be punished therefore; for, may i come to the fire, it shall be first burned. as for the pope i utterly refuse him, as christ's enemy and anti-christ, with all his false doctrine; and as for the sacrament, i believe as i have taught in my book against the bishop of winchester." so far he was allowed to proceed before, amidst the infuriated cries of his enemies, he was pulled down from the stage and borne away to the stake. "priests who did rue to see him go so wickedly to his death, ran after him exhorting him, while time was, to remember himself." but cranmer had remembered himself at last. he had done with recantations at the bidding of spanish priests and "bloody" bonnor. he approached the stake with a cheerful countenance, we are told, undressed in haste and stood upright in his shirt. the spanish friars finding they could do nothing with him, exclaimed the one to the other, "let us go from him, for the devil is in him." "make short," cried lord williams, and "recant, recant," cried others. the wood was kindled. "this was the hand that wrote it," cranmer said, extending his right arm, "therefore it shall suffer first punishment." he held his hand so steadfast and immovable in the flame that all men might see it burned before his body was touched. and so holding it he never stirred nor cried till the fire reached him and he was dead. a portrait of cranmer hangs in the bodleian. but the chief monument to the protestant martyrs was raised in . the martyrs' memorial in s. giles', opposite the west front of balliol college, was happily designed by sir gilbert scott in imitation of the beautiful crosses which edward i. raised in memory of queen eleanor. the statues of the martyrs are by weekes. the north aisle of the neighbouring church of s. mary magdalene was restored at the same time in memory of the same event. cranmer had atoned for his inconstancy, and crowned the martyrdoms of the english reformation. from that moment the cause of catholic reaction was hopeless. cranmer's career had not been that of a saint or a martyr. he was a weak man with a legal rather than a religious cast of mind. nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it. others more constant to their belief, and more noble in character, had died at the stake. but the very weakness of the man and the pathos of the humiliation of one so highly placed, appealed to the crowd who could not rise to heights of unshaken constancy. more easily understood by the people than the triumphant cry of heroic sufferers like latimer, the dramatic end of the archbishop filled every independent mind with sympathetic dread. in vain did mary heap rewards on the university. in vain did cardinal pole institute a fresh visitation, hunt all heretics from the university, burn in the common market-place all english bibles and protestant books that could be found. in vain did he revise the university and college statutes. his work was undone as soon as finished. the lesson of cranmer's death had gone home to a thousand hearts. england refused to be a province of spain and of rome. the news of mary's death was received in oxford with the ringing of bells and other signs of discreet delight. the catholic reaction is marked in oxford history by the institution of two colleges, trinity and s. john's, both founded on the sites of old monastic houses by wealthy citizens of london who were lovers of the old order and adherents of the old religion. in sir thomas pope, a faithful servant of the tudors, who had acquired large tracts of abbey lands in oxfordshire, bought the site and vacant buildings of durham college, which were then "mere dog-kennels," and the half of the grove which had not been included in the grant of s. bernard's college to christ church. here he founded the college of the holy and undivided trinity, consisting of a president, twelve fellows and eight scholars. and in drawing up his statutes he availed himself of the advice both of elizabeth and cardinal pole. the hall was completed in . in the decay of the old durham buildings made reconstruction imperative. wren was the architect. he wished to build a long range in the upper part of the grove, but the quadrangular form was preferred; and he designed the garden quadrangle, a block in the renaissance style which was spoilt by additions and alterations in . the chapel ( ), which boasts some magnificent carving by grinling gibbons, is, in style, closely akin to the advanced palladian of dean aldrich's church of all saints. he certainly made some suggestions for it, and so did wren. the president's house and new buildings, by t. g. jackson ( ), form, with the iron railings and old halls, including the old perilous or kettle hall ( ), that face "the broad," a new and handsome quadrangle. it was in , also, that sir thomas white, a rich merchant tailor who had twice been lord mayor of london, chose the site of the suppressed college of s. bernard for his foundation, being guided thereto, as tradition asserts, by a dream which warned him to build near a place where there was a triple elm having three trunks issuing from one root. between his college and the merchant taylors' school in london white established a connection similar to that between winchester and new college. the treasure of ecclesiastical vestments preserved in the library, and the fact that edmund campion, the jesuit poet and conspirator, after whom the new jesuit hall in oxford is called, was the fellow chosen to preach the founder's funeral sermon, indicate the roman catholic sympathies of the institution. yet it was an alumnus of this college, william laud, whose body was laid in the chapel ( ), and whose ghost, it is said, still haunts the library he built and the quadrangle which owes its completion ( ) to his munificence, who fixed the university in its sympathy with the high church party of the anglican church. the classical colonnades and the charming garden front, wherein inigo jones combined the oxford gothic with the style which he had recently learned to love in italy, form a fitting background to the most perfect of oxford gardens ( ). chapter viii elizabeth, bodley and laud the university had declined sadly under mary. affairs were not at first greatly improved when elizabeth ascended the throne. "two religions," says wood, "being now as it were on foot, divers of the chiefest of the university retired and absented themselves till they saw how affairs would proceed." it was not long, however, before queen elizabeth appointed a body of visitors to "make a mild and gentle, not rigorous reformation." the edwardine system was for the most part restored; the ejected fellows were brought back, whilst those who refused to comply with the new act of supremacy were expelled in their turn. of these the largest number were new college men. the loss of these scholars did not improve the state of learning at oxford. but in the earl of leicester became chancellor, and it is in some part due to him that order was restored and a regular course of studies once more established. queen elizabeth had been imprisoned at woodstock during her sister's reign, and some of the needlework which she did when she was there is preserved at the bodleian. the university had dispatched a deputation to her, with a present of gloves and a congratulatory address upon her accession; she now ( st august ) paid to oxford a long-promised visit. she was welcomed by a deputation from the university at godstow bridge and at bocardo by the civic authorities, who there yielded up to her the city mace, and presented her with a gilt cup and forty pounds of gold. a latin oration at the north gate and a greek oration at carfax were delivered. the queen thanked the orator in greek, and was then escorted to christ church. for three days disputations were held in the royal presence in s. mary's church. elizabeth was a good scholar, one remembers, taught by roger ascham, and she really seems to have enjoyed this learned function. on the last day, at any rate, so keen was the argument and the queen's interest in it, that the disputants "tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky," so that the lights had to be lit in the church. at the end of the disputations a latin oration was delivered in praise of the queen and her victories over the hosts of spain and the pope. "tuis auspiciis," the peroration ran, "hispania anglum non vidit nisi victorem, anglia hispanum nisi captivum." loud cries of "vivat regina" resounded through the church. elizabeth was pressed to reply. she pretended to hesitate, suggesting that the spanish ambassador, or leicester, or cecil should speak for her. the courtiers were wise enough to bow dissent. at length she rose, and her opening words contained a happy allusion to the growing darkness: "qui male agit odit lucem"; "dominus illuminatio mea," she might have added. some relaxation was provided for her majesty in the shape of latin and english plays which were acted in christ church hall "upon a large scaffold erected, set about with stately lights of wax variously wrought." the latin play was entitled "marcus geminus and progne"; the english play "palamon and arcite," written by mr richard edwards, and acted, we are told, with very great applause. "in the said play was acted a cry of hounds in the quadrant upon the train of a fox in the hunting of theseus, with which the young scholars who stood in the windows were so much taken, supposing it was real, that they cried out 'now, now. there, there. he's caught! he's caught!' all which the queen merrily beholding said 'o excellent! those boys in very troth are ready to leap out of the window, to follow the hounds.'" the play, indeed, was considered to surpass "damon and pythias," than which they thought nothing could be better. the acting of plays of this kind and in this manner at the universities as at the inns of law on occasions of high festivity throws considerable light on the development of the elizabethan drama. the university wits, as they were called, began at this period to lay the foundations of english fiction in their "tales"; the early english drama received its classical tone and form from them also. for john lyly, george peele, thomas lodge and others were oxford men. the bohemian extravagance of the life of the "university wits" in london will help us to understand why it was that henry savile, warden of merton ( ), the austere and accomplished scholar, could not abide wits. he preferred the plodding scholar, and used to say that if he wanted wits he would look for them in newgate. neither wits nor their plays, which were often scurrilous enough, were acceptable to the puritans, and within a few years both city and university began to restrict the performances of plays. queen elizabeth bade farewell to oxford on th september, and on that day the walls of s. mary's, all souls' and university were hung with innumerable copies of verses bemoaning her departure. by magdalen college she took leave of the civic authorities; the university officials attended her to shotover, and there, at the conclusion of a speech from the provost of oriel, "she gave him her hand to kiss, with many thanks to the whole university, speaking then these words, as 'tis reported, with her face towards oxford. 'farewell the worthy university of oxford; farewell my good subjects there; farewell my dear scholars and pray god prosper your studies. farewell. farewell.'" no wonder she won universal homage by "her sweet, affable and noble carriage." the name of robert dudley, earl of leicester, lover of elizabeth, is inseparably connected with oxford, not only by his chancellorship, but also by the fact that it is here that his ill-fated wife, amy robsart, is buried. she was found dead at the foot of the stairs in cumnor place. after the inquest her body was brought to gloucester hall, and lay there till it was buried with full heraldic ceremonial on nd september in the choir of s. mary's church. the funeral sermon was preached by one of dudley's chaplains, who had just been transferred from the mastership of balliol to the rectorship of lincoln. he, fumbling for a phrase to express her violent death, "tripped once or twice by recommending to his auditors the virtues of that lady, so pitifully _murdered_." but there is no evidence that amy robsart was murdered, with or without the connivance of leicester. the story which sir walter scott has used in "kenilworth" is the baseless invention of political enemies. what happened to the unfortunate lady was either accident or suicide. the influence of leicester and the interest which as chancellor he took in the university, is marked by various acts which had an important effect upon the course of its development. in the chancellor, masters and scholars received the right of perpetual succession, and were thus relieved of the necessity of obtaining a new charter from each succeeding king. in this year too an act was passed, supplemented by further enactments in , by which one-third part at least of the rents to be reserved in college leases is required to be payable in corn or in malt. the continual rise in prices which has resulted ever since from the increase, and therefore depreciation, of the precious metals, has thus only impoverished the colleges so far as rents were fixed in money, but corn having more or less kept its value, the one-third of the rents so wisely reserved came to exceed the remainder by far. leicester revived the practice of nominating the vice-chancellor, and by an act of the university passed at his instigation ( ) a great step was taken in the direction of establishing the monopoly [illustration: the chapel quad jesus college] of the colleges in the government of the university. the preliminary deliberations of the black congregation, consisting of resident masters, were henceforth to be conducted by the vice-chancellor, doctors, heads of houses and proctors. leicester earned the reputation of being meddlesome, and he certainly used his position as chancellor in the dispensing of patronage. but many of his reforms were statesmanlike, and his endeavours to raise the standard of discipline and learning were evidently genuine. one of his chief aims was to prevent the possibility of romanising priests obtaining a foothold once more in the university. with this object he introduced among other provisions a test which was destined to have the most potent influence on the history of the place. every student above sixteen years of age was now required to subscribe on his matriculation to the thirty-nine articles and the royal supremacy. intended to exclude the romanising party only, this rule affected in the future mainly the descendants of the puritans who enacted it. thenceforth, mr brodrick remarks, the university, once open to all christendom, was narrowed into an exclusively church of england institution and became the favourite arena of anglican controversy, developing more and more that special character, at once worldly and clerical, which it shares with cambridge alone among the universities of europe. the country, meanwhile, was filled with the jesuits' propaganda. there was robert parsons, for instance, who had been compelled to resign his fellowship at balliol and had since joined the society of jesus. disguised as a soldier and armed with a secret printing press, he wandered about the country disseminating romanist literature. he finally brought off an extraordinary _coup_ at oxford. in a wood near henley he printed copies of a tract by campian, a fellow jesuit, and on commemoration day ( ) every member of the university found a copy of it in his seat at s. mary's when he came there to listen to the university sermon. proceedings against the roman catholics became more severe as the struggle continued. fellows were ejected from colleges; priests were hung, drawn and quartered. in the reign of james i. george napier of corpus, a seminary priest convicted of high treason, was so treated, parts of his quartered body being set over the gates of the city and over the great gate of christ church. puritan oxford, however, was not distinguished for learning or discipline, in spite of leicester's fatherly exhortations. for the chancellor rated the university for its deficiency in sermonising and lecturing, its lack of religious instruction and education of youth. and as to discipline, he finds fault with the prevailing excess in apparel "as silk and velvet, and cut doublets, hose, deep ruffs and such like, like unto or rather exceeding both inns of court men and courtiers." the streets, he complains, are more full of scholars than of townsmen, and the ordinary tables and ale-houses, grown to great number, are overcrowded day and night with scholars tippling, dicing, carding, tabling and perhaps worse. ministers and deacons were presently solemnly forbidden to go into the field to play at football or to wear weapons to maintain any quarrel under penalty of expulsion. plays acted by common stage players were forbidden, and scholars were not allowed, under pain of imprisonment, to sit on bulks or penniless bench or other open places, or to gad up and down the streets. leicester, however, made a reservation in favour of the "tragedies and comedies used to be set forth by university men," and he himself was entertained ( ) at christ church and at magdalen with pleasant comedies. the students, indeed, had shown themselves so unruly that the affrays and riots of the middle ages seemed to have been revived. the times were unsettled. not only were the roman catholics and the calvinists at feud alike with each other and the moderate party of the reformed church, whom the queen favoured, but the old quarrels between north and south and the welsh broke out again. and the old disputes between the town and the university had been reopened by a series of orders put forth by the privy council in which were intended to settle them for ever. the lack of discipline resulting from these causes is vividly brought before us by the attack made on the retinue of lord norreys by some scholars of magdalen who wished to revenge themselves for the punishment inflicted on one of their number for stealing deer in shotover forest. they were repulsed and "beaten down as far as s. mary's"; but when lord norreys was leaving the town, the scholars "went up privately to the top of their tower and sent down a shower of stones that they had picked up, upon him and his retinew, wounding some and endangering others of their lives. it is said that upon the foresight of this storm, divers had got boards, others tables on their heads, to keep them from it, and that if the lord had not been in his coach or chariot he would certainly have been killed." some progress, one hopes, had been made in the restoration of order when elizabeth paid her final visit "to behold the change and amendment of learning and manners that had been in her long absence made." she was received with the same ceremonies as before, but this time, at the divinity disputations in s. mary's, she did not hesitate to send twice to a prosy bishop and bid him "cut it short." the fact was that she was anxious to make a latin speech herself. but the bishop either could not or would not sacrifice his beloved periods, and the queen was obliged to keep her speech for the heads of houses next morning. in the middle of her oration she noticed the old lord treasurer, burleigh (cecil), standing on his lame feet for want of a stool. "whereupon she called in all haste for a stool for him, nor would she proceed in her speech till she saw him provided with one. then fell she to it, as if there had been no interruption. upon which one that knew he might be bold with her, told her, that she did it on purpose to show that she could interrupt her speech, unlike the bishop, and not be put out." in her speech she, "the only great man in her kingdom," gave some very good advice to the university, and took the opportunity of rebuking the romanising and the puritan factions of the church, counselling moderation on all sides. on her departure she again expressed her love for the place. "farewell, farewell, dear oxford," she exclaimed as she viewed its towers and spires from the heights of shotover. "god bless thee and increase thy sons in number, holiness and virtue!" [illustration: chapel in jesus] some outward and visible signs there certainly were that the queen's encouragement of learning and her policy of selecting for her service "eminent and hopeful students" had borne fruit. in jesus college, the first of the protestant colleges, had been founded by hugh ap rees, a welsh oxonian, at a time when the increase of grammar schools in wales was likely to produce an influx of welsh students into the university. the statutes were free from any local or national restriction, but welshmen always predominated, and jesus soon came to be regarded, in wales, as the national college. elizabeth figured as a nominal foundress; and the college, the front of which in turl street dates from her time, the rest being mainly seventeenth-century gothic, possesses a famous portrait of her by zucchero. a still more noble memorial of elizabethan times exists in bodley, as the great library is called after its founder, "whose single work clouds the proud fame of the egyptian library and shames the tedious growth o' the wealthy vatican." scarcely had the duke of gloucester's library been completed than it began to be depleted of its treasures. three volumes only out of that splendid collection now remain in the bodleian; one volume has found its way to oriel college, another to corpus christi; six others may be seen at the british museum. the rest had by this time been lost through the negligence of one generation or the ignorant fanaticism of another. for scholars borrowed books on insufficient pledges, and preferred to keep the former and sacrifice the latter. the edwardine commissioners, as we have seen, appointed to reform the university, visited the libraries in the spirit of john knox. all the books were destroyed or sold. in convocation ( ) "venerable men" were chosen to sell the empty shelves and stalls, and to make a timber-yard of duke humphrey's treasure-house! but the room remained; and it was destined, in its very emptiness and desolation, to work upon the imagination of one thomas bodley, an accomplished scholar, linguist and diplomatist, who believed with bury that a "library of wisdom is more precious than all wealth." born at exeter, he accompanied his father when he fled to germany from the papist persecutions. whilst other oxonian protestants were "eating mice at zurich," he studied at geneva, learning hebrew under chevalerius, greek under constantinus, and divinity under calvin. queen mary being dead and religion changed, young bodley was sent to magdalen. there, he tells us, he took the degree of bachelor of arts ( ). in the following year he was admitted fellow of merton college, where he gave public greek lectures, without requiring any stipend. he was elected proctor in , and was subsequently university orator and studied sundry faculties. he next determined to travel, to learn modern languages and to increase his experience in the managing of affairs. he performed several important diplomatic missions with great ability and success. on his return from the hague burleigh marked him out for the secretaryship, but grew jealous of the support he received from essex. bodley found himself unsuited for party intrigue and, weary of statecraft and diplomacy, decided to withdraw into private life. but whilst refusing all subsequent offers of high office, he felt that he was called upon "to do the true part of a profitable member in the state." all his life, whether immersed in affairs of state at home or lying abroad for the good of his country, he had never forgotten that ruined library at oxford. that there once had been one, he has to remind the university, was apparent by the room itself remaining. "whereupon, examining exactly for the rest of my life what course i might take, and having sought, as i thought, all the ways to the wood, to select the most proper, i concluded at the last to set up my staff at the library door in oxford." he wrote accordingly, offering ( - ) to restore the place at his own charge. the offer was gratefully accepted. bodley had married a rich widow, and his "purse-ability" was such that he was able to bear the expense of repairing the room, collecting books and endowing the library: a work, says casaubon, rather for a king than a private man. two years were spent in fitting up the room and erecting its superb heraldic roof. the ceiling is divided into square compartments, on each of which are painted the arms of the university, the open bible with seven seals (i rev. v. i) between three ducal crowns, on the open pages of which are the words, so truly fitting for a christian school: "dominus illuminatio mea." [illustration: cooks buildings s. john's] on bosses which intervene between each compartment are painted the arms of bodley himself. bodley now began to solicit his great store of honourable friends to present books to the library. his proposal was warmly supported by his countrymen in devonshire, where, as a contemporary records, "every man bethought himself now how by some good book or other he might be written in the scroll of benefactors." this scroll was the register which bodley had provided for the enrolment of the names of all benefactors, with particulars of their gifts. it consists of two large folios, ornamented with silver-gilt bosses on their massy covers, which lie on a table of the great room. bodley's own donations were large, and he employed a london bookseller to travel on the continent and collect books for the library. besides numerous private benefactors like lord buckhurst and the earl of essex in the early years, the stationers company agreed to give bodley a copy of every book which they published on condition that they might borrow the books thus given if needed for reprinting. this arrangement, in making which bodley said he met with many rubs and delays, was the precursor of the obligation of the copyright acts, by which a copy of every book published has to be presented to the bodleian and the british museum. in sir walter raleigh made a donation of fifty pounds, and he no doubt had some share in influencing the bestowal of many of the books which had once belonged to the library of bishop hieron. ossorius, and were carried off from faro in portugal, when that town was captured by the english fleet under essex. raleigh, an oriel man, was a captain in the squadron. the library was opened with full solemnity in , and in the following year king james granted letters patent naming the library after its founder. that was an honour most richly deserved, for bodley was "the first practically public library in europe; the second, that of angelo rocca at rome, being opened only in this same year." to this library, two years later, james, the pedant, who seemed determined to prove that a learned king, too, could be a crowned ass, paid a visit. after making an excessively feeble pun anent the bust of the founder in the large room, which had been sent there by the earl of dorset, chancellor of the university, he looked at the book shelves, and remarked that he had often had proof from the university of the fruits of talent and ability, but had never before seen the garden where those fruits grew, and whence they were gathered. he examined various mss. and discoursed wisely on them; took up the treatise by gaguinus entitled "de puritate conceptionis virginis mariæ," and remarked that the author had so written about purity, as if he wished that it should only be found on the title of his book. the opportunity of thus displaying his learning was so grateful to the king, that he was moved to an astonishing act of generosity. he offered to present from all the libraries of the royal palaces whatever precious and rare books sir t. bodley might choose to carry away. it does not appear that the number or importance of books so granted was in the event very great. upon leaving the room the king exclaimed, probably with sincerity, that were he not king james he would be a university man; and that were it his fate at any time to be a captive, he would wish to be shut up, could he but have the choice, in this place as his prison, to be bound with its chains, and to consume his days among its books as his fellows in captivity. to this library came james' ill-starred son, and here, it is said, he was tempted by lord falkland to consult the "sortes virgilianæ." the passage which first met his eye runs thus in dryden's translation: "let him for succour sue from place to place torn from his subjects and his son's embrace. and when at length the cruel war shall cease on hard conditions may he buy his peace." lord falkland then opened the virgil in his turn, hoping that his "lot" might remove the gloomy impression of this bad omen. [illustration: the gardens exeter college] but the passage on which he lit dealt with the untimely death of pallas: "o curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, prelude of bloody deeds and fights to come." to this library bacon sent his new book, "the advancement of learning," and here milton, leaving the allegro of horton or forest hill for the penseroso of oxford's cloisters, made friends with the librarian, and added his own poems to those treasures which were soon to be defended by the "unshaken virtue" of his friend, fairfax, and increased by the chancellor, oliver cromwell. this is not the place to catalogue the list of those treasures, the wealth of european literature and the mss. of the nearer and the farther east; the great collections which immortalise the names of the donors, like laud and selden, rawlinson, gough, douce and sutherland; the books which belonged to queen elizabeth and queen margaret, to shakespeare, ben jonson, addison and shelley; the curios and _objets-d'art_, princely gifts, like the arundel and selden marbles, coins and portraits, minor curiosities, like stuffed alligators and dried negro boys, or the lantern of guy fawkes, which have all found a resting-place in "this goodly magazine of witte, this storehouse of the choicest furniture the world doth yeelde, heere in this exquisite and most rare monument, that doth immure the glorious reliques of the best of men."[ ] in such a place, with such a history, it would be strange indeed if we did not feel something of the charm that breathes from the very stones of bodley. from the hot and noisy street you pass into the peaceful schools' quadrangle, lying beneath the shade of that curious tower, which, as it were an academic conceit in stone, blends the five orders of classic architecture with gothic turret and pinnacle. architecturally the "schools" are plain and poor, but you remember that bodley conceived the idea of rebuilding them, and that it was the day after his body had been put to rest in merton chapel ( th march ) that the first stone was laid. the bodleian forms the west side of this quadrangle. the east wing of the great library, built ( - ) by bodley when already there was "more need of a library for the books than of books for the library," is panelled like the divinity school, and stretches over the entrance to it, the proscholium or "pig market," where candidates for degrees were obliged to wait. the west wing extends over laud's late gothic convocation house ( - ); the books have usurped the third story of the schools and the clarendon building; they are filling the mighty camera beyond and overflowing into the ashmolean. but the entrance to the heart of this grand collection is a modest portal. it opens on a long winding stair, so long and so wearisome that you seem to have trodden the very path by which true knowledge is gained ere you pass through a simple green baize door and see the panorama of all learning, lit by the glass of the east window, outspread before your eyes. so to approach it, and passing by the outer library through the yielding wicket, into duke humphrey's gallery, there to turn into one of the quiet recesses, and calling for book after book, to summon spirits from the deep of the past, to hold quiet converse with them, while the breeze and sunlight flow gently in across wren's huge buttresses from the green garden of exeter, till bodley's own solemn bell calls them back to their resting-place; this, as has been well said, is the very luxury, or rather the very poetry of study. "what a place," exclaimed elia, "what a place to be in is an old library! it seems as though all the souls of all the writers, that have bequeathed their labours to these bodleians, were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. i do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. i could as soon dislodge a shade. i seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odour of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard." the growth of the puritan feeling in oxford is shown by the formation of the first baptist society under vavasour powell of jesus college, whom john bunyan once accompanied to this city. the growth of the puritan tendency to preach is also indicated by the strange case of richard haydock, a physician of new college, who obtained some notoriety about this time by preaching at night in his bed. sermons, he said, came to him by revelation in his sleep, and he would take a text in his slumbers and preach on it, "and though his auditory were willing to silence him by pulling, haling and pinching, yet would he pertinaciously persist to the end and sleep still." he was not a married fellow evidently. king james sent for him, and he preached to the monarch in his sleep, but james made him confess that he was a fraud, who had adopted this curious means of advertising himself. the king and queen and prince henry visited oxford in , and were welcomed very much as elizabeth had been. the king, we are told, showed himself to be of an admirable wit and judgment. the scholars welcomed him by clapping their hands and humming, which, it was explained to him, signified applause. the presence of king james' court, however, was responsible, if we may believe wood, for a serious change in manners. for he traces the rise of that "damnable sin of drunkenness" to this time. "for wheras in the days of elizabeth it was little or nothing practiced, sack being then taken rather for a cordial than a usual liquor, sold also for that purpose in apothecaries' shops, and a heinous crime it was to be overtaken with drink, or smoke tobacco, it now became in a manner common, and a laudable fashion." the vice in fact grew so prevalent in oxford, as in the rest of england, that a statute was passed forbidding members of the university to visit any tavern and there "sit idly, drink, or use any unlawful play." the use of the latin tongue, attendance at lectures and the wearing of academical dress was also insisted on by the new chancellor, archbishop bancroft, who added an injunction that long hair was not to be worn: long hair in those days being accounted a sign not of a poet but of a swaggerer and ruffian. a few years later it was provided, as a measure directed against the still increasing vice of drunkenness, that no scholar should lodge without his college or hall, and that no citizen should entertain a scholar in his house. the gunpowder plot led to more stringent measures being taken to root out the roman catholics from the university. it is possibly to the deep impression made by that event that the foundation of wadham college is due. the founder of that college ( ), nicholas wadham, is said to have intended to endow a roman catholic college at venice, but to have decided to endow a number of non-clerical and terminable fellowships at oxford instead. his widow, dorothy, carried out his plans, and, after gloucester hall had refused the benefaction, purchased the site of the suppressed settlement of augustinian friars and built the front quadrangle with hall and chapel as, externally, we have them to-day. for the interior of the chapel was dealt with by the gothic revivalists ( ). the wadhams were west country folk, and the majority of workmen engaged were somersetshire men. it is suggested that the extraordinarily fine perpendicular character of the chapel choir is due to this fact; and that the masons reproduced, in the seventeenth century, the style of their county churches. the choir is a copy of fifteenth-century work; the ante-chapel and the rest of the quadrangle, so charming in its unadorned simplicity, are beautiful examples of the survival in oxford of the gothic tradition. quadrangles at merton and wadham are the most notable examples of this debased and nondescript style, redeemed by most excellent composition, proportioned like some elizabethan manor. james had been inclined at first to favour the puritans, but when he finally cast in his lot with the high church party, the university, which he, like elizabeth, had done his best to conciliate as the educational centre of the national clergy, supported him loyally. in the year of his accession he had granted letters patent to both universities, empowering them each to choose two grave and learned men, professing the civil law, to serve as burgesses in the house of parliament; and the universities were again indebted to him when they were called upon to furnish scholars for the great task of preparing the authorised version of the bible. thus oxford had its share in giving the book to the people. from this time forward every englishman was more than ever a theologian, and at the universities, as at westminster, theological controversy absorbed all energies. literature, says grotius ( ), has little reward. "theologians rule, lawyers find profit, casaubon alone has a fair success, but he himself thinks it uncertain, and not even he would have had any place as a literary man--he had to turn theologian." oxford, in return, declared itself on the side of passive obedience. the church embraced the doctrine of the divine right of kings; the university burned the books of paræus in s. mary's churchyard, and solemnly decreed that it was not lawful for the subject to resist his sovereign by force of arms, or to make war against him, either offensive or defensive ( ). thus it is evident that the influence of calvin had died away at oxford, and that the university had adopted, by the end of james' reign, the reactionary creed of laud, and was ready to support the stuart claim to absolutism. the divine right of kings and the divine right of bishops, as it was indicated by james' own phrase, "no bishop, no king," was to be for more than a generation the official creed of oxford schooled by laud. for meanwhile one william laud, b.d. of s. john's college, had filled the office of proctor and had been censured by the vice-chancellor for letting fall in a sermon at s. mary's divers passages savouring of popery. but he survived the reproof. president of s. john's from - , he set himself to reform the discipline of the university and to undo the work of leicester. in he was elected chancellor in opposition to the younger brother of the late chancellor, lord pembroke, who was supported by the calvinists. preaching on the points in dispute between calvin and arminius was at once forbidden. this, with laud as chancellor, meant that the puritans, who regarded laud's "high church" views as little better than popery in disguise and as exposing the country to a danger which was too near and too deadly to be trifled with, were muzzled or driven from the country; but their opponents, if they preached against the practices of geneva, met only with the mildest kind of rebuke. laud's experience of the university had convinced him of the necessity of revising and codifying the statutes "which had long lain in a confused heap." as chancellor he at once set about that difficult task. the caroline or laudian statutes were based on the old statutes and customs as collected, transcribed and drawn up by the antiquarian, brian twyne, fellow of c.c.c. laud rewarded him with the office of custos archivorum. it was from the vast and scholarly collections of brian twyne that wood quarried freely, and, it must be said, without due acknowledgment. but wood succeeded in a task beyond twyne's powers. he achieved immortality by clothing the dry bones of antiquarian fact or fancy in prose at times so racy and at times so musical. already ( ) laud had been responsible for the introduction of the cycle, which put an end to the riots that had hitherto attended the election of proctors. free election by the academical democracy had resulted in frequent abuses. the cycle invented [illustration: oriel window s. john's college] by peter turner of merton assigned to each college in turn, and in proportion to its size and dignity, the right of nominating proctors. the system, modified in and , still obtains. his care for discipline led the chancellor to make some much-needed reforms in the direction of diminishing the number of ale-houses and enforcing a proper system of licensing in the town. by his own proclamation he named a toll-gatherer for the market; he obtained an order from council for the destruction of cottages which the townsmen had erected round about the wall and ditch; and, in spite of a protest from the citizens, the caroline charter was obtained, confirming the rights of the university over the town. when the labours of twyne were finished and the delegacy had at last succeeded in codifying the laws and customs, the code was placed in the hands of laud. he corrected the draft, and in the corpus statutorum was promulgated, confirmed by the king and gratefully accepted by the university. the new code was destined to govern it for two hundred years and more. though to a great extent a digest of statutes already in force, the laudian statutes completed and stereotyped the changes which had long been taking place. the old order changes; the academic commonwealth becomes an oligarchy; the university is henceforth to be governed by a "hebdomadal board," and all power is definitely concentrated in the hands of the colleges and the heads of houses. the old scholastic disputations were superseded by a system of public examinations; the studies required for a degree were organised and defined; the tutorial system was emphasised by the regulation which required the student to enter under a tutor resident in the same college. the code was received with effusive gratitude. the popularity of laud was not merely due to the vigour with which he had been enforcing his views of orthodoxy, and compelling all, whether roman catholics or puritans, to recant if ever in their sermons they controverted the arminian doctrines, which the stuarts had adopted as the fundamental principles of their policy in church and state. for apart from his narrow church policy laud was, in university matters, both an earnest reformer and a great benefactor. he presented the library with a magnificent collection of oriental mss.; he founded and endowed the professorship of arabic, and, most valuable of all, he obtained for the university the right of printing bibles, which is one of the most valuable endowments of that insufficiently endowed institution to-day. besides his buildings at s. john's college, the building of the convocation house, adjoining the divinity school ( - ), with the extension of the bodleian above it, mark the chancellorship of laud, and as the seat of oxford's government fitly recall the age of its great lawgiver. the botanic gardens were also founded at this period, and the porch of s. mary's was erected in by the archbishop's chaplain, dr owen. the beautiful twisted columns of this, the south-west porch, are surmounted by a fine statue of the virgin, crowned, with the child in her arms. this statue gave such offence to the puritans, that it actually figured in the articles of impeachment against the archbishop. under laud the university had quite recovered its popularity. there were no less than four thousand students; many men of learning and piety were numbered among its alumni; discipline was to a great extent established. but the coming struggle soon began to upset the new régime. for the civil war was inevitably approaching. the chancellorship of laud was crowned by a visit from the king and queen in . but though the university and town went out, as was their custom, towards woodstock to meet their royal visitors, and though speeches and ceremonies were performed as usual, wood notes that in the streets "neither scholars nor citizens made any expressions of joy or uttered as the manner is, vivat rex!" the visit lasted three days. the elector palatine and prince rupert received honorary m.a. degrees. charles paid special attention to s. john's college, out of compliment to laud, who entertained the royal party there, and drew attention to the library he had enlarged and the quadrangle he had built, mainly out of the stones obtained from the old carmelite convent in beaumont palace--once the palace of kings. from that time forward s. john's was the most royalist of colleges. one of its most treasured possessions was the portrait of the royal martyr, "which has the whole of the book of psalms written in the lines of the face and the hair of the head." of this picture, as of other things, the story is told that charles ii. begged it of the college, and promised in return to grant them any request they might make. they gave the picture, and requested his majesty to give them--the picture back again. comedies were performed at s. john's and christ church. the play at s. john's, "the hospital of lovers" was "merry and without offence," but that at christ church, by william strode, the public orator, called the "floating island," had more of the moralist than poet in it. the scenery was realistic, but lord carnarvon declared the piece to be the worst he ever saw, except one at cambridge. another play at christ church, "the royal slave," by william cartwright, was more successful. the scenery of the interludes was arranged by inigo jones. the queen was so pleased with this piece, that she borrowed the persian dresses and the scenery of the piece and had it repeated at hampton court, but "by all men's confession, the players came short of the university actors." charles, in this matter at least, was more fortunate than his father. for james had suffered much boredom from a play called "technogamia, or the marriage of the arts," in which "there was no point and no sense but non-sense." he was with difficulty induced to stay to the end. "at christ church 'marriage,' done before the king, lest that those mates should want an offering, the king himself did offer--what, i pray? he offered twice or thrice to go away." chapter ix the royalist capital charles i. had matriculated at oxford in ; his brother henry had been a student at magdalen. on his accession to the throne, an outbreak of plague in london led to the meeting of parliament at oxford. for the accommodation of members, the colleges and halls "were ordered to be freed from the fellows, masters of arts and students." christ church was prepared for the reception of the privy council by the same process. the houses sat in the divinity schools. and some said that they caught the theological infection of the place, and that ever after that the commons thought that the determining of all points and controversies in divinity belonged to them. parliament returned the compliment by infecting oxford with the plague, which they had fled from london to avoid. the coming struggle was foreshadowed by conflicts between town and gown. once more the alarm bells of s. mary's and s. martin's rang out and summoned the opposing parties to the fray; once more it was true that when oxford drew knife england would soon be at strife. nothing, laud had noted, could be transacted in the state, without its being immediately winnowed in the parliament of scholars. windows were broken, proctors jostled; books were burnt by order of parliament; young puritans from new inn hall or lincoln were forced to eat their words. prynne's ears had been cut off, but the puritans multiplied their conventicles in oxford. but it was not till after laud's impeachment, and his short pathetic resignation of his chancellorship, dated from the tower, , that they grew so bold as to preach and discourse as they listed. then the puritan feeling grew rapidly not only among the townsmen but also in the colleges. a maypole set up in holywell in derision of a certain puritan musician was pulled down by the scholars of new inn and magdalen hall. the report that the mitre inn was a meeting-place for recusants, gave occasion for the enemies of laud to allege in the house of commons that through his influence the university was infected with popery. a certificate was accordingly drawn up by the heads of houses to the effect that "they knew not any one member of this university guilty of or addicted to popery." parliament, however, requisitioned the records of the university in order to obtain evidence against laud. some of his regulations, such as the encouraging of the use of copes and of latin prayers in lent, were indeed used to support the charge of high treason against him. the puritans, however, remained in the minority at oxford. the part which she would take in the civil war was never doubtful. laud had filled the chief posts of the university with carefully chosen high churchmen of great ability. oxford was committed to the doctrines of passive obedience, and fast rooted in the tenets of the anglican church. the university pressed upon parliament the duty of maintaining episcopacy and the cathedrals. the contemptuous treatment their arguments met with was contrasted with the reply of charles, that "he would rather feed on bread and water than mingle any part of god's patrimony with his own revenues." learning and studies, he maintained, must needs perish if the honours and rewards of learning were destroyed; nor would the monarchy itself stand long if the hierarchy perished. "no bishop, no king!" parliament, it was felt, had shown unfriendly feeling towards the university. the town, headed by alderman john nixon, had most unmistakably shown that its sympathies were with the parliament. it is not surprising therefore to find that in the coming struggle the university is always unreservedly on the side of the king. royalist colleges like new college and christ church took the lead, and puritan establishments like lincoln and magdalen followed unprotestingly. when ( ) a letter from the king at york, asking for contributions to his necessary defence, was laid before convocation, it was unanimously resolved that whatever money the university was possessed of, should be lent to the king. the colleges and private persons were equally loyal. university college set an example which was freely followed. the bulk of the college plate was pawned, and the sum advanced on it was immediately dispatched to the king. [illustration: from the high street] the parliament retorted in vain with prohibitory letters, and demanded the surrender of the chief champions of the king--prideaux, rector of exeter; fell, dean of christ church; frewen, president of magdalen; and potter, provost of queen's. since there was a strong report that divers troops of soldiers were constantly passing hard by the city on their march to secure banbury and warwick for the parliament, the university began to put itself in a posture of defence. masters and scholars rallied together on th august to drill in christ church quadrangle, and marched from the schools up the high street to the number of three hundred and thirty or more, making ready to defend the city. "on the saturday following they met at the schools again in the forenoon. thence they marched through holywell and so through the manor yard by the church where by their commanders they were divided into four squadrons of which two were musketeers, the third pikes, the fourth halberds. after they had been reasonably instructed in the words of command, and in their postures, they were put into battle array, and skirmished together in a very decent manner. they continued there till about two of the clock in the afternoon, and then they returned into the city by s. giles' church, and going through the north gate, went through the market-place at quatervois, and so down the high street, that so both the city and country might take notice thereof, it being then full market, to the schools, from which place they were soon after dismissed and sent to their respective colleges to their devotions." among the array are mentioned some divines and a doctor of civil law from new college, who served with a pike. as for drums and colours, those belonging to the cooks' corporation served their turn for the present. meantime the highway "at the hither end of east bridge, just at the corner of the chaplain's quadrangle of magdalen college," was blocked up with long timber logs to keep out horsemen, and a timber gate was also erected there and chained at night. some loads of stones were carried up to the top of magdalen tower, to be flung down on the enemy at their entrance. two posts were set up at smith gate, with a chain to run through them to bar the way; a crooked trench in the form of a bow was made across the highway at the end of s. john's college walks; and measures were taken to provide the scholars with barbed arrows. a strict watch was kept at nights. charles raised his standard at nottingham, and on th august sir john byron rode in at the head of one or two hundred troopers to secure oxford for the king. the scholars "closed with them and were joyful for their coming. yet some puritanical townsmen out of guilt fled to abingdon, fearing they should be ill-used and imprisoned." on st september twenty-seven senior members of the university, with the vice-chancellor, prideaux, and the proctors, formed themselves into what the scholars nicknamed a council of war, to arrange with byron for the safety of the university. drilling went on steadily in the quadrangles of christ church and corpus christi, of new college and magdalen. attempts were also made to take up osney bridge and to substitute a drawbridge. but the townsmen and their train-bands, which had assembled in broken hayes, objected, and the scholars and troopers were forced to desist. but a strong parliamentary force lay at aylesbury. it was evident that, with the best will in the world, a few hundred troopers and enthusiastic scholars could not hold the city, which lay at present so far from the king's quarters. the townsmen were by no means eager royalists. they made fair pretences of joining with the university and king's troops, but they informed parliament that all they had done for the king was at the instigation of the university. the university accordingly sent to aylesbury to inform the threatening parliamentarians there that they would lay down their arms and dismiss the troopers. dr pink, however, warden of new college and deputy vice-chancellor, who had gone to make his peace at aylesbury, was seized and committed to prison in the gate-house at westminster. on th september byron rode away. about a hundred volunteers from the university accompanied him, and most of them made their way to worcester before the siege. two days later colonel arthur goodwin rode into the city with a troop of parliamentarians. goodwin was lodged at merton, and his troopers picketed their horses in christ church meadows. the college gates were kept open, and the soldiers wandered in to see the cathedral and painted windows, "and much admired at the idolatry of them." lord say, the parliamentarian lord lieutenant of oxford, a new college man, arrived on th september, and immediately ordered that the works and trenches of the scholars should be demolished. the colleges were searched for arms and plate. the christ church plate was hidden by the staunch dr fell. it was found hidden in the walls behind the wainscot and in the cellar. the plate of university college was found in the house of mr thomas smith. this say adjudged to be lawful prize, but he told the fellows that as long as they kept their plate in places fit for plate, the treasury or buttery, it should remain untouched. the city was mustered at broken hayes, and the arms of the train-bands were shown to lord say, who shortly afterwards left the place with his men, for both sides were now massing their forces. little damage had been done, but "his lordship caused divers popish books and pictures, as he called them, which he had taken out of churches, and especially the houses of papists here in oxford and in the country, to be burned in the street, against the star inn," where he had lodged. and as they were leaving the town, one of the london troopers, when passing s. mary's church, discharged a brace of bullets at the "very scandalous image" of our lady over the porch, striking off her head and the head of the child, which she held in her right arm. another fired at the image of our saviour over all souls' gate, and would have defaced all the work there, if he had not been remonstrated with by the citizens. he retorted that they had not been so well entertained at oxford as they expected. say made a disastrous miscalculation in thus evacuating oxford. for within a few weeks it was destined to become and to remain the headquarters of the king. many royalists who had been wounded at edgehill were brought into oxford. on th october the king, with the duke of york, prince charles and rupert, rode in with the army at the north gate. the colours taken from the enemy were carried in triumph; the king was received by the mayor with a present of money at pennilesse bench, and the heavy ordnance, twenty-seven pieces in all, were driven into magdalen college grove. the princes and many of the court took their degrees. charles stayed but a short while, for, after having recruited his army and having been presented by the colleges with all the money they had in their treasuries, he presently left the city to make an advance on london. for reading had surrendered to the royalists, and rupert's daring capture of brentford now threatened the capital. but the junction of the train-bands of london with the army of essex forced charles to fall back on his old quarters at oxford. there the fortification of the town was giving him a firm hold on the midland counties. a plan of fortifications had been prepared by one rallingson, a b.a. of queen's college. a series of earthworks, with sharp angles flanking each other, was to be thrown up outside the town. on th december the university bellman had gone about the city warning all privileged persons that were householders to send some of their families next day to dig at the works. the citizens, however, who were set to work north of s. giles', were not enthusiastic. the king found only twelve of them working where there should have been one hundred and twenty-two, "of which neglect his majesty took notice and told them in the field." the trench and rampart thus begun by the privileged men and workmen paid by the colleges, ran from the cherwell at holywell mill, passing by wadham and s. john's gardens and s. giles' church up to the branch of the thames at walton bridge. next, similar earthworks were made to cover s. clement's, the east suburb. as time was pressing, and the city and county were not eager workers, the king called upon the university to help in february. the members of the various colleges were set to work on the line which ran from folly bridge across christ church meadow in front of merton. (the bastion traceable in merton gardens dates from this time.) in the following june every person resident in a college or hall between sixteen and sixty was required to give a day's work a week with pick and spade, or to pay for a substitute, if unable or unwilling to anticipate the labours of mr ruskin. finally (january ), the colleges were commanded to raise the sum of forty pounds a week for twenty weeks to complete the works. before leaving for reading, the king had reviewed the regiment of scholars in christ church meadows. they were armed with helmets and back and breast pieces. the regiment, which consisted at first of four companies only, soon grew, as enthusiasm waxed, to eight or nine companies. the gown was exchanged for the military coat, and square caps for the helmet. meanwhile arms and provisions had been accumulated, and ammunition, "the want wherof all men looked upon with great horror," had been thrown into the town. the new college cloister and tower were converted into a magazine for muskets, bullets and gunpowder; corn was stored in the law and logic school, and victuals in the guildhall. clothes for the army were stowed in the music and astronomy schools. the mill at osney was used as a powder factory. the king now established his court at christ church. never perhaps has there existed so curious a spectacle as oxford presented in these days. a city unique in itself, so the author of "john inglesant" has described it, became the resort of a court under unique circumstances, and of an innumerable throng of people of every rank, disposition and taste, under circumstances the most extraordinary and romantic. the ancient colleges and halls were thronged with ladies and gentlemen of the court, some of whom found themselves like fishes out of water (as one of them expressed it), when they were obliged to be content with "a very bad bed in a garret of a baker's house in an obscure street, and one dish of meat a day, and that not the best ordered, no money and no clothes." soldiers were quartered in the college gates and the kitchens. yet, amidst all this confusion, there was maintained both something of a courtly pomp and something of a learned and religious society. the king dined and supped in public, and walked in state in christ church meadow and merton gardens and the grove of trinity, which the wits called daphne. a parliament sat from day to day. for ( ) the members of both houses who had withdrawn from westminster were summoned to meet at oxford. the king received them very graciously in christ church hall, made them a speech, and asked them to consult together in the divinity schools and to advise him for the good of the kingdom. about three hundred commons and sixty peers thus sat at oxford, and a hundred commons and ten or a dozen peers at westminster, so that the country enjoyed the felicity of two parliaments at once, each denying the right of the other to exist. the branch at westminster rejected overtures of peace from the branch at oxford. the latter devoted themselves to finding funds for the war. contributions were called for, and the members themselves headed the list. a mint was established at new inn hall, and all plate that was brought in was coined.[ ] at westminster, on the other hand, the system of an excise upon beer, wine and spirits was invented. and whilst parliament sat in the divinity schools, service was sung daily in all the chapels; books both of learning and poetry were printed in the city, and the distinctions which the colleges had to offer were conferred with pomp on the royal followers, as almost the only rewards the king had to bestow. men of every opinion flocked to oxford, and many foreigners came to visit the king. christmas interludes were enacted in hall, and shakespeare's plays performed; the groves and walks of the colleges, and especially christ church meadow and the grove at trinity, were the resort of a brilliant throng of gay courtiers and gayer ladies; the woods were vocal with song and music; love and gallantry sported themselves along the pleasant river banks. [illustration: courtyard to palace] "many times," aubrey of trinity tells us, "my lady isabella thynne would make her entry into our grove with a lute or theorbo played before her. i have heard her play on it in the grove myself; for which mr edmund waller hath in his poems for ever made her famous." but old dr kettell of trinity had no feeling for this sort of thing. he lectured lady isabella and her friend mrs fanshawe in no mincing terms when they attended chapel one morning "half dressed, like angels." "madam," he cried by way of peroration, "get you gone for a very woman!" the poets and wits vied with each other in classic conceits and parodies, wherein the events of the day and every individual incident were portrayed and satirised. wit, learning and religion, joined hand in hand, as in some grotesque and brilliant masque. the most admired poets and players and the most profound mathematicians became "romancists" and monks, and exhausted all their wit and poetry and learning in furthering their divine mission, and finally, as the last scenes of this strange drama came on, fell fighting on some hardly-contested grassy slope, and were buried on the spot, or in the next village churchyard, in the dress in which they played philaster, or the court garb in which they wooed their mistress, or the doctor's gown in which they preached before the king, or read greek in the schools. this gaiety was much increased when the queen joined charles on th july . two thousand foot, one thousand horse, six pieces of cannon and two mortars, which formed her escort, proved a welcome addition to the cause. the queen, who had entered the city in great state and had been loyally welcomed, held her court at merton, where, ever since, the room over the archway into the fellows' quadrangle has been known as the queen's chamber. from it a passage was constructed through merton hall and its vestibule, crossing the archway over patey's quadrangle, and descending to the sacristy, thence by a door into the chapel, and so to the grove and the gardens of corpus. hence a door, still traceable, was opened in the garden wall, and the private way was continued till it reached the royal apartments in christ church. well might the classic wits compare the scene to the marriage of jupiter and juno of old, for here indeed wisdom and folly, vice and piety, learning and gaiety, terrible earnest even unto death and light frivolity jostled each other in the stately precincts of parnassus and olympus. meantime, the war was going more and more in favour of the king. parliament redoubled its endeavours. essex, whose army had been freshly equipped, was ordered to advance upon oxford. but he did not care to risk his raw forces, and contented himself with recapturing reading. the king was ready to "give him battle about oxford if he advanced; and in the meantime, encamped his foot upon the downs, about a mile from abingdon, which was the head-quarters for his horse." at westminster it was believed that charles could not withstand a resolute attack on oxford. disease, however, thinned the ranks of essex, and his inaction gave the queen an opportunity of dispatching to oxford a much-needed convoy of arms and ammunition. charles now felt that he could resist any attack, and even afford to send part of his small force from oxford to aid the rising in the west. at last, to quiet his supporters in london, essex advanced towards thame. his presence there, and the information given him by colonel hurry, a scottish deserter, provided rupert with an opportunity for making one of those daring raids which have immortalised the name of that dashing cavalry leader. essex had made a futile endeavour to capture islip. the same afternoon, with a force of about a thousand men, rupert sallied out, hoping to cut off a convoy which was bringing £ , from london to essex's army. an hour after midnight the tramp of his band was heard by the sentinels at tetsworth; two hours later, as the sky was whitening before the dawn, he surprised a party of the enemy at postcombe. he then proceeded to chinnor, within two miles of thame, and again successfully surprised a force of the enemy. it was now time to look out for the convoy. the alarm, however, had been given. the drivers were warned by a countryman, and they turned the heads of their team into the woods, which clothed the sides of the chiltern hills. rupert could not venture to follow. laden with prisoners and booty the royalists were returning to oxford, when, about eight o'clock in the morning, they found themselves cut off by the cavalry who had been dispatched by essex. rupert had just passed chalgrove field and was entering the lane which led to chiselhampton bridge, where a regiment of foot had been ordered to come out to support his return, when the enemy's horse was found to be overtaking him. he immediately ordered the guard with the prisoners to make their way to the bridge, whilst he with his tired troopers drew up on chalgrove field. the parliamentarians hoped to hold him till succour arrived from headquarters. it was a dangerous game to play with rupert. "this insolence," he cried, "is not to be borne." he was the first to leap the hedge behind which the enemy was drawn up. the roundheads fought that day as they had never fought before. they were put to flight at last, but not before hampden himself, who had slept that night at wallington and had ridden out as a volunteer at the sound of the alarm, had been seen "to ride off the field before the action was done, which he never used to do, with his head hanging down, and resting his hands upon the neck of his horse." he was indeed mortally wounded, and his death seemed an omen of the ruin of the cause he loved. disaster followed disaster. essex fell back towards london; bristol was surrendered into rupert's hands, and the flight of six of the few peers who remained at westminster to the camp at oxford proved the general despair of the parliament's success. but the discontent and jealousy which were always rife among the soldiers and courtiers in charles' camp, broke out afresh when the king returned to oxford after his failure to take gloucester. from this moment, indeed, the firmness of parliament and the factiousness and foolishness of the king's party began slowly to reverse the fortunes of the war. parliament obtained the assistance of scotland, and charles negotiated with the irish catholics. the alliance was fatal to his cause. many of charles' supporters left him; the six peers fled back to westminster. the covenant was concluded. a scotch army crossed the border and co-operated with fairfax and leven in the north; essex watched the king at oxford, and was presently supported by waller, who had been holding prince maurice in check in the west. the queen, who was _enceinte_, and afraid of being besieged, now insisted on leaving oxford (april ). she made her way safely to exeter. the royalists abandoned reading and fell back on oxford, where measures were being taken for defence. regiments were enlisted; trees were felled in magdalen walks, and means were provided for flooding the meadows beyond. batteries were erected at suitable points. one of these, at the north-east corner of the walks, was called dover pier (dover's peer?), probably after the earl of dover, who commanded the new university regiment. this regiment mustered for the first time on th may in magdalen college grove, and, along with the city regiment, was reviewed on bullingdon green a few days later. the rise in the ground at the end of addison's walk, which is still noticeable, is probably due to the high and strong causeway which we know led from the walks to the battery in the river. the parliamentarians advanced, abingdon was evacuated by the royalist army under wilmot, and occupied by essex. charles was forced to withdraw all his forces to the north of oxford. the king's position was now so serious, that it was confidently reported in london that oxford was taken and the king a prisoner. another rumour ran that the king had decided to come to london, or what parliament chiefly feared, to surrender himself to essex. presently, indeed, his own supporters advised this course, but his majesty indignantly rejected the suggestion, saying that possibly he might be found in the hands of essex, but he would be dead first. as no help could be looked for from north or west, he determined to stay in oxford and watch for an opportunity of fighting waller or essex separately. with this object in view he disposed his army so as to prevent the rebels from crossing the cherwell or isis, the foot holding the former and the horse and dragoons the latter. a series of smart skirmishes ensued. some of waller's forces attempted to pass the isis at newbridge, but were repulsed. the next day ( th may), however, essex crossed the thames at sandford ferry with his whole army and quartered himself at islip. on his way thither he halted on bullingdon green, "that the city might take a full view of his army and he of it." he himself rode up within cannon shot, whilst parties of his horse skirmished about the gates, and gave the scholars and citizens an opportunity of trying their prowess. "it gave some terror to oxon," says wood, "and therefore two prayers by his majesty's appointment were made and published, one for the safety of his majesty's person and the other for the preservation of the university and city, to be used in all the churches." but there was no intention of making an assault upon the town. essex was merely covering the passage of his baggage train. whilst he was thus occupied and the scholars were making a sortie, charles and rupert ascended magdalen tower and watched the movements of the enemy. next morning a determined effort was made by essex to pass over the cherwell at gosworth bridge, but he was repulsed by the musketeers with considerable loss. essex being now on the east side of the river and cut off from communication with waller, the king strove to avail himself of the opportunity of retaking abingdon and engaging waller singly. but after an unsuccessful move against abingdon, the design was abandoned, and the royalist forces were once more concentrated on the north side of oxford. sir jacob ashley, major-general of the foot, himself took command at gosworth bridge, where, he perceived, essex intended to force a passage. there he threw up breastworks and a redoubt, and succeeded in repulsing the enemy, who renewed their attacks from day to day and even brought up cannon to their support without avail. meanwhile, however, waller effected the passage of the isis at newbridge, quartered his van at eynsham, and threatened the rear of the king's army. ashley was compelled to retire. essex immediately threw his men across the cherwell, and quartered them that night at bletchington. his horse advanced to woodstock. the king seemed to be enveloped by the opposing armies. but after making a demonstration against abingdon, charles slipped out of oxford on the night of rd june. marching out with six thousand men by s. john's road, he made his way along a rough crooked lane and got clear away to the north of the city. he left the duke of york in the town, and promised, if the place was besieged, to do all he could to relieve it before it was reduced to extremity. but the town had scarcely enough provisions to stand a month's siege. a series of brilliant successes rewarded the perseverance of the king, for he now waited till essex marched to attack prince maurice at lyme, then turning on waller, crushed his army at copredy bridge on the cherwell, fourteen miles north of oxford. after two days' rest at oxford, he followed up his success by pursuing essex into cornwall and gaining a complete victory over him there. but in the midst of these successes came the news of the disaster in the north. the star of cromwell had risen where rupert's had begun to set, at marston moor. the battle of newbury checked the king's advance on london, and he withdrew once more to winter at oxford ( th october ). he was much pleased with the progress that had been made with the fortifications. in order to carry on his operations against waller and essex, he had been obliged to denude oxford of troops. but before leaving it he had provided for its safety. for parliament had a strong garrison at reading and another at abingdon, and the danger of a siege seemed imminent. the inhabitants were therefore commanded to provide themselves with corn and victuals for three months, or to leave the town "as persons insensible of their own dangers and the safety of the place." the safety of the place having been secured, the garrison had felt themselves strong enough to send out a force to the relief of basing-house. the objections of the governor, sir arthur aston, who had succeeded sir william pennyman in that office, were overruled. colonel gage made a dash from oxford, relieved the marquis of winchester and returned safely to oxford after having performed one of the most brilliant of the minor feats of arms that occurred during the war. charles, on his return, appointed him governor of oxford, in place of sir arthur aston, who had broken his leg. gage, who is buried in the cathedral, was killed shortly afterwards at culham bridge in an attempt to surprise abingdon. in the spring of oliver cromwell appeared in the parts about oxford. he was in command of some cavalry, and the object of his movements, in conjunction with those of sir thomas fairfax, was to prevent prince maurice from removing heavy guns from oxford to hereford, and thereby to disarrange charles' plan for an early campaign. cromwell routed northampton at islip. a party of the defeated cavaliers took refuge at bletchington house. cromwell called upon the governor, windebanke, to surrender. deceived by the sheer audacity of the demand, and moved, it is said, by the timorous entreaties of a party of ladies from oxford whom he was entertaining at bletchington, he yielded. windebanke paid dearly for his weakness. he was shot in the castle garden on his return to oxford. cromwell swept round the city and defeated sir henry vaughan at bampton. the parliamentarians had now achieved their object. they moved away from oxford. in a few weeks they were back again, and the new fortifications of the city were at length put to the test. the siege was heralded by the appearance of some scattered horse near cowley on th may. thence they, with other horse and foot, passed over bullingdon green to marston, and showed themselves on headington hill. on the nd fairfax sat down before oxford. he threw up a breastwork on the east side of cherwell, and constructed a bridge near marston, across which he passed some regiments. cromwell was commanding at wytham and major browne at wolvercote. the most considerable incident that occurred during the fifteen days' siege was a successful sortie in the direction of headington hill, which was made by colonel william legge, the governor of the town. then fairfax raised the siege and moved north; a few weeks later the fateful battle of naseby was fought. thereafter the king finally made his way to oxford from newark. here for a while he was safe; but in the spring fairfax marched upon oxford. the king was driven from his last refuge. at three in the morning of th april, disguised as a servant, with his beard and hair closely trimmed, he passed over magdalen bridge in apparent attendance upon john ashburnham and a scholar, one hudson, "who understood the byeways as well as the common, and was indeed a very skilful guide." "farewell, harry," glenham called out to his sovereign, as he performed the governor's duty of closing the gates behind him. charles' departure was kept so secret that fairfax, who arrived before oxford on the fifth day after, sat down before the city, and made his circumvallation before he knew of it. the duke of york and all the king's council remained shut up in oxford. fairfax found the city well prepared for a siege. "the rising ground to the north was protected by many strong bulwarks flanking one another. round about the line, both upon the bulwarks and the curtain, was strongly set with storm poles. outside the ditch was a strong palisade beyond which were many pits dug so that a single footman could not without difficulty approach to the trench. within the city were foot, and the place was well supplied with stores. all this strength being apprehended and considered by sir thomas fairfax, he concluded that this was no place to be taken at a running pull, but likely rather to prove a business of time, hazard and industry." accordingly he proceeded to make a fortified camp on headington hill, to make a bridge over the cherwell near marston, and establish a post between the cherwell and isis on the north for the main body of his troops. lines were drawn from headington to s. bartholomew's common road, and from thence to campus pits. a memento of the siege, a cannon shot which is said to have struck the gateway tower of s. john's college, is preserved in the library of that college. little progress, however, had been made with the siege, though the defence was for a lost cause, when charles, who had been handed over by the scots to a committee of the house, sent orders to the governor to make conditions and surrender the place to fairfax. honourable terms were granted. fairfax had expressed his earnest desire to preserve a place "so famous for learning from ruin." his first act, for he was a scholar as well as a soldier, was to protect the bodleian. a clause to the effect that all churches, colleges and schools should be preserved from harm was inserted in the articles of surrender. the liberties and privileges of the city and the university were guaranteed, and on th june the garrison, some three thousand strong, marched out in drenching rain over magdalen bridge, colours flying and drums beating, between files of roundhead infantry. so ended the great rebellion. and the history of it remained to be written by edward hyde, the earl of clarendon, who came to the task equipped with a wisdom that is born of a large experience of men and affairs. a moderate but faithful adherent of the royalist cause, he could say of himself that he wrote of events "quorum pars magna fui." he had been one of the king's most trusted advisers at oxford. there he lived in all souls' college, and the king wished to make him secretary of state. "i must make ned hyde secretary of state, for the truth is i can trust nobody else," wrote the harassed monarch to his queen. in his great history, so lively yet dignified in style, so moderate in tone and penetrating in its portrayal of character, he built for himself a monument more durable than brass. a monument not less noble has been raised for him in oxford out of the proceeds of that very book. for the copyright of the history was presented to the university by his son, and partly out of the funds thus arising the handsome building north-east of the sheldonian theatre was erected, from designs by sir john vanbrugh ( ). here the university press was transferred from the sheldonian theatre, where it had found its first permanent and official home. the "clarendon" press was removed in to the present building in walton street, when it had outgrown the accommodation of the clarendon building. like sir harry vane, clarendon had been educated at magdalen hall. the chair in which he wrote his history is preserved at the bodleian, and there too may be seen many of the notes which his royal master used to throw him across the table at a council meeting. there had been another inhabitant of oxford in these stirring days much affected by these events, a youth endowed with unbounded antiquarian enthusiasm and an excellent gift of observation. this "chiel amang them taking notes" was anthony wood, to whose work every writer on oxford owes a debt unpayable. born in the portionists' hall, the old house opposite merton and next door to that fine old house, beam hall, where, he says, the first university press was established, wood was carried at the age of four to see the entry of charles and rupert, and was a royalist ever after. educated first at a small grammar school near s. peter le bailey and then at new college school, he became familiar [illustration: the cloisters new college] with the aspect of old oxford as it was before the changes wrought by the siege, and he was able to transcribe into his notebooks many old inscriptions and memorials just before a period of wanton destruction. when the war broke out there was much ado to prevent his eldest brother, a student at christ church, from donning the armour with which his father decked out the manservant. the new college boys grew soldier-struck as they gazed from their school in the cloister upon the train-bands drilling in the quadrangle. they were presently turned out of their school to make room for the munitions of war. but i have no space to write of the vicissitudes of "a. w.'s" life; of the fate which befell his biographies of oxford writers; of his quarrels with dean fell, that staunch royalist and stern disciplinarian of whom every child learns to lisp in numbers: "i do not like thee, dr fell; the reason why i cannot tell. but only this i know full well, i do not like thee, dr fell." the first step taken for the "reformation" of oxford was a parliamentary order (july ) suspending elections in the university and colleges, and forbidding the granting or renewing of leases. the university petitioned fairfax to obtain the recall of this order, on the ground that it was contrary to the articles of surrender. the prohibition was not enforced. but the condition of the university was deplorable. the quadrangles were empty, the courts overgrown with grass. scholars ceased to come up, and those who were in residence were utterly demoralised by the war. before the changes and chances of war and religion, learning shrank in dismay and discipline disappeared. six presbyterian preachers were now sent down to supersede the royalist preachers, to beat the pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, and convince the university. all they succeeded in doing was to rouse the independents among the garrison who had already been practising in the schools and lecture-rooms. the military saints now set themselves, "with wry mouths, squint eyes, screwed faces, antic behaviours, squeaking voices and puling tones," to out-preach the proselytising presbyterians. royalist oxford rocked with laughter and congratulated itself prematurely that the revolution had begun to devour its own children. but a commission was appointed to visit the university in may . sir nathaniel brent, warden of merton, was chairman, and prynne a member. their proceedings were delayed by an absurd trick. the university had been summoned to appear before them in the schools between nine and eleven. but the preliminary sermon in s. mary's was of such length that eleven had struck and the university had dispersed before the commissioners could get to work. the university appointed a delegacy to act on its behalf, which drew up a very able and moderate series of reasons for not submitting to the tests that were to be proposed. the authority of the visitors was challenged. time was thus gained, and the struggle that was going on between the presbyterians and the independents paralysed the visitors. a committee of the lords and commons, however, presently armed them with fresh powers. after three hours of preliminary prayer, "a way" says wood, "by which they were wont to commence their actions for all sorts of wickednesses," they proceeded to inquire "into the behaviour of all governors, professors, officers and members." dr fell and the majority of the university offered a firm resistance. fell was seized and imprisoned. the action of the visitors, however, was still paralysed by the lack of constitutional authority. they were once more strengthened by the london committee. the business of deprivation began. sentence was passed upon half a dozen heads of houses, "but not a man stirred from his place." the university, in fact, continued to ignore the proceedings of the visitors. even after the arrival of the chancellor, lord pembroke, and of fairfax's troops, whom the visitors were empowered to use, the expelled heads refused to leave their colleges. mrs fell held the deanery of christ church valiantly. when the chancellor, with some soldiers, appeared there and desired mrs fell to quit her quarters, "she refused that kind proposal, had very ill language given to her by him, and then she was carried into the quadrangle in a chair by soldiers," and her children on boards. the buttery book was then sent for and fell's name dashed out. passive resistance of this kind and the use of every legal device to delay the action of the visitors were adopted everywhere. the university fought every inch of the ground, standing firmly on the vantage ground of constitutional right. but the gown usually has to yield to arms. new heads were appointed, new m.a.'s created, and the visitors proceeded to purge the colleges. every fellow, student and servant was asked, "do you submit to the authority of parliament in this present visitation?" those who did not submit were turned out. presently the negative oath was tendered, and subscription to "the engagement" was required. rather than submit to these tests over four hundred fellows preferred to be ejected. puritans, men for the most part of real learning and piety, were substituted, though those who suffered described "the new plantation of saints" as an illiterate rabble, "swept up from the plough-tail and scraped out of cambridge." at new college a very large proportion of the fellows were expelled: fifty at the lowest computation. the inquisition even extended its investigations to the college servants. the organist, sexton, under-butler, manciple, porter, groom and basket bearer were all outed, when they could not in conscience submit. at merton wood refused to answer, but by the goodwill of the warden and arch visitor, a friend of his mother, "a. w. was connived at and kept in his place, otherwise he had infallibly gone to the pot." the visitors acted, on the whole, in the spirit of genuine reformers. apart from imposing a system of puritan morals, they worked with a sincere desire to make the colleges fruitful nurseries of learning. what they did, and still more what they wished to do, with regard to the discipline of the place was on the right lines of educational advance. in july an attempt was made to recapture the guard and magazine in new college. the conspiracy was revealed by a boozing and boastful conspirator. two years later a mutiny of the garrison, in protest against excise, tithes and lawyers, was checked by the vigilance of colonel ingoldsby, the governor. fairfax and cromwell visited oxford to see how the reformation was progressing ( th may ), and lodged at all souls'. they dined at magdalen, where they had "good cheer and bad speeches, and afterwards played at bowls in the college green." they both received a d.c.l. degree, and cromwell assured the university that he meant to encourage learning. next year he became chancellor, and besides presenting some mss. he resisted the proposal to reduce the academical endowments which milton supported. learning and discipline were never popular; long sermons, compulsory attendance at innumerable religious exercises, and catechisms in the tutors' rooms were not more so. as the sands of the commonwealth ran out the approaching restoration found a welcome at oxford. it was a sign of the times that, when richard cromwell was proclaimed protector, the mayor and the troopers were pelted with turnip-tops by the scholars in front of s. mary's. without waiting for a formal proclamation of the new order, men reverted to it by a kind of spontaneous instinct. six weeks or more before the restoration, a bold man read the common prayer in s. mary magdalen church in surplice and hood, and that church was always "full of young people purposely to hear and see the novelty." at the news of the restoration all england "went mad with joy"; at oxford the rejoicing "lasted till the morning." and when coronation day came, "conduit ran a hogshead of wine." common prayer was restored and surplices; puritan preaching went out of fashion; the organs of magdalen, new college and christ church sounded once more; plays were performed and the solemn league and covenant was burnt. yet the prejudice against surplice and organ was deep. many still denounced organ-music as the whining of pigs. at magdalen men clad in surplices, with hands and faces blackened, paraded the cloisters at twilight to encourage the story that satan himself had appeared and adopted the surplice. filthy insults and ribald abuse were heaped upon the innocent garment. a royal commission visited the university to eject the intruders and restore those whom parliament had expelled. the presbyterians took the oath of allegiance and supremacy, and were allowed to hold their places unless some ejected fellow or scholar appeared to claim them. but at lincoln, where the independent faction was strong, several fellows were turned out, george hitchcock among them. he defied the bedel who was sent to arrest him when he refused to go. with a drawn sword and a sported oak hitchcock remained master of the situation until the arrival of the military who, undaunted, stormed the independent's castle and marched him off to jail. life at oxford resolved itself at last to peace and quiet study. "the tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart"-- and the groves and quadrangles that had echoed with the clash of arms, the loud laugh of roystering cavaliers, or the gentle rustle of sweeping trains, or the whining of a puritan, now resounded with the noise of the bowling-green and tennis-court, or the chamber music of such scholarly enthusiasts as anthony wood with his fiddle, and edmund gregory with his bass viol. with the restoration a new kind of student came into prominence. very different from his mediæval brother was the new type of rich "young gentleman" so wittily satirised by dr earle, as one who came to oxford to wear a gown and to say hereafter that he had been at the university. "his father sent him thither because he heard that there were the best fencing and dancing schools.... of all things he endures not to be mistaken for a scholar." for it was now the fashion for students to live like men of the world, to keep dogs and horses, to swash it in apparel, to wear long periwigs. they discussed public affairs and read the newsletters in the coffee-houses. for canopus, the cretan, had set the example of drinking coffee, and in jacob the jew opened a coffee-house at the angel. four years later arthur tillyard, "an apothecary and great royalist, sold coffee publicly in his house against all souls' college. he was encouraged to do so," says wood, "by some royalists and by the company of 'vertuosi,' chiefly all souls' men, amongst whom was numbered christopher wren." with the restoration, too, the study of mere divinity began to go out of fashion, and a humane interest in letters began to manifest itself. plays, poems and drollery, the old-fashioned scholars complained, were in request. science, too, suddenly became fashionable. charles and the duke of buckingham took a keen interest in chemistry; prince rupert solaced his old age with the glass drops which are called after his name. at oxford many scholars already had private laboratories. robert boyle and peter sthael had for some time been lecturing on chemistry at the ram inn ( high street) to the curious, john locke included. the king now gave its title to the royal society, which had its origin in the inquiries of a little group of scientific students in london before the end of the civil war. it was now divided into two by the removal of its foremost members, dr wilkins, warden of wadham, and dr wallis, savilian professor of geometry, to oxford. the oxford branch of the [illustration: view from the sheldonian theatre.] society was strengthened by such men as sir william petty, the first of english economists, dr ward, the mathematician, robert boyle and christopher wren. in the lodgings of wilkins or petty they would meet and discuss the circulation of the blood or the shape of saturn, the copernican hypothesis, the improvement of telescopes or nature's abhorrence of a vacuum--any subject, in fact, which did not lead them into the bogs of theology or politics. "that miracle of a youth," dr christopher wren, was one of those deputed by the university ( ) to take a letter of thanks to henry howard, heir to the duke of norfolk, for his princely gift of the arundel marbles to the university. this gift the university owed to the kindly offices of john evelyn, the diarist. the marbles were laid in the proscholium till the sheldonian theatre was finished. ingeniously designed by wren to accommodate the university at the "act" or "encænia," this theatre was consecrated by archbishop sheldon ( ), at whose cost it was erected. sheldon was a warden of all souls', put out under the commonwealth and afterwards restored, before being promoted to the primacy. wren left many other marks of his genius upon oxford. the chapel of b.n.c. is said to be from his design, and may be, for it reveals the struggle that was going on ( ) between the oxford gothic, as the beautiful fan-tracery of the ceiling and the windows bear witness, and the italian style of the rest of the building. wren migrated from wadham to all souls', presenting on his departure a clock (now in the ante-chapel) to the college where he had been a fellow-commoner. in the college of which he, with sydenham, was made a fellow under the commonwealth, he made the great and accurate sun-dial, with its motto "pereunt et imputantur," that adorns the back quadrangle. his pupil hawksmoor it was who designed the twin towers of all souls' and the quadrangle at queen's, whilst wren himself designed the chapel, which he reckoned one of his best works. at trinity he gave advice to dean aldrich, made suggestions which were not taken, and actually designed the north wing of the garden quadrangle, one of the first italian buildings in oxford. at christ church he added, as we have seen, the octagonal cupola to wolsey's tower. the buttresses in exeter garden which support the bodleian are also the result of his advice. the beautifully proportioned building close to the sheldonian was presently built ( , wood, architect) by the university to house the valuable collection of curiosities presented to it by elias ashmole. when the plague broke out in london, charles and his court fled to oxford (september ), where, since july, a watch had been set to keep out infected persons flying from london. the king and duke of york lodged at christ church; whilst, all under the rank of master at merton having been sent to their homes, the queen took up her abode there till the following february. once more courtiers filled the college instead of scholars; the loose manners of the court were introduced into the college precincts; the king's mistress, lady castlemaine, bore him a bastard in december, and libels were pinned up on the doors of merton concerning that event. it is sadly recorded that founders' prayers had to be recited in english, because there were more women than scholars in the chapel. and as for the courtiers, though they were neat and gay in their apparel, yet were they, so says the offended scholar, "very nasty and beastly; rude, rough, whoremongers; vain, empty and careless." the house of lords sat in the geometry school, the house of commons in the convocation house, whilst the divinity school and the greek school were employed as a committee room and the star chamber. after sitting for a month and passing the act which prohibited dissenting ministers from coming within five miles of any city, parliament broke up in october. when this act was suspended in and nonconformists were allowed to meet in towns, provided they took out a licence, the independents [illustration: quadrangle & library all souls' college.] and baptists set up meeting-houses in oxford, the baptists meeting first in magdalen street and then in s. ebbe's parish. the nonconformist chapels were destroyed in the jacobite riot of , but in a new chapel was built behind the present chapel in the new road by the baptists and presbyterians in common. the _oxford gazette_ made its first appearance during charles' visit, the first number coming out on th november . again, in , parliament was summoned by charles ii. to meet at oxford on st march. he had written in january choosing merton, corpus and christ church to house him, his queen, his court[ ] and his parliament. the scholars as usual departed, but in a week the king dissolved the wicked, or week-ed, parliament, and the collegians returned to their quarters and the use of their silver plate, which they had wisely hidden from their guests. "we scholars were expelled awhile to let the senators in, but they behaved themselves so ill that we returned again," sang the poet of the day. for the rest of his reign the monarch was nearly absolute. "now i am king of england, and was not before," he remarked; and he signalised his victory over the exclusionist party, who wished to guard against the danger of a catholic king, by procuring, at oxford, the condemnation of stephen college, a protestant joiner, who was forthwith hung in the castle-yard. the sudden influx of so many persons into the town was calculated to send up the price of provisions. the vice-chancellor accordingly took the precaution of fixing a limit to the market prices. a pound of butter, for instance, sweet and new, the best in the market, was not to cost more than d.; six eggs d.; or a fat pig, the best in the market, s. d.; whilst not more than s. d. was to be charged in every inn for a bushel of the best oats. [illustration: oriel windows queen's lane.] meantime the university was not in too flourishing a state. "all those we call whigs," wood complains, "will not send their sons for fear of their turning tories, and because the universities are suspected of being popish." and stephen penton, the principal who built the chapel and library of s. edmund's hall ( ), thought it expedient to write that charming little book, "the guardian's instruction," in answer to the "rash and uncharitable censure of the idle, ignorant, debauched, popish university." but the manners of the place are indicated by such facts as these: "the act was put off because 'twas said the vice-chancellor was sickish from bibbing and smoking and drinking claret a whole afternoon." in the mayor and aldermen, who had been splendidly entertained by the earl of abingdon in return for their election of his brother to represent them in parliament, "came home most of them drunk and fell off their horses." about the same time three masters of all souls' came drunk to the mitre in the middle of the night, and because the landlady refused to get up and prepare them some food, they called her "strange names and told her she deserved to have her throat cut, whereupon being extremely frighted, she fell into fits and died." the masters were examined by the vice-chancellor and compelled to "recant in the convocation." a few months later a debauched master of arts of new inn was expelled for biting a piece off the nose of a b.n.c. b.a. at balliol the buildings were literally falling to pieces, and it was the solace of dr bathurst's old age to sit on his garden wall--he was president of trinity--and throw stones at the few windows that still contained any glass, "as if happy to contribute his share in completing the appearance of its ruin." this was the same dr bathurst, who as vice-chancellor, according to prideaux' story, had already done his best to encourage the "men of belial" to deserve the nickname bestowed upon them by nicholas amherst.[ ] "there is," wrote prideaux, "over against balliol a dingy, horrid, scandalous ale-house, fit for none but draymen and tinkers. here the balliol men continually lie and by perpetual bubbing add art to their natural stupidity to make themselves perfect sots." the master (dr goode, a good, honest old toast, and sometime a puritan) remonstrated with them and "informed them of the mischiefs of that hellish liquor called ale. but one of them, not willing to be preached so tamely out of his beloved liquor, made reply that the vice-chancellor's men drank ale at the split crow and why should they not too? the old man, being nonplussed with this reply, immediately packeth away to the vice-chancellor, formerly an old lover of ale himself," who informed him that there was no hurt in ale. accordingly the master told his men that since the vice-chancellor said there was no hurt in ale, though truly he thought there was, he would give them leave to drink it. "so now," prideaux concludes, "they may be sots by authority." in , wood notes, "fighting occasioned by drunkenness fell out in s. john's common chamber." common rooms, it may be observed, which were regarded as a luxurious innovation, had been introduced into oxford in by merton, where the room over the kitchen, with the cock-loft over it, was turned into a room "for the common use of the fellows." other colleges quickly followed an example which had been set eleven years before in the combination room of trinity at cambridge. the accession of james ii. was hailed at oxford with many expressions of loyalty. a large bonfire was lit at carfax and five barrels of beer broached in the town hall, to be drunk by all comers. there were bonfires in all the colleges, where the respective societies drank a health, kneeling, to the king and royal family. at merton, wood tells us, "the gravest and greatest seniors of the house were mellow that night, as at other colleges." and the coronation was celebrated by a sermon and bonfire at s. mary's and "great extraordinaries in eating and drinking in each college." but there were many townsmen who had been ready ( ) to shout for "a monmouth! a monmouth! no york!" and after monmouth's rebellion, when the university raised a regiment, whose uniforms at any rate were gallant, several of the citizens were arrested as rebels. it was not long before the bigotry and tyranny of james drove the university itself into that resistance to the royal authority which was so alien to its teaching and tradition. for james set himself to convert the training-place of the english clergy into a roman catholic seminary. the accession of a sovereign attached to the roman church had been the signal for many who had hitherto concealed their opinions to avow their devotion to that communion. the master of university college was one of those who had conformed to the rites of the anglican church whilst supporting so far as he dared, in the pulpit and the press, the doctrines of rome. he now openly avowed his conversion and did his utmost to promote the roman catholic cause. ave maria obadiah, as he was nicknamed from an academic catch of the time, was authorised by the king to appropriate some college rooms for a chapel under the roman ritual. he had already been absolved by a royal dispensation from the duty of attending the services of the church of england, and from taking the oaths of allegiance and supremacy. walker's doings were at first received with ridicule and then with indignation. but secure of the king's favour, he continued on his romanising way. he erected a press at the back of the college, and published, under royal licence, a series of controversial books maintaining romish doctrines. the university was disgusted and alarmed at this deliberate attempt to undermine the national church in the very centre of its chief stronghold. a pamphlet war ensued, but it was a war in which the king made it evident on the occasion of a visit to oxford in that he was on the side of obadiah. a statue of the monarch was set up over the gateway of the large quadrangle of university college to commemorate the visit of the royal "reformer of heresy." at christ church, meanwhile, massey, a convert and creature of walker, had been appointed dean by the crown and installed without protest by the chapter. the old refectory of canterbury college was fitted up as a private chapel for the dean's use, and james attended mass there. at all souls', too, the fellows had admitted as warden the nominee planted on them by the royal prerogative. but james was not to have it all his own way with the colleges. men had stiffer backs at magdalen. the office of president was vacant. the king recommended for election anthony farmer, a disreputable cantab of notoriously bad character, who had migrated to oxford, and who, never having been fellow either of magdalen or new college, had no qualification for the presidentship. but he was reputed to be inclined to romanism. this virtue was apparently sufficient in james' eyes; he ignored the objections stated by the fellows. the fellows in turn ignored the mandate of james and elected dr hough, a man to whom there could be no objection. cited to appear before the ecclesiastical commission on complaint that they had disregarded the king's mandate, the vice-president and fellows, through their delegates, justified their action by reference to their statutes and the character of farmer. jefferies, who presided, had to admit that farmer was proved to the court to be "a very bad man." the college was commanded to elect another tool of the king's, parker, bishop of oxford. the college held that the place of president was already filled. to enforce obedience, james now came over from woodstock ( rd september) in person. the king wore a scarlet coat, and an old beaver hat edged with a little lace, not worth a groat, as some of the people shouted. he proceeded very slowly to the north gate, where he found eight poor women all clad in white, some of whom strewed the way before the king with herbs, "which made a very great smell in all the street, continuing so all the night till the rain came. when he came to quatervois he was entertained with the wind music or waits belonging to the city and university, who stood over the penniless bench--all which time and after the conduit ran claret for the vulgar." the fellows of magdalen were summoned to the royal presence in christ church hall, where they were rudely reprimanded and bidden to go to their chapel and elect the bishop forthwith or they should know what it was to feel the weight of a king's hand. "is this your church of england loyalty?" james cried. "get you gone. i am king. i will be obeyed!" curious to think that william penn, who had formerly been sent down from christ church for nonconformity, was present at this scene; and a servitor of exeter, the father of the wesleys, quitted it, "resolved to give the tyrant no kind of support." the fellows protested their loyalty, but declared that it was not in their power to do what the king required. penn, the courtly quaker, endeavoured to bring about a compromise, but seems to have been convinced at last that an agreement was impossible. hough's comment on these negotiations was, "it is resolved that the papists must have our college. all that we can do is, to let the world see that they take it from us, and that we do not give it up." a commission was appointed. hough, who refused to surrender his lodgings, was declared contumacious, and his name was struck off the books. his lodgings were broken open; parker was introduced. twenty-five of the fellows were expelled, and were declared incapable of ecclesiastical preferment. the demies, who refused to recognise parker, were not interfered with by the commission; they remained in the college holding chapel services and disputations among themselves and ignoring the papist fellows who were being introduced. when they refused to obey the officers nominated by the king, eighteen of them were expelled. parker died, and gifford, a papist of the sorbonne, was appointed. all but two of the original fellows were now ejected, and their places were being filled up with roman catholics when it was brought home to james that he had been going too fast. he began to bid desperately for the support he had alienated. he restored the ejected fellows, but they had scarcely returned when william's supporters, under lord lovelace, entered oxford in force. they were received at the east gate by the mayor and magistrates in their black gowns, who went with them up the high street amid the shouts and congratulations of the people. meantime the master of university had fled to london with his nominee, the dean of christ. he was captured by the mob and thrown into the tower on a charge of high treason. and at oxford "trade," to use the judicious metaphor of an oxford priest, "declined." the jesuits, who had been "in a very hopeful way and had three public shops (chapels) open" there, found all their schemes frustrated. the intrigue and plotting of years were brought to nought. the coronation of william and mary was observed by a special act ceremony, in which one of the pieces recited was "magdalena ridens," magdalen smiling in triumph at the flight of her oppressor. october , , was the day on which james had restored the ejected fellows. ever since the college has observed that day, and yearly the members pledge each other in a loving-cup, _jus suum cuique_. chapter x jacobite oxford--and after among the demies elected at magdalen the year after the expelled fellows returned was joseph addison, whose name is traditionally connected with the northern part of the magdalen walks, where the kingfisher "flashes adown the river, a flame of blue," and henry sacheverell, his friend and chamber-fellow. the former outlined the pacific policy of the hanoverians in the freeholder; for the latter, when he hung out his "bloody flag and banner of defiance" against the existing order, as for atterbury, oxford was loud with the cheers of "honest" men. for during the first half of the eighteenth century oxford was violently jacobite. john locke, who had been suspected of complicity in shaftesbury's design against the succession, and had been removed ( ) from his student's place at christ church in accordance with the directions of a royal mandate, had warned william that the good effects of the revolution would be lost if no care was taken to regulate the universities. but the hanoverians avoided oppressive measures. the tory wine club, under the cabalistic name of high borlace, to which no member of a whig college like wadham, christ church, exeter or merton might belong, was allowed to meet annually at the king's head tavern on th august to toast the king across the water and drink confusion to the rival constitution club. but the triumph of the whigs at the accession of george i. and the disappointment of "honest" men, led to a great riot on the first anniversary of the birthday of the new sovereign. "mobs paraded the streets, shouting for the pretender and putting a stop to every kind of rejoicing. the constitution club had gathered to commemorate the day at the king's head. the windows were illuminated and preparations made for a bonfire. tossing up their caps and scattering money among the rabble that flocked to the front of the hotel, the jacobite gownsmen egged them on with shouts of 'no george,' 'james for ever,' 'ormond,' or 'bolingbroke!' the faggots were torn to pieces, showers of brickbats were thrown into the clubroom. the constitutioners were glad to escape with their lives by a back-door. thus baffled the mob rolled on to attack all illuminated houses. every whig window was smashed. the meeting house was entered and gutted.... at last the mob dispersed for the night, publicly giving out that 'the glorious work' was left unfinished till to-morrow. the twenty-ninth of may was associated with too significant reminiscences to be allowed to pass in quiet. sunday though it was, the streets were filled with people running up and down with oak-boughs in their hats, shouting, 'king james, the true king. no usurper! the good duke of ormond.' the streets were brilliantly illuminated, and wherever disregard was shown to the mob's fiat, the windows were broken.... the crowds grew thicker and noisier towards even. a rumour had got abroad that oriel had given shelter to some of the constitutionalists. the mob rushed to the attack and threatened to break open the closely-barred gates. at this moment a shot from a window wounded one of the ringleaders, a gownsman of brasenose, and the crowd fled in confusion to break fresh windows, gut the houses of dissenters, and pull down the chapels of anabaptists and quakers" (green). the omission of rejoicings on the birthday of the prince of wales led to further disturbance. the major of a recruiting party then in oxford drew out his regiment to celebrate the day. they were attacked by the crowd, and were obliged to have resource to blank cartridges. the matter was made the occasion of a grand debate in the house of lords. but in the meantime the government had shown its appreciation of the dangerous disloyalty of oxford by dispatching major-general pepper thither with a number of dragoons, on the outbreak of mar's rebellion. martial law was at once proclaimed, and suitable measures were taken "to overawe the university." the crown had recently purchased bishop moore's magnificent library and presented it to cambridge. the difference in the treatment of the two universities inspired dr trapp, the first professor of poetry, to write the famous epigram: "the king, observing with judicious eyes the wants of his two universities, to oxford sent a troop of horse; and why? that learned body wanted loyalty. to cambridge books he sent, as well discerning how much that loyal body wanted learning." to which the cambridge wit, sir thomas browne, retorted with still greater neatness and point: "the king to oxford sent a troop of horse for tories own no argument but force; with equal care to cambridge books he sent, for whigs admit no force but argument." the famous county election of , when the jacobite rioters held the approach to broad street, but the whigs managed to slip through exeter college and so gain the polling booths, shows that oxford had not changed its sentiments, but when tory principles mounted the throne with george iii., jacobitism disappeared like a dream. the reign of toryism did little to promote the cause of learning or conduct. during the eighteenth century examinations for a degree were little better than a farce; "e'en balaam's ass if he could pay the fee, would pass," sang the poet. lecturers ceased to lecture; readers did not read. in many colleges scholars succeeded to fellowships almost as a matter of course, and tutors were as slow to enforce, as "gentlemen commoners" would have been swift to resent, any study or discipline as part of the education of a beau or buck. though oriel produced bishop butler, for oxford was still the home of genius as well as of abuses, the observance of religion dwindled down to a roll-call. and corrupt resignations of fellowships, by which the resigning fellow nominated his successor, in return for a fee, were paralleled in the city by wholesale corruption at elections. the mayor and aldermen in even had the effrontery to propose to re-elect their representatives in parliament for £ , the amount of the municipal debt! this bargain, in spite of a reprimand from the speaker and a committal to newgate for five days, they succeeded in striking with the duke of marlborough and lord abingdon. for the rest, it was the age of periwigs and patches, of coffee-houses and ale, of wine and common rooms, of pipes and newsletters, of a university aping the manners of london and bath in merton college gardens or the race-course of woodstock. bucks and bloods were succeeded by the smarts, whose beautiful existences terræ filius has described for us. called by the servitor at six, they tumbled out of bed, their heads reeling with the last night's debauch, to attend a chapel service. for the habit of early rising was still in vogue, and though a smart might rise late, his lateness seems early to us. for it was held disgraceful to be in bed after seven, though carried there over-night drunk but not disgraced. but the smart's breakfast was scarce over by ten; a few notes on the flute, a glance at the last french comedy, and in academic undress he is strolling to lyne's coffee-house. there he indites a stanza or a billet-doux to the reigning sylvia of the town; then saunters for a turn in the park or under merton wall, while the dull regulars, as amherst has it, are at dinner in hall according to statute. dinner in his rooms and an hour devoted to the elaborate business of dress, and the smart is ready to sally forth in silk-lined coat with laced ruffles at breast and wrist, red stockings and red-topped spanish leather shoes, and laced hat or square cap most rakishly cocked. so emerging from his rooms, with tripping gait and jaunty dangle of his clouded amber-headed cane, he is about to pay a visit to the coffee-house or parade before the windows of a toast when he stops to jeer at some ragged servitor of pembroke, a samuel johnson perhaps, going round shamefacedly in worn-out shoes to obtain second-hand the lectures of a famous christ church tutor, or a george whitefield, wrestling with the devil in christ church walks, or hesitating to join the little band of methodists who, with charles and john wesley of christ church and lincoln at their head, are making their way through a mocking crowd to receive the sacrament at s. aldate's, s. george's in the castle or s. mary's. but the smart cares for none of these things. sublimely confident in his own superiority he passes on; drinks a dram of citron at hamilton's, and saunters off at last to chapel to show how genteelly he dresses and how well he can chaunt. next he takes a dish of tea with some fair charmer, with whom he discusses, with an infinite nicety of phrase, whether any wears finer lace or handsomer tie-wigs than jack flutter, cuts a bolder bosh than tom paroquet, or plays ombre better than valentine frippery. thereafter he escorts her to magdalen walks, to merton or paradise gardens; sups and ends the night, loud in song, deep in puns, put or cards, at the mitre. whence, having toasted his mistress in the spiced cup with the brown toast bobbing in it, he staggers home to his college, "a toper all night as he trifles all day." meantime certain improvements were taking place in the city. under the commissioners act ( ) the streets were widened and paved, and most of the walls and gates removed--bocardo along with them. turnpike roads and the enclosures acts led to the disappearance of the highwaymen, by whom coaches, ere railways took the place of the "flying coach," which first went to london in one day "with a. w. in the same coach" ( ), had so frequently been held up near oxford. curiously enough highwaymen were most popular with the fair sex, and the cowardly ruffians occasionally returned the compliment so far as to allow them to ransom their jewels with a kiss. dumas, the prince of highwaymen, after capturing a coachful of ladies, was satisfied with dancing a coranto with each in turn upon the green. he was executed at oxford. he had maintained his nonchalance to the end; played "macheath" in the prison, and threw himself off at the gallows without troubling the hangman. it was not death, he declared, but being anatomised that he feared. and, lest their hero should be put to so useful a purpose, a large body of bargemen surrounded the scaffold, carried off the body in triumph to the parish church and buried it in lime forthwith. at length, after the age of reason and materialism, came the age of revival and romance. the spirit of mediævalism summoned up by sir walter, was typified in oxford architecture by sir gilbert scott and pugin. in the university the beginning of a new order of things, which was to end in throwing open the universities to the whole empire and rendering them on every side efficient places of education, was begun in by the system of honours lists, long advocated by reformers like john eveleigh of oriel and brought into being by the energy of cyril jackson, dean of christ church, and parsons, master of balliol. the work of nationalising the universities was developed by the two university commissions and by that "extension" movement, of which the pioneer was william sewell, a remarkable tutor of exeter, who, in , urged that "it may be impossible to bring the masses to the university, but may it not be possible to carry the university to the masses?" this development of the university, which must ever be closely connected with the name of dr jowett, master of balliol, and has received a further significance from the last testament of cecil rhodes, of oriel, is illustrated on every side by new buildings; by the indian institute, the nonconformist colleges, mansfield and manchester, the women's halls, the science buildings and the new foundation of hertford college, grafted on that of old hart hall and magdalen hall by mr baring. intellectually the spirit of revolt produced by the french revolution at the beginning of this period, is illustrated by the careers of shelley and landor, and the musical lyrics of swinburne; the deep questionings prompted by the tractarian movement are voiced in the poems of clough, keble and arnold. for in the first half of the nineteenth century there was a revival of spirituality, and men followed the lead, not of a wycliffe, an erasmus or a wesley, but of keble, pusey and newman. oriel college, whose fellowships were confined neither to members of the college nor, in most cases, to candidates from certain places, was the centre whence men like hurrell froude, keble's pupil, preached their doctrine of reaction; men who, finding the church of england in a very parlous state, counselled a return to what was best in mediævalism, and, protesting against the protestantism of the english church, taught newman to look with admiration towards the church of rome. the name of keble and the impulse which he gave to anglicanism are commemorated in keble college; the prominence of the chapel, which contains holman hunt's "light of the world," and the arrangement of the buildings emphasise the fact that it was founded to provide the poorer members of the church of england with higher education on church lines. the revival of mediævalism in religion was echoed by a revival of mediævalism in art. john ruskin, who had matriculated at christ church in , lectured intermittently as slade professor of art from till . william morris, "poet, artist, paper-hanger and socialist," came up to exeter in and there, in intimate friendship with sir edward burne-jones, looked out upon "the vision of grey-roofed houses and a long winding street and the sound of many bells," which was, for him, oxford. the two friends have left behind them signs of their genius in the famous tapestry at exeter chapel and in the windows of the cathedral; whilst at corpus and in the schools the great teacher gathered round him a circle of enthusiastic young men, and like an abelard, wycliffe, wesley or newman in the religious world, so advised and inspired them with his social and artistic gospel, that when, in pursuance of the old monastic principle "laborare est orare," he called upon them to mend a farmer's road at hincksey, they laid aside their bats and oars, and marched, with the professor at their head, to dig with spade and shovel. out of such inspiration grew the various university settlements in the east end of london, inaugurated by arnold toynbee. oxford owes much to the stimulating if incoherent teaching and the generosity of john ruskin,[ ] but architecturally his influence was responsible for several bad buildings in the would-be venetian style--the christ church new buildings and the natural history museum in the parks, for instance, proving deplorably enough that the critic was no creator. last, but not least, it is good to be able to record that city and university have gradually settled their differences. the new municipal buildings and the town hall in s. aldate's would seem, by their deliberate variety of styles, to give municipal sanction to every style of architecture that can be found in the university, and to look back upon the history of the town, and of the learned institution with which for good and evil it has been so closely connected, with no ungracious feeling. index abelard, peter, abingdon, village of, ; toll of herrings paid to monastery of, act of supremacy, addison, joseph, demy at magdalen, Æthelred, the unready, building of s. frideswide by, - agnellus of pisa, builder of first school of grey friars, , alfred, king, claim of, as founder of university, , ; relics of, , allen, dr thomas, astrologer, arthur, prince, son of henry vii., at oxford, bacon, roger, - balliol, sir john de, founder of balliol hall, , ; intended work of, carried out by widow, , bancroft, archbishop, chancellor, prohibition by, of long hair, and other reforms instituted by, barbers, regulations concerning, , barnes, joseph, new press at oxford set up by, barons, struggle of, with king, and effect of at university, _seq._ basset, alan, first endowment for oxford scholar provided by, beaumont, palace at, built by henry beauclerk, ; site of, ; grant of, to carmelite friars, , _bedford hall_, or charleton's inn, purchased for site of all souls', bells, famous osney, bible, authorised version, ---- bamberg, ---- mazarin, , _black assizes_, the, , _black death_, the, ; effect of, on learning, ; provisions against, in statutes of corpus christi, ; causes of, ; outbreaks of, , , , , ; regulations concerning, _blue boar_, the, old inn known as, _bocardo_, old gate house, used as prison, called, _passim_ bodley, thomas, founder of library, - bodleian library, formation of, _seq._; visit of james i. to, ; of charles i. and falkland, ; some rare books and treasures belonging to, ; building, and description, of, , ; extension of, by laud, ; preservation of, from injury by fairfax, botanic gardens, foundation of, _botany bay_, gardens known as, _brasenose hall_, purchased by university, brazen nose knocker, carried to hamford and back to oxford, , brethren of the holy trinity, settlement of, in oxford, _broad walk_, origin of name of, , brome, adam de, foundation of hall, afterwards king's hall, and oriel college by, burne-jones, e., works of, at oxford, , bury, richard de, founder of first public library in oxford, , , ; dispersion of books of, ; college proposed by, taken under edward iii.'s protection, campion, edmund, jesuit poet, funeral sermon of founder of s. john's preached by, _canditch_, origin of name, canterbury, early school of literature at, carfax, origin of name, , ---- tower, cathedral (see also under s. frideswide) ---- lady chapel of, , , ---- portions of, remains of s. frideswide's, ---- restoration of parts of, by sir gilbert scott, cathedral, latin chapel of, , ---- chapter-house of, ---- spire of, , catholic reaction, the, _seq._; two colleges due to, ; decrease of, after cranmer's death, _cat street_, now s. catherine's, caxton, press set up in westminster by, champeaux, william of, chancellor, jurisdiction of, _seq._; extension of jurisdiction of, - ; jurisdiction of, supreme over certain classes, ; penalties imposed by, , ; office of, made permanent and non-resident, chancellor's court, as held in mediæval times, , ---- cases brought before, , , chancellorship, first mention of, charles i., entertainment of, at s. john's, ; portrait of, ; plays performed in honour of, ; court held by, at oxford, _seq._; return to oxford of, after failing to take gloucester, ; desertion of, by his supporters, ; serious position of, ; rejection of advice to surrender by, ; disposition of army of, , ; unsuccessful move of, against abingdon, ; escape from oxford of, ; successes against essex of, ; defeat of, at newbury, ; retirement of, to oxford, ; escape in disguise from oxford of, ; handing over of, by the scots, ; order to oxford to surrender sent from, charles ii., keen interest in chemistry taken by, ; conferring of title on royal society by, ; refuge in oxford from plague taken by, ; parliament convened by, at, ; victory of, over exclusionist party, chichele, archbishop, colleges founded by, , , , ---- prosecution of war with france by, _chests_, kept in old congregation house, ; ceremony in connection with, - church property, seizure of, by wolsey, , churches, number of, in d'oigli's time, ; increase in number of, in henry i.'s time, ; old, of which no trace remains, s. aldate, , carfax, s. clement, "boiled rabbit," s. ebbe, remains of, s. frideswide, first site of, ; burning of, ; rebuilding of, by Æthelred, - ; restoration of, by robert of cricklade, ; description and date of architecture, , ; damage of, by fire, ; chapter-house of, ; school connected with, ; western bays of, destroyed by cardinal wolsey, , ; conversion of, into cathedral church of christ, s. giles', s. martin's, s. mary's, , ; university business transacted at, ; famous sermons preached at, ; older portions of, ; pinnacles added to, , ; buttresses and statues of, ; chancel and nave of, , ; convocation held in chancel of, ; erection of porch of, s. nicolas, s. peter's, crypt of, , ; chancel, porch, etc., of, , cobham, thomas, bishop of worcester, enlargement of s. mary's designed by, , ; books of, pawned for funeral expenses, ; dispute concerning same between oriel and the university, colet, john, course of lectures by, on epistles of s. paul, ; letter to erasmus from, colleges and halls-- _all souls'_, first foundation of, ; prominence to study of law and divinity given at, ; bedford hall purchased for site of, ; quadrangle of, ; codrington library, etc., of, _balliol_, first foundation of, , , ; regulations concerning scholars at, ; fellowships at, ; erection of buildings of, in fifteenth century, ; present chapel of, ; manuscripts brought to, by william grey from italy, _brasenose hall_, purchase of, ; conversion of, into college, ; famous knocker of, , ; foundation stone of college laid, _christ church_, founding of, by wolsey, , ; suppression of religious houses to procure the funds for, , ; laying of foundation stone of, ; hall, and other buildings of, ; migration of cambridge students to, , ; introduction of lutheran tenets by same, ; fortunes of, involved in fall of wolsey, , ; opposition of members of, to king's divorce, ; answer of king to wolsey concerning, ; later foundation of, ; court established at, by charles i., ; residence at, of charles ii., _corpus christi_, first of the renaissance colleges, ; foundation of, by richard foxe, bishop of winchester, , ; statutes of, ; provisions of, for teaching of new learning, , ; curious sun-dial at, ; sculpture over gateway at, ; connection of, with magdalen, _exeter_, first foundation of, ; statutes of, ; refounding of, ; modern buildings of, _jesus_, first protestant college, foundation of, by hugh rees, ; elizabeth, nominal foundress of, ; statutes of, _king's hall_, _lincoln_, first founding of, ; buildings of, as planned by bishop fleming and finished by john forest, dean of wells, ; remodelling of foundation of, ; famous sermon preached on behalf of, ; valuable book brought by robert fleming from italy to, _magdalen_ (s. mary magdalen), first foundation of, ; statutes of, - ; laying foundation stone of, ; wonderful old trees in "grove" at, ; arrangement of buildings of, ; "founder's tower" at, ; statutes of, based on those of new college, , ; visit of edward iv. to, ; of richard iii., ; of henry vii., ; old pieces of tapestry at, ; bell tower of, , ; wolsey's share in design of, ; obit for henry vii. kept by, ; ceremony at, on may day, , ; school of, , ; restoration of ejected fellows of, by james i., ; ceremony in commemoration of, ; refusal of, to accept president chosen by james ii., _seq._ _merton_, first foundation and statutes of, ; regulations of, , ; "secondary scholars" of, , ; revision of statutes of, by walter de merton, , ; remains of old buildings of, ; chapel of, , ; quadrangles of, , ; mediæval library of, , ; valuable books in possession of, ; "mob" quad. at, ; "poore scholars" at, ; buildings provided for commoners at, known as s. swithun's, , ; court held at, by henrietta maria, , ; residence at, of charles ii.'s queen, _new_, first foundation of, ; provisions of, as drawn up by william of wykeham, , ; plan of buildings of, , ; chapel windows of, ; ecclesiastical aspect of, ; cloisters of, converted into powder magazine, _oriel_, first foundation of, , ; buildings bought for, _s. john baptist_, foundation of, by sir thomas white, on site of old college of s. bernard, , , ; munificence of laud to, ; buildings at, by laud, ; loyalty of, to king, ; history of precious relic preserved at, ; colonnades of, _s. mary's_, erasmus at, ; dissolution of and conversion of building to other purposes, ; remains of ancient building of, ; present house on site of, _university_, earliest endowment, ; legend of foundation of, , ; lawsuit in connection with, , ; _french petition_, ; real founder of, ; incorporation of, ; statutes of, , ; removal of scholars of, to present abode, ; purchases of houses made by, , ; tenements acquired by, known as great and little university hall, and _cock on the hoop_, , ; fortune left to, by dr john radcliffe, , _wadham_, foundation of, by nicholas wadham, ; somersetshire men employed as builders on, ; style of building of, _worcester_, gloucester hall, afterwards s. john baptist hall, refounded as, ; hall, library and chapel of, ; beautiful gardens of, colleges and chantries made over to the king by parliament, , _commons and battels_, explanation of terms of, _commoners_, explanation of term of, ; increase in number of, _seq._; system of, first definitely recognised, - congregation house, old, _seq._; university library first lodged there, ; description of scene in, on appointment of new guardians of "chests," - convocation, or great congregation, held in chancel of s. mary's, convocation house, building of, by laud, constantinople, fall of, crafts and guilds, market stands appointed to different, , cranmer, archbishop, imprisonment and martyrdom of, - ; portrait of, cromwell, thomas, vicar-general of england, , cromwell, oliver, appearance of, near oxford, ; defeat of northampton by, ; of sir henry vaughan by, ; surrender of cavaliers at bletchington house to, ; visit to oxford of, to watch progress of reformation, _crown inn_, old, danes, massacre of, ; ravages of, , davenant, john, ---- sir william, shakespeare sponsor to, _de haeretico comburendo_, divinity, decline of study of, after restoration, divinity school, and library, erection of, , ; gifts towards, from cardinal beaufort and thomas kempe, bishop of london, , , divinity schools, parliament sitting at, d'oigli, robert, remains of castle of, ; possession of oxford by, ; houses owned by, ; restoring of fortifications by, ; description of, ; marriage of, ; castle of oxford built by, ; s. michael's tower built by, ; story of conversion of, , ; churches founded by, , ; landmarks left of time of, ; death of, and successor to, d'oigli, robert, nephew of above, ; story of wife of, , dress, regulations for, of different members of the university, , , _drogheda hall_, drunkenness, rise of, ; increase of, dudley, robert, earl of leicester, reforms instituted by, as chancellor, , dumas, highwayman, execution of, at oxford, _durham hall_, - ; dissolution of, by henry viii., durham monastery, students sent to oxford from, edmund, king, death of, , edmund, earl of cornwall, abbey of regulars founded by, edward ii., share of oxford in deposition of, edward iv., visit of, to magdalen, eglesfield, robert, foundation of queen's by, , ; statutes drawn up by, elizabeth, queen, accession of, ; needlework of, preserved in bodleian, ; deputation from university to, ; reception of, at oxford, , , ; leave-taking of, ; second visit of, to oxford, ; speech by, , ; departure of, , , erasmus, visit of, to oxford, ; reception of, ; description by, of oxford and scholars, ; works of, essex, advance upon oxford of, , ; occupation of abingdon by, ; defeat of, at gosworth bridge, ; defeat of, in cornwall, fairfax, sir thomas, investment of oxford by, ; withdrawal of, ; renewal of siege by, ; camp of, on headington hill, ; surrender of oxford to, ; visit of, to oxford to watch progress of reformation, fellows, ceremony gone through at all souls' previous to admittance as, , fleming, bishop, "collegiolum," beginning of lincoln college, founded by, ---- robert, compiler of græco-latin dictionary, _folly bridge_, , , foxe, richard, bishop of winchester, founder of corpus christi college, , ---- provision for teaching of new learning made by, , friars, coming of the, , ; influence of, ; academic studies of, ; conflict of, with university regarding degree of arts, , ---- austin, settlement of, in oxford, ---- black, lands and buildings granted to, ---- carmelite, first coming of, ; palace of beaumont granted to, , ---- library and church of, ---- crossed, or cruched, settlement of, in oxford, ---- grey, story of arrival of, in oxford, - ; benefactors of, , ; site chosen by, for settlements, ; _rule_ of, ; grant of henry iii. to, , ; convent of, ; first school of, ; libraries of, ; eminent men from schools of, , ---- penitentiarian, or brothers of the sack, arrival of, in oxford, and early suppression of, garret, thomas, lutheran, account of escape and arrest of, - gibbon, edward, historian, "gentleman commoner" at magdalen, giraldus cambrensis, visit to oxford of, , ; account of same by, _gloucester hall_, history of, , (see worcester college) godstow village, and remains of nunnery of, great schism, the, greek, introduction of study of, into england, _greeks and trojans_, representatives of old and new learning so called, grey, william, manuscripts brought from italy by, grinling gibbons, carvings by, in queen's library, ; in trinity chapel, grossetete, robert, , ; authority of, over university, ; intervention of, on behalf of university, guarino of verona, pupils of, from oxford, gunpowder plot, halls, origin of old names of, hampden, death of, hanoverians, pacific policy of, harold, cnut's successor, death of, at oxford, hawksmoor, nicholas, architect, , , haydock, richard, pretence of, to miraculous preaching, henry beauclerk, , henry ii., ; quarrel of, with becket, , ; encouragement to literary culture given by, , ---- iii., support given to, by oxford dominicans, ; struggle of, with barons, _seq._ ---- v. at queen's college, ---- vii., visit to oxford of, ; endowment of university by, in return for memorial service, ; munificence of, ; gift of, towards magdalen bell tower, ; obit established by, for widow of warwick, the king-maker, ; obit kept for, by magdalen, ---- viii., call on university for judgment concerning divorce by, , ; marriage of, declared void, ; refusal of, to despoil the colleges, hermitage of "our lady in the wall," _high street_, _holywell manor_, hospitals and hermitages, various, in oxford, hostels, halls practically, ; regulations concerning, hoton, richard of, prior of durham monastery, erection of college by, _house of converts_, foundation of, by henry iii., ; later converted into "blue boar," ; site of, occupied by modern town hall, houses, built of stone by jews, and after great fire, ; description of, by wood, ; names of, according to structure, humphrey, duke of gloucester, acquisition by university of library of, , , ; death of, ; three books only of remaining in bodleian library, ; loss and destruction of remaining ones, hyde, edward, earl of clarendon, historian of the great rebellion, , inigo jones, gateway of physic garden, designed by, ; colonnades and garden front of s. john's by, ; scenery of interludes arranged by, inns, old, , irishmen, statute ordering, to quit the realm, ; exemption of irish students from, ; complaints against, jackson, t. g., architect, james i., visit of, to bodleian, and gift of, to library, - ; visit of, to oxford with queen and prince henry, ; letters patent to university, granted by, ; play performed in honour of, ---- ii., accession of, ; endeavour of, to transform the university into a roman catholic seminary, _seq._; election of president of magdalen by, ; visit to oxford of, to enforce obedience from fellows of magdalen, ; change of policy of, and restoration of ejected fellows by, jewry, deadly feud of, with priory of s. fridewide, , jewries, great and little, boundaries of, jews, protection enjoyed by, , ; wealth and insolence of, ; persecution and banishment of, ; place of burial granted to, jousts, or tourneys, reason for forbidding, , jurisprudence, revival of study of, kempe, thomas, bishop of london, gift towards completion of divinity school and library from, , _king's mead_, laud, william, archbishop, election of, as chancellor, ; statutes of, ; university reforms of, , ; suppression of puritanism by, ; general reforms of, ; munificence of, in gifts, endowments, etc., learning, state of, during early middle ages, , lewes, battle of, linacre, thomas, lollardism, centre of, at oxford, , ; stamping out of, ; continued support of, in oxford, and final suppression of, - ; students' riots in connection with, lutheranism, introduction of, by cambridge students, ; measures taken to stamp out, ; arrest of adherents of, - ; proscription of heretical books, _mad parliament_, the, meeting of, in convent of black friars, margaret, countess of richmond, foundation of colleges by, ; of readerships at oxford and cambridge, marsh (de marisco) adam, , marston moor, battle of, martyr, catherine, wife of peter, _martyrs' memorial_, mary, queen, prosecution of protestants by, _seq._ master of arts, first mention of degree of, matilda, queen, besieged by stephen, ; escape of, from oxford castle, merton, walter de, founder of merton college, _seq._; statutes of, , more, thomas, , ; execution of, morris, william, , naseby, battle of, new learning, the, at oxford, , ; oxford students attracted to italy by, ; opposition of old learning to, ; king and wolsey supporters of, , northampton, defence of, by students during wars of the barons, _northerners_ and _southerners_, main division of students into, ; encounters between, - ; respective attitudes of, towards lollardism, old learning, rise of, against greek and heresy, osney, monastery of, tale in connection with foundation of, , ; beauty of, ; destruction of, , ; picture of, in old window, ; famous bells of, , ; mill at, used for powder factory, _our lady in the wall_, old hermitage known as, oxford, town of, legend of origin of, , ---- vill. of, early existence of, ; first religious community at, ; first mention of, ; old boundaries and roads of, ; old tower of castle mound of, ; natural defences of, , ; gemots held at, , ; assembly held at, to appoint cnut's successor, ; death of harold at, ; submission of, to conqueror, ; record of, in domesday book, , ; old wall of fortification of, , ; old entrance to, ---- castle of, ; additions to, and remains of, ; romantic episode connected with, , ; position of, , ---- charter granted to, by henry ii., , ; crafts and guilds of, - ---- quarrel of town of, with university, and penalty imposed on, for usurping jurisdiction, , , ; insanitary condition of, in early times, ; description of streets of, in mediæval times, ; penalties incurred by citizens of, after riot on s. scholastica's day, ; charter of, taken from and restored to, by henry viii., ; reforms at, as to licensing, etc., introduced by laud, ; sympathies of, with parliaments, , ; entry into, of parliamentary troops, , ; evacuation of, by same, ; entry into, of royalist troops, ; plan of defences at, ; court established at, ; description of spectacle presented by, at this time, - ; sitting of parliaments at, ; gaieties at, , ; mustering of royalists at, ; siege of, by fairfax, , ; surrender of, ; honourable terms granted to, by fairfax, ; parliament convened at, ; rise in price of provisions at, ; jacobite riots at, - ; later improvement at, , _oxford gazette_, first appearance of, oxford, university of, possible origin of, ; origin of, as given by rous, and in historica, , ; controversy as to priority of, , ; alfred as founder of, , ; independence of, ; account of, by giraldus cambrensis, , ; migration to, of scholars from paris, , , ; quarrel of, with town regarding ecclesiastical jurisdiction, , ; penalty imposed on, , ; second migration to, of scholars from paris, ; privileges and customs of, , ; first houses bought by, , ; spirit of, as opposed to spirit of church, ; rise of scholastic philosophy at, ; support of lollardism by, _seq._; articles drawn up by, for reform of church, , ; representatives of, at constance, ; precincts of, as defined in reign of henry iv., ; classes held to be "of the privilege of," , ; number of scholars at, ; attitude of, during barons' war, ; during struggle between edward ii. and the supporters of the queen, ; further privileges secured by, after riot on s. scholastica's day, , , ; effect of lawlessness of students upon, ; reforms adopted by, ; causes of decay in prosperity of, ; stagnation at, in fifteenth century, ; political time-serving of, ; gifts to, by henry vii., ; change in character of, at close of middle ages, ; charter granted to, at request of wolsey, ; grievances arising from favour shown by crown to, , ; struggle arising from grant of charter to, , ; repeal of same, ; confirmation of old charter of, and fresh disturbances at, , ; called on to decide in favour of separation from rome, ; learning at, checked by early development of reformation, ; charter of, taken over by king, and restored, ; visitation of, in , ; enforcement of "edwardian statutes" at, ; reception of queen elizabeth by, , ; feuds at, between roman catholics and calvinists, ; letters patent granted to, by james i., ; support of absolutism by, ; revision of statutes of, by laud, ; recovery of popularity by, under laud, ; support of royalists' cause by, _seq._; defence of city undertaken by, , ; council of war formed by, ; offer of, to laydown arms, ; escape of volunteers belonging to, before the siege, ; liberties and privileges guaranteed to, by fairfax, ; elections suspended at, by parliament, ; deplorable condition of, ; parliamentary commission to, _seq._; royal commission to, ; gift of arundel marbles to, ; drunkenness and general degeneracy at, ; resistance of, to james i.'s policy, ; depreciation of learning at, during reign of toryism, , ; description of life at, , ; revival of new order of things at, ; development of, , ; revival of spirituality at, ; of mediævalism, papal legate, arrival of, at oxford, ; flight of, ; english shores forbidden to, paris, university at, ; famous scholars at, , ; development from schools of notre dame of, ; migration from, owing to king's quarrel with becket, , ; further migration from, of scholars, parsons, robert, dissemination of romanist literature by, peasant revolt, , _perilous hall_, bought by oriel, penn, william, endeavour of, to bring about a compromise between james i. and fellows of magdalen, philargi, peter (alexander v.), only graduate of oxford or cambridge who became pope, physic garden, first land set apart for study of plants, , ; trees, etc., grown in, _pie-powder court_, plays, first acting of, in colleges and halls, ; performed in honour of royalty, poets laureate, rhetoricians so styled, popery, enforcement of edwardian statutes against, , , _port meadow_, printing, lack of encouragement of, at oxford, , proctors, first mention of, ; office of, protestantism (see also under lutheranism), enforcement of, at oxford under edwardian statutes, , ; reaction against, pullen, robert, lectures of, on bible, puritanism, growth of, in oxford, ; suppression of, by laud, ; struggle of, with high church party, , radcliffe, dr john, court physician, radcliffe quadrangle, infirmary, observatory, and library, rede, william, bishop of chichester, gift of library to merton by, reynolds, sir joshua, windows by, rich, edmund, story of, - richard iii., visit of, to magdalen, richard, earl of cornwall, foundation endowed by, ridley and latimer, martyrdom of, - robert of cricklade, restoration of s. frideswide by, robsart, amy, death of, roger de mortimer, roman catholics, proceedings against, , rood, theodore, of cologne, first oxford press set up by, , rotherham, thomas, chancellor of cambridge and archbishop of york, foundation of lincoln remodelled by, rous, john, old chronicler, account of origin of oxford by, _rowley abbey_, foundation of, by friars, ; dissolution and remains of, royal society, the, , ; title conferred on, by charles ii., rufinus, tyrannius, work by, being the first book issued from the oxford press, rupert, prince, daring raid of, , ; surrender of bristol to, ; defeat of, at marston moor, ; solace of, in old age, ruskin, john, revival of mediævalism in art by, ; indebtedness of oxford to, ; influence of, on architecture, saint aldate's road, , ; old house in, saint bartholomew, hospital of, foundation of, by henry i., ; ceremony on may day at, ; relics preserved at, , ; base use of, by parliamentarians, ; restoration of, , ; remains of, saint frideswide, legend of, saint frideswide, shrine of, ; destruction of, , ; new shrine of, ---- illustration of tale of, in window by burne-jones, ; translation of relics of, ---- priory of, suppression through wolsey's agency of, , ---- fair of, revival of, _saint george's tower_, old castle of oxford known as, _s. john the baptist_, hospital of, , _s. michael's tower_, , say, lord, parliamentary lord lieutenant of oxford, enters town with troops, ; evacuation of town by, science, propagation of, at university after restoration, scholastic philosophy, methods of, , ; schools of, - ; final downfall of, , _scotists_ and _thomists_, rival camps of, , scott, sir gilbert, , , , selling, william, introduction of study of greek by, ; pupils of, shakespeare, as sponsor to sir william davenant, . simnal, lambert, simon de montfort, support by oxford franciscans of, ; terms of reform drawn up by, , ; country in hands of, ; espousal by universities of cause of, ; rise of, to head of the state, skelton, john, poet, , ; attitude of, towards wolsey, , ; position in court held by, _spicer hall_, known later as university hall, stamford, migration of scholars to, ; famous brazen nose knocker carried to, stampensis, theobaldus, lecturer, stapleton, walter de, bishop of exeter, foundation of hall, afterwards exeter college, by, stephen of blois, election of, as king, ; oxford besieged by, stillington, bishop, submission to henry vii.'s demands by, _stockwell street_, students, mediæval, studies of, carried on at different centres, , ; journey to, and arrival in oxford, , ; rents and prices regulated in favour of, ; entrance into university life of, ; ceremony of initiation among, , ; daily life of, _seq._; one meal a day of, ; restrictions on amusements of, , , ; punishments inflicted on, , ; dress of, , ; different grades of, ; main division between, ; revolt of, against masters, ; conflicts of, with citizens, _seq._; political significance of riotings of, ; resistance to papal interference of, ; disturbances among, during barons' war, _seq._; espousal of de montford's cause by, ; defence of northampton by, ; terrible riot of, with citizens on s. scholastica's day, - ; religious conflicts between, ; effect of lawlessness of, on university, ; reforms necessitated by, students, new class of, introduced after the restoration, , sweating sickness, , , _tackley's inn_, bought by oriel, tapestry, old piece of, at magdalen, thames, old branches of, , tiptoft, john, earl of worcester, present of mss. from, _tom, great_, bell called, , _tom quad_, , _tom tower_, building of, ; cupola of, by wren, _town_ and _gown_, riots between, _seq._; riot between, on s. scholastica's day, - travelling, dangers of, in old times, tristrope, john, famous sermon on behalf of lincoln college by, _turl_, the, origin of name, university (see under oxford) ---- library, lodged in _old congregation house_, ; removal of, to duke humphrey's library, ; methods of securing and preserving books belonging to, , ; catalogue of, ; statutes concerning, , ; gift to, by humphrey, duke of gloucester, ; books and manuscripts from italy brought to, ; gift of manuscripts from laud to, vacarius, lectures on civil law given by, in england, ; order to cease from lecturing received by, from stephen, vitelli, cornelio, introduction of polite literature into schools of oxford by, vives, juan luis, first professor of humanity at corpus christi, , waller, ; army of, crushed at copredy bridge, waterhouse, mr, architect, waynflete, william patten, or, barbour of, bishop of winchester, foundation of hall of s. mary magdalen by, ; resignation of chancellorship by, ; statutes drawn up by, - william, archdeacon of durham, founder of university college, , , william of wykeham, fashion of erection of pinnacles set by, ; foundation of s. mary, or new college, by, ; life and works of, _seq._ wolsey, thomas, cardinal, building of _tom quad_ by, , ; destruction of western bays of s. frideswide by, , ; fellow and senior bursar of magdalen, ; attacks on, by skelton, , ; charter to university granted at request of, ; foundation of christ church by, ; seizure of church property for same, , ; downfall of, , ; appeal of, to king, concerning his college, wood, anthony, historian of oxford, , ; quotations from, _passim_ woodstock, palace and park, construction of, by henry beauclerk, wren, sir christopher, cupola of tom tower by, ; architect of trinity, ; deputed to carry letter of thanks to henry howard for gift of arundel marbles, ; marks of his genius left on oxford, , wycliffe, john, _seq._; position of, at oxford and at court, ; alliance of, with lancastrian party, ; summons to, for erroneous teaching, , ; opposition to papacy declared by, ; religious movement started by, , ; attack on friars by, , ; heretical doctrines of, and conflict of, with church, _seq._; death of, ; remains of, dug up and burnt, printed by turnbull and spears, edinburgh footnotes: [ ] _cornhill magazine._ [ ] pie-powder court--a summary court of justice held at fairs, when the suitors were usually country clowns with dusty feet--(_pied poudré_). [ ] the earliest mention of oxford occurs in the anglo-saxon chronicle under the year . it is there spelt oxnaforda and oxanforda, and in domesday book it is spelt oxeneford. coins from eadward's day onwards show that ox at least was regarded as an essential element in the word, and it is most easy to assume that the place was called after the ford of the oxen in the river here. but the easiest explanation is seldom the best. and a rival theory explains the name as a corruption of ouse-ford, or ousen-ford, _i.e._, the ford over the river. for the evidence is strongly in favour of the probability that the name ouse was at one time applied to the thames, which indeed has one of the dialectic forms of the word ouse retained in it, viz. tam-_ese_, though the theory that the junction of the isis or ouse and thame made tamisis = thames, is fanciful. the other form of the word is retained in the oseneye of osney abbey, and a tributary stream retains the hardened form ock. therefore ousen-ford or oxen-ford may mean the river-ford. there is no certainty in these matters, but the latter derivation commends itself most. [see parker's "early oxford" (o.h.s.), to which i have been frequently indebted in the first part of this chapter.] [ ] the manor took its name from a well that lay to the north side of the church of s. cross. the manor-house, itself (near the racquet courts) was recently used as a public-house, called the cock-pit, because there was a pit where the citizens of oxford fought their mains. it was afterwards converted into a penitentiary, a home for fallen women. traces of the holy well have recently been discovered beneath the new chapel. [ ] the wall is clearly traceable between and high street. the passage by no. is a piece of the old royal way under the walls. this way can be traced in king's street from its western edge to the gardens of the small houses facing the new examination schools. it occurs again in ship street, from jesus college stables to the rear of the houses facing them, and again between the divinity school and the west front of the theatre. (see hurst, "topography.") [ ] the crypt, which had been beneath the apse of the chapel, was afterwards replaced approximately in its position, north-east of the tower. the capitals of the four dwarf pillars which support the groining are interesting, and should be compared and contrasted with those in s. peter's in the east. [ ] the original crypt is preserved and a norman arcade, east of the north aisle. [ ] aldrich was a man of remarkable and versatile talents. the author of admirable hand-books on logic, heraldry and architecture, he was equally skilled in chemistry and theology. in music he earned both popularity and the admiration of musicians by his catches, services and anthems; and as an architect he has left his mark on oxford, in peckwater quadrangle (ch. ch.) and all saint's church. as a man of sense he loved his pipe, and wrote an amusing catch to tobacco; as a wit he gave five good reasons for not abstaining from wine: "a friend, good wine, because you're dry because you may be, by and bye;-- or any other reason why." it was under aldrich that the battle of the books arose, the great literary controversy, which began with the immature work of a christ church student and ended with the masterpieces of swift and bentley. [ ] it was probably built for him. some of the original tudor work remains, but the greater part of the visible portions are rough jacobean imitation, of the year . [ ] during the restoration of the cathedral in a remarkable crypt was discovered beneath the paving of the choir. it was but seven feet long by five and a half, and contained lockers at each end. it has been most reasonably supposed that this was a secret chamber, where the university chest was deposited. this crypt, situated between the north and south piers of the tower, was covered up after investigation. the site of it recalls the time when charitable people were founding "chests" to help the education of the poor. grossetete in issued an ordinance regulating s. frideswide's chest, which received the fines paid by the citizens. from this and other charitable funds loans might be made to poor scholars on security of books and so forth, no interest being charged. charity thus entered into competition with the usury of the jews, who had to be restrained by law from charging _over per cent._ on loans to scholars ( ). [ ] the vintnery, the quarter of taverns and wine cellars, which was at the north end of s. aldate's, flourished mightily. the students, for all their lust of knowledge, were ever good samplers of what rabelais calls the holy water of the cellar. you might deduce that from the magnificent cellars of the mitre inn or bulkley hall (corner of s. edward's street) and above all from those of the old vintnery. for the houses north of the town hall have some splendid cellars, which connect with another under the street, and so with others under the first house on the west side of s. aldgate's, the famous old swindlestock (siren or mermaid inn). these are good specimens of early fifteenth century vaults. it is supposed that when these cellars were dug, the earth was thrown out into the street and there remained in the usual mediæval way. this, it is maintained, accounts for the hill at carfax. certainly the earliest roadway at carfax is traceable at the unexpected depth of eleven feet seven inches below the present high road, which is some three and a half feet below what it should be according to the average one foot per hundred years observed by most mediæval towns as their rate of deposit. [ ] wycliffe, we know, appeared before parliament, and there is a writ of edward i. requiring the chancellor to send "quattuor vel quinque de discretioribus et in jure scripto magis expertes universitatis" to parliament. [ ] "universitas est plurium corporum collectio inter se distantium uno nomine specialiter eis deputata" is the well-known definition of hugolinus. the term "studium generale" or "studium universale" came into use, so far as documents are any guide, in the middle of the thirteenth century (denifle). earlier, and more usually however, the word "studium" was used to describe a place where a collection of schools had been established. the epithet "generale" was used, apparently, to distinguish the merely local schools of charlemagne from those where foreign students were permitted and even encouraged to come, as they were, for instance, at naples by frederick ii. so that a university or seat of general study was a place whither students came from every quarter for every kind of knowledge. [ ] this term faculty, which originally signified the capacity (facultas) to teach a particular subject, came to be applied technically to the subject itself or to the authorised teachers of it viewed collectively. a university might include one or all of the "faculties" of theology, law, medicine and the liberal arts, although naturally enough each of the chief universities had its own particular department of excellence. a complete course of instruction in the seven liberal arts, enumerated in the old line "lingua, tropus, ratio, numerus, tonus, angulus, astra," was intended as a preparation for the study of theology--the main business of oxford as of paris university. the arts were divided into two parts, the first including the three easier or "trivial" subjects--grammar, rhetoric and logic; the second the remaining four--arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy. [ ] the example of william of durham as the first englishman to bequeath funds to enable the secular clergy to study theology was soon followed by others. william hoyland, one of the bedels of the university, left his estate to the university, and ( ) walter gray, archbishop of york, also bequeathed his property to it. [ ] a portrait of dr radcliffe, by sir godfrey kneller, hangs over the doorway. the building was used at first to house works on natural history, physical science and medicine, for it was radcliffe's object to encourage these studies. the library was therefore known as the physic library. this has been removed to the university museum, and the camera, or "the radcliffe" as it is familiarly called, is now used as a reading-room in connection with the bodleian. it is open for the use of students daily from ten to ten. visitors to oxford are recommended to climb to the roof and obtain the magnificent panoramic view of the city and neighbourhood which it commands. [ ] worcester street--stockwell street (stoke-well, the well which afterwards rejoiced in the name of plato's, as opposed to aristotle's well, half a mile off). east of the well was the rough land known till quite recently as broken hayes. [ ] it was enacted ( ) that the regents in two faculties, with a majority of the non-regents, should have the power to make a permanent statute binding on the whole university. this system was calculated to drown the friars. it was confirmed by the arbitrators ( ), who ordered, however, that the majority should consist of three faculties instead of two, of which the faculty of arts must be one. [ ] founded in by simon islip, archbishop of canterbury, to be a nursery for "that famous college of christ church in canterbury." the doric gateway--canterbury gate--which leads from merton street into the canterbury quad. of christ church, in which mr gladstone once had rooms, recalls the name of this benedictine foundation. the old buildings were removed in ; the present gateway was designed by wyatt, chiefly at the expense of dr robinson, archbishop of armagh. [ ] "wycliffe, and movements for reform." poole. [ ] called after the "famous postern gate" (twirl-gate), pulled down in . [ ] pennilesse bench. this was a row of stalls and seats erected outside the church for the convenience of the market folk. a church, in mediæval days, was always the centre of commerce; stalls and even dwellings were frequently built on to the outside walls of a famous fane. visitors to nuremberg will remember the bratwurstglöcklein there. ("story of nuremberg," p. .) [ ] vid. _quarterly review_, jan. . [ ] two m.a.'s who were taking part in the final exercise for their degree were chosen, one by each proctor, to make a latin speech, one on the saturday of the act, the other on the monday. these speeches were supposed to be humorous and were more often merely exhibitions of scurrilous buffoonery. [ ] see professor case's admirable "enquiry concerning the pinnacled steeple of the university church." [ ] the present ones ( ) are a compromise, and repeat the fault. [ ] "when that is done," hearne adds, "they knock at all the middle chambers where most of the seniors lodge, of whom they demand crowns apiece, which is readily given, then they go with twenty or thirty torches upon the leads of the college, where they sing their song as before. this ended they go into their common rooms and make themselves merry with what wine every one has a mind to." according to tradition, a mallard was found in a drain when the foundations of the college were laid, and prof. burrows has ingeniously explained the origin of this tradition as arising from the discovery of a seal with the impression of a griffin, _malardi clerici_, when a drain was being dug. [ ] old dr kettell of trinity used to carry a pair of scissors in his muff, and snip off the long locks of his scholars with these, or with a bread knife on the buttery hatch. [ ] his pastoral staff of silver gilt, adorned with fine enamels, survives, and is carried before the bishop of winchester whenever he comes to visit the college. a good portrait of the founder hangs in the warden's lodgings. [ ] this is the old name (cattorum vicus) of the street which has now been made over to s. catherine. a similar instance of the "genteel" tendency to eschew monosyllables and not to call things by their proper names is afforded by the attempts to call hell passage, s. helen's. this is not due to a love of saints, but to the "refinement" of the middle classes, who prefer white sugar to brown. in the middle ages men called a spade a spade. the names of the old streets in london or paris would set a modern reader's hair on end. but they described the streets. at oxford the quakers ( ) first settled in new inn hall street, but it was then known as the lane of the seven deadly sins. [ ] it was after this patroness of learning that lady margaret's hall was called. it was founded at the same time as somerville hall (opened , woodstock road) as a seminary for the higher education of women. lady margaret's hall and s. hugh's hall are in norham gardens. the latter, like s. hilda's (the other side of magdalen bridge), is also for female students, who have been granted the privilege of attending university lectures and of being examined by the university examiners. [ ] _cf._ "magdalen college." h. a. wilson. [ ] among the accounts of the vice-chancellor is found the following item: "in wine & marmalade at the great disputations xd." & again, "in wine to the doctors of cambridge s." [ ] in stakes and ashes, however, were found also immediately opposite the tower gateway of balliol, and this spot was marked in the eighteenth century as the site of the martyrdom. another view is that the site was, as indicated by wood, rather on the brink of the ditch, near the bishop's bastion, behind the houses south of broad street. there were possibly two sites. i do not think that there is anything to show that latimer and ridley were burned on exactly the same spot as cranmer. if cranmer died opposite the college gateway, the site marked, but more probably the third suggested site, near the bishop's bastion, may be that where ridley and latimer perished. [ ] the door of the bishops' hole is preserved in s. mary magdalen church. [ ] most of the pictures and works of art have been transferred to the university galleries, opposite the randolph hotel (beaumont street); the natural science collections, including the great anthropological collection of general pitt rivers, to the science museum in the parks ( ). [ ] "the crown piece struck at oxford in has on the reverse, relig. prot. leg. ang. or ang. liber. par, in conformity with charles' declaration that he would 'preserve the protestant religion, the known laws of the land, and the just privileges and freedom of parliament.' but the coin peculiarly called the oxford crown, beautifully executed by rawlins in , has underneath the king's horse a view of oxford" (boase). [ ] on this occasion lady castlemaine lodged in the rooms of dr gardiner, who built the fountain afterwards known as mercury in tom quad, from the statue set up there by dr radcliffe. [ ] terræ filius, . [ ] see the ruskin art school in the art museum with the collection of turner's drawings and water colours. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: facade=> façade {pg } anyrate=> any rate {pg } rewly=> rewley {pg , } succeeeding=> succeeeding {pg } fomerly=> formerly {pg } wherin=> wherein {pg } by a a kind=> by a kind {pg } nuts to crack; or, quips, quirks, anecdote and facete of oxford and cambridge scholars. by the author of "facetiÆ cantabrigienses," etc. etc. etc. _philadelphia_: e. l. carey & a. hart. . preface. though i intend this preface, prelude, or proem shall occupy but a single page, and be a _facile_ specimen of the _multum in parvo_ school, i find i have so little to say, i might spare myself the trouble of saying that little, only it might look a little odd (excuse my nibbing my pen) if, after writing a book, which by the way, may prove no book at all, i should introduce it to my readers,--did i say "readers?"--what a theme to dilate upon! but stop, stop, mr. exultation, nobody may read your book, _ergo_, you will have no readers. humph! i must nib my pen again. cooks, grocers, butchers, kitchenmaids, the roast! let brighter visions rise: methink i see it grace every room _peckwater_ round: methink i see, wherever _mighty tom_ sonorous peals forth his solemn "come, come, come!" the sons of oxon fly to _tallboys'_ store, or _parker's_ shelves, and cry "_the_ book, _the_ book!" methink i see in granta's streets a crowd for _deighton's_ and for _stevenson's_--anon, "_the_ book, _the_ book," they cry "give us _the_ book!" "_quips, quirks, and anecdotes?_" "aye, that's _the_ book!" and, then, methink i see on camus' side, or where the isis by her christ church glides, or charwell's lowlier stream, methink i see (as did the spanish prince of yore a son of salamanca beat his brow) some _togaed_ son of alma mater beat, aye, laugh and beat his brow. and then, like philip, i demand the cause? and then he laughs outright, and in my face he thrusts a book, and cries, "sir, read, read, read, ha, ha, ha, ha!" and stamps and laughs the while;--and then, ye gods, it proves to be _the_ book,--_quips, quirks, and anecdotes_--ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! i cry you mercy, sirs, read, read, read, read! from eton, harrow, winchester, and west, come orders thick as autumn leaves e'er fell, as larks at dunstable, or egypt's plagues. the row is in commotion,--all the world rushes by _amen corner_, or _st. paul's_: how like a summer-hive they go and come: the very chapter's caught the stirring theme, and, like king james at christ church, scents a hum.[ ] e'en caxton's ghost stalks forth to beg a tome, and _wynkyn's_ shroud in vain protests his claims. "there's not a copy left," cries _whitt's_ or _long's_, as caxton bolts with the extremest tome, and wynkyn, foiled, shrinks grimly into air, veil'd in a cloud of scarce black-letter lore. had galen's self, sirs, _ab origine_, or Æsculapius, or the modern school of pharmacopoeians drugged their patients thus, they long ago, aye, long ago, had starved; your undertakers had been gone extinct, and churchyards turned to gambol-greens, forsooth. mirth, like good wine, no help from physic needs:--blue devils and ennui! ha, ha, ha, ha! didst ever taste champagne? then laugh, sirs, laugh,--"laugh and grow fat," the maxim's old and good: the stars sang at their birth--"ha, ha, ha, ha!" i cry you mercy, sirs, _the_ book, _the_ book, _quips, quirks, and anecdotes_. oxonians hear! "ha, ha, ha, ha!" let granta, too, respond. what would you more? _the_ book, sirs, read, read, read. 'tis true, my work's a diamond in the rough, and that there still are _sparkling bits_ abroad, by wits whose wages _may not be to die_, would make it, aye, the very _book of books!_ let them, anon, to _cornhill_ wend their way (p.p.) to cut a figure in ed. sec. d, or th, from isis or from cam. what if they say, as maudlin cole of boyle, because some christ-church wits adorned his page with their chaste learning, "'_tis a chedder cheese made of the milk of all the parish_,"--sirs, d'ye think i'd wince and call them knave or fool? methink i'd joy to spur them to the task! methink i see the mirth-inspired sons of christ-church and the rest, penning rich puns, bon-mots, and brave conceits, for ages have, at oxon, "borne the bell," and oft the table set in _royal_ roar. methink i see the wits of camus, too, go laughing to the task,--and then, methink, o! what a glorious toil were mine, at last, to send them trumpet-tongued through all the world! [ ] sir isaac wake says in his _rex platonicus_, that when james the first attended the performance of a play in the hall of christ-church, oxford, the scholars applauded his majesty by clapping their hands and _humming_. the latter somewhat surprised the royal auditor, but on its being explained to signify applause, he expressed himself satisfied. contents. page was oxford or cambridge first founded? origin of this celebrated controversy died of literary mortification sir simon d'ewes on antiquity of cambridge _ib._ gone to jerusalem cutting retort--liberty a plant , a tailor surprised--declining king george, &c. classical _jeu d'esprit_--trait of barrow inveterate smokers lover of tobacco--a wager, &c. , newton's toast--piety of ray devil over lincoln--radcliffe's library traits of dr. bathurst--his whip, &c. smart fellows _ib._ epigram--tell us what you can't do? , first woman introduced into a cloister cambridge scholar and ghost of scrag of mutton comparisons are odious jaunt down a patient's throat--difference of opinion , petit-maitre physician--anecdote of porson [greek: ou tode oud allo]--aliquid--di-do-dum bishop heber's college puns _ib._ effect of broad-wheeled wagon, &c. queen elizabeth and the men of exeter college, &c. oxonians posed--lapsus grammaticæ latin to be used--habit--concussion comic picture of provost's election sir, dominus, magistri, sir greene husbands beat their wives--attack on ladies doings at merton--digging graves with teeth doctor's gratitude to horse--john sharp's rogue said as how you'd see--much noise as please , mad peter-house poet--grace cup , tertiavit--capacious bowl--horn diversion bibulous relique--christian custom--feast days walpole at cambridge--college dinner th century , black night--force of imagination--absent habits , anecdotes of early cambridge poets cromwell's pear-tree, &c. stung by a b--dr. p. nest of saxonists pleasant mistake--minding roast college exercise--bell--fun--tulip-time , king of denmark--king william iv. visit cambridge , queen elizabeth's visit to oxford and cambridge , first dissenter in england first english play extant by cambridge scholar christ-church scholars invented moveable scenes james i. at oxford and cambridge divinity act--latin comedy , case of precedence--smothered in petticoats , brief account of boar's head carols celebration of, at queen's college, oxon cleaving block--being little , traits of porson--wakefield--clarke , blue beans--university bedels--dr. bentley , great gaudy all-souls mallard oxford dream--compliments to learned men , point of etiquette--value of syllable , cocks may crow--profane scoffers jemmy gordon--oxford wag , cambridge frolics--black rash , old grizzle wig--shooting anecdotes , bishop watson's progress--paley, &c. , oxford hoax--good saying , walpole a saint--oxford famous for its sophists, &c. laconic vice--usum oxon--pert oxonians , corrupted latin tongue--surpassed aristotle, &c. set aristotle heels upwards--art of cutting , soldiers at oxford disputation, &c. captain rag--dainty morsels , answered in kind--powers of digestion , inside passenger--traits of paley , lord burleigh and dissenters--sayings , porson--greek protestants at oxon , cambridge folk--gyps--drops of brandy--dessert for twenty, &c. , parr's eloquence--address--vanity, &c. trick of the devil--three classical puns , acts--pleasant story--epigram--revenge , mothers' darlings--fathers' favourites , iter academicum--a story , anecdotes of freshmen lord eldon--whissonset church , boots--yellow stockings--fashion hair , barber dressed--first prelate wore wig , boots, spurs, &c. prohibited at oxon whipping, &c.--flying cambridge barber , isthmus suez--drink for church , good appetite--college quiz--the greatest calf , like rabelais--ambassadors king jesus at oxon , effort intellect--dr. hallifax--dr. tucker , distich--skeleton sermons--paid first , in the stocks--hissing--posing--gross pun , family spintexts--alcock--barrow, parr, &c. , three-headed priest--burnt to cinder , cantab invented short-hand--humble petition of ladies , turn for humour--repartees--all over germany , oxford and cambridge rebuses something in your way--duns--out of debt queering a dun--gray and warburton canons of criticism--bishop barrington pulpit admonition--simplicity of great minds singularities--triple discourse , traits of lord sandwich--lapsus linguæ , oxford and cambridge loyalty--clubs, &c. , retrogradation--on-dit worcester goblin--cambridge triposes , records of cambridge triposes--wooden spoon--poll--conceits of porson, vince, &c. , classical triposes--wooden wedge--disney's song , a dreadful fit of rheumatism parr an ingrate--le diable--critical civilities , sir busick and sir isaac again--cole: deum , freshman's puzzle sly humourist--noble oxonian--oxford wag--person of gravity , the enough oxford and cambridge nuts to crack; or, quips, quirks, anecdote and facete. * * * * * was oxford or cambridge first founded? "oxford must from all antiquity have been either somewhere or nowhere. where was it in the time of tarquinius priscus? if it was nowhere, it surely must have been somewhere. where was it?"--_facetiæ cant._ here is a conundrum to unravel, or a nut to crack, compared to which the _dædalean labyrinth_ was a farce. after so many of the learned have failed to extract the kernel, though by no means deficient in what gall and spurzheim would call _jawitiveness_ (as their writings will sufficiently show,) i should approach it with "fear and trembling," did i not remember the encouraging reproof of "queen bess" to sir walter raleigh's "fain would i climb but that i fear to fall"--so _dentals_ to the task, come what may. a new light has been thrown upon the subject of late, in an unpublished "righte merrie comedie," entitled "trinity college, cambridge," from which i extract the following jeu de poesie. when first our alma mater rose, though we must laud her and love her, nobody cares, and nobody knows, and nobody can discover: some say a spaniard, one cantaber, christen'd her, or gave birth to her, or his daughter--that's likelier, more, by far, though some honour king brute above her. pythagoras, beans-consuming dog, ('tis the tongue of tradition that speaks,) built her a lecture-room fit for a hog,[ ] where now they store cabbage and leeks: and there mathematics he taught us, they say, till catching a cold on a dull rainy day, he packed up his _tomes_, and he ran away to the land of his fathers, the greeks. but our alma mater still can boast, although the old grecian would go, of glorious names a mighty host, you'll find in wood, fuller and coe: of whom i will mention but just a few-- bacon, and newton, and milton will do: there are thousands more, i assure you, whose honours encircle her brow. then long may our alma mater reign, of learning and science the star, whether she were from greece or spain, or had a king brute for her pa; and with oxon, her sister, for aye preside, for it never was yet by man denied, that the world can't show the like beside,-- let echo repeat it afar! [ ] the school of pythagoras is an ancient building, situated behind st. john's college, cambridge, wherein the _old grecian_, says tradition, lectured before cambridge became a university. whether those who say so _lie_ under a mistake, as tom hood would say, i am not now going to inquire. at any rate, "sic transit," the building is now a barn or storehouse for garden stuff. those who would be further acquainted with this relique of by-gone days, may read a very interesting account of it extant in the library of the british museum, illustrated with engravings, and written by a fellow of merton college, oxford, to which society, says wilson, in his _memorabilia catabrigiæ_, "it was given by edward iv., who took it from king's college, cambridge. it is falsely supposed to have been one of the places where the croyland monks read lectures." it matters little whether we sons of _alma mater_ sprung from the loins of pythagoras, cantaber, or the kings brute and alfred. they were all respectable in their way, so that we need not blush, "proh pudor," to own their paternity. but let us hear what the _cutting_ writer of _terræ filius_ has to say on the subject. "grievous and terrible has been the squabble, amongst our chronologers and genealogists concerning the precedence of oxford and cambridge. what deluges of christian ink have been shed on both sides in this weighty controversy, to prove which is the elder of the two learned and most ingenious ladies? it is wonderful to see that they should always be making themselves older than they really are; so contrary to most of their sex, who love to conceal their wrinkles and gray hairs as much as they can; whereas these two aged matrons are always quarrelling for seniority, and employing counsel to plead their causes for 'em. these are old _nick cantalupe_ and _caius_ on one side, and _bryan twynne_ and _tony wood_ on the other, who, with equal learning, deep penetration, and acuteness, have traced their ages back, god knows how far: one was born just after the siege of _troy_, and the other several hundred years before christ; since which time they have gone by as many names as the pretty little _bantling_ at _rome_, or the woman that was hanged t'other day in _england_, for having twenty-three husbands. _oxford_, say they, was the daughter of _mempricius_, an old _british_ king, who called her from his own name, _caer memprick_, alias _greeklade_, alias _leechlade_, alias _rhidycen_, alias _bellositum_, alias _oxenforde_, alias _oxford_, as all great men's children have several names. so was _cambridge_, say others, the daughter of one _cantaber_, a _spanish_ rebel and fugitive, who called her _caergrant_, alias _cantabridge_, alias _cambridge_. but, that i may not affront either of these old ladies," adds this facetious but sarcastic writer, "i will not take it upon me to decide which of the two hath most wrinkles * * * *. who knows but they may be twins." another authority, the author of the history of cambridge, published by ackermann, in , says that this celebrated controversy had its origin in , when queen elizabeth visited the university of cambridge, and "the public orator, addressing her majesty, embraced the opportunity of extolling the antiquity of the university to which he belonged above that of oxford. this occasioned thomas key, master of university, college, oxford, to compose a small treatise on the antiquity of his own university, which he referred to the fabulous period when the greek professors accompanied brute to england; and to the less ambiguous era of , when science was invited to the banks of the isis, under the auspices of the great alfred. a ms. copy of this production of thomas key accidentally came into the hands of the earl of leicester, from whom it passed into those of dr. john caius (master and founder of gonvile and caius colleges, cambridge,) who, resolving not to be vanquished in asserting the chronological claims of his own university, undertook to prove the foundation of cambridge by cantaber, nearly four hundred years before the christian era. he thus assigned the birth of cambridge to more than anterior to that which had been secondarily ascribed to oxford by the champion of that seat of learning; and yet it can be hardly maintained that he had the best of the argument, since the primary foundation by the son of Æneas, it is evident, remains unimpeached, and the name of brute, to say the least of it, is quite as creditable as that of cantaber. the work which dr. john caius published, though under a feigned name, along with that which it was written to refute, was entitled, '_de antiquitate catabrigiensis academiæ_, libri ii. _in quorum do. de oxoniensis quoque gymnasii antiquitate disseritur, et cantabrigiense longe eo antiquius esse definitur, londinense authore: adjunximus assertionem antiquitatis oxoniensis academiæ ab oxoniensi quodam annis jam elapsis duobus ad reginam conscriptam in qua docere conatur, oxoniense gymnasium cantabrigiensi antiquius esse: ut ex collatione facile intelligas, utra sit antequior. excusum londini,_ a. d. , _mense augusto, per henricum bynnenum,_ mo.'" and is extant in the british museum. as may well be supposed by those who are acquainted with the progress of literary warfare, this work of dr. john caius drew from his namesake, thomas caius, a vindication of that which it was intended to refute; and this work he entitled "_thomæ caii vindiciæ antiquitatis academiæ oxoniensis contra joannem caium cantabrigiensem._" these two singular productions were subsequently published together by hearne, the oxford antiquary, who, with a prejudice natural enough, boasts that the forcible logic of the oxford advocate "broke the heart and precipitated the death of his cambridge antagonist." in other words, dr. john caius, it is said, died of literary mortification, on learning that his oxford opponent had _prepared a new_ edition of his work, _to be published after his death_, in which he was told were some arguments thought to bear hard on his own. "but this appears to have as little foundation as other stories of the kind," says the editor of the history just quoted; "since it is not probable that dr. john caius ever saw the strictures which are said to have occasioned his death: for, as thomas caius died in , they remained in ms. till they were published by hearne in ;"--a conclusion, however, to which our learned historian seems to have jumped rather hastily, as it was just as possible that a ms. copy reached dr. john caius in the second as in the first case; and it is natural to suppose that the oxford champion would desire it should be so. as a specimen of the manner in which such controversies are conducted, i conclude with the brief notice, that tony wood, as the author of _terræ-fillius_ calls him, has largely treated of the subject in his _annals of oxford_, where he states, that sir simon d'ewes, when compiling his work on the antiquity of the university of cambridge, "thought he should be able to set abroad a _new matter_, that was never heard of before, for the advancement of his own town and university of cambridge above oxford;" but "hath done very little or nothing else but renewed the old crambe, and taken up dr. cay's old song, running with him in his opinions and tenets, whom he before condemning of dotage, makes himself by consequence a dotard." according to sir simon, "valence college (_i. e._ pembroke hall) was the first endowed college in england;" "his avouching which," says wood, "is of no force;" and he, as might be expected, puts in a claim for his own college (merton, of oxford,) "which," he adds, "sir simon might have easily known, had he been conversant with histories, was the oldest foundation in either university." therefore, "if the antiquity of cambridge depends upon valence college (or rather, upon peter house,) and that house upon this distich, which stood for a public inscription in the parlour window thereof, it signifies nothing:-- "qua præit oxoniam cancestria longa vetustas primatus a petri dicitur orsa domo." he finally overwhelms his opponent by adding, that oxford became a public university in , and that a bull for the purpose was obtained the previous year, cambridge then "_being but an obscure place of learning, if any at all_." thus i have cracked _nut the first_. those who would add "sweets to the sweets" may find them in abundance in the writers i have named already; and the subject is treated of very learnedly by dyer, in his _dedication_ to his "privileges of the university of cambridge." * * * * * gone to jerusalem. a learned living oriental scholar, and a senior fellow of st. john's college, cambridge, who thinks less of journeying to shiraz, timbuctoo, or the holy land, than a cockney would of a trip to greenwich fair or bagnigge wells, _kept_ in the same court, in college, with a late tutor, now the amiable rector of staple----t, in kent. it was their daily practice, when in residence, to take a ramble together, by the footpaths, round by granchester, and back to college by trumpington, or to madingley, or the hills, but more commonly the former; all delightful in their way, and well known to gownsmen for various associations. to one of these our college dons daily wended their way cogitating, for they never talked, it is said, over the _omnia magna_ of cambridge life. their invariable practice was to keep moving at a stiff pace, some four or five yards in advance of each other. our amiable tutor went one forenoon to call on mr. p. before starting, as usual, and found his door _sported_. this staggered him a little. mr. p.'s bed-maker chanced to come up at the instant. "where is mr. p.?" was his query. "gone out, sir," was the reply. "gone out!" exclaimed mr. h.; "where to?" "to _jerusalem_," she rejoined. and to jerusalem he was gone, sure enough; a circumstance of so little import in his eyes, who had seen most parts of the ancient world already, and filled the office of tutor to an infanta of spain, that he did not think it matter worth the notice of his _college chum_. other travellers, "_vox et ratio_," as horace says, would have had the circumstance bruited in every periodical in christendom, "_quinque sequuntur te pueri_." * * * * * a cutting retort is attributed to the celebrated lord chesterfield, when a student of trinity hall, cambridge, where he is said to have studied hard, and rose daily, in the depth of winter, at four or five. he one day met a drunken fellow in the streets of cambridge, who refused him the wall, observing, "i never give the wall to a rascal." "i do," retorted his lordship, moving out of the way. it was probably this incident that gave rise to the couplet-- "base man to take the wall i ne'er permit." the scholar said, "i do;" and gave him it. * * * * * liberty a plant. "qui teneros caules alieni fregerit horti."--_hor._ during the progress of a political meeting held in the town of cambridge, it so happened that the late dr. mansel, then public orator of the university of cambridge, but afterwards master of trinity college and bishop of bristol, came to the place of meeting just as musgrave, the well known political tailor of his day, was in the midst of a most _pathetic_ oration, and emphatically repeating, "liberty, liberty, gentlemen--" he paused,--"liberty is _a plant_--" "so is a _cabbage!_" exclaimed the caustic mansel, before musgrave had time to complete his sentence, with so happy an allusion to the trade of the tailor, that he was silenced amidst roars of laughter. another instance of-- a tailor being taken by surprise, but by an oxonian, a learned member of christ church, is recorded in the fact, that having, for near half a century, been accustomed to walk with a favourite stick, the _ferule_ of which, at the bottom, came off, he took it to his _tailor_ to have it repaired. * * * * * reasons for not publishing. the famous antiquary, thomas baker, b.d. of st. john's college, cambridge, of which he was long _socius ejectus_, lays it down as a principle, in his admirable _reflections on learning_, "that if we had _fewer_ books, we should have more learning." it is singular that he never published but the one book named, though he has left behind him forty-two volumes of manuscripts, the greater part in the harleian collection, in the british museum, principally relating to cambridge, and all neatly written in his own hand. * * * * * declining king george. when "honest vere" foster, as he is called by "mild william," his contemporary at college, and the grandfather of our celebrated traveller, dr. edward daniel clarke, was a student at cambridge, where he was celebrated for his wit and humour, and for being a good scholar, st. john's being looked upon as a tory college, a young fellow, a student, reputed a whig, was appointed to deliver an oration in the college hall, on the th of november. this he did; but having, for some time, dwelt on the double deliverance of that day, in his peroration, he passed from king william to king george, on whom he bestowed great encomiums. when the speech was over, honest vere and the orator being at table together, the former addressed the latter with, "i did not imagine, sir, that you would _decline_ king george in your speech." "_decline!_" said the astonished orator; "what do you mean? i spoke very largely and handsomely of him." "that is what i mean, too, sir," said vere: "for you had him in every case and termination: _georgius--georgii--georgio--georgium--o georgi!_" another of "honest vere's" classical jeu d'esprit is deserving a place in our treasury. he one day asked his learned college contemporary, dr. john taylor, editor of demosthenes, "why he talked of selling his horse?" "because," replied the doctor, "i cannot afford to keep him in these _hard times_." "you should keep a _mare_," rejoined foster, "according to horace-- 'Æquam memento rebus in arduis servare.'" * * * * * a trait of barrow. soon after that great, good, and loyal son of granta, dr. isaac barrow, was made a prebend of salisbury, says dr. pope, "i overheard him say, '_i wish i had five hundred pounds_.' 'that's a large sum for a philosopher,' observed dr. pope; 'what would you do with so much?' 'i would,' said he, 'give it to my sister for a portion, that would procure her _a good husband_.' a few months after," adds his memorialist, "he was made happy by receiving the above sum," which he so much desired, "for putting a _new life_ into the _corps_ of his new prebend." * * * * * inveterate smokers. both oxford and cambridge have been famous for inveterate smokers. amongst them was the learned dr. isaac barrow, who said "it helped his thinking." his illustrious pupil, newton, was scarcely less addicted to the "indian weed," and every body has heard of his _hapless courtship_, when, in a moment of forgetfulness, he popped the lady's finger into his burning pipe, instead of _popping the question_, and was so chagrined, that he never could be persuaded to press the matter further. dr. parr was allowed his pipe when he dined with the _first gentleman in europe_, george the fourth, and when refused the same indulgence by a lady at whose house he was staying, he told her, "she was the greatest _tobacco-stopper_ he had ever met with." the celebrated dr. farmer, of _black-letter_ memory, preferred the comforts of the parlour of emmanuel college, of which he was master, and a "_yard of clay_" (there were no _hookahs_ in his day,) to a bishopric, which dignity he twice refused, when offered to him by mr. pitt. another learned lover of tobacco, and eke of wit, mirth, puns, and pleasantry, was the famous dr. aldrich, dean of christ church, oxford, the never-to-be-forgotten composer of the good old catch-- "hark, the merry christ-church bells," and of another to be _sung by four men smoking their pipes_, which is not more difficult to sing than diverting to hear. his pipe was his breakfast, dinner, and supper, and a student of christ church, at o'clock one night, finding it difficult to persuade a "freshman" of the fact, laid him a wager, that the dean was at that instant smoking. away he hurried to the deanery to decide the controversy, and on gaining admission, apologised for his intrusion by relating the occasion of it. "well," replied the dean, in perfect good humour, with his pipe in his hand, "you see you have lost your wager: for i am not smoking, but filling my pipe." * * * * * game in every bush. bishop watson says, in his valuable chemical essays, that sir isaac newton and dr. bentley met accidentally in london, and on sir isaac's inquiring what philosophical _pursuits_ were carrying on at cambridge, the doctor replied, "none; for when you are a-hunting, sir isaac, you kill all the game; you have left us nothing to pursue." "not so," said the philosopher, "you may start a variety of game in every bush, if you will but take the trouble to beat it." "and so in truth it is," adds dr. w.; "every object in nature affords occasion for philosophical experiment." * * * * * newton's toast. the editor of the literary panorama, says corneille le bruyer, the famous dutch painter, relates, that "happening one day to dine at the table of newton, with other foreigners, when the dessert was sent up, newton proposed, 'a health to the men of every country who believed in a god;' which," says the editor, "was drinking the health of the whole human race." equal to this was the piety of ray, the celebrated naturalist and divine, who (when ejected from his fellowship of trinity college, cambridge, for _non-conformity_, and, for the same reason, being no longer at liberty to exercise his clerical functions as a preacher of the gospel,) turned to the pursuit of the sciences of natural philosophy and botany for consolation. "because i could no longer serve god in the church," said this great and good man (in his preface to the wisdom of god manifested in the works of the creation,) "i thought myself more bound to do it by my writings." * * * * * the devil looking over lincoln. is a tradition of many ages' standing, but the origin of the celebrated statue of his satanic majesty, which of erst overlooked lincoln college, oxford, is not so certain as that the effigy was popular, and gave rise to the saying. after outstanding centuries of hot and cold, jibes and jeers, "_cum multis aliis_," to which _stone_, as well as flesh, is heir, it was taken down on the th of november, , says a writer in the gentleman's magazine, having lost its head in a storm about two years previously, at the same time the head was blown off the statue of king charles the first, which overlooked whitehall. * * * * * radcliffe's library. tom warton relates, in his somewhat rambling life of dr. ralph bathurst, president of trinity college, oxford, that dr. radcliffe was a student of lincoln college when dr. b. presided over trinity; but notwithstanding their difference of age and distance of situation, the president used to visit the young student at lincoln college "merely for the smartness of his conversation." during one of these morning or evening calls, dr. b. observing the embryo physician had but few books in his chambers, asked him "where was his study?" upon which young radcliffe replied, pointing to a few books, a skeleton, and a herbal, "this, sir, is radcliffe's library." tom adds the following traits of dr. bathurst's wit and habits. when the doctor was vice-chancellor of oxford, a captain of a company, who had fought bravely in the cause of his royal master, king charles the first, being recommended to him for the degree of d.c.l., the doctor told the son of mars he could not confer the degree, "but he would apply to his majesty to give him a regiment of horse!" he frequently carried a whip in his hand, an instrument of correction not entirely laid aside in our universities in his time; but (says tom) he _only_ "delighted to _surprise_ scholars, when walking in the grove at unseasonable hours. this he practised," adds warton, "on account of the pleasure he took in giving _so odd_ an alarm, rather than from any principle of reproving, or intention of applying so illiberal a punishment." one thing is certain, that in the statutes of trinity college, oxford (as late as ,) scholars of the foundation are ordered to be whipped even to the twentieth year. "dr. potter," says aubery, while a tutor of the above college, "_whipped his pupil with his sword by his side_, when he came to take his leave of him to go to the inns of court." this was done to make him a _smart_ fellow. "in sir john fane's collection of letters of the paston family, written _temp_. henry vi.," says the author of the _gradus ad catabrigiam_, "we find one of the gentle sex prescribing for her son, who was at cambridge," no doubt with a maternal anxiety that he should be a smart fellow, as follows:--"prey grenefield to send me faithfully worde by wrytyn, who (how) clemit paston hathe do his dever i' lernying, and if he hath nought do well, nor will nought amend, prey hym that he wyll truely belash hym _tyl_ he wyll amend, and so dyd the last mastyr, and the best eu' he had at cambridge." and that master grenefield might not want due encouragement, she concludes with promising him "x m'rs," for his _pains_. we do not, however, learn how many _marks_ young master clemit received, who certainly took _more pains_.--patiendo _non faciendo_--ferendo _non feriendo_. * * * * * milton was belashed over the buttery-hatch of christ-college, cambridge, and, as dr. johnson insinuates in his life, was the last cambridge student so castigated in either university. the officer who performed this _fundamental_ operation was dr. thomas bainbrigge, the master of christ's college. but as it was at a later date that dr. ralph bathurst carried his whip, according to our friend tom's showing, to _surprise_ the scholars, it is therefore going a great length to give our "prince of poets" the _sole_ merit of being the last _smart_ fellow that issued from the halls of either oxford or cambridge, handsome as he was. the following celebrated epigram on an epigram, printed, says the oxford sausage, "from the original mss. preserved in the archives of the jelly-bag society," is somewhere said to have been written by dr. ralph bathurst, when an oxford scholar:-- one day in _christ-church_ meadows walking, of poetry and such things talking, says _ralph_, a merry wag, an epigram, if right and good, in all its circumstances should be like a jelly-bag. your simile, i own, is new, but how dost make it out? quoth hugh. quoth ralph, i'll tell you, friend: make it at top both wide and fit to hold a budget full of wit, and point it at the end. * * * * * tell us what you can't do? a party of oxford scholars were one evening carousing at the star inn, when a waggish student, a stranger to them, abruptly introduced himself, and seeing he was not "one of us," they all began to _quiz_ him. this put him upon his mettle, and besides boasting of other accomplishments, he told them, in plain terms, that he could write greek or latin verses better, and was, in short, an over-match for them at any thing. upon this, one of the party exclaimed, "you have told us a great deal of what you can do, _tell us something you can't do_?" "well," he retorted, "i'll tell you what i can't do--_i can't pay my reckoning!_" this sally won him a hearty welcome. * * * * * the first women introduced into a cloister. about , whilst the famous richard cox, bishop of ely, was dean of christ-church, oxford, says cole, in his athenæ cant., "he brought his wife into the college, who, with the wife of peter martyr, a canon of the same cathedral, were observed to be the first women ever introduced into a cloister or college, and, upon that account, gave no small scandal at the time." this reminds me of an anecdote that used to amuse the under-grads in my day at cambridge. a certain d.d., head of a college, a _bachelor_, and in his habits retired to a degree of solitariness, in an unlucky moment gave a lady that did not want twice bidding, not bill of exchange, but a _running_ invitation to the college lodge, to be used at pleasure. she luckily seized the long vacation for making her appearance, when there were but few students in residence; but to the confusion of our d.d., her _ten_ daughters came _en traine_, and the college was not a little scandalized by their playing shuttlecock in the open court--the lady was in no haste to go. report says sundry hints were given in vain. she took his original _invite_ in its literal sense, to "suit her own convenience." the anxiety he endured threw our modest d.d. in to a sick-bed, and not relishing the office of nurse to a bachelor of sixty years' standing, she decamped, + her ten daughters. * * * * * the cambridge scholar and the ghost of a scrag of mutton. in the days that are past, by the side of a stream, where waters but softly were flowing, with ivy o'ergrown an old mansion-house stood, that was built on the skirts of a chilling damp wood, where the yew-tree and cypress were growing. the villagers shook as they passed by the doors, when they rested at eve from their labours; and the traveller many a furlong went round, if his ears once admitted the terrific sound, of the tale that was told by the neighbours. they said, "that the house in the skirts of the wood by a saucer-eyed ghost was infested, who filled every heart with confusion and fright, by assuming strange shapes at the dead of the night, shapes monstrous, and foul, and detested." and truly they said, and the monster well knew, that the ghost was the greatest of evils; for no sooner the bell of the mansion toll'd one, than the frolicksome imp in a fury begun to caper like ten thousand devils. he appeared in forms the most strange and uncouth, sure never was goblin so daring! he utter'd loud shrieks and most horrible cries, curst his body and bones, and his _sweet little eyes_, till his impudence grew beyond bearing. just at this nick o' time, when the master's sad heart with anguish and sorrow was swelling, he heard that a scholar with science complete, full of magical lore as an egg's full of meat, at _cambridge_ had taken a dwelling. the scholar was versed in all magical arts, most famous was he throughout _college_; to the red sea full oft many an unquiet ghost, to repose with king pharaoh and his mighty host he had sent through his powerful knowledge. to this scholar so learn'd the master he went, and as lowly he bent with submission, told the freaks of the horrible frights that prevented his household from resting at nights, and offered this humble petition:-- "that he, the said scholar, in wisdom so wise, would the mischievous fiend lay in fetters; would send him in torments for ever to dwell, in the nethermost pit of the nethermost hell, for destroying the sleep of his betters." the scholar so versed in all magical lore, told the master his pray'r should be granted; he ordered his horse to be saddled with speed, and perch'd on the back of his cream colour'd steed, trotted off to the house that was haunted. "bring me turnips and milk!" the scholar he cried, in voice like the echoing thunder: he brought him some turnips and suet beside, some milk and a spoon, and his motions they eyed, quite lost in conjecture and wonder. he took up the turnips, and peel'd off the skins, put them into a pot that was boiling; spread a table and cloth, and made ready to sup, then call'd for a fork, and the turnips fished up in a hurry, for they were a-spoiling. he mash'd up the turnips with butter and milk: the hail at the casement 'gan clatter! yet this scholar ne'er heeded the tempest without, but raising his eyes, and turning about, asked the maid for a small wooden platter. he mash'd up the turnips with butter and salt, the storm came on thicker and faster-- the lightnings went flash, and with terrific din the wind at each crevice and cranny came in, tearing up by the root lath and plaster. he mash'd up the turnips with nutmegs and spice, the mess would have ravish'd a glutton; when lo! with sharp bones hardly covered with skin, the ghost from a nook o'er the window peep'd in, in the form of _a boil'd scrag of mutton_. "ho! ho!" said the ghost, "what art doing below?" the scholar peep'd up in a twinkling-- "the times are too hard to afford any meat, so to render my turnips more pleasant to eat, a few grains of pepper i'm sprinkling." then he caught up a fork, and the mutton he seiz'd, and soused it at once in the platter; threw o'er it some salt and a spoonful of fat, and before the poor ghost could tell what he was at, he was gone like a mouse down the throat of a cat, and this is the whole of the matter. * * * * * comparisons are odious. doctor john franklin, fellow and master of sidney college, cambridge, , "a very fat, rosy-complexioned man," dying soon after he was made dean of ely, and being succeeded by dr. ellis, "a meagre, weasel-faced, swarthy, black man," the _fenman_ of ely, says (cole) in allusion thereto, out of vexation at being so soon called upon for _recognition money_, made the following humorous distitch:-- "the devil took our dean, and pick'd his bones clean; then clapt him on a board, and sent him back again." * * * * * jaunt down a patient's throat. "two of a trade can ne'er agree, no proverb e'er was juster; they've ta'en down bishop blaize, d'ye see, and put up bishop bluster." _dr. mansel, on bishop watson's head becoming a signboard, in cambridge, in lieu of the ancient one of bishop blaize._--facetiÆ cant., _p._ . sir isaac pennington and sir busick harwood were cotemporary at cambridge. the first as regius professor of physic and senior fellow of st. john's college, the other was professor of anatomy and fellow of downing college. both were eminent in their way, but seldom _agreed_, and held each other's abilities pretty _cheap_, some say in sovereign contempt. sir busick was once called in by the friends of a patient that had been under sir isaac's care, but had obtained small relief, anxious to hear his opinion of the malady. not approving of the treatment pursued, he inquired "who was the physician in attendance," and on being told, exclaimed--"he! if he were to descend into a patient's stomach with a _candle and lantern_, he would not have been able to name the complaint!" this difference of opinion was hit off, it is supposed, not by dean swift or wicked will whiston, but by bishop mansel, as follows:-- sir isaac, sir busick; sir busick, sir isaac; 'twould make you and i sick to taste their physick. another, perhaps the same cambridge wag, penned the following quaternion on sir isaac, which appeared under the title of an epigram on a petit-maitre physician. when pennington for female ills indites, studying alone not what, but how he writes, the ladies, as his graceful form they scan, cry, with ill-omen'd rapture, "_killing man_!" but sir isaac, too, was a wit, and chanced on a time to be one of a cambridge party, amongst whom was a rich old fellow, an invalid, who was too mean to buy an opinion on his case, and thought it a good opportunity to _worm_ one out of sir isaac _gratis_. he accordingly seized the opportunity for reciting the whole catalogue of his _ills_, ending with, "what would you advise me to take, my dear sir isaac?" "i should recommend you _to take advice_," was the reply. * * * * * porson, whose very name conjures up the spirits of ten thousand wits, holding both sides, over a copus of trinity ale and a classical pun, would not only frequently "steal a few hours from the night," but see out both lights and liquids, and seem none the worse for the carouse. he had one night risen for the purpose of reaching his hat from a peg to depart, after having finished the port, sherry, gin-store, &c., when he espied a can of _beer_, says dyer, (surely it must have been _audit_,) in a corner. restoring his hat to its resting place, he reseated himself with the following happy travestie of the old nursery lines-- "when wine is gone, and ale is spent, then small beer is most excellent." it was no uncommon thing for his _gyp_ to enter his room with phoebus, and find him still _en robe_, with no other companions but a homer, Æschylus, plato, and a dozen or two other old grecians surrounding an empty bottle, or what his late royal highness the duke of york would have styled "a marine," _id est_ "a good fellow, who had done his duty, and was ready to do it again." upon his _gyp_ once peeping in before day light, and finding him still up, porson answered his "_quod petis?_" (whether he wanted _candles_ or _liquor_,) with [greek: ou tode oud' allo.] scotticè--neither _toddy_ nor _tallow_. at another time, when asked what he would drink? he replied?--"_aliquid_" (a liquid.) he was once boasting at a cambridge party, that he could pun upon anything, when he was challenged to do so upon the _latin gerunds_, and exclaimed, after a pause-- "when dido found Æneas would not come. she mourned in silence, and was _di-do-dum(b)_." bishop heber's college puns. the late amiable, learned, and pious bishop heber was not above a pun in his day, notwithstanding dr. johnson's _anathema_, that a man who made a pun would pick a pocket. among the _jeux des mots_ attributed to him are the following: he was one day dining with an oxford party, comprises the élite of his day, and when the servant was in the act of removing the table-cloth from off the green table-covering, at the end of their meal, he exclaimed, in the words of horace-- "diffugere nives: redeunt jam gramina campis." at another time he made one of a party of oxonians, amongst whom was a gentleman of great rotundity of person, on which account he had acquired the _soubriquet_ of 'heavy-a--se;' and he was withal of very _somniferous_ habits, frequently dozing in the midst of a conversation that would have made the very glasses tingle with delight. he had fallen fast asleep during the time a mirth-moving subject was recited by one of the party, but woke up just at the close, when all save himself were "shaking fat sides," and on his begging to know the subject of their laughter, heber let fly at him in pure horatian-- "exsomnis stupet evias." the mirth-loving dr. barnard, late provost of eton, was cotemporary, at cambridge, with a worthy of the same school, who, then a student of st. john's college, used to frequent the same parties that barnard did, who was of king's. barnard used to taunt him with his stupidity; "and," said judge hardinge, who records the anecdote, "he one day half killed barnard with laughter, who had been taunting him, as usual, with the simplicity of the following excuse and remonstrance: you are always running your rigs upon me and calling me 'stupid fellow;' and it is very cruel, now, that's what it is; for you don't consider that _a broad-wheeled wagon went over my head when i was ten years old_." and here i must remark upon the injustice of persons reflecting upon the english universities, as their enemies often do, because every man who succeeds in getting a degree does not turn out a _porson_ or a _newton_. i knew one cantab, a caius man, to whom writing a letter to his friends was such an effort, that he used to get his medical attendant to give him an _ægrotat_ (put him on the sick list,) and, besides, keep his door sported for a week, till the momentous task was accomplished. and two oxonians were of late plucked at their divinity examination, because one being asked, "who was the _mediator_, between god and man?" answered, "_the archbishop of canterbury_." the other being questioned as to "why our saviour sat on the right hand of god?" replied, "_because the holy ghost sat on the left_." compliment to the men of exeter college, oxon. "the men of exeter college, oxon," says fuller, in his church history, "consisted chiefly of cornish and devonshire men, the gentry of which latter, queen elizabeth used to say, are courtiers by birth. and as these western men do bear away the bell for might and sleight in wrestling, so the scholars here have always acquitted themselves with credit in _palæstra literaria_." and writing of this society reminds me that his grace of wellington is a living example of the fact, that it does not require great learning to make a great general; nor is great learning always necessary to complete the character of the head of a college. the late rector of exeter college, dr. cole, raised that society, by his prudent management, from the very _reduced_ rank in which he found it amongst the other foundations of oxford, to a flourishing and high reputation for good scholarship. yet he is said one day to have complimented a student at collections, by saying, after the gentleman had construed his portion of sophocles, "sir, you have construed your _livy_ very well." he nevertheless redeemed his credit by one day _posing_ a student, during his divinity examination, with asking him, in vain, "_what christmas day was?_" another don of the same college, once asking a student of the society some divinity question, which he was equally at a loss for an answer, he exclaimed--"good god, sir, you the son of a clergyman, and not answer such a question as that?" aristotle was of opinion that knowledge _could only be acquired_, but our tutor seems to have thought, like the opponents of aristotle, that a _son of a parson_ ought to be _born to it_. another oxonian was posed, whom i knew, yet was by no means deficient in scholastic learning, and withal a great wag. he was asked, at the divinity examination, how many sacraments there were. this happened at the time that the _catholic question_ was in the high road to the house of lords, under the auspices of the duke of wellington, and he had been _cramming_ his _upper story_ with abundance of _catholic faith_ from the writings of _faber_, _gandolphy_, and the _bishops of durham and exeter_. "how many sacraments are there, sir?" repeated the examiner (of course referring to the church of england.) the student _paused on_, and the question was repeated a second time; "why--a--suppose--we--a--say half a dozen," was the reply. it is needless to add he was _plucked_. the following lapsus grammaticÆ is attributed to a certain d.d. of exeter, who, having undertaken to lionize one of the foreign princes of the many that accompanied the late king and the sovereigns of russia and prussia to oxford, in , a difficulty arose between them as to their medium of communication; the prince being ignorant of the english language, and the doctor no less so with respect to modern foreign languages. in this dilemma the latter proposed an interchange of ideas by means of the fingers, in the following unique address:--"intelligisne colloquium _cum digitalibus tuis?_" it would be somewhat awkward for certain alumni if his grace of wellington should issue an imperative decree, as chancellor, that the latin tongue be used, (as wood says, in his annals, the famous archbishop bancroft did, on being raised to the dignity of chancellor of oxford in ,) "by the students in their halls and colleges, whereby," said his grace, "the young as well as the old may be inured to a ready and familiar delivery of their minds in that language, whereof there was now so much use both in studies and common conversation; for it was now observed (and so it may in these present times, adds wood,) that it was a great blemish to the learned men of this nation, that they being complete in all good knowledge, yet they were not able promptly and aptly to express themselves in latin, but with hesitation and circumlocution, which ariseth only from disuse." effect of habit. dr. fothergill, when provost of queen's college, oxford, was a singular as well as a learned man, and would not have been seen abroad minus his wig and gown for a dukedom. one night a fire broke out in the lodge, which spread with such rapidity, that it was with difficulty mrs. f. and family escaped the fury of the flames; and this she no sooner did than, naturally enough, the question was, "where is the doctor?" no doctor was to be found; and the cry was he had probably perished in the flames. all was bustle, and consternation, and tears, till suddenly, to the delight of all, he emerged from the burning pile, full-dressed, as usual, his wig something the worse for being nearly 'done to a turn;' but he deemed it indecorous for him to appear otherwise, though he stayed to _robe_ at the risk of his life. * * * * * the concussion. the living cambridge worthy, william sydney walker, m.a. (who at the age of sixteen wrote the successful tragedy of wallace, and recently vacated his fellowship at trinity college "for conscience-sake,") walking hastily round the corner of a street in cambridge, in his peculiarly near-sighted _sidling_ hasty manner, he suddenly came in contact with the _blind_ muffin-man who daily perambulates the town. the concussion threw both upon their haunches. "don't you _see_ i'm blind?" exclaimed the muffin-man, in great wrath. "how should i," rejoined the learned wag, "when i'm blind too." * * * * * comic picture of the election of a provost of king's college, cambridge. upon the death of a provost of king's college, cambridge, the fellows are obliged, according to their statutes, to be shut up in their celebrated chapel till they have agreed upon the election of a successor, a custom not unlike that to which the cardinals are subject at rome, upon the death of a pope, where not uncommonly some half dozen are brought out dead before an election takes place. "the following is a comic picture of an election," says judge hardinge, in nichols's illustrations of literature, from the pen of daniel wray, esq. dated from _cambridge_, the th of january, . "the election of a provost of king's is over--_dr. george_ is the man. the fellows went into chapel on monday, before noon in the morning, as the statute directs. after prayers and sacrament, they began to vote:-- for _george_; for _thackery_; for _chapman_. thus they continued, scrutinizing and walking about, eating and sleeping; some of them smoking. still the same numbers for each candidate, till yesterday about noon (for they held that in the forty-eight hours allowed for the election no adjournment could be made,) when the tories, _chapman's_ friends, refusing absolutely to concur with either of the other parties, _thackery's_ votes went over to _george_ by agreement, and he was declared. a friend of mine, a curious fellow, tells me he took a survey of his brothers at two o'clock in the morning, and that never was a more curious or a more diverting spectacle: some wrapped in blankets, erect in their stalls like mummies; others asleep on cushions, like so many _gothic_ tombs. here a red cap over a wig, there a face lost in the cape of a rug; one blowing a chafing-dish with a surplice-sleeve; another warming a little negus, or sipping _coke upon littleton_, _i. e._ tent and brandy. thus did they combat the cold of that frosty night, which has not killed any one of them, to my infinite surprise." one of the fellows of king's engaged in this election was mr. c. pratt, afterwards lord high chancellor of england, and father of the present marquis of camden, who, writing to his amiable and learned friend and brother etonian and kingsman, dr. sneyd davies, archdeacon of derby, &c. in the january of the above year, says, "dear sneyd we are all busy in the choice of a provost. _george_ and _thackery_ are the candidates. _george_ has all the power and weight of the court interest, but i am for _thackery_, so that i am at _present a patriot_, and vehemently declaim against all unstatutable influence. the college are so divided, that your friends the _tories_ may turn the balance if they will; but, if they should either absent themselves or nominate a third man, _chapman_, for example, _thackery_ will be discomfited. why are not _you_ a doctor? we could choose you against all opposition. however, i insist upon it, that you shall qualify yourself against the next vacancy, for since you will not come to _london_, and wear lawn sleeves, you may stay where you are, and be provost,"--which he did not live to be, though he did take his d.d. * * * * * sir, dominus, magistri, sir greene. a writer in an early volume of the gentleman's magazine has stated, that "the christian name is never used in the university with the addition of _sir_, but the surname only." cole says, in reply, "this is certainly so at cambridge. yet when bachelors of arts get into the country, it is quite the reverse; for then, whether curates, chaplains, vicars, or rectors, they are constantly styled _sir_, or _dominus_, prefixed to both their names, to distinguish them from masters of arts, or _magistri_. this may be seen," he says, "in innumerable instances in the lists of incumbents in new court, &c." and, he adds, addressing himself to that illustrious character, _sylvanus urban_, "i could produce a thousand others from the wills, institutions, &c. in the diocese of ely, throughout the whole reign of henry viii. and for many years after, till the title was abandoned, and are never called sir evans, or sir martext, as in the university they would be, according to your correspondent's opinion, but invariably sir hugh evans and sir oliver martext, &c. the subject," adds this pleasant chronicler, "'seria ludo,' puts me in mind of a very pleasant story, much talked of when i was first admitted of the university, which i know to be fact, as i since heard mr. greene, the dean of salisbury, mention it. the dean was at that time only bachelor of arts, and fellow of bene't college, where bishop mawson was master, and then, i think, bishop of llandaff, who, being one day at court, seeing mr. greene come into the drawing-room, immediately accosted him, pretty loud, in this manner, _how do you do, sir greene? when did you leave college, sir greene?_ mr. greene was quite astonished, and the company present much more so, as not comprehending the meaning of the salutation or title, till mr. greene explained it, and also informed them," observes cole, with his accustomed fulness of information, "of the worthy good bishop's absences." * * * * * husbands may beat their wives. fuller relates in his abel redivivus, that the celebrated president of corpus christi college, oxford, dr. john rainolds, the contemporary of jewel and usher, had a controversy with one william gager, a student of christ-church, who contended for the lawfulness of stage-plays; and the same gager, he adds, maintained, _horresco referens!_ in a public act in the university, that "it was lawful for husbands to beat their wives." * * * * * another attack on the ladies is contained in antony wood's "angry account" of the alterations made in merton college, of which he was a fellow, during the wardenship of sir thomas clayton, whose lady, says wood, "did put the college to unnecessary charges and very frivolous expenses, among which were a very large looking-glass, for her to see her ugly face, and body to the middle, * * * * * which was brought in hilary terme, , and cost, as the bursar told me, above _£._; a bedstead and bedding, worth _£._, must also be bought, because the former bedstead and bedding was too short for him (he being a tall man,) so perhaps when a _short_ warden comes, a short bed must be bought." there were also other extraordinary doings at merton. when the vandals of parliamentary visiters, in cromwell's time, perpetrated their spoliations at oxford, one of them, sir nathaniel brent, says wood, actually "took down the rich hangings at the altar of the chapel, and ornamented his bedchamber with them." * * * * * digging your graves with your teeth. the late vice-master of trinity college, cambridge, the rev. william hodson, b.d., and the late regius professor of hebrew, the rev. william collier, b.d., who had also been tutor of trinity college, were both skilled in the science of music, and constant visiters at the quartett parties of mr. sharp, of green street, cambridge, organist of st. john's college. the former happened one evening to enter mr. sharp's _sanctum sanctorum_, rather later than usual, and found the two latter just in the act of discussing a brace of roast ducks, with a bowl of punch in the background. he was pressed to join them. "no, no, gentlemen," was his reply, "give me a _glass of water and a crust_. you know not what you are doing. you are _digging your graves with your teeth_." both gentlemen, however, out-lived him. * * * * * dr. torkington's gratitude to his horse. the late master of clare hall, cambridge, dr. torkington, was one evening stopped by a footpad or pads, in the neighbourhood of cambridge, when riding at an humble pace on his old rosinante, which had borne him through many a long year. both horse and master were startled by the awful tones in which the words, "stand, and deliver!" were uttered, to say nothing of the flourish of a shillelah, or something worse, and an unsuccessful attempt to _grab_ the rein. the horse, declining acquiescence, set off at a good round pace, and thus saved his master; an act for which the old doctor was so grateful, that he never suffered it to be rode again, but had it placed in a paddock, facing his lodge, on the banks of the cam, where, with a plentiful supply of food, and his own daily attentions, it lingered out the remnant of life, and "liv'd at home at ease." * * * * * say john sharp is a rogue. at the time the celebrated archbishop sharp was at oxford, it was the custom in that university, as likewise in cambridge, for students to have a _chum_ or companion, who not only shared the sitting-room with each other, but the bed also; and a writer, speaking of the university of cambridge, says, one of the colleges was at one period so full, that when writing a letter, the students were obliged to hold their hand over it, to prevent its contents being seen. archbishop sharp, when an oxford scholar, was awoke in the night by his _chum_ lying by his side, who told him he had just dreamed a most extraordinary dream; which was, that he (sharp) would be an archbishop of york. after some time, he again awoke him, and said he had dreamt the same, and was well assured he would arrive at that dignity. sharp, extremely angry at being thus disturbed, told him if he awoke him any more, he would send him out of bed. however, his chum, again dreaming the same, ventured to awake him; on which sharp became much enraged; but his bed-fellow telling him, if he had again the same dream he would not annoy him any more, if he would faithfully promise him, should he ever become archbishop, to give him a good rectory, which he named. "well, well," said sharp, "you silly fellow, go to sleep; and if your dream, which is very unlikely, should come true, i promise you the living." "by that time," said his chum, "you will have forgot me and your promise." "no, no," says sharp, "that i shall not; but, if i do not remember you, and refuse you the living, then say _john sharp is a rogue_." after dr. sharp had been archbishop some time, his old friend (his chum) applied to him (on the said rectory being vacant,) and, after much difficulty, got admitted to his presence, having been informed by the servant, that the archbishop was particularly engaged with a gentleman relative to the same rectory for which he was going to apply. the archbishop was told there was a clergyman who was extremely importunate to see him, and would take no denial. his grace, extremely angry, ordered him to be admitted, and requested to know why he had so rudely almost forced himself into his presence. "i come," says he, "my lord, to claim an old promise, the rectory of ----." "i do not remember, sir, ever to have seen you before; how, then, could i have promised you the rectory, which i have just presented to this gentleman?" "then," says his old chum, "_john sharp is a rogue_!" the circumstance was instantly roused in the mind of the archbishop, and the result was, he provided liberally for his dreaming chum in the church. * * * * * "i said as how you'd see." "in the year ," says parke, in his musical memoirs, "i occasionally dined with a pupil of mine, mr. knight, who had lately left college. this young man (who played the most difficult pieces on the flute admirably) and his brother cantabs, when they met, were very fond of relating the wild tricks for which the students of the university of cambridge are celebrated. the following relation of one will convey some idea," he says, "of their general eccentricity:--a farmer, who resided at a considerable distance from cambridge, but who had, nevertheless, heard of the excesses committed by the students, having particular business in the before-mentioned seat of the muses, together with a strong aversion to entering it, took his seat on the roof of the coach, and, being engrossed with an idea of danger, said to the coachman, who was a man of few words, 'i'ze been towld that the young gentlemen at cambridge be wild chaps.' 'you'll see,' replied the coachman; 'and,' added the farmer, 'that it be hardly safe to be among 'em.' 'you'll see,' again replied the coachman. during the journey the farmer put several other interrogatories to the coachman, which was answered, as before, with 'you'll see!' when they had arrived in the high street of cambridge, mr. knight had a party of young men at his lodgings, who were sitting in the first floor, with the windows all open, and a large china bowl full of punch before them, which they had just broached. the noise made by their singing and laughing, attracting the notice and exciting the fears of the farmer, he again, addressing his taciturn friend, the coachman, (whilst passing close under the window,) said with great anxiety, 'are we all safe, think ye?' when, before the master of the whip had time to utter his favourite monosyllables, 'you'll see,' bang came down, on the top of the coach, bowl, punch, glasses, &c. to the amazement and terror of the farmer, who was steeped in his own favourite potation. 'there,' said coachee (who had escaped a wetting,) 'i said as how you'd see!'" * * * * * i now leave you to make as much noise as you please. when gray produced his famous ode for the installation of his patron, the late duke of grafton, a production, it is observed, which would have been more admired, had it "not been surpassed by his two masterpieces, the bard, and the progress of poetry," being possessed of a very accurate taste for music, which he had formed on the italian model, he weighed every note of the composer's music, (the learned cambridge professor, dr. randall,) with the most critical exactness, and kept the composer in attendance upon him, says dyer, in his supplement, for three months. gray was, indeed, a thorough disciple of the italian school of music, whilst the professor was an ardent admirer of the sublime compositions of handel, whose _noise_, it is stated, gray could not bear; but after the professor had implicitly followed his views till he came to the chorus, gray exclaimed, "i have now done, and leave you to make as much noise as you please." this fine composition is still in ms. in the hands of the doctor's son, mr. edward randall, of the town of cambridge. * * * * * the mad peter-house poet. gray was not the only modern poet of deserved celebrity, which peter-house had the honour to foster in her cloisters. a late fellow of that society, named _kendal_, "a person of a wild and deranged state of mind," says dyer, but, it must be confessed, with much method in his madness, during his residence in cambridge, "occasionally poured out, extemporaneously, the most beautiful effusions," but the paucity of the number preserved have almost left him without a name, though meriting a niche in fame's temple. i therefore venture to repeat the following, with his name, that his genius may live with it:-- the town have found out different ways, to praise its different lears: to barry it gives loud huzzas, to garrick only tears. he afterwards added this exquisite effusion:-- a king,--aye, every inch a king,-- such barry doth appear; but garrick's quite another thing, he's every inch king lear. * * * * * the grace cup of pembroke-hall, cambridge. an ancient cup of silver gilt is preserved by this society, which was given to them by the noble foundress of their college, lady mary de st. paul, daughter of guy de castillon, earl of st. paul, in france, and widow of audomar de valentia, earl of pembroke, who is said to have been killed in a tournament, held in france, in , in honour of their wedding day,--an accident, says fuller, by which she was "a maid, a wife, and a widow, in one day." lysons in his second volume, has given an engraved delineation of this venerable goblet; the foot of which, says cole, in the forty-second volume of his mss. "stands on a large circle, whose upper rim is neatly ornamented with small _fleurs de lis_, in open work, and looks very like an ancient coronet." on a large rim, about the middle of the cup, is a very ancient embossed inscription; which, says the same authority, in , "not a soul in the college could read, and the tradition of it was forgotten;" but he supposes it to run:-- _sayn denis' yt es me dere for his lof drenk and mak gud cher._ the other inscription is short, and has an m. and v. above the circle; "which," adds cole, "i take to mean, _god help at need mary de valentia_." at the bottom of the inside of the cup is an embossed letter m. this he does not comprehend; but says it may possibly stand for _mementote_. "dining in pembroke college hall, new year's day, ," he adds, "the grace cup of silver gilt, the founder's gift to her college, was produced at the close of dinner, when, being full of sweet wine, the old custom is here, as in most other colleges, for the master, at the head of the long table, to rise, and, standing on his feet, to drink, _in piam memoriam_ (_fundatricis_,) to his neighbour on his right hand, and, who is also to be standing. when the master has drunk, he delivers the cup to him he drank to, and sits down; and the other, having the cup, drinks to his opposite neighbour, who stands up while the other is drinking; and thus alternately till it has gone quite through the company, two always standing at a time. it is of no large capacity, and is often replenished." this is not unlike the tertiavit of the mertonians, as they call it (says mr. pointer,) from a barbarous latin word derived from _tertius_, because there are always three standing at a time. the custom, he says, is a loyal one, and arises from their drinking the king and queen's health standing (at dinner) on some extraordinary days (called gaudies, from the latin word _gaudeo_, to rejoice,) to show their loyalty. there are always three standing at a time the first not sitting down again till the second has drank to a third man. the same loyal custom, under different forms, prevails in all colleges in both universities. at the inns of court, also, in london, the king's health is drunk every term, on what is called _grand day_, all members present, big-wig and student, having filled "a bumper of sparkling wine," rise simultaneously, and drink "the king," _supernaculum_, of course. * * * * * a more capacious bowl than the foregoing is in the possession of the society of jesus college, oxford, says chalmers, the gift of the hospitable sir watkins williams wynne, grandfather to the present baronet. it will contain ten gallons, and weighs ounces: how or when it is used, this deponent sayeth not. queen's college, oxon, says mr. pointer, has its-- horn of diversion, so called because it never fails to afford _funnery_. it is kept in the buttery, is occasionally presented to persons to drink out of and is so contrived, that by lifting it up to the mouth too hastily, the air gets in and suddenly forces too great a quantity of the liquid, as if thrown into the drinker's face, to his great surprise and the delight of the standers by. _multa cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra._ another bibulous relique was the famous chalice, found in one of the hands of the founder of merton college, oxford, the celebrated walter de merton, bishop of rochester and chancellor of england, upon the opening of his grave in , says wood, on the authority of mr. leonard yate, fellow of merton. it held more than a quarter of a pint; and the warden and fellows caused it to be sent to the college, to be put into their _cista jocalium_; but the fellows, in their zeal, sometimes drinking out of it, "this, then, so valued relic was broken and destroyed." * * * * * a laudable and christian custom, in merton college, says pointer, in his _oxoniensis academia_, &c. "is their meeting together in the hall on christmas eve, and other solemn times, to sing a psalm, and drink a _grace cup_ to one another, (called _poculum charitatis_) wishing one another health and happiness. these _grace cups_," he adds, "they drink to one another every day after dinner and supper, wishing one another peace and good neighbourhood." this conclusion reminds us of the following anecdote:-- a learned cambridge mathematician, now holding a distinguished post at the naval college, portsmouth, after discussing one day, with a party of johnians, the propriety of the _dies festæ_, _solar_, _siderial_, &c., drily observed, putting a bumper to his lips, "i think we should have _jovial days_ as well." every college in both universities has the next best thing to it,-- their feast days, "_in piam memoriam_" of their several founders, most of whom being persons of _taste_, left certain annual sums wherewith to "pay the piper." besides _minor_ feast-days, every society, both at oxford and cambridge, hold its yearly commemoration. there is always prayers and a sermon on this day, and the lesson is taken from eccl. xliv. "let us now praise famous men," &c. mr. pointer says, that at magdalen college, oxford, it is "a custom on all commemoration days to have the bells rung in a confused manner, and without any order, it being the primitive way of ringing." the same writer states that there is a musical may-day commemoration, annually celebrated by this society, which consists of a concert of music on the top of the tower, in honour of its founder, henry vii. it was originally a mass, but since the reformation, it has been "a merry concert of both vocal and instrumental music, consisting of several merry ketches, and lasts almost two hours (beginning as early as four o'clock in the morning,) and is concluded with ringing the bells." the performers have a breakfast for their pains. they have likewise singing early on christmas morning. the custom is similar to one observed at manheim, in germany, and throughout the palatinate. whoever was the author of the following admirable production, he was certainly not [greek: nous]-less, and it will "hardly be read with _dry lips_, or _mouths_ that do not water," says the author of the _gradus ad cant_. ode on a college feast day. i. hark! heard ye not yon footsteps dread, that shook the hall with thund'ring tread? with eager haste the fellows pass'd, each, intent on direful work, high lifts his mighty blade, and points his deadly fork. ii. but, hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth, with steps, alas! too slow, the college gypts, of high illustrious worth, with all the dishes, in long order go. in the midst a form divine, appears the fam'd sir-loin; and soon, with plums and glory crown'd almighty pudding sheds its sweets around. heard ye the din of dinner bray? knife to fork, and fork to knife, unnumber'd heroes, in the glorious strife, through fish, flesh, pies, and puddings, cut their destin'd way. iii. see beneath the mighty blade, gor'd with many a ghastly wound, low the famed sir-loin is laid, and sinks in many a gulf profound. arise, arise, ye sons of glory, pies and puddings stand before ye; see the ghost of hungry bellies, points at yonder stand of jellies; while such dainties are beside ye, snatch the goods the gods provide ye; mighty rulers of this state, snatch before it is too late; for, swift as thought, the puddings, jellies, pies, contract their giant bulks, and shrink to pigmy size. iv. from the table now retreating, all around the fire they meet, and, with wine, the sons of eating, crown at length the mighty treat: triumphant plenty's rosy traces sparkle in their jolly faces; and mirth and cheerfulness are seen in each countenance serene. fill high the sparkling glass, and drink the accustomed toast; drink deep, ye mighty host, and let the bottle pass. begin, begin the jovial strain; fill, fill the mystic bowl; and drink, and drink, and drink again; for drinking fires the soul. but soon, too soon, with one accord they reel; each on his seat begins to nod; all conquering bacchus' pow'r they feel, and pour libations to the jolly god. at length, with dinner, and with wine oppress'd, down in their chairs they sink, and give themselves to rest. * * * * * sir robert walpole at cambridge. sir robert walpole, the celebrated minister, was bred at eton and king's college, cambridge. at the first he raised great expectations as a boy, and when the master was told that st. john, afterwards lord bolingbroke, had with others, his scholars, distinguished themselves for their eloquence, in the house of commons, "i am impatient to hear that walpole has spoken," was his observation; "for i feel convinced he will be a good orator." at king's college his career was near being cut short by an attack of the small-pox. he was then known as a fierce _whig_, and his physicians were _tories_, one of whom, dr. brady, said, "we must take care to save this young man, or we shall be accused of having purposely neglected him, because he is so violent a whig." after he was restored, his spirit and disposition so pleased the same physician, that he added, "this singular escape seems to be a sure prediction that he is reserved for important purposes," which walpole remembered with complacency. * * * * * dr. lamb, the present master of corpus christi, cambridge, in his edition of master's history of that college, gives the following copy of a bill, in the handwriting of dr. john jegon, a former master, which may be taken as a specimen of a college dinner at the end of the sixteenth century:-- "visitors' feast, august , , eliz. ." "imprimis, butter and eggs xii_d._ "linge xii_d._ "rootes buttered ii_d._ "a leg of mutton xii_d._ "a poulte iii_d._ "a pike xviii_d._ "buttered maydes iiii_d._ "soles xii_d._ "hartichockes vi_d._ "roast [b]eef viii_d._ "shrimps vi_d._ "perches vi_d._ "skaite vi_d._ "custards xii_d._ "wine and sugar xx_d._ "condiments, vinegar, pepper iii_d._ "money to the visitors vi_s._ viii_d._ "money to scholars and officers, cooks, butler, register, trinitiehall school iiii_s._ viii_d._ "item, exceedings of the schollers xx_d._ -------------------- summa, xxiiii_s._ x_d._ -------------------- "j. jegon." the same authority gives the following curious item as occurring in , during the mastership of the successor of dr. jegon, dr. samuel walsall, who was elected in , under the head of an account of the wine, &c., consumed at a college audit. _l._ _s._ _d._ "imp. tuesday night, a pottle of claret and a qt. of sacke "it. wednesday, jan. , a pound of sugar and a pound of carriways "it. three ounces of tobacco "it. halfe an hundred apples and thirtie "it. a pottle of claret and a quart of sacke, wednesday dinner "it. two dousen of tobacco pipes "it. thursday dinner, two pottles of sacke and three pottles and a quart of claret "it. thursday supp. a pottle of sacke and three pottles of claret "it. satterday diner, a pottle of claret and a quart --------------- "sum. tot. _l._ --------------- "hence it appears," observes dr. l., "sack was _s._ _d._ a quart, claret _d._, and tobacco _s._ _d._ an ounce. that is, an ounce of tobacco was worth exactly four pints and a half of claret." oxford, more than cambridge, observed, and still observes, many singular customs. amongst others recorded in mr. pointer's curious book, is the now obsolete and very ancient one at merton college, called the black-night. formerly the dean of the college kept the bachelor-fellows at disputations in the hall, sometimes till late at night, and then to give, them a black-night (as they called it;) the reason of which was this:--"among many other famous scholars of this college, there were two great logicians, the one _johannes duns scotus_, called _doctor subtilis,_ fellow of the college, and father of the sect of the realists, and his scholar _gulielmus occam,_ called _doctor invincibilis,_ of the same house, and father of the sect of the nomenalists; betwixt whom there falling out a hot dispute one disputation night, _scotus_ being the dean of the college, and _occam_ (a bachelor-fellow therein,) though the latter got the better on't, yet being but an inferior, at parting submitted himself, with the rest of the bachelors, to the dean in this form, _domine, quid faciernus?_ (_i. e._ sir, what is your pleasure?) as it were begging punishment for their boldness in arguing; to whom _scotus_ returned this answer, _ite et facite quid vultis_ (_i. e._ begone, and do as you please.) hereupon away they went and broke open the buttery and kitchen doors, and plundered all the provisions they could lay hands on; called all their companions out of their beds, and made a merry bout on't all night. this gave occasion for observing the same diversion several times afterwards, whenever the dean kept the bachelor-fellows at disputation till twelve o'clock at night. the last black-night was about ." * * * * * the force of imagination. a learned cantab, who was so _deaf_ as to be obliged to use an _ear trumpet,_ having taken his departure from trinity college, of which he was lately a fellow, mounted on his well-fed rosinante for the purpose of visiting a friend, fell in with an acquaintance by the way side, with whom he was induced to dine, and evening was setting in ere he pushed forward for his original destination. warm with t. b., he had not gone far ere he let fall the reins on the neck of his pegasus, which took its own course till he was suddenly roused by its coming to a stand-still where four cross roads met, in a part of the country to which he was an utter stranger. what added to the dilemma, the _direction-post_ had been demolished. he luckily espied an old farmer jogging homeward from market. "hallo! my man, can you tell me the way to ----?" "yes, to be sure i can. you must go down _hin-hinder_ lane, and cross _yin-yinder_ common on the left, then you'll see a _hol_ and a _pightal_ and the old mills, and ----" "stop, stop, my good friend!" exclaimed our cantab; "you don't know i'm _deaf_," pulling his _ear-trumpet_ out of his pocket as he spoke: this the farmer no sooner got a glimpse of, than, taking it for a pistol or blunderbuss, and its owner for a highwayman, he clapped spurs to his horse, and galloped off at full speed, roaring out for mercy as our cantab bawled for him to stop, the _muzzle_ of his horse nosing the tail of the farmer's, till they came to an opening in a wood by the road side, through which the latter vanished, leaving the cantab _solus_, after a chase of some miles,--and upon inquiry at a cottage, he learnt he was still ten or twelve from the place of his destination, little short of the original distance he had to ride when he first started from cambridge in the morning. this anecdote reminds me of two oxonians of considerable celebrity, learning, and singular manners. one was the late amiable organist of dulwich college the rev. onias linley, son of mr. linley, of drury-lane and musical celebrity: he was consequently brother of mrs. r. b. sheridan. he was bred at winchester and new college, and was remarkable, when a minor canon at norwich, in norfolk, for his absent habits, and the ridiculous light in which they placed him, and for carrying a huge snuff-box in one hand, which he constantly kept twirling with the other between his finger and thumb. he once attended a ball at the public assembly rooms, when, having occasion to visit the temple of cloacina, he unconsciously walked back into the midst of the crowd of beauties present, with a certain _coverlid_ under his arm, in lieu of his opera hat; nor was he aware of the exchange he had made till a friend gave him a _gentle_ hint. he occasionally rode a short distance into the country to do duty on a sunday, when he used compassionately to relieve his steed by alighting and walking on, with the horse following, and the bridle on his arm. upon such occasions he frequently fell into what is called "a brown study," and arrived at his destination dragging the bridle after him, _minus_ the horse, which had stopped by the way to crop grass. he was one day met on the road so circumstanced, and reminded of the fact by a gentleman who knew him. "bless me," said he, with the most perfect composure, "the horse was with me when i sat out. i must go back to seek him." and back he went a mile or two, when he found his steed grazing by the way, bridled him afresh, and reached his church an hour later than usual, much to the chagrin of his congregation. the late dr. adams, one of the first who went out to demerara after the established clergy were appointed to stations and parishes in the west indies by authority, was a man of habits very similar to those of mr. linley, and very similar anecdotes are recorded of him, and his oddities are said to have caused some mirth to his sable followers. he died in about a year or two, much regretted notwithstanding. * * * * * the early poets bred in the halls of granta, "_semper--pauperimus esse_," were nearly all blest with none or a slender competence. but what they wanted in wealth was amply supplied in wit. spenser, lee, otway, ben johnson, and his son randolph, milton, cowley, dryden, prior, and kit smart, poets as they were, had fared but so so, had they lived by poësy only--and who ever dreamed of caring ought for _their_ posterity. spencer was matriculated a member of pembroke college, cambridge, the th of may, , at the age of sixteen, at which early period he is supposed to have been under his "sweet fit of poesy," and soon after formed the design of his great poem, the _faery queene_, _stanzas_ of which, it is said, on very good authority, were lately discovered on the removal of some of the old wainscoting of the room in which he _kept_ in pembroke college. he took b.a. , and m.a. , without succeeding to fellowship, died _in want of bread_, , and was buried in westminster abbey, according to his request, near chaucer. camden says of him-- "anglica, te vivo, vixit plautisque poesis, nunc moritura, timet, te moriente, mori!" in the common-place-book of edward, earl of oxford and mortimer, preserved amongst the mss. of the british museum, is the memoranda:--"lord carteret told me, that when he was lord lieutenant of ireland, a man of the name of spenser, immediately descended from our illustrious poet, came to be examined before the lord chief justice, as a witness in a cause, and that he was so entirely ignorant of the english language, that they were forced to have an interpreter for him." but i have no intention to give my readers the _blues_. "nat. lee" was a trinity man, and was, as the folk say, "as poor as a church mouse" during his short life, four years of which he passed in bedlam. an envious scribe one day there saw him, and mocked his calamity by asking, "if it was not easy to write like a madman?" "no, sir," said he; "but it is very easy to write like a fool." otway was bred at st. john's college, cambridge. but though his tragedies are still received with "tears of approbation," he lived in penury, and died in extreme misery, choked, it is said, by a morsel of bread given him to relieve his hunger, the th of april, . ben jonson, "rare ben," also "finished his education" at st. john's, nor did i ever tread the mazes of its pleasant walks, but imagination pictured him and his gifted contemporaries and successors, from the time of the minstrel of arcadia to the days of kirke white, in dalliance with the nine in ev'ry nook, a conning nature from her own sweet book. but ben, though "the greatest dramatic poet of his age," after he left cambridge, "worked with a trowel at the building of lincoln's inn," and died poor in everything but fame, in . ben, however, contrived to keep nearly as many "jovial days" in a year, as there are saints in the roman calendar, and at a set time held a club at the same devil tavern, near temple-bar, to which the celebrated cambridge professor, and reformer of our church music, dr. maurice greene, adjourned his concert upon his quarrel with handel, which made the latter say of him with his natural dry humour, "_toctor creene was gone to de tavil_." there ben and his _boon_ companions were still extant, when tom randolph (author of "the muses' looking-glass," &c.,) a student of trinity college, cambridge, had ventured on a visit to london, where, it is said, he stayed so long, that he had already had a _parley with his empty purse_, when their fame made him long to see ben and his associates. he accordingly, as handel would have said, _vent to de tavil_, at their accustomed time of meeting; but being unknown to them, and without money, he was peeping into the room where they sat, when he was espied by ben, who seeing him in a _scholar's thread-bare habit_, cried out "_john bo-peep_, come in." he entered accordingly, and they, not knowing the wit of their guest, began to rhyme upon the meanness of his clothes, asking him if he could not make a verse, and, withal, to call for his quart of sack. there being but four, he thus addressed them:-- "i, john bo-peep, to you four sheep, with each one his good fleece, if that you are willing to give me five shilling, 'tis fifteen pence a-piece." "by jesus," exclaimed ben (his usual oath,) "i believe this is my son randolph!" which being confessed, he was kindly entertained, and ben ever after called him his son, and, on account of his learning, gaiety, and humour, and readiness of repartee, esteemed him equal to cartwright. he also grew in favour with the wits and poets of the metropolis, but was cut off, some say of intemperance, at the age of twenty-nine. his brother was a member of christ church, oxford, and printed his works in . amongst the _memorabilia cantabrigiæ_ of milton is the fact, that his personal beauty obtained for him the _soubriquet_ of "the lady of the college;" and that he set a full value on his fine exterior, is evident from the imperfect greek lines, entitled, "_in effigie ejus sculptorem_," in warton's second edition of his poems. some have supposed he had himself in view, in his delineation of the person of adam. every body knows that his "paradise lost" brought him and his posterity less than _l._: but every body does not know that there is a _latin_ translation of it, in twelve books, in the library of trinity college, cambridge, in ms., the work of one mr. power, a fellow of that society, who printed the first book in , and completed the rest at the bermudas, where his difficulties had obliged him to fly, and from whence it was sent to dr. richard bentley, to publish and pay his debts with. however, in spite of his creditors, it still remains in ms. the writer obtained, says judge hardinge, alluding i suppose, to "the tempest of his mind and of his habits," the _soubriquet_ of the "_Æolian exile_." there is also a bust of milton in the library of trinity college, and some of his juvenile poems, &c., in his own hand-writing. cowley was bread at trinity college. his bust, too, graces its library, and his portrait its hall. both these alumni, when students, wrote latin as well as english verses, and the curious in such matters, on reference to this work, will be amused by the difference of feeling with which their _alma mater_ inspired them. to cowley the _bowers of granta and the camus_ were the very seat of inspiration; milton thought no epithet too mean to express their charms: yet, says dyer, in his supplement, "it is difficult to conceive a more brilliant example of youthful talent than milton's latin poems of that period." though they "are not faultless, they render what was said of gray applicable to milton-- 'he never was a boy.'" his mulberry tree, more fortunate than either that of shakspeare, or the pear tree of his contemporary and patron, oliver cromwell, is still shown in the fellows' garden of christ college, and still "bears abundance in fruit-time," and near it is a drooping ash, planted by the present marquis of bute, when a student of christ college. * * * * * cromwell's pear-tree i saw cut down, from the window of my sitting-room, in jesus-lane, cambridge (which happened to overlook the fellows' garden of sidney college,) in march, . the tree is said to have been planted by cromwell's own hand, when a student at sidney college, and, said the cambridge chronicle of the th of the above month, it seems not unlikely that the original stock was coeval with the protector. the tree consisted of five stems (at the time it was cut down,) which rose directly from the ground, and which had probably shot up after the main trunk had been accidentally or intentionally destroyed. four of these stems had been dead for some years, and the fifth was cut down, as stated above. "a section of it, at eight feet from the ground, had consecutive rings, indicating as many years of growth for that part. if we add a few more for the growth of the portion still lower down, it brings us to a period within seventy years of the restoration; and it is by no means improbable that the original trunk may have been at least seventy or eighty years old before it was mutilated. the stumps of the five stems are still left standing, the longest being eight feet high; and it is intended to erect a rustic seat within the area they embrace." other memorials of cromwell at sidney college, are his bust, in the master's lodge, and his portrait in the library. the first was executed by the celebrated bernini, at the request of ferdinand, grand duke of tuscany, from a plaster impression of the face of cromwell, taken soon after his death. it was obtained by the late learned cambridge regius professor of botany, thomas martyn, b.d., during his stay in italy, and by him presented to the society of sidney college, of which he was a fellow. lord cork said it bore "the strongest character of _boldness_, _steadiness_, _sense_, _penetration_, and _pride_." the portrait is _unique_, drawn in crayons, by the celebrated cooper, and is said to be that from which he painted his famous miniatures of the protector. in the college register is a memorandum of cromwell's admission to the society, dated april , , to which some one has added his character, in latin, in a different hand-writing, and very severe terms. * * * * * dryden confined to college walls. dryden, whom some have styled "the true father of english poetry," was fond of a _college life_, as especially "favourable to the habits of a student." he was bread at trinity college, cambridge, where he resided seven years, during which he is said never, like milton and others, to have "wooed the muses." what were his college habits is not known. the only notice of him at trinity (where his bust and portrait are preserved, the first in the library, the second in the hall,) whilst an undergraduate, is the following entry in the college register, made about two years after his admission:--"july , . agreed, then, that dryden be put out of comons, for a fortnight at least, and that he goe not out of the college during the time aforesaid, excepting to sermons, without express leave from the master or vice-master (disobedience to whom was his fault,) and that, at the end of the fortnight, he read a confession of his crime in the hall at the dinner-time, at the three fellows' table." his contemporary, dennis the critic, seems to have been less fortunate at cambridge. the author of the "biographia dramatica" asserts that he was expelled from caius college, cambridge. which is denied by dr. kippis, in the "biographia britannica," and "when doctors disagree, who shall decide?" in this case a third doctor steps in for the purpose, in the person of the celebrated master of emmanuel college, dr. richard farmer, who, in a humorous letter, printed in the european magazine for , says, on turning to the _gesta book_ of caius college, under the head, "sir dennis sent away," appears this entry: "march , . at a meeting of the master and fellows, sir dennis mulcted _l._; his scholarship taken away, and he _sent out of the college_, for assaulting and wounding sir glenham with a sword." * * * * * prior laid out the walks of st. john's college, cambridge, as i have been told, where he was educated, and lived and died a fellow. after he became french ambassador, and was distinguished by his sovereign, he was urged to resign his fellowship. his reply was (probably not having much faith in the longevity of _princes' favours_,) "should i need it, it will always insure me _a bit of mutton and a clean shirt_!" but it ought also to be added, to his honour, that the celebrated thomas baker, the antiquary, having been ejected from his fellowship in the same college, for refusing to take the oaths to william and mary, prior generously allowed him the proceeds of his. the same cantab was once at the opera, where a conceited french composer had taken his seat adjoining, and being anxious that the audience should know he had written the music, he annoyed our poet by humming every air so audibly as to spoil the effect of the person's singing the part, one of the greatest _artistes_ of the day. thus annoyed, prior ventured to _hiss_ the singer. every body was astonished at the daring, he being a great and deserved favourite. the composer hummed again,--again prior hissed the singer, who, enraged at the circumstance, demanded "why he was subject to such indignity?" "i want that fellow to leave off humming," said prior, pointing to the composer, "that i may have the pleasure of hearing you sing, signor." * * * * * stung by a b. dr. thomas plume, a former archdeacon of colchester, was the munificent founder of the cambridge professorship of astronomy and experimental philosophy, which (as in the case of the late dr. edward daniel clarke and the present george pryme, esq. m.a. and m.p.) he was the first to fill; but he was not as fortunate as the former, to fill his chair with unparalleled success,--in fact, his lectures were not quite the fashion. he was smarting under this truth, when he one day met dr. pearce in the streets of cambridge, the master of jesus college, whom he addressed with, "doctor, they call my lectures plum-b-ian, which is very uncivil. i don't at all like it, dr. pearce." "i suppose the b. stung you," rejoined the latter. here we may not inappropriately introduce a trifle, hit off between dr. pearce and the woman who had the care of the temple gardens, when he was master there. it is a rule to keep them close shut during divine service on sundays; but the doctor being indisposed, and having no grounds attached to his residence save the church-yard, wished to seize the quiet hour for taking a little air and exercise. he accordingly rung the garden bell, and rachel made her appearance; but she flatly told him she should not let him in, as it was against the benchers' orders. "but i am the _master_ of the temple," said dr. p. "the more shame for you," said rachel, "you ought to set a better example;" and the doctor retired dead beat. * * * * * a nest of saxonists. queen's college, oxford, was called "_a nest of saxonists_" towards the close of the sixteenth century, when those learned antiquarians and saxonists, rawlinson and thwaites, flourished there. it is recorded of the latter, in nichols's bowyer, that he said, writing of the state of the college, "we want saxon lexicons. i have fifteen young students in that language, and but one _somner_ for them all." our cambridge gossip, cole, relates a pleasant mistake, (taken notice of by warton also in the first volume of his history of english poetry) of a brother cantab's having undertaken to translate the scriptures into welsh, and rendering _vials_ of wrath (meaning _vessels_--rom. v. ) by the welsh word _crythan_, signifying _crowds_ or _fiddles_. "the greek word being [greek: phialas]," he adds, "it is probable he translated from the english only, where finding _vials_, he mistook it for _viols_." the translator was dr. morgan, who died bishop of st. asaph, in . * * * * * minding the roast. lord nugent, _on-dit_, once called on an old college acquaintance, then a country divine of great simplicity of manners, at a time when his housekeeper was from home on some errand, and he had undertaken to _mind the roast_. this obliged him to invite his lordship into the kitchen, that he might avoid the fate of king alfred. our dame's stay exceeded the time anticipated, and the divine having _to bury a corpse_, he begged lord n. to take his turn at the spit, which he accordingly did, till the housekeeper arrived to relieve him. this anecdote reminds me of the following specimen of a college exercise, _by the younger bowyer, written at st. john's college, cambridge, november , ._ "ne quicquam sapit, qui sibi ipsi non sapit." a goodly parson once there was, to 's maid would chatter latin; (for that he was, i think, an ass, at least the rhyme comes pat in.) one day the house to prayers were met, with well united hearts; below, a goose was at the spit, to feast their grosser parts. the godly maid to prayers she came, if truth the legends say, to hear her master english lame, herself to sleep and pray. the maid, to hear her worthy master, left all alone her kitchen; hence happened much a worse disaster than if she'd let the bitch in. while each breast burns with pious flame, all hearts with ardours beat, the goose's breast did much the same with too malicious heat. the parson smelt the odours rise; to 's belly thoughts gave loose, and plainly seemed to sympathise with his twice-murdered goose. he knew full well self-preservation bids piety retire, just as the _salus_ of a nation lays obligation higher. he stopped, and thus held forth his _clerum_, while him the maid did stare at, _hoc faciendum; sed alterum non negligendum erat_. _parce tuum vatum sceleris damnare._ * * * * * tulip-time. writing of the death of a former master of magdalen college, "whose whole delight was horses, dogs, sporting, &c.," which, says cole, happened on the first of september, the legal day for partridge-shooting to begin, "it put me in mind of the late dr. walker, vice-master of trinity, a great florist (and founder of the botanical garden at cambridge,) who, when told of a brother florist's death, by shooting himself in the spring, immediately exclaimed, 'good god! is it possible? now, at the beginning of tulip-time!'" * * * * * the college bell. when dr. barrett, prebend of st. paul's, was a student at peter-house, cambridge, he happened to make one of a party of collegians, where it was proposed that each _gentleman_ should _toast_ his _favourite belle_; when it came to his turn, he facetiously gave "the _college-bell_!" * * * * * college fun. "previous to my attending cambridge," says henry angelo, in his reminiscences, "one of my scholars (whom i had taught at westminster school,) at trinity college, engaged an irish fencing-master, named fitzpatrick," more remarkable for his native humour than science, and when he had taken too much of the _cratur_, "was amusing to the collegians, who had engaged him merely to keep up their exercise." one day, during a bout, some wag placed a bottle of his favourite "mountain dew" (whisky) on the chimney-piece, which proved so attractive, "that as his sips increased, so did the numerous hits he received, till the first so far prevailed, aided by exertion and the heat of the weather, that he lay, _tandem_, to all appearance dead." to keep the fun up, he was stripped and laid out like a corpse, with a shroud on, a coffin close to him, and four candles placed on each side, ready to light on his recovery. this _jeu de plaisanterie_ might have been serious; "however, master _push_-carte took care not to push himself again into the same place." * * * * * the king of denmark at cambridge. when the late king of denmark was in england, in , when he visited eton, &c., he is said to have made a brief sojourn at cambridge, where he was received with "all the honours," and took up his abode (as is usual for persons of his rank) in the lodge of the master of trinity. in his majesty's establishments for learned purposes, as well as throughout all germany, &c., no provision is made for lodging and otherwise providing for the comforts of students, as in the two english universities; and when he surveyed the principal _court_ of trinity, he is said to have had so little notion of an english university, that he asked "whether that court did not comprise the whole of the university of cambridge?" this royal anecdote reminds me that his present gracious majesty, william the fourth, announced his intention to visit cambridge. as in duty bound, upon his accession to the throne of his ancestors, a loyal congratulatory address was voted by the members of the university of cambridge in full senate. this was shortly afterwards presented to his majesty at st. james's palace by the then vice-chancellor, dr. george thackery, d.d., provost of king's college, at the head of a large body of the heads of colleges, and others, _en robe_. his majesty not only received it most graciously, but with that truly english expression that goes home to the bosom of every briton, told dr. thackery he "should shortly take pot-luck with him in cambridge." the term, too, is worthy of particular notice, since it expresses his majesty's kind consideration for the contents of the university chest, and the pockets of its members. oxford, it is well known, is still _smarting_ under the heavy charges incident upon the memorable visit of his late majesty, george the fourth, in , with the emperor alexander and the king of prussia and their _suites_. it would be no drawback upon the popularity of princes if they did take "_pot-luck_" with their subjects oftener than they do. let there be no drawback upon hospitality, but let the "feast of reason and the flow of soul" suffice for the _costly banquet_. in olden times, our monarchs _took pot-luck_ both at oxford, cambridge, and elsewhere, without their subjects being the less loyal. queen elizabeth and james the first and second were frequent visitors at both those seats of learning. elizabeth, indeed, that flower of british monarchs, suffered no designing minister to shake her confidence in her people's loyalty. she did not confine her movements to the dull routine of two or three royal palaces,--her palace was her empire. she went about "doing good" by the light of her countenance. she, and not her _minister_, was the people's _idol_. i therefore come to the conclusion, that the expressed determination of his majesty, william the fourth, to take _pot-luck_ with his good people of the university of cambridge, is the dawn of a return of those wholesome practices of which we read in the works of our annalists, when "'twas merry in the hall, and their beards wagged all." wood relates, amongst other humorous incidents, that during queen elizabeth's second visit to oxford, in september, , besides plays, &c., there was a disputation in law and physic, and, amongst many questions, was one,--"_whether the air, or meat, or drink, did most change a man?_" and a merry doctor of that faculty, named richard ratcliffe, lately fellow of merton college, but now principal of st. alban's hall, going about to produce the _negative_, showed forth a big, large body, a great fat belly, a side waist, all, as he said, so changed by _meat_ and _drink_, desiring to see any other so metamorphosed by the _air_. but it was concluded (by the moderator) in the affirmative, that _air_ had the greater power of change. one of the questions (the next day) was,--"_whether it be lawful to dissemble in the cause of religion?_" written thus, says gutch, "non est dissimulandum in causa religionis;" "which being looked upon as a nice question," continues wood, "caused much attention from the courtly auditory. one argument, more witty than solid, that was urged by one of the opponents, was, 'it is lawful to dispute of religion therefore 'tis lawful to dissemble;' and so going on, said, 'i myself now do that which is lawful, but i do now dissemble; ergo, it is lawful to dissemble.' (id quod nunc ego, de rebus divinis disputans, ego dissimulare; sed quod nunc ego, de rebus divinis disputam, ego dissimulare est licitum; at which her majesty and all the auditory were very merry.)" when queen elizabeth first visited cambridge, in the year , she took up her residence at the lodge of the provost of king's college, which stood near the east end of king's chapel. we well remember the old pile and the solitary trees that branched beside; and much as we admire the splendid improvements to which they have given place, we could almost find it in our hearts to express regret at the removal of those landmarks of the topographist. the hall was her guard-chamber, the dining-room her presence-chamber, and the gallery and adjoining rooms her private apartments. her visit lasted five days, during which she was entertained with comedies, tragedies, orations, disputations, and other academical exercises. she personally visited every college, and is said to have been so pleased with the venerable, solemn, and scholastic appearance of pembroke hall, that she saluted it with the words-- "o domus antiqua et religiosa!" * * * * * the first dissenter in england, according to the author of _historical anecdotes_, &c., was thomas cartwright, b.d., lady margaret's professor and fellow of trinity college. he and thomas preston (afterwards master of trinity hall,) says fuller, during queen elizabeth's visit at cambridge, in , were appointed two of the four disputants in the philosophy-act before her majesty. "cartwright had dealt most with the muses; preston with the graces, adorning his learning with comely carriage, graceful gesture, and pleasing pronunciation. cartwright disputed like a _great_, preston like a _gentile_ scholar, being a handsome man; and the queen, upon a parity of deserts, always preferred properness of person in conferring her favours. hereupon, with her looks, words, and deeds she favoured preston, calling him _her scholler_, as appears by his epitaph in trinity hall chappell. 'thomas prestonÆ, scholarem, 'quem dixit princeps elizabetha suum,' &c. insomuch," continues fuller, "that for his good disputing, and excellent acting, in the tragedy of _dido_, she bestowed on him a pension of lib. a year; whilst cartwright received neither reward nor commendation, whereof he not only complained to his inward friends in trinity college, but also, after her majesty's neglect of him, began to wade into divers opinions against her ecclesiastical government." and thus, according to the authority first cited, he became _the first dissenter in england_, and was deprived, subsequently, as a matter of course, of both his fellowship and professorship. it was most probably for the entertainment of the royal elizabeth, that one thomas still, m.a., of christ's college, cambridge, afterwards bishop of bath and wells, composed and produced the first english play extant: a fact no cantab need blush at, _proh pudor_, though the plot is none of the sublimest. it was printed as early as , with the following title: "a ryght pythy, pleasant, and merie comedie, entytuled gammer gurton's needle; played on the stage not long ago in christe's college, in cambridge, made by mr. s. master of arts. imprynted at london, in fleete streeate, beneth the conduit, at the signe of sainte john evangelist, by thomas colwell." though altogether of a comic cast, it was not deficient in genuine humour, and is a curious sample of the simplicity which prevailed in this country, in the early days of dramatic art. it is in metre, is spun out into five regular acts, and an awful piece it is, as may be seen by the following brief sketch of the plot. gammer gurton having lost her needle, a great hunt is made in search of it, and her boy is directed to blow the embers of an expiring fire, in order to light a candle to help the search. the witch of a cat has, in the meantime, got into the chimney, with her two fiery eyes. the boy cries, "it is the devil of a fire!" for when he puffs, it is out,--and when he does not, it is in. "stir it!" bawls gammer gurton. the boy does her bidding, and the _cat_ (the _fire_ as he imagines) flies forthwith amongst a pile of wood. "the house will be burnt, all hands to work!" roars the boy, and the cat is discovered by a priest (more cunning than the rest.) this ends the _episode_, with which the _main plot_ and catastrophe vie. gammer gurton, it seems, had, the day before, been mending her man hodge's breeches. now hodge, in some game of merriment, was to be punished, for some default, with three slaps on the breech, to be administered by the brawny hand of one of his fellow-bumpkins. to that end, his head is laid in gammer gurton's lap; the first slap is given, hodge bellows out with pain, and, oh! joyful announcement, on searching for the cause of his affliction, the needle is discovered, buried up to the eye in poor hodge's posterior portion. the needle is then extracted with becoming demonstrations, and the curtain falls. amongst other interesting matters associated with the memory of queen elizabeth (beside that of her having given cambridge that admirable body of statutes upon which all laws for their governance still continue to be framed,) are the following memoranda, extracted by dyer from baker's mss. in the public library of the university:-- "the th daye of julie, , the queene's majestie came in her progresse intended to norfolk, to audley end, at the town of waldren, accompanied by the lorde treasurer, high chancellor of the university of cambridge. the vice chancellor and masters of colleges thoughte meete and convenient for the dischardge of dutie, that the said vice-chancellor and hedds of coll. should shewe themselves of the courte, and welcome her grace into these quarters." about the end of his oration, the orator (mr. bridgewater of king's college) makes mention, that "mr. doctor howland, then vice-chancellor, maketh his three ordinarie curtesies, and then kneeling at her majesty's feete, presenting unto her-- a newe testament in greek, of robert stephens's first printing, folio, bound in redd velvett, and lymmed with gold; the arms of england sett upon eche syde of the booke very faire; and on the thirde leafe of the booke, being faire and cleane paper, was also sett and painted in colours the arms of the universitie, with these writings following: regiæ majestati deditissimæ academiæ cantabrigiensis insignia (viz. quatuor leones cum bibl. &c.) also, with the booke, the vice-chancellor presented a pair of gloves, perfumed and garnished, with embroiderie and goldsmithe's wourke, pr. _s._ and these verses:-- "semper una. "una quod es semper, quod semper es optima, princeps, quam bene conveniunt hæc duo verba tibi? quod pia, quod prudens, quod casta, innuba virgo semper es, hoc etiam semper es una modo. "et populum quod ames, populo quod amata vicissim semper es, hic constans semper et una manes, o utinam; quoniam sic semper es una, liceret una te nobis semper, eliza, frui?" since cambridge has the merit of producing the _first english play_, it is but justice here to add, that the scholars of christ church, oxford, invented moveable scenes. this merit is claimed for them by the oxford historians, and allowed by the historians of the stage, though they have not agreed of the exact period. we are informed, in leland's collectanea, that "the stage did vary three times in the acting of one tragedy." in other words, there were three scenes employed; but these, it is said by chalmers, in his history of oxford university, were the invention of inigo jones; and the exhibition, it appears, took place in the hall of christ church, in , (the year wood places the invention in,) for the entertainment of the unfortunate charles the first and his queen, when, says our annalist, a comedy was performed for their amusement, entitled, "the passions calmed, or the settling of the floating," written by strode, the public orator, and moveable scenery introduced with suitable variations; and though there is pretty conclusive evidence that this was not the first time _moveable scenes_, &c. had been introduced, it is evident they had not come into general use, from the fact that, after the departure of the king and his _suite_, the dresses and scenery were sent to hampton court, at the express desire of the queen, but with a wish, suggested by the chancellor of oxford, the ill-fated archbishop laud, _that they might not come into the hands of the common players_, which was accordingly promised. leland thinks, however, that _moveable scenes_ were better managed, before this, at cambridge; and i know not, he says, whether the invention may not be carried back to the year , when the celebrated polish prince, alesco, was at oxford, and for whose entertainment, says wood (who gives an interesting account of all the particulars of that famous oxford gaudy,) the tragedy of dido was acted in the hall of christ church, decorated with scenes illustrative of the play, and the exhibition of "the tempest, wherein it rained small comfits, rose-water, and new artificial snow, was very strange to the beholders." but other authorities place the invention in , when james the first and his court came to oxford, and was entertained in the hall of christ church, "with the latin comedy of vertumnus, written by dr. matthew gwinne, of st. john's college, oxford, and performed by the students of that house, without borrowing a single actor; and it was upon this occasion that the _humming_ of his majesty took place, referred to in my preface. in , when james and his court happened to be at woodstock, the scholars of christ church enacted barton holyday's comedy of [greek: technogamia], or the marriage of the arts: but his majesty relished it so little, as to offer several times to withdraw, and was only prevented by some of his courtiers representing that his doing so would be a cruel disappointment. this incident gave rise to the well-known epigram-- "at christ-church marriage, done before the king, lest that those mates should want an offering, the king himself did offer--what, i pray? he offered twice or thrice to go away." * * * * * oxford and cambridge seemed rivals at this period. wood states, in his annals, that when king james was entertained at oxford, in , divers cambridge scholars went thither out of novelty, to see and hear; and some that pretended to be wits made copies of verses on that solemnity, of which, he says, i have met with one that runs-- to oxonforde the king is gone, with all his mighty peers, that hath in grace maintained us, these four or five long years. such a king he hath been, as the like was never seen: knights did ride by his side, evermore to be his guide: a thousand knights, and forty thousand knights, knights of forty pounds a year. which some attribute to one lake. this example, he adds, was followed by the oxonians, when james visited cambridge in , and "many idle songs" were made by them upon the proceedings at cambridge, the most celebrated of which is the one entitled, "a grave poem, as it was presented in latin by divines and others, before his majesty at cambridge, by way of enterlude, stiled 'liber novus de adventu regis ad cantabrigiam,' faithfully done into english, with some liberal advantage, made rather to be sung than red, to the tune of 'bonny nell,'" which poem, says wood, may be seen in the works of the witty bishop corbet (by whom it was written,) "printed in ." but in so saying our annalist not only _lies_ under a mistake, but mr. gutch, his editor, has not detected it. the poem is not in the edition of , but in that of , which is the third, corrected and enlarged, and "printed by j. c. for _william crooke_, at the _green dragoon_, without temple bar;" as all may see who will consult the said editions, both extant in the library of the british museum. the poem is comprised in twenty-six stanzas, as follows:-- it is not yet a fortnight, since lutetia entertained our prince, and wasted both a studied toy, as long as was the siege of _troy_: and spent herself for full five days in _speeches_, _exercise_, and _plays_. to trim the town, great care before was tane by th' lord _vice-chancellor_, both morn and eve he cleared the way, the streets he gravell'd thrice a day; one stripe of _march-dust_ for to see, no _provost_ would give more than he. their colledges were new be-painted, their founders eke were new be-sainted; nothing escaped, nor post, nor door, nor gete, nor rail, nor b----d, nor wh----: you could not know (oh, strange mishap!) whether you saw the _town_ or _map_. but the pure house of _emanuel_, would not be like proud _jesebel_, nor show herself before the king an hypocrite, or _painted_ thing: but that the ways might all prove fair, conceiv'd a tedious mile of prayer. upon the look'd-for seventh of _march_, out went the townsmen all in starch, both band and bead into the field, where one a speech could hardly wield; for needs he would begin his stile, the king being from him half a mile. they gave the king a piece of plate, which they hop'd never came too late; and cry'd, oh! look not in, great king, for there is in it just nothing: and so preferred with time and gate, a speech as empty as their plate. now, as the king came near the town, each one ran crying up and down, alas, poor _oxford_, thou'rt undone, for now the king's past _trompington_, and rides upon his brave grey dapple, seeing the top of _king's-colledge_ chappel. next rode his lordship on a nag, whose coat was blue, whose ruff was shag, and then began his reverence to speak most eloquent non-sense: see how (quoth he) most mighty prince, for very joy my horse doth wince. what cryes the town? what we? (said he) what cryes the university? what cryes the boyes? what every thing? behold, behold, yon comes the king: and every period he bedecks, with _en et ecce venit rex_. oft have i warn'd (quoth he) our dirt, that no silk stockings should be hurt; but we in vain strive to be fine, unless your grace's sun doth shine; and with the beams of your bright eye, you will be pleased our streets to dry. now come we to the wonderment, of _christendom_, and eke of _kent_, the _trinity_; which to surpass, doth deck her spokesman by a glass: who, clad in gay and silken weeds, thus opes his mouth, hark how he speeds. i wonder what your grace doth here, who had expected been year, and this your son, fair _carolus_, that is so jacobissimus; there's none, of all your grace refuses, you are most welcome to our muses. although we have no bells to jingle, yet can we shew a fair quadrangle, which, though it ne'er was graced with king, yet sure it is a goodly thing: my warning's short, no more i'll say, soon you shall see a gallant play. but nothing was so much admired as were their plays, so well attired; nothing did win more praise of mine, than did their actors most divine: so did they drink their healths divinely, so did they skip and dance so finely. their plays had sundry grave wise factors, a perfect diocess of actors upon the stage; for i am sure that there was both bishop, pastor, curat: nor was this labour light or small, the charge of some was pastoral. our plays were certainly much worse, for they had a brown hobby-horse, which did present unto his grace a wondrous witty ambling pace: but we were chiefly spoyl'd by that which was six hours of _god knows what_. his lordship then was in a rage, his lordship lay upon the stage, his lordship cry'd, all would be marr'd: his lordship lov'd a-life the guard, and did invite those mighty men, to what think you? even to a _hen_. he knew he was to use their might to help to keep the door at night, and well bestow'd he though his hen, that they might tolebooth _oxford_ men. he thought it did become a lord to threaten with that bug-bear word. now pass we to the civil law, and eke the doctors of the spaw, who all perform'd their parts so well, sir _edward ratcliff_ bore the bell, who was, by the king's own appointment, to speak of spells and magic ointment. the doctors of the civil law, urged ne'er a reason worth a straw; and though they went in silk and satten, they, _thomson_-like clip'd the king's latine; but yet his grace did pardon then all treasons against _priscian_. here no man spoke aught to the point, but all they said was out of joint; just like the chappel ominous, in th' colledge called _god with us_, which truly doth stand much awry, just north and south, _yes verily_. philosophers did well their parts, which proved them masters of the arts; their moderator was no fool, he far from _cambridge_ kept a school: the country did such store afford, the proctors might not speak a word. but to conclude, the king was pleased, and of the court the town was eased: but oxford though (dear sister hark it) the king is gone but to new-market, and comes again ere it be long, then you may sing another song. the king being gone from _trinitie_, they make a scramble for degree; masters of all sorts and all ages, keepers, subsizers, lackayes, pages, who all did throng to come abroad, with _pray make me_ now, _good my lord_. they prest his lordship wondrous hard, his lordship then did want the guard, so did they throng him for the nonce, till he bless them all at once, and cry'd _hodiissime_: _omnes magistri estote_. nor is this all which we do sing, for of your praise the world must ring: reader, unto your tackling look, for there is coming forth a book, will spoyl _joseph bernesius_ the sale of _rex platonicus_. his majesty was, as usual, entertained with speeches, disputations, and dramatic exhibitions. fuller relates, that the following extraordinary divinity act, or disputation, was kept at cambridge before this prince, during this visit, where dr. john davenant (afterwards bishop of sarum) was respondent, and dr. richardson, amongst others, opponent. the question was maintained, in the _negative_, concerning the excommunicating of kings. dr. richardson vigorously pressed the practice of st. ambrose, who excommunicated the emperor theodosius,--insomuch, says fuller, that the king, in a great passion, returned,--"_profecto fuit hoc ab ambrosio insolentissime factum_." to which dr. r. rejoined,--"_responsum vere regium, et alexandro dignum, hoc non est argumentu dissolvere, sed desecare_,"--and so, sitting down, discontinued from any further argument. it was for the entertainment of james during this visit, that the famous cambridge latin comedy, entitled ignoramus, was first enacted. it originated in a dispute on the question of precedency, in , when the mayor, whose name was thomas smart, had seated himself in a _superior_ place in the guildhall of the town, in the presence of the vice-chancellor of the university, who asserted his right to the same; but the mayor refused to resign the seat, till the vice-chancellor's attendants forcibly ejected him. the dispute was laid before the privy council, who decided in favour of the vice-chancellor. but during the progress of the affair, the recorder of cambridge, named brankyn, stoutly defended the mayor and corporation against the rights of the university. this it was that induced the author of the play, geo. ruggle, fellow of clare-hall, to _show him up_, in the pedantic, crafty, pragmatical character of _ignoramus_; and if lawyer brankyn, it is said, had not actually set the dispute agoing, he greatly contributed to keep it alive. at this time king james had long been expected to visit cambridge, who had a strong prejudice against lawyers, and a ruling passion to be thought the patron of literature. the circumstances suggested to ruggle the propriety of exposing lawyer brankyn before his majesty, in the above character, and to render it the more forcible, he resolved to adopt the common-law forms, and the cant and barbarous phraseology of lawyers in the ordinary discourse. it was, therefore, necessary that he should make himself master of that _dialect_, in which almost the best amongst them were accustomed to write and even to discourse; a jargon, says wilson, in his _memorabilia cantabrigiæ_, could not but be offensive to a classical car. he, therefore, took more than ordinary pains to acquaint himself with the technical terms of the profession, and to mark the abuse of them, of which he has admirably availed himself in the formation of the character of _ignoramus_, who not only transacts business, but "woos in language of the pleas and bench." the comedy was enacted before his majesty by the members of the university, and he was so much delighted with, _on dit_, either the wit or absurdity, that he caused it to be played a second time, and once at newmarket. during one of these representations, says dr. peckard, formerly master of magdalen college, in his life of mr. farrer, "the king called out aloud, 'treason! treason!' the gentlemen about him being anxious to know what disturbed his majesty, he said, 'that the writer and performers had acted their parts so well, that he should die of laughter.'" it was during the performance of this play, according to rapin and others, that james was first struck with the personal beauty of _george villiers_, who afterwards became duke of buckingham, and supplanted _somerset_ in his favour. thomas gibbons, esq. says, in his collection, forming part of the harleian mss. in the british museum, (no. , art. .) that "the comedy of ignoramus, supposed to be by mr. ruggle, is but a translation of the italian comedy of baptista porta, entitled _trapulario_, as may be seen by the comedy itself, in clare-hall library, with mr. ruggle's notes and alterations thereof." a literary relique that is said to have now disappeared; but it is to be hoped, for the credit of a learned society, that it is a _mistake_. dyer in his _privileges of cambridge_ (citing vol. ii. fol. of hare's mss.) gives _the judgment of the earl marshal of england_, which settled this famous controversy. the original document is extant in the crown office, in these words:--"i do set down, &c. that the vice-chancellor of cambridge is to be taken in commission before the mayor. king james, also, in the third of his raigne, by letters under the privy signett, commandeth the lord ellesmere, chancellor of england, to place the vice-chancellor before the mayor, in all commissions of the peace or otherwise, where public shew of degrees is to be made." an oxonian and a bishop, who had half a score of the softer sex to lisp "papa," not one of whom his lady was conjuror enough "to get off," was one day accosted in piccadilly by an old oxford _chum_, with, "i hope i see your lordship well." "pretty well, for a man who is daily smothered in _petticoats_, and has ten daughters and a wife to carve for," was the reply. * * * * * brief notice of the boar's head carol, as sung in queen's college, oxford, on christmas day. "the earliest collection of christmas carols supposed to have been published," says hone, in his every-day book, "is only known from the last leaf of a volume, printed by wynkyn worde, in the year . this precious scrap was picked up by tom hearne; dr. rawlinson purchased it at his decease in a volume of tracts, and bequeathed it to the bodleian library. there are two carols upon it: one, 'a caroll of huntynge,' is reprinted in the last edition of juliana berner's 'boke of st. alban's;' the other, 'a caroll bringing in the boar's head,' is in mr. dibdin's edition of "ames," with a copy of it as it is now sung in queen's college, oxford, every christmas day. dr. bliss of oxford also printed on a sheet, for private distribution, a few copies of this, and anthony wood's version of it, with notices concerning the custom, from the handwriting of wood and dr. rawlinson, in the bodleian library. ritson, in his ill-tempered 'observations on warton's history of english poetry,' ( , to., p. ,) has a christmas carol upon bringing up the boar's head, from an ancient ms. in his possession, wholly different from dr. bliss's. the 'bibliographical miscellanies' (oxford, , to.) contains seven carols from a collection in one volume, in the possession of dr. cotton, of christ-church college, oxford, 'imprynted at london, in the poultry, by richard kele, dwelling at the longe shop vnder saynt myldrede's chyrche,'" probably between and . "i had an opportunity of perusing this exceedingly curious volume (mr. hone,) which is supposed to be unique, and has since passed into the hands of mr. freeling." "according to aubrey's ms., in the coll. ashmol. mus., oxford," says a writer in the morning herald of the th of dec., , "before the last civil wars, in gentlemen's houses, at christmas, the first dish that was brought to the table was _a boar's head, with a lemon in his mouth_. at qeeun's college, oxford," adds this writer, "they still retain this custom; the bearer of it brings it into the hall, singing, to an old tune, an old latin rhyme, "_caput apri defero_," &c. "the carol, according to hearne, ames, warton, and ritson," says dr. dibdin, in his edition of the second, is as follows:-- a carol bringing in the bores heed. caput apri differo reddens laudes domino. the bore's heed in hande bring i, with garlands gay and rosemary, i praye you all synge merely, qui estis in convivio. the bores heed i understande is the thefte servyce in this lande, take where ever it be fande, servite cum cantico. be gladde lordes bothe more and lasse, for this hath ordeyned our stewarde, to chere you all this christmasse, the bores heed with mustarde. "this carol (says warton,) with many alterations, is yet retained at queen's college, oxford," though "other ancient carols occur with latin burthens or latin intermixtures." but, "being anxious to obtain a correct copy of this ballad," says dr. dibdin, in his ames, "as i had myself heard it sung in the hall of queen's college, i wrote to the rev. mr. dickinson, tutor of the college, to favour me with an account of it: his answer, which may gratify the curious, is here subjoined. "'_queen's college, june th_, . "'dear sir,--i have much pleasure in transmitting you a copy of the old _boar's head song_, as it has been sung in our college-hall, every christmas day, within my remembrance. there are some barbarisms in it, which seem to betoken its antiquity. it is sung to the common chaunt of the prose version of the psalms in cathedrals; at least, whenever i have attended the service at magdalen or new college chapels, i have heard the boar's head strain continually occurring in the psalms. "'the boar's head in hand bring i, bedeck'd with bays and rosemary; and i pray you, my masters, be merry, quot estis in convivio. _caput apri defero_ _reddens laudes domino_. "'the boar's head, as i understand, is the rarest dish in all this land, which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland, let us servire cantico. _caput apri defero_ _reddens laudes domino_. "'our steward hath provided this in honour of the king of bliss; which on this day to be served is, in regimensi atrio. _caput apri defero_ _reddens laudes domino_.'" "the following," adds the doctor, "is hearne's minute account of it: (_hist. guil. neubrig. vol. iii. p. :_) 'i will beg leave here,' says the pugnacious oxford antiquary, 'to give an exact copy of the christmas carol _upon the boar's head_, (which is an ancient dish, and was brought up by king henry i. with trumpets, before his son, when his said son was crowned) as i have it in an old fragment, (for i usually preserve even fragments of old books) of the christmas carols printed by wynkyn de worde, (who as well as richard pynson, was servant to william caxton, who was the first that printed english books, though not the first printer in england, as is commonly said,) printing being exercised at oxford in , if not sooner, which was several years before he printed anything at westminster, by which it will be perceived how much the said carol is altered, as it is sung in some places even now, from what it was at first. it is the last thing, it seems, of the book (which i never yet saw entire,) and at the same time i think it proper also to add to the printer's conclusion, for this reason, at least, that such as write about our first printers, may have some notice of the date of this book, and the exact place where printed, provided they cannot be able to meet with it, as i believe they will find it pretty difficult to do, it being much laid aside, about the time that some of david's psalms came to be used in its stead.'" this custom is briefly noticed in pointer's "_oxoniensis academia_," as "that of having a boar's head, or the figure of one in wood, brought up in the hall every year on christmas day, ushered in very solemnly with an old song, in memory of a noble exploit (as tradition goes,) by a scholar (a tabardar) of this college, in killing a wild boar in shotover wood." that is, having wandered into the said wood, which was not far from oxford, with a copy of aristotle in his hand (for the oxonians were of old logicians of the orthodox school in which an alexander the great was bred,) and if the latter, as a pupil who sat at the foot of aristotle, conquered _a world_, no wonder our tabardar, as a disciple being attacked by a wild boar, who came at him with extended jaws, intending to make but _a mouthful of him_, was enabled to conquer so rude a beast, which he _did_ by thrusting the aristotle down the boar's throat, crying, in the concluding words of the th stanza of the following song--'grÆcum est.' the animal of course fell prostrate at his feet, was carried in triumph to the college, and no doubt served up with _an 'old song,'_ as mr. pointer says, in memory of this "_noble exploit_." the witty _dr. buckler_, however, is not satisfied with this brief notice of mr. pointer's: but says, in his _never-to-be-forgotten_ exposé, or "complete vindication," of _the all-souls' mallard_ (of which anon,) "i am apt to fear, that it is a fixed principle in mr. _pointer_ to ridicule every _ceremony_ and _solemn institution_ that comes in his way, however venerable it may be for its antiquity and significance;" and after quoting mr. pointer's words, he adds, with his _unrivalled irony_, "now, notwithstanding this _bold hint_ to the contrary, it seemeth to me to be altogether unaccountable and incredible, that a polite and learned society should be so far depraved, in its taste, and so much in love with a _block-head_, as to eat it. but as i have never had the honour of dining at a _boar's head_, and there are many gentlemen more nearly concerned and better informed, as well as better qualified, in every respect, to refute this _calumny_ than i am, i shall avoid entering into a thorough discussion of this subject. i know it is given out by mr. pointer's enemies, that he hath been employed by some of the _young seceders_ from that college, to throw out a story of the _wooden-head_, in order to countenance the complaints of those gentlemen about _short commons_, and the great deficiency of _mutton_, _beef_, &c.; and, indeed, i must say, that nothing could have better answered their purpose, in this respect, than in proving, according to the _insinuation_, that the chief dish at one of their highest festivals, was nothing but a log of wood _bedeck'd with bays and rosemary_; but surely this cannot be credited, after the _university_ has been informed by the _best authority_, and in the most _public_ manner, that a _young nobleman_, who lately completed his academical education at that house, was, during his whole residence, not only very _well satisfied_ but _extremely delighted_ with the college commons." in the oxford sausage is the following ryghte excellente song in honour of the celebration of the boar's head, at queen's college, oxford. _tam marti quam mercurio._ i sing not of rome or grecian mad games. the pythian, olympic, and such like hard names; your patience awhile, with submission, i beg, i strive but to honour the feast of coll. reg. derry down, down, down, derry down. no thracian brawls at our rites e'er prevail, we temper our mirth with plain sober mild ale; the tricks of old circe deter us from wine: though we honour a boar, we won't make ourselves swine. derry down, &c. great milo was famous for slaying his ox, yet he proved but an ass _in cleaving of blocks_: but we had a hero for all things was fit, our motto displays both his valour and wit. derry down, &c. stout hercules labour'd, and look'd mighty big, when he slew the half-starved erymanthian pig; but we can relate such a stratagem taken, that the stoutest of boars could not _save his own bacon_. derry down, &c. so dreadful his bristle-back'd foe did appear, you'd have sworn he had got the wrong _pig by the ear_, but instead of avoiding the mouth of the beast, he ramm'd in a volume, and cried--_græcum est_. derry down, &c. in this gallant action such fortitude shown is, as proves him no coward, nor tender adonis; no armour but logic; by which we may find, that logic's the bulwark of body and mind. derry down, &c. ye squires that fear neither hills nor rough rocks, and think you're full wise when you out-wit a fox; enrich your poor brains, and expose them no more, learn greek, and seek glory from hunting the boar. derry down, &c. * * * * * cleaving the block, is another custom that either _was_, or _is_, annually celebrated at queen's college, oxford, not _pro bono publico_, it seems, but pro bono _cook-o!_ and has a reference, probably, to the exploit in which milo "proved but an ass," as observed in the second line of the third verse of the foregoing song. _on dit_, every christmas, new year's, or some other day, at that season of the year, _a block of wood_ is placed at the hall-door, where the _cook_ stands with his _cleaver_, which he delivers to each member of the college, as he passes out of the hall, who endeavours, at _one_ stroke, to sever the block of wood; failing to do which, he throws down half-a-crown, in which sum he is _mulct_. this is done by every one in succession, should they, as is invariably the case, prove themselves asses in "cleaving of blocks." but should any one out-milo milo, he would be entitled to all the half-crowns previously forfeited: otherwise the whole _goes to the cook_. * * * * * the misfortune of being little. lord byron has said, that a man is unfortunate whose name will admit of being _punned upon_. the lament might apply to all peculiarities of person and habit. dr. joseph jowett, the late regius professor of civil law at cambridge, though a learned man, an able lecturer, one that generously fostered talent in rising young men, and a _dilettante_ musician of a refined and accurate taste, was remarkable for some singularities, as smallness of stature, and for gardening upon a small scale. this gave the late bishop mansel or porson (for it has been attributed to both, and both were capable of perpetrating it) an occasion to throw off the following latin epigram: exiguum hunc hortum jowettulus iste exiguus, vallo et muriit exiguo: exiguo hoc horto forsan jowettulus iste exiguus mentem prodidit exiguum. in english, as much as to say: a _little_ garden _little_ jowett had, and fenced it with a _little_ palisade: because this garden made a _little_ talk, he changed it to a _little_ gravel walk: and if you'ld know the taste of _little_ jowett, this _little_ garden doth a _little_ show it. * * * * * bishops blomfield and monk, who had the honour to edit his _adversaria_, can both, it is said, bear witness to the fact, that porson was unlike many pedants who make a display of their brilliant parts to surprise rather than enlighten; he was liberal in the extreme, and truly amiable in communicating his knowledge to young men of talent and industry, and would tell them all they wanted to know in a plain and direct manner, without any attempt to display his superiority. all, however, agree that the time for profiting by porson's learning was _inter bibendum_, for then, as chaucer says of the sompnour-- "when he well dronkin had with wine, then would he speak ne word but latine." more than one distinguished judge of his merits pronounced him the greatest scholar in europe, and he never appeared so sore, says one who knew him well, as when a _wakefield_ or a _hermann_ offered to set him right, or hold their tapers to light him on his way. their doing so gave him occasion to compare them to _four-footed animals, guided only by instinct_; and in future, he said, he "would take care they should not reach what he wrote with their paws, though they stood on their hind legs." i may here very appropriately repeat the fact, that porson was a great master of iambic measure, as he has shown in his preface to the second edition of his hecuba. the german critic, hermann, however, whom he makes to say, in his notes on the medea, "we germans understand quantity better than the english," accuses him of being more dictatorial than explanatory in his metrical decisions. upon this the professor fired the following epigram at the german:-- [greek: nêi des esnte metrôn ô teutones, ouch ho men, hos d' ou, pantes plên 'ermannos, ho d' 'ermannos sphodra teutôn.] the germans in greek, are sadly to seek; not five in five score, but ninety-five more; all, save only hermann, and hermann's a german. porson and wakefield had but little regard for each other, and when the latter published his _hecuba_, porson said-- "what's hecuba to him, or he to hecuba, that he should publish her?" at another time, being teased for his opinion of a modern latin poem, his reply was,--"there is a great deal in it from _horace_, and a great deal from _virgil_: but nothing _horatian_ and nothing _virgilian_." dr. parr once asked the professor, "what he thought of the origin of evil?" "_i see no good in it_," was his answer. the same pugnacious divine told him one day, that "with all his learning, he did not think him well versed in metaphysics." "sir," said porson, "i suppose you mean _your_ metaphysics." it is not generally known that during the time he was employed in deciphering the famed rosetta stone, in the collection of the british museum, which is _black_, he obtained the soubriquet of judge blackstone. and it is here worthy of remark, that it was to another celebrated cantab, porson's contemporary, dr. edward daniel clarke, the traveller, that we are indebted for that relique of antiquity. he happened to be in egypt at the time the negociation for the evacuation of that country by the remnant of bonaparte's army was progressing between lord hutchinson and the french general, menou. knowing the french were in possession of the famed rosetta stone, amongst other reliques, clarke's sagacity induced him to point out to lord hutchinson the importance of possessing it. the consequence was, he was named as one of the parties to negociate with menou for the surrender of that and their other egyptian monuments and valuable reliques which the _sçavans_ attached to the french army had sedulously collected; and notwithstanding every impediment and even insult were heaped upon, and thrown in clarke's way, his perseverance was proof against it all. indeed, dr. edward daniel clarke, whose name and writings are now justly celebrated throughout the civilized world, was from his very childhood (says his biographer, contemporary, and friend, the learned principal of king's college, london,) an enthusiast in whatever he undertook, and always possessed, in a very high degree, the power of interesting the minds of others towards any objects that occupied his own. this was remarkably illustrated by his manufacture of a balloon, with which he amused the university, in the third year of his residence, when not more than eighteen, probably the only instance of a member of either university constructing one. it "was magnificent in size, and splendid in its decorations, and was constructed and manoeuvred, from first to last, entirely by himself. it was the contrivance of many anxious thoughts, and the labour of many weeks, to bring it to what he wished; and when, at last, it was completed to his satisfaction, and had been suspended for some days in the college hall, of which it occupied the whole height, he announced a time for its ascension. there was nothing at that period very new in balloons, or very curious in the species he had adopted; but by some means he had contrived to disseminate, not only within his own college, but throughout the whole university, a prodigious curiosity respecting the fate of this experiment; and a vast concourse of persons assembled, both within and without the college walls; and the balloon having been brought to its station, the grass-plot within the cloisters of jesus' college, was happily launched by himself, amidst the applause of all ranks and degrees of gownsmen, the whole scene succeeding to his wish; nor is it very easy to forget the delight which flashed from _his_ eye, and the triumphant wave of _his_ cap, when the machine, with its little freight (a kitten,) having cleared the college battlements, was seen floating in full security over the towers of the great gate, followed in its course by several persons on horseback, who had undertaken to recover it; and all went home delighted with an exhibition upon which nobody would have ventured, in such a place, but himself. but to gratify and amuse others was ever the source of the greatest satisfaction to him." this was one of those early displays of that spirit of enterprise which was so gloriously developed in his subsequent wanderings through the dreary regions of the north, over the classic shores of mouldering greece, of egypt, and of palestine, the scenes of which, and their effects upon his vivid imagination and sanguine spirit, he has so admirably depicted in his writings. this eminent traveller used to say, that the old proverb, "with too many irons in the fire some must burn," "was a lie." use poker, tongs, shovel, and all,--only keep them all stirring, was his creed. few had the capacity of keeping them so effectually stirring as he had. nature seemed to have moulded him, head and heart, to be in a degree a contradiction to the wise saws of experience. * * * * * three blue beans in a bladder. dr. bentley said of our celebrated cambridge professor, joshua barnes, that "he knew about as much greek as an athenian blacksmith," but he was certainly no ordinary scholar, and few have excelled him in his tact at throwing of "trifles light as air" in that language, of which his following version of _three blue beans in a bladder_ is a sample: [greek: treis kyamoi eni kystidi kyaneêphi.] equal to this is the following spondaic on the three university bedels, by kit smart, who well deserved, though dr. johnson denied him, a place in his british poets. he possessed great wit and sprightliness of conversation, which would readily flow off in extemporaneous verse, says dyer, and the three university bedels all happening to be fat men, he thus immortalized them: "pinguia tergeminorum abdomina bedellorum." (three bedels sound, with paunches fat and round.) * * * * * no scholar in europe understood them better. it is recorded of another cambridge clarke, the rev. john, who was successively head-master of the grammar schools of skipton, beverley, and wakefield in yorkshire, and obtained the honourable epithet of "_the good school-master_"--that when he presented himself to our great critic, dr. richard bentley, at trinity college, cambridge, for admission, the doctor proceeded to examine him, as is usual, and placed before him a page of the greek text, with the scholia, for the purpose. "he explained the whole," says his memorialist, dr. zouch, "with the utmost perspicuity, elegance, and ease. dr. bentley immediately presented him with a valuable edition of the comedies of aristophanes, telling him, in language peculiar to himself, that no scholar in europe understood them better, _one person only excepted_." dyer has the following bentleian anecdote in his supplement, but supposes it cannot be charged upon the doctor, "the greatest greek scholar of his age." he is said to have set a scholar a copy of greek verses, by way of _imposition_, for some offence against college discipline. having completed his verses, he brought them to the doctor, who had not proceeded far in examining them before he was struck with a passage, which he pronounced _bad_ greek. "yet, sir," said the scholar, with submission, "i thought i had followed good authority," and taking a pindar out of his pocket, he pointed to a similar expression. the doctor was satisfied, but, continuing to read on, he soon found another passage, which he said was certainly bad greek. the young man took his pindar out of his pocket again, and showed another passage, which he had followed as his authority. the doctor was a little nettled, but he proceeded to the end of the verses, when he observed another passage at the close, which he affirmed was not classical. "yet pindar," rejoined the young man, "was my authority even here," and he pointed out the place which he had closely imitated. "get along, sir," exclaimed the doctor, rising from his chair in a passion, "pindar was very bold, and you are very impudent." * * * * * the great gaudy of the all-souls' mallard. this feast is annually celebrated the th of january, by the society of all-souls, _in piam memoriam_ of their founder, the famous henry chichele, archbishop of canterbury. it is a custom at all-souls' college (says pointer, in his oxoniensis academia,) kept up on "their mallard-night every year, in remembrance of a huge mallard or drake, found (as tradition goes) imprisoned in a gutter or drain under ground, and grown to a vast bigness, at the digging for the foundation of the college." this mallard had grown to a huge size, and was, it appears, of a great age; and to account for the longevity, he cites the ornithology of willughby, who observes, "that he was assured by a friend of his, a person of very good credit, that his father kept a goose known to be sixty years of age, and as yet sound and lusty, and like enough to have lived many years longer, had he not been forced to kill her, for her mischievousness, worrying and destroying the young geese and goslings." "and my lord bacon," he adds, "in his natural history, says, the goose may pass among the long-livers, though his food be commonly grass and such kind of nourishment, especially the wild goose; wherefore this proverb grew among the germans, _magis senex quam anser nivalis--older than a wild-goose_." he might also have instanced the english proverb, "as tough as a michaelmas goose." "if a goose be such a long-lived bird," observes mr. p., "why not a duck or a drake, since i reckon they may be both ranked in the same class, though of a different species, as to their size, as a rat and a mouse? and if so, this may help to give credit to our all-souls' mallard. however, this is certain, this mallard is the accidental occasion of a great gaudy once a-year, and great mirth, though the commemoration of their founder is the chief occasion; for on this occasion is always sung," as extant in the oxford sausage, the following "merry old song:"-- the all-souls' mallard. griffin, bustard, turkey, capon, let our hungry mortals gape on, and on their bones their stomach fall hard, but all-souls' men have their mallard. oh! by the blood of king edward, oh! by the blood of king edward, it was a swapping, swapping, mallard. the _romans_ once admired a _gander_ more than they did their chief commander, because he saved, if some don't fool us, the place that's called from the _head of tolus_. oh! by the blood, &c. the poets feign _jove_ turned a swan, but let them prove it if they can; as for our proof, 'tis not at all hard, for it was a swapping, swapping mallard. oh! for the blood, &c. swapping he was from bill to eye, swapping he was from wing to thigh; swapping--his age and corporation out-swapped all the winged creation. oh! for the blood, &c. therefore let us sing and dance a galliard, to the remembrance of the mallard; and as the mallard dives in a pool, let us dabble, dive, and duck in a bowl. oh! by the blood of king edward, oh! by the blood of king edward, it was a swapping, swapping mallard. but whoever would possess themselves of the true history of the _swapping mallard_ of all-souls, must read the "_complete vindication of the mallard of all-souls_," published in , by dr. buckler, sub-warden, "a most incontrovertible proof of his wit," who for that and other, his effusions, was usually styled, by way of eminence, says chalmers, in his history of oxford, "the buckler of the mallardians." his _vindication_, it is justly observed, is "one of the finest pieces of _irony_ in our language." of course, he is highly indignant at the "injurious suggestions of mr. pointer (contained in the foregoing quotations,) who insinuates, that the huge _mallard_ was no better than a _goose-a-gander_, "_magis senex_," &c.; and after citing the very words of mr. p., he breaks out, "thus the _mallard of all-souls_, whose remembrance has, for these three centuries, been held in the highest veneration, is, by this _forged hypothesis_, degraded into a goose, or, at least, ranked in the _same class_ with that ridiculous animal, and the whole story on which the rites and ceremonies of the _mallard_ depends, is represented as _merely traditional_; more than a hint is given of the _mischievousness_ of the bird, whatever he be; and all is founded on a _pretended longevity_, in support of which fiction the great names of lord _bacon_ and mr. _willughby_ are called in, to make the vilifying insinuation pass the more plausibly upon the world." "we live in an age (he adds,) when the _most serious_ subjects are treated with an air of ridicule; i shall therefore set this _important affair_ in its true light, and produce authorities "sufficient to convince the most obstinate incredulity; and first, i shall beg leave to transcribe a passage from _thomas walsingham_, (see _nicholson's_ historical library,) a _monk_ of _st. alban's_, and regius professor of history in that monastery, about the year . this writer is well known among the historians for his _historia brevis_, written in latin, and published both by _camden_ and archbishop _parker_. but the tract i am quoting is in english, and entitled, of wonderful and surprising eventys, and, as far as i can find, has never yet been printed. the eighth chapter of his fifth book begins thus:-- "'ryghte well worthie of note is thilke famous tale of the _all-soulen_ mallarde, the whiche, because it bin acted in our daies, and of a suretye vouched into me, i will in fewe wordys relate. "'whereas _henrye chicele_, the late renowned arch-bishope of _cantorburye_, had minded to founden a collidge in _oxenforde_ for the hele of his soule and the soules of all those who peryshed in the warres in _fraunce_, fighteing valiantlye under our most gracious _henrye_ the fifthe, moche was he distraughten concerning the place he myghte choose for thilke purpose. him thynketh some whylest how he myghte place it withouten the eastern parte of the citie, both for the pleasauntnesse of the meadowes and the clere streamys therebye runninge. agen him thynketh odir whylest howe he mote builden it on the northe side for the heleful ayre there coming from the fieldis. now while he doubteth thereon he dreamt, and behold there appearyth unto him one of righte godelye personage, saying and adviseing him as howe he myghte placen his collidge in the highe strete of the citie, nere unto the chirche of our blessed ladie the virgine, and in witnesse that it was sowthe and no vain and deceitful phantasie, wolled him to laye the first stone of the foundation at the corner which turnyth towards the _cattys-strete_, where in delvinge he myghte of a suretye finde a schwoppinge mallarde imprison'd in the sinke or sewere, wele yfattened and almost ybosten. sure token of the thrivaunce of his future collidge. "'moche doubteth he when he awoke on the nature of this vision, whether he mote give hede thereto or not. then advisyth he thereon with monie docters and learned clerkys, all sayd howe he oughte to maken trial upon it. then comyth he to _oxenforde_, and on a daye fix'd, after masse seyde, proceedeth he in solemn wyse, with spades and pickaxes for the nonce provided, to the place afore spoken of. but long they had not digged ere they herde, as it myghte seme, within the wam of the erthe, horrid strugglinges and flutteringes, and anon violent quaakinges of the distressyd mallarde. then _chicele_ lyfteth up his hondes and seyth _benedicite_, &c. &c. nowe when they broughte him forthe behold the size of his bodie was as that of a bustarde or an ostriche, and moche wonder was thereat, for the lyke had not been been scene in this londe, ne in anie odir.' "here," says the doctor, "we have the matter of fact proved from an _authentic record_, wherein there is not one word said of the _longevity_ of the _mallard_, upon a supposition of which mr. _pointer_ has founded his whole _libel_. the _mallard_, 'tis true, has grown to a great size. but what then? will not the richness and plenty of the diet he wallowed in very well account for this, without supposing any great number of years of imprisonment? the words of the historian, i am sure, rather discourage any such supposition. _sure token_, says he, _of the thrivance of his future college!_ which seems to me to intimate the great _progress_ the _mallard_ had made in fattening, in a short space of time. but be this as it will, there is not the least hint of a _goose_ in the case. no: the impartial _walsingham_ had far higher notions of the _mallard_, and could form no comparison of him, without borrowing his idea from some of the most noble birds, the _bustard_ and the _ostridge_." turning to our author's comment on the last passage of mr. pointer, he adds, "however, this is certain, this _mallard_ is the accidental occasion of a _great gaudy_ once a year, and great _mirth_; for on this occasion is always sung a _merry old song_."--"_rem tam seriam--tam negligenter_," exclaims the doctor; "would any one but this author have represented so _august_ a ceremony as the _celebration of the mallard_ by those vulgar circumstances of eating and drinking, and singing a _merry old song_? doth he not know that the greatest states, even those of _rome_ and _carthage_, had their infant foundations distinguished by incidents very much resembling those of the _mallard_, and that the commemoration of them was celebrated with hymns and processions, and made a part of their _religious observances_? let me refresh his memory with a circumstance or two relating to the head of _tolus_ (will serve to elucidate the fourth line of the second verse of the _merry old song_) which was discovered at the foundation of the _capitol_. the _romans_ held the remembrance of it in the greatest veneration, as will appear from the following quotation from _arnobius_, in a fragment preserved by _lipsius_:--'quo die (says he, speaking of the annual _celebrity_) congregati sacerdotes, et eorum ministri, totum capitolinum collem circumibant, cantilenam quandam sacram de _toli_ cujusdam capite, dum molirentur fundamenta invento, recitantes deinde ad coenam verè pontificiam se recipientes,' &c. part of this _merry old song_ (as mr. p. would call it) is preserved by _vossius_, in his book _de sacris cantilenis veterum romanorum_. the chorus of it shows so much the simplicity of the _ancient roman poetry_ that i cannot forbear transcribing it for the benefit of my reader, as the book is too scarce to be in every one's hand. it runs thus: toli _caput venerandum_! magnum caput et mirandum! toli _caput resonamus_. i make no doubt but that every _true critic_ will be highly pleased with it. for my own part, it gives me a particular pleasure to reflect on the resemblance there is between this _precious relique_ of antiquity, and the chorus of the _mallard_. _oh, by the blood of king_ edward, _it was a swapping, swapping_ mallard! the _greatness_ of the subject, you see, is the thing celebrated in both, and the manner of doing it is as nearly equal as the different geniuses of the two languages will permit. let me hope, therefore, that mr. p. when he exercises his thoughts again on this subject, will learn to think more highly of the _mallard_, than of a _common gaudy_, or _merry making_. for it will not be just to suppose that the gentlemen of _all-souls_ can have less regard for the memory of so noble a bird, found _all alive_, than the romans had for the _dead skull_ of the _lord knows whom_." * * * * * another oxford dream preceded the foundation of st. john's college. dr. plott relates, in his history of oxfordshire, that the founder of st. john's college, oxford, sir thomas white, alderman and merchant tailor of london, originally designed the establishment of his college at his birth-place, reading, in berkshire. but being warned in a dream, that he should build a college for the education of youth, in religion and learning, near a place where he should find two elms growing out of the same root, he first proceeded to cambridge, and finding no such tree, he repaired to oxford, where he discovered one, which answered the description in his dream, near st. bernard's college. elated with joy, he dismounted from his horse, and, on his knees, returned thanks for the fortunate issue of his pious search. dr. joseph warton seems to throw a doubt upon dr. plott's narration, observing, that he was _fond of the marvellous_. the college was founded in the middle of the sixteenth century, and doctor plott says, that the tree was in a flourishing state in his day, , when dr. leving was president of st. john's college. mr. pointer observes, in his _oxoniensis academia_, "the _triple_ trees that occasioned the foundation of the college, &c. did stand between the library and the garden. one of them died in ." the following letter, addressed to the society by sir thomas, the founder, a fortnight before his death, the th of february, , is a relic worth printing, though it does "savour of death's heads." "_mr. president, with the fellows and schollers._ "i have mee recommended unto you even from the bottome of my hearte, desyringe the holye ghoste may be amonge you untill the end of the worlde, and desyringe almightie god, that everie one of you may love one another as brethren; and i shall desyre you all to applye to your learninge, and so doinge, god shall give you his blessinge bothe in this worlde and the worlde to come. and, furthermore, if anye variance or strife doe arise amonge you, i shall desyre you, for god's love, to pacifye it as much as you may; and that doinge, i put no doubt but god shall blesse everye one of you. and this shall be the last letter that ever i shall sende unto you; and therefore i shall desyre everye one of you, to take a copy of yt for my sake. no more to you at this tyme; but the lord have you in his keeping until the end of the worlde. written the th day of january, . i desyre you all to pray to god for mee, that i may ende my life with patience, and that he may take mee to his mercye. "by mee, "sir thomas white, "_knighte, alderman of london, and_ "_founder of st. john's college, in oxford_." * * * * * a point of precedence settled. a dispute once arose between the doctors of law and medicine, in cambridge, as to which had the right of precedence. "does the _thief_ or _hangman_ take precedence at executions?" asked the chancellor, on reference to his judgment. "the former," answered a wag. "then let the doctors of law have precedence," said the chancellor. * * * * * compliments to the learned of both universities. "the names which learned men bear for any length of time," says dr. parr, "are generally well founded." _dr. chillingworth_, for his able and convincing writings in support of the protestant church, was styled "malleus papistarum." _dr. sutherland_, the friend and literary associate of dr. mead, and others, obtained the _soubriquet_ of "the walking dictionary." john duns, better known as the celebrated _duns scotus_, who was bred at merton college, oxford, and is said to have been buried alive, was called doctor subtilis; another mertonian, named occam, his successor and opponent, was named doctor invincibilis; a third was the famous sir henry savile, who had the title of profound bestowed upon him: and a fourth of the society of merton college, was the celebrated reformer, john wickliffe, who was called doctor evangelicus. wood, says, that dr. john reynolds, president of corpus christi college, oxford, died in , "one of so prodigious a memory, that he might have been called the walking library;" to "see whom," he adds, "was to command virtue itself." if duns scotus was justly called "the most subtle doctor," says parr, roger bacon, "the wonderful," bonaventure "the seraphim," aquinas the "universal and evangelical," surely hooker has with equal, if not superior justice, obtained the name of "the judicious." bishop louth, in his preface to his english grammar, has bestowed the highest praise upon the purity of hooker's style. bishop warburton, in his book on the alliance between church and state, often quotes him, and calls him, "the excellent, the admirable, the best good man of our order." * * * * * john leland, senior, says wood, who in the reigns of henry v. and vi. taught and read in peckwaters ynne, while it flourished with grammarians, "was one so well seen in verse and prose, and all sorts of humanity, that he went beyond the learnedest of his age, and was so noted a grammarian, that this verse was made upon him:-- 'ut rosa flos florum sic leland grammaticorum;' which," he adds, "with some alteration, was fastened upon john leland, junior, by richard croke, of cambridge, at what time the said leland became a protestant, and thereupon," observes wood (as if it were a necessary consequence,) "fell mad:" 'ut rosa flos florum sic leland flos fatuorum.' which being replied to by leland (in encom. eruditorum in anglia, &c. per jo. leland's edit. lond. ,) was answered by a friend of croke's in verse also. and here by the way i must let the reader know that it was the fashion of that age (temp. hen. viii.) to buffoon, or wit it after that fashion, not only by the younger sort of students, but by bishops and grave doctors. the learned walter haddon, master of trinity hall, cambridge, and afterwards president of magdalen college, oxford, in an epistle that he wrote to dr. cox, almoner to edward iv. (afterwards bishop of ely) "doth give him great commendations of his actions and employments, and further addeth (in his lucubrations) that when he was at leisure to recreate his mind, he would, rather than be idle, 'scevolæ et lælii more--aut velitationem illam croci cum lelando perridiculam, vel reliquas oxonienses nugas (ita enim profecto sunt,' saith he,) 'evolvere voluerit, &c.' dr. tresham, also, who was many years commissary or vice-chancellor of the university, is said by (humfredus in vita juelli) 'ludere in re seria, &c.'" when queen elizabeth was asked her opinion of the scholarship of the two great cotemporaries, the learned buchanan and dr. walter haddon, the latter accounted the best writer of latin of his age, she dexterously avoided the imputation of partiality by replying: "_buchannum omnibus antepono, haddonum nemini postpono_." * * * * * lord mountjoy was the friend and cotemporary of erasmus, at queen's college, cambridge, and was so highly esteemed by that great man, that he called him, "_inter doctos nobilissimus, inter nobiles doctissimus, inter utrosque optimus_." his noble friend once entreated him to attack the errors of luther. "my lord," replied the sage, "nothing is more easy than to say luther is mistaken: nothing more difficult than to prove him so." vir egregie doctus, was the _soubriquet_ conferred upon the celebrated etonian, cantab, reformer, provost of king's college, and bishop of hereford, dr. edward fox, by the learned bishop godwin. another etonian and cantab, dr. aldrich, bishop of carlisle, received from erasmus, when young, the equally just and elegant compliment of "blandÆ eloquentiÆ juvenem." * * * * * a point of etiquette. many humorous stories are told of the absurd height to which the observance of _etiquette_ has been carried at both oxford and cambridge. in my time, you might meet _a good fellow_ at a _wine party_, crack your joke with him, hob-nob, &c., but, unless introduced, you would have been stared at with the most vacant wonderment if you attempted to recognise him next day. it is told of men of both universities, that a scholar walking on the banks of the isis, or cam, fell into the river, and was in the act of drowning, when another son of _alma-mater_ came up, and observing his perilous situation, exclaimed, "what a pity it is i have not the honour of knowing the gentleman, that i might save him!" one version of the story runs, that the said scholars met by accident on the banks of the nile or ganges, i forget which, when the catastrophe took place; we may, therefore, very easily imagine the presence of either a crocodile or an alligator to complete the group. wood, in his annals of oxford, has the following anecdote of the value of a syllable. "the masters of olden time at athens, and afterwards at oxford, were called _sophi_, and the scholars _sophistæ_; but the _masters_ taking it in scorn that the _scholars_ should have a larger name than they, called themselves _philosophi_,--that is, lovers of science, and so got the advantage of the scholars by _one syllable_." every body has heard of foote's celebrated motto for a tailor friend of his, about to sport his coat of arms,---"_list, list, o list!_" but every body has not heard, probably, though it is noticed in his memoir, extant in nichols's literary anecdotes, that the learned cambridge divine and antiquary, dr. _cocks macro_, having applied to a cambridge acquaintance for an appropriate motto to his coat of arms, was pithily answered with "cocks may crow." every cantab remembers and regrets the early death of the accomplished scholar, charles skinner matthews, m.a., late fellow of downing college, who was "the familiar" of the present sir j. c. hobhouse, and of the late lord byron. he was not more accomplished than facetious, nor, according to one of lord byron's letters, more facetious than "beloved." speaking of his university _freaks_, his lordship says, "when sir henry smith was expelled from cambridge, for a row with a tradesman named "_hiron_," matthews solaced himself with shouting under hiron's window every evening-- "ah me! what perils do environ the man who meddles with _hot hiron_!" he was also of that band of profane scoffers who, under the auspices of ----, used to rouse lord mansel (late bishop of bristol) from his slumbers in the lodge of trinity (college;) and when he appeared at the window, foaming with wrath, and crying out, "i know you, gentlemen; i know you!" were wont to reply, "we beseech thee to hear us, good _lort_!--good _lort_ deliver us!" (_lort_ was his christian name.) and his lordship might have added, the pun was the more poignant, as the bishop was either a _welshman_ himself, or had a welsh sponsor, in the person of the late greek professor, dr. _lort_. punning upon sacred subjects, however, is decidedly in bad taste; yet, in the reign of the stuarts, neither king nor nobles were above it. our illustrious cantab, bacon, writing to prince, afterwards charles the first, in the midst of his disastrous _poverty_, says, he hopes, "as the father was his _creator_, the son will be his _redeemer_." yet this great man did not the less reverence religion, but said, towards the close of his chequered life, that "a little smattering in philosophy would lead a man to atheism, but a thorough insight into it will lead a man back to a first cause; and that the first principle of religion is right reason; and seriously professed, all his studies and inquisitions, he durst not die with any other thoughts than those religion taught, as it is professed among the christians." these incidents remind me that the memory of jemmy gordon, "who, to save from rustication, crammed the dunce with declamation," is now fast falling into _forgetfulness_, though there was a time when he was hailed by granta's choicest spirits, as one who never failed to "set the table in a roar." poor jemmy! i shall never forget the manner in which he, by one of those straightforward, not-to-be-mistaken flashes of wit, silenced a brow-beating radical huntingdon attorney, at a reform-meeting in cambridge market-pace. jemmy was a native of cambridge, and was the son of a former chapel-clerk of trinity college, who gave him an excellent classical education, and had him articled to an eminent solicitor, with fine talents and good prospects. but though jemmy was "a cunning man with a hard head," such as his profession required, he had a soft heart,--fell in love with a pretty girl. that pretty girl, it is said, returned his passion, then proved faithless, and finally coquetted and ran off with a "_gay_ deceiver," a fellow-commoner of trinity college,--optically dazzled, no doubt, with the purple robe and silver lace, for jemmy was a fine, sensible-looking man. poor jemmy! he was too good for the faithless hussy; he took it to heart, as they say, and, unfortunately, took to drinking at the same time. he soon became too unsettled, both in mind and habits, to follow up his profession with advantage, and he became a _bon-vivant_, a professed wit, with a natural turn for facete, and the _cram-man_ of the more idle sons of granta, who delighted in his society in those days when his wits were unclouded, nor did the more distinguished members of the university then disdain to hail him to their boards. for many years jemmy lived to know and prove that "learning is most excellent;" and having a good classical turn, he lived by writing _themes_ and _declarations_ for non-reading cantabs, for each of which jemmy expected the physician's mite, and, like them, might be said to thrive by the _guinea_ trade. it is, no doubt, true, that some of his productions had college prizes awarded to them, and that, on one occasion, being recommended to apply for the medal, he indignantly answered, "it is no credit to be first in an ass-race!" notwithstanding, jemmy's in-goings never equalled his out-goings, and many a parley had jemmy with his empty purse. it was no uncommon thing for him to pass his vacations in _quod_--_videlicet_ jail--for debts his creditors were well aware he could not pay; but they well knew also that his friends, the students, would be sure to _pay him out_ on their return to college. these circumstances give occasion for the publication of the now scarce caricatures of him, entitled, "term-time," and "non-term." in the first he is represented spouting to one of his _togaed_ customers, in the latter he appears cogitating in "durance vile." besides these, numerous portraits of jemmy have been put forth, for the correctness of most of which we, who have "held our sides at his fair words," can vouch. a full-length is extant in hone's every-day book, in the gradus ad catabrigiam is a second; and we doubt not but our friend mason, of church-passage, cambridge, could furnish a collector with several. poor jemmy! he has now been dead several years. his latter days were melancholy indeed. to the last, however, jemmy continued to sport those distinctive marks of a man of _ton_, a _spying-glass_ and an _opera-hat_, which so well became him. latterly he became troublesome to his best friends, not only levying contributions at will, but by saying _hard things_ to them, sparing neither heads of college, tutors, fellows, students, or others whose names were familiar to him. on one occasion, oblivious with too much devotion to _sir john_, as was latterly his wont, his abuse caused him to be committed to the _tread-mill_--_sic transit_--and after his term of _exercise_ had expired, meeting a cantab in the street whose beauty was even less remarkable than his wit, he addressed our recreant with, "well, jemmy, how do you like the tread-mill?" "i don't like your ---- ugly face," was the response. jemmy's recorded witticisms were at one time as numberless as the stars, and in the mouth of every son of granta, bachelor or big-wig; now some only are remembered. he one day met sir john mortlock in the streets of granta, soon after he had been knighted; making a dead pause, and looking sir john full in the face, jemmy _improvised_-- "the king, by merely laying sword on, could make a knight of jemmy gordon." at another time, petitioning a certain college dignitary for a few shillings to recover his clothes, pledged to appease his thirst, he said, on receiving the amount, "now, i know that my redeemer liveth." jemmy, in his _glorious days_, had been a good deal patronised by the late master of trinity college, bishop mansel, like himself a wit of the first water. jemmy one day called upon the bishop, during the time he filled the office of vice-chancellor, to beg half-a-crown. "i will give you as much," said the bishop, "if you can bring me a greater rogue than yourself." jemmy made his bow and departed, content with the condition, and had scarcely half crossed the great court of trinity, when he espied the late mr. b., then one of the esquire bedels of the university, scarcely less eccentric than himself. jemmy coolly told him that the vice-chancellor wanted to see him. into the lodge went our bedel, followed close by jemmy. "here he is," said jemmy, as they entered the bishop's presence, _arcades ambo_, at the same instant. "who?" inquired the bishop. "you told me, my lord," said jemmy, "to bring you a greater rogue than myself, and you would give me half-a-crown, and here he is." the bishop enjoyed the joke, and gave him the money. a somewhat similar story is told of an oxford wag, in addison's anecdotes, stating, that about the beginning of the eighteenth century, when it was more the fashion to drink ale at oxford than at present, a humorous fellow of merry memory established an ale-house near the pound, and wrote over his door, "ale sold by the pound!" as his ale was as good as his jokes, the oxonians resorted to his house in great numbers, and sometimes stayed there beyond the college hours. this was made a matter of complaint to the vice-chancellor, who was desired to take away his license by one of the proctors. boniface was summoned to attend accordingly, and when he came into the vice-chancellor's presence, he began hawking and spitting about the room. this the vice-chancellor observed, and asked what he meant by it? "please your worship," said he, "i came here on purpose to clear myself." the vice-chancellor imagining that he actually _weighed his ale_, said, "they tell me you sell ale by the pound; is that true?" "no, an' please your worship." "how do you, then?" "very well, i thank you, sir," said the wag, "how do you do?" the vice-chancellor laughed and said, "get away for a rogue; i'll say no more to you." the fellow went out, but in crossing the _quod_ met the proctor who had laid the information against him. "sir," said he, addressing the proctor, "the vice-chancellor wants to speak with you," and they went to the vice-chancellor's together. "here he is, sir," said boniface, as they entered the presence. "who?" inquired the vice. "why, sir," he rejoined, "you sent me for a rogue, and i have brought you the greatest that i know of." the result was, says the author of _terræ-filius_ (who gives a somewhat different version of the anecdote,) that boniface paid dear for his _jokes_: being not only deprived of his license, but committed to prison. * * * * * cambridge frolics. i recollect once being invited, with another cantab, to _bitch_ (as they say) with a scholar of bene't coll. and arrived there at the hour named to find the door _sported_ and our host out. we resolved, however, not to be _floored_ by a _quiz_, and having gained admission to his rooms per the window, we put a bold face upon matters, went straight to the buttery, and ordered "_coffee and muffins for two_," in his name. they came of course; and having feasted to our heart's content, we finished our revenge by hunting up all the _tallow_ we could lay hands on, which we cut up to increase the number, and therewith illuminated his rooms and beat a retreat as quick as possible. the college was soon in an uproar to learn the cause for such a display, and we had the pleasure of witnessing our _wag's_ chagrin thereat from a nook in the court. this anecdote reminds me of one told of himself and the late learned physician, dr. battie, by dr. morell. they were contemporary at eton, and afterwards went to king's college, cambridge, together. dr. battie's mother was his _jackall_ wherever he went, and, says dr. morell, she kindly recommended me and other scholars to a chandler at _s._ _d._ per dozen. but the candles proved dear even at that rate, and we resolved to vent our disappointment upon her son. we, accordingly, got access to battie's room, locked him out, and all the candles we could find in his box we lighted and stuck up round the room! and, whilst i thrummed on the spinnet, the rest danced round me in their shirts. upon battie's coming, and finding what we were at, he "fell to storming and swearing," says the doctor, "till the old vice-provost, dr. willymott, called out from above, 'who is swearing like a common soldier?' 'it is i,' quoth battle. 'visit me,' quoth the vice-provost. which, indeed, we were all obliged to do the next morning, with a distich, according to custom. mine naturally turned upon, 'so fiddled orpheus, and so danced the _brutes_;' which having explained to the vice-provost, he punished me and sleech with a few lines from the _epsilon_ of homer, and battie with the whole third book of milton, to get, as we say, by heart." another college scene, in which battie played a part, when a scholar at king's, is the following:-- case of black rash, given on the authority of his old college _chum_, ralph thicknesse, who, like himself, became a fellow. there was then at king's college, says ralph, a very good-tempered six-feet-high parson, of the name of harry lofft, who was one of the college chanters, and the constant _butt_ of all both at commons and in the _parlour_. harry, says ralph, dreaded so much the sight of a gun or a pair of pistols, that such of his friends as did not desire too much of his company kept _fire-arms_ to keep him at _arm's length_. ralph was encouraged, by some of the fellows, he says (_juniors_ of course,) to make a serious joke out of harry's foible, and one day discharged a gun, loaded with powder, at our six-feet-high parson, as he was striding his way to prayers. the powder was coarse and damp and did not all burn, so that a portion of it lodged in harry's face. the fright and a little inflammation put the poor chanter to bed, says ralph. but he was not the only frightened party, for we were all much alarmed lest the _report_ should reach the vice-chancellor's ears, and the good-tempered hal was prevailed with to be _only ill_. battie and another, who were _not_ of the _shooting party_ (the only two fellow-students in physic,) were called to hal's assistance. they were _not_ told the real state of the case, and finding his pulse high, his spirits low, and his face inflamed and sprinkled with red spots, after a serious consultation they _prescribed_. on retiring from the sick man's room, they were forthwith examined on the state of the case by the impatient plotters of the wicked deed, to whose amusement both the disciples of galen pronounced hal's case to be the _black rash_! this, adds ralph, was a never-to-be-forgotten _roast_ for battie and banks in cambridge; and if we may add to this, that battie, in after life, sent his wife to bath for a _dropsy_, where she was shortly _tapped_ of a fine boy, it may give us a little insight into the _practice of physic_, and induce us to say with the poet-- "better to search in fields for wealth unbought, than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught." the same ralph relates a humorous anecdote of the fate of the doctor's old grizzle wig. the doctor, says ralph, was as good a punch as he was a physician, and after he settled at uxbridge, in the latter character, where he first opened his _medical budget_, with the proceeds of his fellowship at king's college alone to depend on, ralph took advantage of a stay in london to ride over to see his old college chum and fellow-punster, and reached his _domus_ in the doctor's absence. ralph's wig was the worse for a shower of rain he had rode through, and, taking it off, desired the doctor's man, william, to bring him his master's _old grizzle_ to put on, whilst he dried and put a dust of powder into his. but ere this could be accomplished, the doctor returned, as fine as may be, in his _best tye_, kept especially for visiting his patients in. as soon as mutual greetings had passed, "why, zounds, ralph," exclaimed the doctor, "what a cursed wig you have got on!" "true," said ralph, taking it off as he spoke, "it is a bad one, and if you will, as i have another with me, i will toss it into the fire." "by all means," said the doctor, "for, in truth, it is a very _caxon_," and into the _fire_ went the fry. the doctor now began to skin his legs, and calling his man, william, "here," said he, taking off his tye, "bring me my old wig." "mr. thicknesse has got it," said william. "and where is it, ralph," said the doctor, turning upon his visiter. "_burnt_, as you desired; and this illustrates the spirit of all mankind," said ralph; "we can see the shabby wig, and feel the pitiful tricks of our friends, overlooking the disorder of our own wardrobes. as horace says, 'nil habeo quod agam;'--'mind every body's business but your own.'" talking of _gunpowder_ reminds me of two other shooting anecdotes. all who know anything of either oxford or cambridge scholars, know well enough, that their _manners_ are not only _well preserved_ at all seasons, but that when they are in a humour for sporting, it is of very little consequence whether other folk preserve their manners or not. when the late eccentric joshua waterhouse, b.d. (who was so barbarously murdered a few years since by joshua slade, in huntingdonshire,) was a student of catherine hall, cambridge, of which he became a fellow, he was a remarkably strong young man, some six feet high, and not easily frightened. he one day went out to shoot with another man of his college, and his favourite dog, sancho, had just made his first point, when a keeper came up and told joshua to take himself off, in no very classic english. joshua therefore declined compliance. upon this our keeper began to threaten. joshua thereupon laid his gun aside, and coolly began taking off his coat (or, as the fancy would say, to _peel_,) observing, "i came out for a day's sport, and a day's sport i'll have." upon which our keeper shot off, leaving joshua in possession of the field, from which he used to boast he carried off a full bag. at another time a party of oxonians, gamesomely inclined, were driving, _tandem_, for the neighbourhood of woodstock, when passing a stingy old _cur_, yclept a country gentleman, who had treated some one of the party a _shabby_ trick, a thought struck them that now was the hour for revenge. they drove in _bang up_ style to the front of the old man's mansion, and coolly told the servant, that they had just seen his master, who had desired them to say, that he was to serve them up a good dinner and wine, and in the meantime show them where the most game was to be found. this was done, and after a _roaring_ day's sport, and a full gorge of roast, baked and boiled, washed down with the best ale, port and sherry, the old boy's cellar could furnish, they made brazen-nose college, oxon, , p.m., much delighted with the result, and luckily the affair went no further, at the time at least. * * * * * bishop watson's own account of his progress at cambridge. "soon after the death of my father," says this learned prelate, in his autobiography, published in , "i was sent to the university, and admitted a sizer of trinity college, cambridge, on the d of november, . i did not know a single person in the university, except my tutor, mr. backhouse, who had been my father's scholar, and mr. preston, who had been my own school-fellow. i commenced my academic studies with great eagerness, from knowing that my future fortune was to be wholly of my own fabricating, being certain that the slender portion which my father had left to me ( _l._) would be barely sufficient to carry me through my education. i had no expectations from relations; indeed i had not a relative so near as a first cousin in the world, except my mother, and a brother and sister, who were many years older than me. my mother's maiden name was newton; she was a very charitable and good woman, and i am indebted to her (i mention it with filial piety) for imbuing my young mind with principles of religion, which have never forsaken me. erasmus, in his little treatise, entitled _antibarbarorum_, says, that the safety of states depend upon three things, _a proper or improper education of the prince, upon public preachers, and upon school-masters_; and he might with equal reason have added, _upon mothers_; for the code of the mother precedes that of the school-master, and may stamp upon the _rasa tabula_ of the infant mind, characters of virtue and religion which no time can efface. perceiving that the sizers were not so respectfully looked upon by the pensioners and scholars of the house as they ought to have been, inasmuch as the most learned and leading men of the university have even arisen from that order (_magister artis ingenique largitor venter_,) i offered myself for a scholarship a year before the usual time of the sizers sitting, and succeeded on the nd of may, . this step increased my expenses in college, but it was attended with a great advantage. it was the occasion of my being particularly noticed by _dr. smith_, the master of the college. he was, from the examination he gave me, so well satisfied with the progress i had made in my studies, that out of the sixteen who were elected scholars, he appointed me to a particular one (lady jermyn's) then vacant, and in his own disposal; not, he said to me, as being better than other scholarships, but as a mark of his approbation; he recommended _saunderson's fluxions_, then just published, and some other mathematical books, to my perusal, and gave, in a word, a spur to my industry, and wings to my ambition. i had, at the time of my being elected a scholar, been resident in college two years and seven months, without having gone out of it for a single day. during that period i had acquired some knowledge of hebrew, greatly improved myself in greek and latin, made considerable progress in mathematics and natural philosophy, and studied with much attention locke's works, king's book on the origin of evil, puffendorf's treatise _de officio hominis et civis_, and some other books on similar subjects; i thought myself, therefore, entitled to some little relaxation. under this persuasion i set forward, may , , to pay my elder and only brother a visit at kendal. he was the first curate of the new chapel there, to the structure of which he had subscribed liberally. he was a man of lively parts, but being thrown into a situation where there was no great room for the display of his talents, and much temptation to convivial festivity, he spent his fortune, injured his constitution, and died when i was about the age of thirty-three, leaving a considerable debt, all of which i paid immediately, though it took almost my all to do it. my mind did not much relish the country, at least it did not relish the life i led in that country town; the constant reflection that i was _idling away my time_ mixed itself with every amusement, and poisoned all the pleasures i had promised myself from the visit; i therefore took a hasty resolution of shortening it, and returned to college in the beginning of september, with a determined purpose to make my _alma mater_ the mother of my fortunes. _that_, i well remember, was the expression i used to myself, as soon as i saw the turrets of king's college chapel, as i was jogging on a jaded nag between huntingdon and cambridge. i was then only a _junior soph_; yet two of my acquaintances, the year below me, thought that i knew so much more of mathematics than they did, that they importuned me to become their private tutor. i undoubtedly wished to have had my time to myself, especially till i had taken my degree; but the narrowness of my circumstances, accompanied with a disposition to improve, or, more properly speaking, with a desire to appear respectable, induced me to comply with their request. from that period, for above thirty years of my life, and as long as my health lasted, a considerable portion of my time was spent in instructing others without much instructing myself, or in presiding at disputations in philosophy or theology, from which, after a certain time, i derived little intellectual improvement. whilst i was an under-graduate, i kept a great deal _of what is called_ the best company--that is, of idle fellow-commoners, and other persons of fortune--but their manners never subdued my prudence; i had strong ambition to be distinguished, and was sensible that wealth might plead some excuse for idleness, extravagance and folly in others; the want of wealth could plead more for me. when i used to be returning to my room at one or two in the morning, after spending a jolly evening, i often observed a light in the chamber of one of the same standing with myself; this never failed to excite my jealousy, and the next day was always a day of hard study. i have gone without my dinner a hundred times on such occasions. i thought i never entirely understood a proposition in any part of mathematics or natural philosophy, till i was able, in a solitary walk, _obstipo capite atque ex porrecto labello_, to draw the scheme in my head, and go through every step of the demonstration without book, or pen and paper. i found this was a very difficult task, especially in some of the perplexed schemes and long demonstrations of the twelfth book of _euclid_, and in _l'hôpital's_ conic sections, and in _newton's_ principia. my walks for this purpose were so frequent, that my tutor, not knowing what i was about, once reproved me for being a lounger. i never gave up a difficult point in a demonstration till i had made it out _proprio marte_; i have been stopped at a single step for three days. this perseverance in accomplishing whatever i undertook, was, during the whole of my active life, a striking feature in my character. but though i stuck close to abstract studies, i did not neglect other things; i every week imposed upon myself a task of composing a theme or declamation in latin or english. i generally studied mathematics in the morning, and classics in the afternoon; and used to get by heart such parts of orations, either in latin or greek, as particularly pleased me. demosthenes was the orator, tacitus the historian, and persius the satirist whom i most admired. i have mentioned this mode of study, not as thinking there was any thing extraordinary in it, since there were many under-graduates then, and have always been many in the university of cambridge, and, for aught i know, in oxford, too, who have taken greater pains. but i mention it because i feel a complacence in the recollections of days long since happily spent, _hoc est vivere bis vita posse priori frui_, and indulge in a hope, that the perusal of what i have written may chance to drive away the spirit of indolence and dissipation from young men; especially from those who enter the world with slender means, as i did. in january, , i took my bachelor of arts' degree. the taking of this first degree is a great era in academic life; it is that to which all the under-graduates of talent and diligence direct their attention. there is no seminary of learning in europe in which youth are more zealous to excel during the first years of their education than in the university of cambridge. i was the second wrangler of my year. in september, , i sat for a fellowship. at that time there never had been an instance of a fellow being elected from among the junior bachelors. the master told me this as an apology for my not being elected, and bade me be contented till the next year. on the st of october, , i was elected a fellow of trinity college, and put over the head of two of my seniors of the same year, who were, however, elected the next year. the old master, whose memory i have ever revered, when he had done examining me, paid me this compliment, which was from him a great one:--'you have done your duty to the college; it remains for the college to do theirs to you.' i was elected the next day, and became assistant tutor to mr. backhouse in the following november." every body knows his subsequent career embraced his appointment to the several dignified university offices of tutor, moderator, professor of chemistry, and regius professor of divinity, and that he died bishop of llandaff. i may here, as an apposite tail piece, add from meadley's life of that celebrated scholar and divine, paley's sketch of his early academical life. in the year , during one of his visits to cambridge, dr. paley, in the course of a conversation on the subject, gave the following account of the early part of his own academical life; and it is here given on the authority and in the very words of a gentleman who was present at the time, as a striking instance of the peculiar frankness with which he was in the habit of relating adventures of his youth. "i spent the two first years of my under-graduateship (said he) happily, but unprofitably. i was constantly in society where we were not immoral, but idle and rather expensive. at the commencement of my third year, however, after having left the usual party at rather a late hour in the evening, i was awakened at five in the morning by one of my companions, who stood at my bedside and said, 'paley, i have been thinking what a d--d fool you are. i could do nothing, probably, were i to try, and can afford the life i lead: you can do every thing, and cannot afford it. i have had no sleep during the whole night on account of these reflections, and am now come solemnly to inform you, that, if you persist in your indolence, i must renounce your society.' i was so struck (continued paley) with the visit and the visiter, that i lay in bed great part of the day and formed my plan: i ordered my bed-maker to prepare my fire every evening, in order that it might be lighted by myself; i rose at five, read during the whole of the day, except such hours as chapel and hall required, allotting each portion of time its peculiar branch of study; and, just before the closing of gates (nine o'clock) i went to a neighbouring coffee-house, where i constantly regaled upon a mutton-chop and a dose of milk punch: and thus on taking my bachelor's degree, i became _senior wrangler_." he, too, filled the trustworthy and dignified office of tutor of his college, and deserved, though he did not die in possession of, a bishopric. * * * * * the lounger. by an oxonian. i rise about nine, get to breakfast by ten, blow a tune on my flute, or perhaps make a pen; read a play till eleven, or cock my laced hat; then step to my neighbours, till dinner, to chat. dinner over, to _tom's_, or to _james's_ i go, the news of the town so impatient to know, while _law_, _locke_ and _newton_, and all the rum race, that talk of their nodes, their ellipses, and space, the seat of the soul, and new systems on high, in holes, as abstruse as their mysteries, lie. from the coffee-house then i to tennis away, and at five i post back to my college to pray: i sup before eight, and secure from all duns, undauntedly march to the _mitre_ or _tuns_; where in punch or good claret my sorrows i drown, and toss off a bowl "to the best in the town:" at one in the morning i call what's to pay, then home to my college i stagger away; thus i tope all the night, as i trifle all day. * * * * * an oxford hoax and a puritan detected. a certain oxford d.d. at the head of a college, lately expected a party of maiden ladies, his sisters and others, to visit him from the country. they were strangers in oxford, therefore, like another bayard, he was anxious to meet them on their arrival and _gallant_ them to his college. this, however, was to him, so little accustomed _to do the polite to the ladies_, an absolute event, and it naturally formed his _prime_ topic of conversation for a month previously. this provoked some of the fellows of his college to _put a hoax upon him_, the most forward in which was one mr. h----, a _puritan_ forsooth. accordingly, a note was concocted and sent to the doctor, in the name of the ladies, announcing, that they _had arrived at_ the _inn in oxford_. "the inn!" exclaimed the doctor, on perusing it; "good god! how am i to know _the_ inn?" however, after due preparation, off he set, in full canonicals, hunting for his belles and _the_ inn! the star, mitre, angel, all were searched; at last, the doctor, both tired and irritated, began to smell a rat! the idea of a hoax flashed upon his mind; he hurried to his lodgings, at his college, where the whole truth flashed upon him like a _new light_, and the window of his room being open, which overlooked the fellows' garden, he saw a group of them rubbing their hands in high glee, and the ringleader, mr. h----, in the midst: he was so roused at the sight, that, leaning from the window, he burst out with--"h----! you puritanical son of a bitch!" it is needless to add, that the words, acting like a charm, quickly dissolved their council: but the doctor, too amiable to remember what was not meant as an affront, himself afterwards both joined in and enjoyed the laugh created by the joke. * * * * * more than one good saying is attributed to the non-juring divine, celebrated son of oxon, and excellent english historian, thomas carte, who, falling under the suspicions of the government, as a favourer of the pretender, was imprisoned at the time the habeas corpus act was suspended, in . whilst under examination by the privy council, the celebrated duke of newcastle, then minister, asked him, "if he were not a bishop?" "no, my lord duke," replied carte, "there are no bishops in england, but what are made by your grace; and i am sure i have no reason to expect that honour." walking, soon after he was liberated, in the streets of london, during a heavy shower of _rain_, he was plied with, "a coach, your reverence?" "no, honest friend," was his answer, "this is not a _reign_ for me to ride in." * * * * * horace walpole a saint. cole says, in his _athenæ cant._, that horace walpole latterly lived and died a sceptic; but when a student at king's college, cambridge, he was of "a religious enthusiastic turn of mind, and used to go with ashton (the late dr., master of jesus college,) his then great friend, to pray with the prisoners in the castle." dyer gives the following poetical version of a cambridge conundrum, in his supplement, on doctors _long_, _short_, and _askew_:-- or ct what's doctor, and dr., and do writ so? doctor long, doctor short, and doctor _askew_. * * * * * a bishop's interest. bishop porteus said of himself, when holding the see of chester, that he "had not interest enough to command a cheshire cheese." * * * * * oxford famous for its sophists. "for sophistry, such as you may call corrupt and vain," says wood, in the first volume of his annals, "which we had derived from the parisians, oxford hath in ancient time been very famous, especially when many thousands of students were in her, equalling, if not exceeding, that university from whence they had it; a token of which, with its evil consequences, did lately remain,--i mean the quadragesimall exercises, which were seldom performed, or at least _finished without the help of mars_. in the reign of henry the third, and before, the schools were much polluted with it, and became so notorious, that it corrupted other arts; and so would it afterwards have continued, had it not been corrected by public authority for the present, though in following times it increased much again, that it could not be rooted out. some there were that wrote, others that preached against it, demonstrating the evil consequences thereof, and the sad end of those that delighted in it. jacobus januensis reports that one mr. silo, a master of the university of paris, and professor of logic, had a scholar there, with whom he was very familiar: and being excellent in the art of sophistry, spared not all occasions, whether festival or other day, to study it. this sophister being sick, and almost brought to death's door, master silo earnestly desired him, that after his death he would return to him and give him information concerning his state, and how it fared with him. the sophister dying, returned according to promise, with his hood stuffed with notes of sophistry, and the inside lined with flaming fire, telling him, that that was the reward which he had bestowed upon him for the renown he had before for sophistry; but mr. silo esteeming it a small punishment, stretched out his hand towards him, on which a drop or spark of the said fire falling, was very soon pierced through with terrible pain; which accident the defunct or ghost beholding, told silo, that he need not wonder at that small matter, for he was burning in that manner all over. is it so? (saith silo) well, well, i know what i have to do. whereupon, resolving to leave the world, and enter himself into religion, called his scholars about him, took his leave of, and dismissed them with these metres:-- 'linquo coax[ ] ranis, cras[ ] corvis, vanaque[ ] vanis, ad logicam pergo, que mortis non timet[ ] ergo.' which said story coming to the knowledge of certain oxonians, about the year (as an obscure note which i have seen tells me,) it fell out, that as one of them was answering for his degree in his school, which he had hired, the opponent dealt so maliciously with him, that he stood up and spake before the auditory thus: 'profectò, profectò, &c.' 'truly, truly, sir sophister, if you proceed thus, i protest before this assembly i will not answer; pray, sir, remember mr. silo's scholar at paris,'--intimating thereby, that if he did not cease from vain babblings, purgatory, or a greater punishment, should be his end. had such examples been often tendered to them (adds wood, with real bowels of compassion,) as they were to the parisians, especially that which happened to one simon churney, or thurney, or tourney (fuller says, thurway, a cornish man,) an english theologist there (who was suddenly struck dumb, because he vainly gloried that he, in his disputations, could be equally for or against the divine truth,) it might have worked more on their affections; but this being a single relation, it could not long be wondered at." after these _logical marvels_, anthony gives us the following instance of [ ] luxuriam scil. luxuriosis, vel potius rixas sophistis. [ ] avaritiam scil. avaris. [ ] superbiam pomposis. [ ] religionem ubi bene viventi non timetur stimulus mortis. a vice-chancellor's being laconic. "dr. prideaux, when he resigned the office of vice-chancellor, nd july, (which is never done without an oration spoken from the chair in the convocation, containing for the most part an account of the acts done in the time of their magistrateship,) spoke only the aforesaid metres, 'linquo coax,' &c., supposing there was more matter in them than the best speech he could make, frustrating thereby the great hopes of the academicians of an eloquent oration." "oxford hath been so famous for sophistry, and hath used such a particular way in the reading and learning it," adds wood, in treating of the schools, "that it hath often been styled-- 'sophistria secundum usum oxon.' so famous, also, for subtlety of logicians, that no place hath excelled it." this great subtlety, however, would seem, in a degree, to have departed from our sister of oxford in , when, they say, two pert oxonians took a journey to cambridge, and challenged any to dispute with them there, in the public schools, on the two following questions:--"_an jus civile sit medicina præstantius?_" in english as much as to say, _which does most execution, civil law or medicine?_--a nice point, truly. but the other formed the subject of serious argumentation, and ran thus:--"_an mulier condemnata, bis ruptis loqueis, sit tertio suspendenda?_" ridley, the bishop and martyr, then a young man, student or fellow of pembroke hall, cambridge, is said to have been one of the opponents on this interesting occasion, and administered the _flagellæ linguæ_ with such happy effect to one of these pert pretenders to logic lore, that the other durst not set his wit upon him. the oxford sophistry had so much corrupted the latin tongue there, says wood, that the purity thereof being lost among the scholars, "their speaking became barbarous, and derived so constantly to their successors, that barbarous speaking of latin was commonly styled by many 'oxoniensis loquenti mos.' the latin of the schools, in the present day, is none of the purest at either university. a certain cambridge divine, a professor, who was a senior wrangler, and is justly celebrated for his learning and great ability, one day presiding at an act in arts, upon a dog straying into the school, and putting in for a share of the logic with a howl at the audience, the moderator exclaimed, "_verte canem ex_." there have, however, been fine displays of pure latinity in the schools of both; and it appears the oxonians surpassed aristotle at a very early period, not only in the art of logic itself, but in their manner of applying it: for in the beginning of , says wood, about the latter end of lent (a fatal time for the most part to the oxonians,) a sore discord fell out between the cistercian and benedictine monks, concerning several philosophical points discussed by them in the schools. but their arguments being at length flung aside, they decided the controversy by blows, which, with sore scandal, continued a considerable time. at length the benedictines rallying up what forces they could procure, they beset the cistercians, and by force of arms made them fly and betake themselves to their hostels. in fact, he says, by the use of logic, and the trivial arts, the oxford sophists, in the time of lent, broke the king's peace, so that the university privileges were several times suspended, and in danger of being lessened or taken away. through the corrupt use of it, "the parva logicalia, and other minute matters of aristotle, many things of that noble author have been so changed from their original, by the screwing in and adding many impertinent things, that tho. nashe (in his book, 'have at you to saffron walden,') hath verily thought, that if aristotle had risen out of his grave, and disputed with the sophisters, they would not only have baffled him with their sophistry, but with his own logic, which they had disguised, and he composed without any impurity or corruption. it may well be said, that in this day they have done no more than what tom nashe's beloved dick harvey did afterwards at cambridge, that is to say, he set aristotle with his heels upwards on the school gates, with ass's ears on his head,--a thing that tom would 'in perpetuam rei memoriam,' record and never have done with. wilson, in his _memorabilia cantabrigiæ_, says of this said tom nash, that he was educated at st. john's college, cambridge, where he resided seven years, was at the fatal repast of the pickled herrings with the poet green, and, in , was either confined or otherwise troubled for a comedy on _the isle of dogs_ (extant in the mss. of oldys,) though he wrote but the first act, and the players without his knowledge supplied the rest. he was a man of humour, a bitter satirist, and no contemptible poet; and more effectually discouraged and non-plused the notorious anti-prelate and astrologer, will harvey, and his adherents, than all the serious writers that attacked them. there is a good character of him, says oldys, in _the return from parnassus, or scourge of simony_, which was publicly acted by the students of st. john's, in , wherein they first exemplified the art of cutting, an elegant term, that is in equal request at the sister university, as well as amongst the coxcombs of the day, adds wilson, though the members of st. john's are celebrated for the _origin_ of the term "_to cut_,"--_i. e._ "to look an old friend in the face, and affect not to know him," which is the _cut direct_. those who would be more deeply read in this art, which has been greatly improved since the days in which it originated, will find it at large in the _gradus ad cantabrigiam_. * * * * * cromwell's soldiers at a disputation at oxford. it was a custom of dr. kettel, while president of trinity college, oxford (says tom warton, citing the mss. of dr. bathurst, in his appendix to his life of sir thomas pope,) "to attend daily the disputations in the college-hall, on which occasions he constantly wore a large black furred muff. before him stood an hour-glass, brought by himself into the hall, and placed on the table, for ascertaining the time of the continuance of the exercise, which was to last an hour at least. one morning, after cromwell's soldiers had taken possession of oxford, a halberdier rushed into the hall during this controversy, and plucking off our venerable doctor's muff, threw it in his face, and then, with a stroke of his halberd, broke the hour-glass in pieces. the doctor, though old and infirm, instantly seized the soldier by the collar, who was soon overpowered, by the assistance of the disputants. the halberd was carried out of the hall in triumph before the doctor; but the prisoner, with his halberd, was quickly rescued by a party of soldiers, who stood at the bottom of the hall, and had enjoyed the whole transaction." it was in the grove of this college, during monmouth's rebellion of , that sir philip bertie, a younger son of robert earl of lindsay, who was a member of trinity college, and had spoken a copy of verses in the theatre at oxford, in , to the duke and dutchess a york, &c., trained a company, chiefly of his own college, of which he was captain, in the militia of the university. troops being raised by the university of oxford, says warton, in monmouth's rebellion. it reminds me of a curious anecdote concerning smith's famous ode, entitled pocockius, which i give from mss., cod. balland, vol. xix. lit. :--"the university raised a regiment for the king's service, and christ church and jesus' colleges made one company, of which lord morris, since earl of abingdon, was captain, who presented mr. urry (the editor of chaucer,) a corporal (serjeant) therein, with a halberd. upon dr. pocock's death, mr. urry lugged captain rag (smith) into his chamber in peckwater, locked him in, put the key in his pocket, and ordered his bed-maker to supply him with necessaries through the window, and told him he should not come out till he made a copy of verses on the doctor's death. the sentence being irreversible, the captain made the ode, and sent it, with his epistle, to mr. urry, who thereupon had his release." "the epistle here mentioned," adds tom, "is a ludicrous prose analysis of the ode, beginning _opusculum tuum, halberdarie amplissime_," &c., and is printed in the fourth volume of dr. johnson's english poets, who pronounces it _unequalled_ by modern writers. this same oxonian, smith, had obtained the _soubriquet_ of captain rag by his negligence of dress. he was bred at westminster school, under doctor busby; and it is to be remembered, for his _honour_, "that, when at the westminster election he stood a candidate for one of the universities, he so signally distinguished himself by his conspicuous performances, that there arose no small contention between the representatives of trinity college in cambridge, and christ church in oxon, which of those two royal societies should adopt him as their own. but the electors of trinity having a preference of choice that year, they resolutely elected him; who yet, being invited the same time to christ church, he chose to accept of a studentship there." * * * * * the three dainty morsels. when our learned oxonian, dr. johnson, was on his tour in the hebrides, accompanied by bozzy, as peter pindar has it, says an american writer, they had one day travelled so far without refreshment, that the doctor began to _growl_ in his best manner. upon this bozzy hastened to a cottage at a distance, ordered a dinner, and was lucky in obtaining the choice of a roast leg of mutton and the doctor's favourite plum-pudding. upon reaching the house, the appetite of the latter drove him into the kitchen to inspect progress, where he saw a boy basting the meat, from whose head he conceited he saw _something_ descend, by the force of _gravity_, into the dripping-pan. the meat was at length served up, and bozzy attacked it with great glee, exclaiming, "my dear doctor, do let me help you to some,--brown as a berry,--done to a turn." the doctor said he would wait for the pudding, chuckling with equal glee, whilst bozzy nearly devoured the whole joint. the pudding at length came, done to a turn too, which the doctor in his turn greedily devoured, without so much as asking bozzy to a bit. after he had wiped his mouth, and begun to compose himself, bozzy entreated to know what he was giggling about whilst he eat the mutton? the doctor clapped his hands to both sides for support, as he told him what he saw in the kitchen. bozzy thereupon begun to exhibit sundry qualms and queer faces, and calling in the boy, exclaimed, "you rascal, why did you not cover your dirty head with your cap when basting the meat?" "'cause mother took it to boil the pudding in!" said the urchin. the tables were turned. the doctor stared aghast, stamped, and literally roared, with a voice of thunder, that if bozzy ever named the circumstance to any one, it should bring down upon him his eternal displeasure! the following, not very dissimilar anecdote, is told of a cantab, who was once out hunting till his appetite became as keen as the doctor's, and, like his, drove him to the nearest cottage. the good dame spread before him and his friend the contents of her larder, which she described as "a _meat_ pie, made of odds and ends, the remnant of their own frugal meal." "any thing is better than nothing," cried the half famished cantab, "so let us have it--ha, bob." bob, who was another cantab, his companion, nodded assent. no sooner was the savoury morsel placed before him, than he commenced operations, and greedily swallowed mouthful after mouthful, exclaiming, "charming! i never tasted a more delicious morsel in my life! but what have we here?" said he, as he sucked something he held in both hands; "_fish_, as well as flesh, my good woman?" "fish!" cried the old dame, as she turned from her washing to eye our sportsman, "why, lord bless ye, i' that bean't our billy's _comb_!" the effect was not a little ludicrous on our hungry cantab, whilst bob's "haw! haw! haw!" might have been heard from the thames tunnel to nootka sound. * * * * * answered in kind. why should we smother a good thing with _mystifying dashes_, instead of plain english high-sounding names, when the subject is of "honourable men?" "_recte facta refert._"--horace forbid it! the learned chancery barrister, john bell, k.c., "_the great bell of lincoln_," as he has been aptly called, was _senior wrangler_, on graduating b.a., at trinity college, cambridge, in , with many able competitors for that honour. he is likewise celebrated, as every body knows, for writing three several hands; one only he himself can read, another nobody but his clerk can read, and a third neither himself, clerk, nor any body else can read! it was in the latter hand he one day wrote to his legal contemporary and friend, the present sir launcelot shadwell, vice-chancellor of england (who is likewise a cantab, and graduated in at st. john's college, of which he became a fellow, with the double distinction of seventh wrangler and second chancellor's medallist) inviting him to dinner. sir launcelot, finding all his attempts to decipher the note about as vain as the wise men found theirs to unravel the cabalistic characters of yore, took a sheet of paper, and having _smeared_ it over with ink, he folded and sealed it, and sent it as his answer. the receipt of it staggered even the great bell of lincoln, and after breaking the seal, and eyeing and turning it round and round, he hurried to mr. shadwell's chambers with it, declaring he could make nothing of it. "nor i of your note," retorted mr. s. "my dear fellow," exclaimed mr. b., taking his own letter in his hand, is not this, as plain as can be, "dear shadwell, i shall be glad to see you at dinner to-day." "and is not this equally as plain," said mr. s., pointing to his own paper, "my dear bell, i shall be happy to come and dine with you." * * * * * powers of digestion. in both oxford and cambridge the cooks are restricted to a certain sum each term, beyond which the college will not protect them in their demand upon the students. all else are _extras_, and are included in "_sizings_" in cambridge; in oxford the term is "_to battel_." the head of a college in the latter university, not long since, sent for mr. p----, one of his society, who had _batteled_ much beyond the allowance; and after mr. p---- had endeavoured to excuse himself on the ground of appetite, turning to the account, the rector observed, "_meat_ for breakfast, _meat_ for lunch, _meat_ for dinner, _meat_ for supper," and looking up in the face of the dismayed student, he exclaimed, with his welsh accent, "christ jesus! mr. p----, what guts you must have." this reminds me of a cambridge d.d., now no more, who is said to have been a great gourmand, and weighed something less than thirty stone, but not much. at the college table, where our d.d. daily took his meal, in order that he might the better put his hand upon the dainty morsels, being very corpulent, he caused a piece to be scooped out, to give him a fair chance. his chair was also so placed, that his belly was three inches from the table at sitting down, and when he had eaten till he touched it, his custom was to lay down his knife and fork and desist, lest, by eating too much, any dangerous malady should ensue. a waggish fellow of his college, however, one day removed his chair double the distance from the table, which the doctor not observing, began to eat as usual. after taking more than his _quantum_, and finding that he was still an inch or two from the _goal_, he threw down his knife and fork in despair, exclaiming, he "was sure he was going to die;" but having explained the reason, he was relieved of his fears on hearing the joke had been played him. * * * * * the inside passenger. every cantab of the nineteenth century must remember our friend smith of the blue boar, trinity street, charioteer of that now _defunct_ vehicle and pair which used to ply between cambridge, new-market, and bury st. edmunds, and on account of its _celerity, and other marked qualities_, was called "_the slow and dirty_" by freshman, soph, bachelor, and big-wig, now metamorphosed into a handsome four-in-hand, over which our friend smith presides in a style worthy of _the club itself_! he had one day, in olden time, pulled up at botsham, midway between newmarket and cambridge, when there happened to be several cantabs on the road, who were refreshing their nags at the "self-same" inn, the swan, at which _the slow and dirty_ made its daily halt. "any passengers?" inquired smith. "one inside," said a cambridge wag, standing by, whose eye was the moment caught by a young ass feeding on the nettles in a neighbouring nook. having put his fellows up to the joke, smith was invited in-doors and treated with a glass of grog; meanwhile, my gentleman with the long ears was popped inside the coach. smith coming out, inquired after his passenger, whom he supposed one of his friends, the cantabs, and learnt he was housed. "all right," said smith, and off he drove, followed quickly by our wag and party on horseback, who determined to be in at the _denouement_. smith had not made much way, when our inside passenger, not finding himself _in clover_, popped his head out at one of the coach windows. the spectacle attracted the notice of many _bipeds_ as they passed along; smith, however, notwithstanding their laughter, "kept the even tenor of his way." at barnwell the boys _huzzaed_ with more than their usual greetings, but still smith kept on, unconscious of the cause. he no sooner made jesus' lane, than crowds began to follow in his wake, and he dashed into the blue-boar yard with _a tail_ more numerous than that upon the shoulders of which dan o'connell rode into the first reformed parliament, feargus included. down went the reins, as the ostlers came to the head of his smoking _prads_, and smith was in a moment at the coach door, with one hand instinctively upon the latch, and the other raised to his hat, when the whole truth flashed upon his astonished eyes, and balaam was safely landed, amidst peals of laughter, in which our friend smith was not the least _uproarious_. * * * * * paley's celebrated school act. when paley, in , kept his act in the schools, previously to his entering the senate-house, to contend for mathematical honours, it was under the moderators, dr. john jebb, the famous physician and advocate of reform in church and state, and the learned dr. richard watson, late bishop of llandaff. _johnson's questiones philosophicæ_ was the book then commonly resorted to in the university for subjects usually disputed of in the _schools_; and he fixed upon two questions, in addition to his mathematical one, which to his knowledge had never before been subjects of _disputation_. the one was _against capital punishments_; the other _against the eternity of hell torments_. as soon, however, as it came to the knowledge of the heads of the university that paley had proposed such questions to the moderators, knowing his abilities, though young, lest it should give rise to a controversial spirit, the master of his college, dr. thomas, was requested to interfere and put a stop to the proceeding, which he did, and bishop watson thus records the fact in his autobiography:--"paley had brought me, for one of the questions he meant for his act, _Æternitas pænarum contradicit divinis attributis_! the eternity of hell torments contrary to the divine attributes. i had accepted it. a few days afterwards he came to me in a great fright, saying, that the master of his college, dr. thomas, dean of ely, insisted on his not keeping on such a question. i readily permitted him to change it, and told him that, if it would lessen his master's apprehensions, he might put a '_non_' before '_contradicit_;' making the question, the eternity of hell torments _not_ contrary to the divine _attributes_: and he did so." in the following month of january he was senior wrangler. he was not fond of classical studies, and used to declare he could read no latin author with pleasure but virgil: yet when the members' prize was awarded to him for a _latin_ prose essay, in , which he had illustrated with _english_ notes, he was, strange enough, though his disregard of the classics was well known, suspected of being the author of the _latin only_. the reverse was probably nearer the truth. it is notorious that he was not skilled in prosody; and when, in , he proceeded to d.d., after being made sub-dean of lincoln, he, in the delivery of his _clerum_, pronounced prof[)u]gus prof[=u]gus, which gave some cambridge wag occasion to fire at him the following epigram:-- "italiam fato _profugus_, lavinaque venit litora; * * * * * errat virgilius, forte _profugus_ erat." he had a spice of cutting humour in his composition, and some time after the bishop of durham so honourably and unsolicited presented him to the valuable living of bishop wearmouth, dining with his lordship in company with an aged divine, the latter observed in conversation, "that although he had been married about forty years, he had never had the slightest difference with his wife." the prelate was pleased at so rare an instance of connubial felicity, and was about to compliment his guest thereon, when paley, with an arch "_quid?_" observed, "don't you think it must have been very flat, my lord?" a rule of his. a writer, recording his _on dits_, in the new monthly magazine, says, in paley's own words, he made it a rule never to buy a book that he wanted to read but once. in more than one respect, he was unlike dr. parr. the latter had a great admiration for the _canonical dress_ of his order, and freely censured the practice of clergymen not generally appearing in it. when on a visit to his friend, the celebrated mr. roscoe, at that gentleman's residence near liverpool, parr used to ride through the village in full costume, including his famous wig, to the no small amusement of the rustics, and chagrin of his companion, the present amiable and learned thomas roscoe, originator and editor of "the landscape annual," &c. paley wore a white wig, and a coat cut in the close court style: but could never be brought to patronise, at least in the country, that becoming part of the dress of a dignitary of the church, a _cassock_, which he used to call a black apron, such as the master tailors wear in durham. he was never a good horseman. "when i followed my father," he says, "on a pony of my own, on my first journey to cambridge, i fell off seven times. my father, on hearing a thump, would turn his head half aside, and say, 'take care of thy money, lad!'" this defect he never overcame: for when advanced in years, he acknowledged he was still so bad a horseman, "that if any man on horseback were to come near me when i am riding," he would say, "i should certainly have a fall; company would take off my attention, and i have need of all i can command to manage my horse, the quietest creature that ever lived; one that, at carlisle, used to be covered with children from the ears to the tail." his two or three reasons for exchanging livings. meadly, his biographer, relates, that when asked why he had exchanged his living of dalston for stanwix? he frankly replied, "sir, i have two or three reasons for taking stanwix in exchange: first, it saved me double housekeeping, as stanwix was within twenty minutes' walk of my house in carlisle; secondly, it was _l._ a-year more in value; and, thirdly, i began to find my stock of sermons coming over again too fast." he was a disciple of izaak walton, and carried his passion for angling so far, that when romney took his portrait, he would be taken with a rod and line in his hand. his way when he wanted to write. "when residing at carlisle," he says, "if i wanted to write any thing particularly well, i used to order a post-chaise, and go to a quiet comfortable inn, at longtown, where i was safe from the trouble and bustle of a family, and there i remained until i had finished what i was about." in this he was a contrast to dr. goldsmith, who, when he meditated his incomparable poem of the "deserted village," went into the country, and took a lodging at a farm-house, where he remained several weeks in the enjoyment of rural ease and picturesque scenery, but could make no progress in his work. at last he came back to a lodging in green-arbour court, opposite newgate, and there, in a comparatively short time, in the heart of the metropolis, surrounded with all the antidotes to ease, he completed his task--_quam nullum ultra verbum_. paley's difficulties a useful lesson to youth. soon after he became senior wrangler, having no immediate prospect of a fellowship, he became an assistant in a school at greenwich, where, he says, i pleased myself with the imagination of the delightful task i was about to undertake, "teaching the young idea how to shoot." as soon as i was seated, a little urchin came up to me and began,--"_b_-_a_-_b_, bab, _b_-_l_-_e_, ble, babble!" nevertheless, at this time, the height of his ambition was to become the first assistant. during this period, he says, he restricted himself for some time to the mere necessaries of life, in order that he might be enabled to discharge a few debts, which he had incautiously contracted at cambridge. "my difficulties," he observes, "might afford a useful lesson to youth of good principles; for my privations produced a habit of economy which was of infinite service to me ever after." at this time i wanted a waistcoat, and went into a second-hand clothes-shop. it so chanced that i bought the very same garment that lord clive wore when he made his triumphal entry into calcutta. in his poverty he was like parr. the finances of the latter obliged him to leave cambridge _without_ a degree; after he had been assistant at harrow, had a school at stanmore, and been head master of the grammar school at colchester, and had become head master of that of norwich, they remained so low that once looking upon a small library, says mr. field, in his life of the doctor, "his eye was caught by the title, 'stephani thesaurus linguæ græcæ,' turning suddenly about, and striking violently the arm of the person whom he addressed, in a manner very unusual with him, 'ah! my friend, my friend,' he exclaimed, 'may _you_ never be forced, as _i_ was at norwich, to sell that work--to _me_ so precious--from absolute and urgent necessity!'" "at one time of my life," he said, "i had but _l._ in the world. but then, i had good spirits, and owed no man sixpence!" porson, too, was a contrast to paley. the first, it is well known, vacated his fellowship, and left himself pennyless, rather than subscribe to the _thirty-nine articles_, from which there is no doubt he conscientiously dissented; and when asked to subscribe his belief in the notorious shakspeare _forgery_ of the irelands, his reply was, "i subscribe to no articles of faith." when paley was solicited to sign his name to the supplication of the petitioning clergy, for _relief from subscription_, he has the credit of replying, he "_could not afford to keep a conscience_," a saying that many have cherished to the prejudice of that great man's memory, but which it is more than probable he said in his dry, humorous manner, without suspicion it would be remembered at all, and merely to rid himself of some importunate applicant. paley, it is well known, notwithstanding the conclusions to which some interested writers have come, was strongly and conscientiously attached to the doctrines and constitution of the established church; and it was impossible but that, with his fine common-sense perception, he must have been well aware, that no _established church_, such as is that of england, could long exist as such, _if not fenced round by articles of faith_. and here i am reminded of an anecdote of the great lord burleigh and the dissenters of his day. he was once very much pressed by a body of divines, says collins, in his life, to make some _alteration in the liturgy_, upon which he desired them to go into the next room by themselves, and bring in their _unanimous opinion on the disputed points_. but they very soon returned _without being able to agree_. "why, gentlemen," said he, "how can you expect that i should alter my point in dispute, when you, who must be more competent to judge, from your situation, than i can possibly be, cannot agree among yourselves in what manner you would have me alter it." other sayings of this great man were, that he would "never truste anie man not of sounde religion; for he that is false to god, can never be true to man." parents, he said, were to be blamed for "the unthrifty looseness of youth," who made them men seven years too soon, and when they "had but children's judgments." "warre is the curse, and peace the blessinge of a countrie;" and "a realme," he said, "gaineth more by one year's peace, than by tenne years' warre." "that nation," he would observe, "was happye where the king would take counsell and follow it." with such a sage minister, it is not surprising that elizabeth was the greatest princess that ever lived, nor that she gave such wise laws to cambridge, whose chancellor he was. porson's progress in knowledge. "when i was seventeen," porson once observed, "i thought i knew every thing; as soon as i was twenty-four, and had read bentley, i found i knew nothing. now i have challenged the great scholars of the age to find _five_ faults to their _one_, in any work, ancient or modern, they decline it." on another occasion, he described himself as a gentleman without sixpence in his pocket. person declining to enter into holy orders, as the statute of his college required he should do, lost his fellowship at trinity, after he had enjoyed it ten years; "on which heart-rending occasion," says his friend and admirer, dr. kidd, "he used to observe, with his usual good humour (for nothing could depress him,) that he was _a gentleman living in london without a sixpence in his pocket_." two years afterwards his friends procured his election to the regius professorship of greek, on the death of professor cooke, the sudden news of which event, he says, in a letter printed in parriana, addressed to the then master of trinity, the learned dr. postlethwaite, all his ambition of that sort having been long ago laid asleep, "put me in mind of poor jacob, who, having served seven years in hope of being rewarded with rachel, awoke, and behold it was leah." he had seven years previously projected a course of lectures in greek, which most unaccountably were not patronised by the senate. * * * * * greek protestants at oxford. mr. pointer says, in his _oxoniensis academia, &c._, speaking of the curiosities connected with worcester college, there were "ruins of a royal palace, built by king henry the first, in beaumont, near gloucester-green, upon some parts of which ruins, the late dr. woodroff (when principal of gloucester hall, now worcester college) built lodgings for the education of young scholars from greece, who, after they had been here educated in the reformed religion, were to be sent back to their own country, in order to propagate the same there. and accordingly some young grecians were brought hither, and wore their grecian habits; but not finding suitable encouragement, this project came to nothing." * * * * * judgment of erasmus on the cambridge folk. fuller says, that erasmus thus wrote of the cambridge folk, at the beginning of the sixteenth century. "vulgus cantabrigiense, inhospitales britannos antecedit, qui cum summa rusticitate summum militiam conjunxere." this will by no means _now_ apply to the better class of tradespeople, and in no place that i know of is there more hospitality amongst the higher orders of society. kirk white, in his letters, is not very complimentary either to bedmakers or gyps. the latter are called _scouts_ in oxford, and their office borders on what is generally understood by the word _valet_. the term _gyp_ is well applied from [greek: gyps], a _vulture_, they being, in the broadest sense of the word, addicted to _prey_, and not over-scrupulous at both _picking_ and _stealing_, in spite of the decalogue. i had one evening had a _wine party_, during the warm season of the year; we drank freely, and two of the party taking possession of my bed, i contented myself with the sofa. about six in the morning the _gyp_ came into the room to collect boots, &c. and either not seeing me, or fancying i slept (the wine being left on the table,) he very coolly filled himself a glass, which he lost no time in raising to his lips, but ere he had swallowed a drop, having watched his motions, i _whistled_ (significant of recognition,) and down went the wine, glass and all, and out bolted our _gyp_, who _actually blushed_ the next time he saw me. another anecdote touching lodging-house keepers, i will head drops of brandy. a certain mistress of a lodging-house, in green-street, cambridge, where several students had rooms, having a propensity, not for the _ethereal_ charms of the music so called, but for the invigorating liquor itself, had a habit, with the assistance of what is called a _screw-driver_, but which might more aptly be termed a _screw-drawer_, of opening cupboard doors without resorting to the ordinary use of a key. by this means she had one day abstracted a bottle of brandy from the store of one of the students (now a barrister of some practice and standing,) with which, the better to consume it in undisturbed dignity, she retired to the temple of the goddess cloacina. she had been missed for some time, and search was made, when she was found _half seas over_, as they say, with the remnant of the bottle still grasped in her hand, which she had plied so often to her mouth, that she was unable to lift her hand so high, or indeed to rise from her _seditious_ posture. upon this scene a caricature of the first water was sketched, and circulated by some cambridge wag; another threw off the following epigrammatic conun: why is my dalia like a rose? perhaps, you'll say, because her breath is sweeter than the flowers of earth: no--odious thought--it is, her nose is redder than the reddest rose; which she has long been very handy at colouring with _drops of brandy_. another head of a lodging-house is a notorious member of what in cambridge is called-- the dirty-shirt club. this is a society that has existed in the town of cambridge for ages, whose functions consist in _wearing the linen of the students who lodge in their houses after it has been cast off for the laundress_. this same individual, however, had a taste for higher game, and one of the students, who had rooms in his house, being called to london for a few days, returning rather unexpectedly, actually found mine host at the head of the table, in his sitting-room, surrounded by some twenty _snobs_, his friends. our gownsman very properly resented his impertinence, took him by the collar and waist, and, in the language of that fine old song, goose-a-goose-a-gander, "_threw him down stairs_." the rest of the party prudently followed at this hint, leaving the table covered with the remains of sundry bottles of wine and a rich dessert. thus the affair terminated at that time: but our gownsman being a man of fortune, and one of those accustomed, therefore, to treat his brother students, his friends, sumptuously too, went two or three days after, to his fruiterer's, to order dessert for twenty. "the same as you had on wednesday?" inquired the fruiterer. "on wednesday!" he exclaimed with astonishment,--"i had _no_ dessert on wednesday!" "oh, yes, sir," was the rejoinder, "mr. ---- himself ordered it for you, and, as i before said, for twenty!" the whole matter was soon understood to be, that the lodging-house keeper had actually done him the honour to give his brother snobs, of the _dirty shirt fraternity_, an invite and sumptuous entertainment at his expense! of course, he did not remain in the house of such a _free-and-easy-gent_. i name the fact as a recent occurrence, and a hint for gownsmen. but this is not the only way in which they are fleeced: the minor articles of _grocery_ are easily appropriated: nay, not only easily appropriated, but a _duplicate_ order is occasionally delivered _for the benefit of the house_. some tradesmen have made marvellous strides on the road to wealth, from various causes. i remember one man who, in six years, beginning life at the _very beginning_, saved enough to retire upon an independence for the rest of his life. did he _chalk double_? i answer not. but students should look to these things. at st. john's college, cambridge, the tutors have adopted an excellent plan by which, with ordinary diligence, cheats may be detected: they oblige the tradesmen to furnish them with duplicates of their bills against the students, one of which is handed to the latter, and any error pointed out, they will be _forced_ to rectify. another species of fraud is a trick tradesmen have, in the universities, of _persuading_ students to get into their debt, actually pressing their wares upon them, and then, when their books show sufficient reason, forsooth, they _make a mock_ assignment of their affairs over to their creditors, and some _pettifogging_ attorney addresses the unlucky debtors with an intimation, that, unless the account is forthwith paid, together with the expenses of the application, further proceedings will be taken! though the wily tradesman has assured the purchaser of his articles that credit would run to any _length he pleased_: and so it does, and no longer. such fellows should be _marked and cut_! it is but justice to add, however, that these observations do not apply to that respectable class of tradesmen, of whom the student _should_ purchase his necessaries. the motto of every student, notwithstanding, who is desirous of not injuring his future prospects in life, by too profuse an expenditure, should be "fugies uticam,"--keep out of debt! * * * * * the source of dr. parr's eloquence. some of dr. parr's hearers, struck with a remarkable passage in his sermon, asked him "whether he had read it from his book?" "oh, no," said he, "it was the light of nature suddenly flashing upon me." he once called a clergyman _a fool_. the divine, indignant, threatened to complain to the bishop. "do so," was the reply, "and my lord bishop will _confirm you_." to the same wit, when a student at emanuel college, is attributed the celebrated-- address to his tea-chest, "_tu doces_," (_thou tea-chest_!) others give the paternity to lord erskine, when a fellow commoner of trinity college, cambridge; _n'importe_, they were friends. as a spice of their joint vanity, it is related of them, that one day, sipping their wine together, the doctor exclaimed, "should you give me an opportunity, erskine, i promise myself the pleasure of writing your epitaph." "sir," was the reply, "it's a temptation to commit suicide." on another occasion more than one authority concur in the doctor's thus assuring himself a place amongst the greek scholars of his day. "porson, sir, is the first, always the first; we all yield to him. burney is the third. who is the second, i leave you to guess." another spice of his vanity peeped out on his one night being seated in the side gallery at the house of commons, with the late sir james mackintosh, &c., where he could see and be seen by the members of the opposition, his friends. the debate was one of great importance. fox at length rose, and as he proceeded in his address, the doctor grew more and more animated, till at length he rose as if with the intention of speaking. he was reminded of the impropriety, and immediately sat down. after fox had concluded, he exclaimed: "had i followed any other profession, i might have been sitting by the side of that illustrious statesman; i should have had all his powers of argument,--all erskine's eloquence,--and all hargrave's law." he had one day been arguing and disagreeing with a lady, who said, "well, dr. parr, i still maintain my opinion." "madam," he rejoined, "you may, if you please, _retain_ your opinion: but you cannot _maintain_ it." another lady once opposing his opinions with more pertinacity than cogency of reasoning, concluded with the observation, "you know, doctor, it is the privilege of women to talk nonsense." "no, madam," he replied, "it is not their _privilege_, but their _infirmity_. ducks would walk, if they could, but nature suffers them only to waddle." after some persons, at a party where the doctor made one, had expressed their regret that he had not written more, or something more worthy of his fame, a young scholar somewhat pertly called out to him, "suppose, dr. parr, you and i were to write a book together!" "young man," exclaimed the chafed lion, "if all were to be written in that book which i _do_ know, and which you _do not_ know, it would be a very large book indeed." the following are given by field as his reproofs of ignorance talking with the confidence of knowledge. he was once insisting on the importance of discipline, established by a wise system, and enforced with a steady hand, in schools, in colleges, in the navy, in the army; when he was somewhat suddenly and rudely taken up by a young officer who had just received his commission, and was not a little proud of his "blushing honours." "what, sir," said he, addressing the doctor, "do you mean to apply that word _discipline_ to the _officers_ of the army? it may be well enough for the _privates_." "yes, sir, i do," replied the doctor, sternly: "it is _discipline_ makes the scholar, it is _discipline_ makes the soldier, it is _discipline_ makes the gentleman, and the _want of discipline_ has made you what you are." being much annoyed by the pert remarks of another tyro,--"sir," said he, "your tongue goes to work before your brain; and when your brain does work, it generates nothing but error and absurdity." the maxim of men of experience, the doctor might have added, is, "to think twice before they act once." to a third person, of bold and forward but ill-supported pretensions, he said, "b----, you have read _little_, thought _less_, and know _nothing_." he matched a trick of the devil. like the more celebrated scholars and divines, clarke, paley, markland, &c., he would join an evening party at cards, always preferring the old english game of whist, and resolutely adhering to his early determination of never playing for more than a nominal stake. being once, however, induced to break through it, and play with the late learned bishop of llandaff, dr. watson, for a _shilling_, which he won, after pushing it carefully to the bottom of his pocket and placing his hand upon it, with a kind of mock solemnity, he said, "there, my lord bishop, this is a trick of the devil; but i'll match him; so now, if you please, we will play for a _penny_," and this was ever after the amount of his stake, though he was not the less ardent in pursuit of success, or less joyous on winning his rubber. like our great moralist, johnson, he had an aversion to _punning_, saying, it exposed the _poverty_ of a language. yet he perpetrated the following three classical puns: one day reaching a book from a shelf in his library, two others came tumbling down, including a volume of hume, upon which fell a critical work of lambert bos: "see what has happened," exclaimed the doctor, "_procumbit humi bos_." at another time, too strong a current of air being let into the room where he was sitting, suffering under the effects of a slight cold, "stop! stop!" said he, "this is too much; at present i am only _par levibus ventis_." when he was solicited to subscribe to dr. busby's translation of lucretius, published at _a high price_, he declined doing so, by observing, at the proposed cost it would indeed be "lucretius _carus_." his law act at cambridge. on proceeding to the degree of ll.d. at cambridge, in , dr. parr delivered "in the law schools, before crowded audiences," says field, "two theses, of which the subject of the first was, _hæres ex delicto defuncti non tenetur_; and of the second, _jus interpretandi leges privatis, perinde ac principi, constat_. in the former of these, after having offered a tribute of due respect to the memory of the late hon. charles yorke (the lord chancellor,) he strenuously opposed the doctrine of that celebrated lawyer, laid down in his book upon 'the law of forfeiture;' and denied the authority of those passages which were quoted from the correspondence of cicero and brutus; because, as he affirmed, after that learned and sagacious (cambridge) critic, markland (in his remarks on the epistles of those two romans,) the correspondence itself is not genuine. the same liberal and enlightened views of the natural and social rights of man pervaded the latter as well as the former thesis; and in both were displayed such strength of reasoning and power of language, such accurate knowledge of historical facts and such clear comprehension of legal principles bearing on the questions, that the whole audience listened with fixed and delighted attention. the professor of law himself, dr. hallifax, afterwards bishop of st. asaph, was so struck with the uncommon excellence of these compositions, as to make it his particular request that they should be given to the public; but with which request dr. parr could not be persuaded to comply. "there is a pleasant story reported of the doctor," says barker, in his parriana, when on a visit to dr. farmer, at emanuel lodge. he had made free in discourse with some of the fellow commoners in the combination-room, who, not being able to cope with him, resolved to take vengeance in their own way; they took his best wig, and thrust it into his boot: this indispensable appendage of dress was soon called for, but could nowhere be found, till the doctor, preparing for his departure, and proceeding, to put on his boots, found one of them pre-occupied, and putting in his hand, drew forth the wig, with a loud shout--perhaps [greek: eurêka]." "when the late dr. watson," adds the same writer, "presided in the divinity-schools, at an act kept by dr. milner, the reputation of whose great learning and ability caused the place to be filled with the senior and junior members of the university, one of the opponents was the late dr. coulthurst, and the debate was carried on with great vigour and spirit. when this opponent had gone through his arguments, the professor rose, as usual, from his throne, and, taking off his cap, cried out-- 'arcades ambo et cantare pares, et respondere parati.' we juniors, who happened to be present, were much pleased with the application. soon after, being in the doctor's company, i mentioned how much we were entertained with the whole scene, particularly with the close: he smiled, and said, 'it is warburton's,' where i soon after found it." * * * * * epigram on a cambridge beauty, daughter of an alderman, made by the rev. hans de veil, son of sir thomas de veil, and a cantab:-- "is molly fowle immortal?--no. yes, but she is--i'll prove her so: she's fifteen now, and was, i know, fifteen full fifteen years ago." * * * * * novel revenge. sir john heathcote, a cantab, and lessee of lincoln church, being refused a renewal of the same on his own terms, by the prebend, dr. cobden, of st. john's college, cambridge, upon accepting the prebend's terms, appointed his late majesty, then prince of wales, to be one of the lives included in the lease, observing, "i will nominate one for whom the dog shall be obliged to pray in the daytime, wishing him dead at night." * * * * * they take them as they come. a person might very well conclude, from the observations of the enemies of our english universities, that the governors of them had the power of selecting the youth who are to graduate at them, or that, of necessity, all men bred at either oxford or cambridge ought to be alike distinguished for superior virtue and forbearance, great learning, and great talents. they forget, that they must _take them as they come_, like the boy in the anecdote. "so you are picking them out, my lad," said a cantab to a youth, scratching his head in the street. "no," said the arch-rogue, "i takes 'em as they come." just so do the authorities at oxford and cambridge. i knew a son of granta, and eke, too, the darling son of his mother, whose mind, at twenty, was a chaos, and must from his birth have been, not as locke would have supposed, a sheet of white paper, ready to receive impressions, but one smeared and useless. yet solomon in all his glory was not half so wise as was this scion in his mother's opinion. she, therefore, brought him to cambridge, and having introduced him to the amiable tutor of st. john's college, smirkingly asked him, "if he thought her _darling_ would be _senior wrangler_?" "i don't know, madam," was his reply, in his short quick manner of speaking, pulling up a certain portion of his dress, in the wearing of which he resembled sir charles wetherell, "i don't know, madam; that remains to be seen." poor fellow, he never could get a degree, nor (after having been removed from cambridge to the _politechnique school_ at paris, for a year or two) could he ever get over the _pons asinorum_ (as we cantabs term the fifth proposition of the first book of euclid.) another miscalculating mamma, and they are sure to miscalculate whenever they inter-meddle with such matters, declined entering her two sons at cambridge in the same year, that, as she said, "they might not stand in each other's way." _id est_, they were to be both _senior wranglers_. they, however, never caught sight of the _goal_. i recollect, on one occasion, the second son being _floored_ in his college mathematical examination. he was said to have afterwards carried home the paper (containing twenty-two difficult geometrical and other problems,) when one of his sisters snatched it out of his hand, exclaiming, "give it to me," and, without the slightest hesitation (in good cambridge phrase,) she "_floored_" the whole of them, to his dismay. this lady was one of a bevy of ten beauties whom their mamma compassionately brought to cambridge to _dance_ with the young _gentlemen_ of the university at her parties, and after so officiating for some three or four years, notwithstanding they were all _blues_, and had corresponding names, from _britannia_ to _boadicea_, the cantabs suffered them all to depart _spinsters_. but papas also sometimes overrate their sons' talents and virtues. a gentleman, a few years since, on presenting his favourite son to the sub-rector of a certain college in oxford, as a new member, did so with the observation, "sir, he is _modest_, _diffident_, and _clever_, and will _be an example to the whole college_." "i am glad of it," was the reply, "we want such men, and i am honoured, sir, by your bringing him here." papa made his exit, well pleased with our welshman's hospitality, for of that country our sub-rector, as well as the gentleman in question was. the former, too, had been a chaplain in lord nelson's fleet, in his younger days, and was not over orthodox in his language, when _irritated_, though a man with a better heart it would have puzzled the grecian sage to have traced out by candle-light. a month had scarcely passed over, when papa, having occasion to pass through oxon, called on the sub-rector, of course, and naturally inquired, "how his son demeaned himself?" "you told me, sir," said the sub-rector, in a pet, and a speech such as the quarter-deck of a man-of-war had schooled him in; "you told me, sir, that your son was _modest_, but d--n his _modesty!_ you told me, sir, he was _diffident_, but d--n his _diffidence!_ you told me, sir, he was clever; he's the greatest dunce of the whole society! you told me, sir, he would prove an example to the whole college: but i tell you, sir, that he is neither _modest_, _diffident_ nor _clever_, and in three weeks," added the sub-rector, raising his voice to a becoming pitch, "he has ruined half the college by his example!" we can scarcely do better than add to this, by way of tail-piece, from that loyal oxford scourge _terræ filius_ (ed. )--(to be read, "cum grano," and some allowance for the excited character of the times in which it was written)-- iter academicum; or, the gentleman commoner's matriculation. being of age to play the fool, with muckle glee i left our school at _hoxton_; and, mounted on an easy pad, rode with my mother and my dad to _oxon_. conceited of my parts and knowledge, they entered me into a college _ibidem_. the master took me first aside, showed me a scrawl--i read, and cried _do fidem_. gravely he took me by the fist, and wished me well--we next request a tutor. he recommends a staunch one, who in _perkins'_ cause had been his co- adjutor. to see this precious stick of wood, i went (for so they deemed it good) in fear, sir; and found him swallowing loyalty, six deep his bumpers, which to me seemed queer, sir. he bade me sit and take my glass; i answered, looking like an ass, i can't, sir. not drink!--you don't come here to pray! the merry mortal said, by way of answer. to pray, sir! no, my lad; 'tis well! come, here's our friend _sacheverell_; here's _trappy_! here's _ormond!_ _marr!_ in short, so many traitors we drank, it made my _crani- um_ nappy. and now, the company dismissed, with this same sociable priest, or fellow, i sallied forth to deck my back with loads of _stuff_, and gown of black _prunello_. my back equipt, it was not fair my head should 'scape, and so, as square as _chess-board_, a _cap_ i bought, my scull to screen, of cloth without, and all within of _paste-board_. when metamorphosed in attire, more like a parson than a squire they'd dressed me. i took my leave, with many a tear, of _john_, our man, and parents dear, who blest me. the master said they might believe him, so righteously (the lord forgive him!) he'd govern. he'd show me the extremest love, provided that i did not prove too stubborn. so far so good; but now _fresh fees_ began (for so the custom is) my ruin. fresh fees! with drink they knock you down; you spoil your clothes, and your new gown you sp-- in. i scarce had slept--at six--tan tin the bell goes--servitor comes in-- gives warning. i wished the scoundrel at old nick; i puked, and went to prayers d--d sick that morning. one who could come half drunk to prayer they saw was entered, and could swear at random; would bind himself, as they had done, to statutes, tho' he could not un- derstand 'em. built in the form of _pigeon-pye_, a house[a] there is for rooks to lie and roost in. their laws, their articles of grace, _forty_, i think, save half a brace, was willing to swear to; swore, engaged my soul, and paid the _swearing broker_ whole _ten shilling_. full half a pound i paid him down, to live in the most p--d town o' th' nation: may it ten thousand cost _lord phyz_, for never forwarding his vis- itation. [a] theatre * * * * * a story is told, and, "in the days that are gone," is not at all improbable, that a youth being brought to oxon, after he had paid the tutor and other the several college and university fees, was told he must _subscribe to the thirty-nine articles_; "with all my heart," said our freshman, "pray how much is it?" * * * * * freshmen often afford mirth to both tutors, scholars, scouts, gyps, and others, by their blunders. they will not unfrequently, upon the first tingle of the college bell (though it always rings a quarter of an hour, by way of warning, on ordinary occasions, and half an hour on saints' days, in cambridge,) hurry off to hall or chapel, with their gowns the wrong side outwards, or, their caps reversed, walk unconsciously along with the hind part before, as i once heard a _soph_ observe, "the peak smelling thunder." they are also very apt to mistake characters and functionaries:--i have seen a freshman _cap_ the college-butler, taking him for _bursar_ at least. the persons to be so complimented are the chancellor, the vice-chancellor, the proctors, the head of your college, and your tutors. when the late bishop mansell was vice-chancellor of cambridge, he one day met two freshmen in trumpington-street, who passed him unheeded. the bishop was not a man to '_bate_ an iota of his due, and stopped them and asked, "if they knew he was the vice-chancellor?" they blushingly replied, they did not, and begged his pardon for omitting to _cap_ him, observing they _were freshmen_. "how long have you been in cambridge?" asked the witty bishop. "only eight days," was the reply. "in that case i must excuse you; puppies never see till they are _nine_ days old." * * * * * another freshman was unconsciously walking beyond the university church, on a sunday morning, which (at both oxford and cambridge) he would have been expected to attend, when he was met by the master of st. john's college, dr. wood, who, by way of a mild rebuke, stopped him and asked him, "if the way he was going led to st. mary's church?" "oh, no, sir," said he, with most lamb-like innocence, "this is the way," pointing in the opposite direction. "keep straight on, you can't miss it." the doctor, however, having fully explained himself, preferred taking him as a guide. * * * * * we must do something for the poor lost young man. lords stowel and eldon both studied at trinity college, oxford, with success, and, it is well known, there laid the foundation of that fame, which, from the humble rank of the sons of a newcastle coal-fitter, raised them to the highest legal stations and the english peerage. the former first graduated, and was elected a fellow and tutor of all soul's college (where he had the late lord tenterden for a pupil) and became camden professor. the latter afterwards graduated with a success that would have ensured him a fellowship and other university distinctions, but visiting his native place soon after he took a.b. he fell in love with miss surtees (the present lady eldon) daughter of a then rich banker, in newcastle, who returned his affection, and they became man and wife. her family were indignant, and refused to be reconciled to the young pair, because the lady had, as the phrase ran, "married below her station." mr. scott, the father, was as much offended at the step his son had taken, which at once shut him out from the chance of a fellowship, and refused them his countenance. in this dilemma the new married pair sought the friendship of mr. william scott (now lord stowell) at oxford. his heart, cast in a softer mould, readily forgave them,--his amiable nature would not have permitted him to do otherwise. he received them with a brotherly affection, pitied rather than condemned them, and is said to have observed to some oxford friends, "we must do something for the poor _lost_ young man!" what a lesson is there not read to mankind in the result! a harsher course might have led to ruin--the milder one was the stepping-stone to the _woolsack and a peerage_. * * * * * like o' whissonset church. a cantab visited some friends in the neighbourhood of whissonset, near fakenham, norfolk, during the life of the late rector of that parish, who was then nearly ninety, and but little capable of attending to his duty, but having married a young wife, _she_ would not allow him a curate, but every sunday drove him from fakenham to the church. in short he was hen-pecked. his clerk kept the village public-house, and was not over-attentive to his duties. our cantab accompanied his friends to church at the usual time, arriving at which they found doors close; neither "vicar or moses" had arrived, nor did they appear till half an hour after. under these circumstances our cantab threw off the following epigram: like o' whissonset church in vain you'll search, the lord be thanked for't: the parson is old, his wife's a scold, and the clerk sells beer by the quart. the people who go are but so so, and but so so are the singers; they roar in our ears like northern bears, and the devil take the ringers. * * * * * custom, whim, fashion, and caprice, have been pretty nearly as arbitrary in our universities as with the rest of the world. when john goslin was vice-chancellor, he is said to have made it a heavy fine to appear in boots. a student, however, undertook, for a small bet, to visit him in them, and, to appease his wrath, he desired the doctor's advice for an hereditary numbness in his legs. so far was the vice-chancellor from expressing any anger, that he pitied him, and he won his wager. another vice-chancellor is said to have issued his mandate for all members in statu pupillari, to appear in yellow stockings. the following singular order, as to dress and the excess thereof, was issued by the great statesman, cecil, lord burleigh, as chancellor of the university of cambridge, in the days of elizabeth, which is preserved in the _liber niger_, or black-book, extant in the cambridge university library. the paper is dated "from my house in strand, this seventhe of may, ," and runs thus:-- . "that no hat be worne of anie graduate or scholler within the said universitie (except it shall be when he shall journey owte of the towne, or excepte in the time of his sickness.) all graduates were to weare square caps of clothe; and schollers, not graduates, round cloth caps, saving that it may be lawful for the sonnes of noblemen, or the sonnes and heirs of knights, to weare round caps of velvet, but no hats." . "all graduates shall weare abroade in the universitie going owte of his colledg, a gowne and a hoode of cloth, according to the order of his degree. provided that it shall be lawful for everie d.d., and for the mr. of anie coll. to weare a sarcenet tippet of velvet, according to the anciente customes of this realme, and of the saide universitie. the whiche gowne, tippet, and square caps, the saide drs. and heads shall be likewise bound to weare, when they shall resorte eyther to the courte, or to the citie of london." . "and that the excesse of shirt bands and ruffles, exceeding an ynche and halfe (saving the sonnes of noblemen,) the fashion and colour other than white, be avoided presentlie; and no scholler, or fellowe of the foundation of anie house of learninge, do weare eyther in the universitie or without, &c., anie hose, stockings, dublets, jackets, crates, or jerknees, or anie other kynde of garment, of velvet, satin, or silk, or in the facing of the same shall have above a / of a yard of silke, or shall use anie other light kynde of colour, or cuts, or gards, of fashion, the which shall be forbidden by the chancellor," &c. th. "and that no scholler doe weare anie long lockes of hair vppon his head, but that he be notted, pouled, or rounded, after the accustomed manner of the gravest schollers of the saide universitie." the penalty for every offence against these several orders being six shillings and eightpence: the sum in which offenders are mulcted in the present day. the fashion of the hair has been not less varied, or less subject to animadversion, than the dress of the members of the universities. the fashion of wearing long hair, so peculiar in the reign of charles ii., was called the apollo. his royal highness the duke of gloucester, the present chancellor of the university of cambridge, "was an apollo" during the whole of his residence at trinity college, says the _gradus ad cant_. indeed his royal highness, who was noted for his personal beauty at that time, was "the last in cambridge who wore his hair after that fashion." "i can remember," says the pious archbishop tillotson, as cited by the above writer, discoursing on this head, viz. _of hair_! "since the wearing the hair _below_ the ears was looked upon as _a sin of the first magnitude_; and when ministers generally, whatever their text was, did either find, or make, occasion to reprove the great _sin_ of long hair: and if they saw any one in the congregation guilty in that kind, they would point him out particularly, and _let fly_ at him with great zeal." and we can remember, since wearing the hair _cropt_, i. e. _above_ the ears, was looked upon, though not as "a sin," yet, as a very vulgar and raffish sort of a thing; and when the _doers_ of newspapers exhausted all their wit in endeavouring to rally the new-raised corps of crops, regardless of the late noble duke (of bedford) who headed them; and, when the rude rank-scented rabble, if they saw any one in the streets, whether time or the tonsor had thinned his flowing hair, they would point him out particularly and "_let fly at him_," as the archbishop says, till not a shaft of ridicule remained! the tax upon hair-powder has now, however, produced all over the country very plentiful crops. charles ii., who, as his _worthy friend_ the earl of rochester, remarked, ---- never said a foolish thing; nor ever _did_ a wise one, sent a letter to the university of cambridge, forbidding the members to wear _periwigs_, smoke tobacco, and read their sermons!! it is needless to remark, that tobacco has not yet made its exit in fumo, and that _periwigs_ still continue to adorn "the heads of houses." till the present all-prevailing, all-_accommodating_ fashion of crops became general in the university, no young man presumed to dine in hall till he had previously received a handsome trimming from the hair-dresser (one of which calling was a special appointment to each college.) the following inimitable imitation of "the bard" of gray, is ascribed to the pen of the late lord erskine, when a fellow-commoner of trinity college, cambridge. having been disappointed of the attendance of his college-barber, he was compelled to forego his _commons_ in hall. but determining to have his revenge, and give his hair-dresser a good dressing, he sat down and penned the following "fragment of a pindaric ode," wherein, "in imitation of the despairing bard of gray, who prophesied the destruction of king edward's race, he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation." i. ruin seize thee, scoundrel coe! confusion on thy frizzing wait; hadst thou the only comb below, thou never more shouldst touch my pate. club, nor queue, nor twisted tail, nor e'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail to save thy horse-whipp'd back from daily fears, from cantab's curse, from cantab's tears! such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride of coe the barber scattered wild dismay, as down the steep of jackson's slippery lane, he wound with puffing march his toilsome, tardy way. ii. in a room where cambridge town frowns o'er the kennel's stinking flood, rob'd in a flannel powd'ring gown, with haggard eyes poor erskine stood; (long his beard and blouzy hair stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air;) and with clung guts, and face than razor thinner, swore the loud sorrows of his dinner. hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, with awful sounds, the hour of eating tell! o'er thee, oh coe! their dreadful notes they wave, soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave; vocal in vain, through all this ling'ring day, the grace already said, the plates all swept away. iii. cold is beau * * tongue, that soothed each virgin's pain; bright perfumed m * * has cropp'd his head: almacks! you moan in vain. each youth whose high toupee made huge plinlimmon bow his cloud-cropt head, in humble tyburn-top we see; esplashed with dirt and sun-burnt face; far on before the ladies mend their pace, the macaroni sneers, and will not see. dear lost companions of the coxcomb's art, dear as a turkey to these famished eyes, dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart, ye sunk amidst the fainting misses' cries. no more i weep--they do not sleep: at yonder ball a slovenly band, i see them sit, they linger yet, avengers of fair nature's hand; with me in dreadful resolution join, to crop with one accord, and starve their cursed line. iv. weave the warp, and weave the woof, the winding-sheet of barber's race; give ample room, and verge enough, their lengthened lanthorn jaws to trace. mark the year, and mark the night, when all their shops shall echo with affright; loud screams shall through st. james's turrets ring, to see, like eton boy, the king! puppies of france, with unrelenting paws, that crape the foretops of our aching heads; no longer england owns thy fribblish laws, no more her folly gallia's vermin feeds. they wait at dover for the first fair wind, soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast-beef behind. v. mighty barbers, mighty lords, low on a greasy bench they lie! no pitying heart or purse affords a sixpence for a mutton-pye! is the mealy 'prentice fled? poor coe is gone, all supperless to bed. the swarm that in thy shop each morning sat, comb their lank hair on forehead flat: fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux, while vainly strutting through a silly land, in foppish train the puppy barber goes; lace on his shirt, and money at command, regardless of the skulking bailiff's sway, that, hid in some dark court, expects his evening prey. vi. the porter-mug fill high, baked curls and locks prepare; reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live, close by the greasy chair fell thirst and famine lie, no more to art will beauteous nature give. heard ye the gang of fielding say, sir john,[ ] at last we've found their haunt, to desperation driv'n by hungry want, thro' the crammed laughing pit they steal their way. ye tow'rs of newgate! london's lasting shame, by many a foul and midnight murder fed, revere poor mr. coe, the blacksmith's[ ] fame, and spare the grinning barber's chuckle head. vii. rascals! we tread thee under foot, (weave we the woof, the thread is spun;) our beards we pull out by the root; (the web is wove, your work is done.) "stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn leave me uncurl'd, undinner'd, here to mourn." thro' the broad gate that leads to college hall, they melt, they fly, they vanish all. but, oh! what happy scenes of pure delight, slow moving on their simple charms unroll! ye rapt'rous visions! spare my aching sight, ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my soul! no more our long-lost coventry we wail: all hail, ye genuine forms; fair nature's issue, hail! viii. not frizz'd and frittered, pinned and rolled, sublime their artless locks they wear, and gorgeous dames, and judges old, without their tetes and wigs appear. in the midst a form divine, her dress bespeaks the pennsylvania line; her port demure, her grave, religious face, attempered sweet to virgin grace. what sylphs and spirits wanton through the air! what crowds of little angels round her play! hear from thy sepulchre, great penn! oh, hear! a scene like this might animate thy clay. simplicity now soaring as she sings, waves in the eye of heaven her quaker-coloured wings. ix. no more toupees are seen that mock at alpine height, and queues, with many a yard of riband bound, all now are vanished quite. no tongs or torturing pin, but every head is trimmed quite snug around: like boys of the cathedral choir, curls, such as adam wore, we wear; each simpler generation blooms more fair, till all that's artificial expire. vain puppy boy! think'st thou you essenced cloud, raised by thy puff, can vie with _nature's_ hue? to-morrow see the variegated crowd with ringlets shining like the morning dew. enough for me: with joy i see the different dooms our fates assign; be thine to love thy trade and starve, to wear what heaven bestowed be mine. he said, and headlong from the trap-stairs' height, quick thro' the frozen street he ran in shabby plight. [ ] sir john fielding, the late active police magistrate. [ ] coe's father, the well-known blacksmith and alderman, now no more. whilst we are discussing the subject of hair, we ought not to forget that, according to lyson's environs of london, the first prelate that wore a wig was archbishop tillotson. in the great dining-room of lambeth palace, he says, there are portraits of all the archbishops, from laud to the present time, in which may be observed the gradual change of the clerical habit, in the article of wigs. archbishop tillotson was the first prelate that wore a wig, which then was not unlike the natural hair, and worn without powder. in , james st, the oxford scholars were prohibited from wearing boots and spurs. "care was taken," says wood, "that formalities in public assemblies should be used, which, through negligence, were now, and sometime before, left off. that the wearing of boots and spurs also be prohibited, 'a fashion' (as our chancellor saith in his letters) rather befitting the liberties of the inns of court than the strictness of an academical life, which fashion is not only usurped by the younger sort, but by the masters of arts, who preposterously assume that part of the doctor's formalities which adviseth them to ryde _ad prædicandum evangelium_, but in these days implying nothing else but _animum deserendi studium_." it was therefore ordered, "that no person that wears a gown wear boots; if a graduate, he was to forfeit _s._ _d._ for the first time of wearing them, after order was given to the contrary; for the second time _s._, and so toties quoties. and if an undergraduate, whipping, or other punishment, according to the will of the vice-chancellor and proctors, for every time he wore them." and in , when archbishop bancroft became chancellor of oxford, he decreed amongst other things, "that indecency of attire be left off, and academical habits be used in public assemblies, being now more remissly looked to than in former times. also, that no occasion of offence be given, long hair was not to be worn; for whereas in the reign of queen elizabeth few or none wore their hair longer than their ears (for they that did so were accounted by the graver and elder sort swaggerers and ruffians,) now it was common even among scholars, who were to be examples of modesty, gravity, and decency." * * * * * wakefield's epigram on the flying barber of cambridge, which his college friend, dyer, has given in his supplement, under the head "seria ludo," with the happy, original motto-- with serious truths we mix a little fun, and now and then we treat you with a pun. the subject of the epigram, he says (the original of which mr. w. sent to a friend,) "was mr. foster, formerly of cambridge, who, on account of his rapidity in conversation, in walking, and more particularly in the exercise of his profession, was called (by the cantabs) _the flying barber_. he was a great oddity, and gave birth to many a piece of fun in the university:-- tonsor ego: vultus radendo spumcus albet, mappa subest, ardet culter, et unda tepet. quam versat gladium cito dextra, novacula levis, mox tua tam celeri strinxerit ora manu. cedite, romani tonsores, cedite graii; tonsorem regio non habet ulla parem. imberbes grantam, barbati accedite grantam; illa polit mentes; et polit illa genas. * * * * * the isthmus of suez. the men of st. john's college, cambridge, like every other society in both oxford and cambridge, have their _soubriquet_. from what cause they obtained that of "johnian hogs" is yet scarcely settled, though much has been written thereon, extant in _the gradus ad cant., facetiæ cant._, and _the cambridge tart_. it proved of some service, however, to a wag of the society (and to them the merit of punning was conceded in the spectator's time,) in giving him an idea for a name for the elegant one-arched covered bridge which joins the superb gothic court they have lately added to the fine old college, after the designs of messrs. hutchinson and rickman of birmingham. the question was discussed at a wine party, and one proposed calling it the "bridge of sighs," as it led to most of the tutors' and deans' rooms, from whom issued all _impositions_ (punishments,) &c. "i have it!" exclaimed a wag, his eyes beaming brighter than his sparkling glass--"i have it! call it the isthmus of suez!" id est _the hog's isthmus_, from the latin word _sus_, a sow, which makes _suis_ in the genitive case, and proves our johnian to be a punster worthy of his school. * * * * * you are to pray and fight, not to drink for the church. mr. jones, of welwyn, relates, on the authority of old mr. bunburry, of brazen-nose college, that bishop kennett, when a young man, being one of the oxford pro-proctors, and a very active one, about james the second's reign, going his rounds one evening, found a company of gownsmen engaged on a _drinking bout_, to whom his then high church principles were notorious (though he afterwards changed them, sided with bishop hoadley, and obtained the _soubriquet_ of _weather-cock kennett_.) when he entered the room, he reprimanded them for keeping such late hours, especially over the bottle, rather than over their studies in their respective colleges, and ordered them to disperse. one in the company, who knew his political turn, addressed him with, "mr. proctor, you will, i am sure, excuse us when i say, we were met to _drink prosperity to the church_, to which _you_ can have no objection." "sir," was his answer, with a solemn air, "we are to _pray_ for the church, and to _fight_ for the church, not to _drink_ for the church." upon which the company paid their reckoning and dispersed. there is a curious print in the library of the antiquarians, of an altar-piece, which the rector of whitechapel, dr. walton, caused to be painted and put up in his church, representing christ and his twelve apostles eating the passover, wherein bishop kennett (the "traitor dean," as his siding with hoadley caused him to be designated) is painted as _judas_. * * * * * signs of a good appetite. when a late master of richmond school, yorkshire, came, a _raw_ lad in his teens, to matriculate at trinity college, cambridge, he was invited to dinner by his tutor, and happened to be seated opposite some boiled fowls, which, having just emptied a plate of his _quantum_ of fish, he was requested to _carve_. he accordingly took one on his plate, but not being a _carver_, he leisurely ate the whole of it, _minus_ the bones, not at all disconcerted by the smiles of the other guests: and when the cheese appeared, and his host cut a plateful for him to pass round the table, he coolly set to and eat the whole himself. he, notwithstanding, proved a good scholar, and distinguished himself both in classics and mathematics, is now a canon residentiary of st. paul's, and a very worthy divine, who has earned his reputation, preferments, and dignities by his merits only. * * * * * a college quiz. the following effusion of humour was the production of a very pleasant fellow, an oxford scholar, now no more, who, says angelo, in his reminiscences, "was a great favourite among his brother collegians," and a humourist:--"lost £ this morning, may , , in peckwater quadrangle, near no. . any nobleman, gentleman, common student, or commoner, who will, as soon as possible, bring the same back to the afflicted loser, shall, with pleasure, receive _ten guineas_ reward; a suitor shall receive _five_ guineas; and a scout or porter, _one_ guinea. the notes were all bank of england notes, i only received this morning from my father. my name is ----, and i lodge at ----, facing tom gate, where i am anxiously waiting for some kind friend to bring them to me.--_vivant rex et regina_." * * * * * sucking the milk of both universities is an epithet applied to those members who, after graduating at one proceeds to a like degree at the other. a party one day disputing as to whether oxford or cambridge was the more distinguished seat of learning,--"it can't affect me," exclaimed one of them, "for i was educated at both." upon which a wag observed, "he reminded him of a calf that was suckled by two cows." "how so?" said the other. "why, it turned out the greatest _calf_ i ever knew," was the retort. * * * * * amongst the musical professors of cambridge, and not the least, who was organist of king's college also, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, was dr. thomas tudway. he was a notorious wag, and when several of the members of the university of cambridge expressed their discontent at the paucity of the patronage, and the rigour of the government of the "proud duke of somerset," whose statue graces their senate house, he facetiously observed-- "_the chancellor rides us all without a bit in our mouths._" like rabelais, in him the passion for punning was strong in death, though less profane. when he laid dangerously ill of the quinsy (of which he soon after died,) his physician, seeing some hope, turned from his patient to mrs. tudway, who was weeping in despair at his danger, and observed, "courage, madam! the dr. will get up may-hill yet, he has swallowed some nourishment." upon which dr. tudway said, as well as his disease would permit him to articulate, "don't mind him, my dear: one swallow don't make a summer." * * * * * ambassadors of king jesus at oxford. the rev. charles godwyn, b.d., fellow of baliol college, grandson to dr. francis g., bishop of hereford, in a letter, dated march , , printed in nichols's anecdotes, says, "a very sad affair has happened" at oxford. "the principal of edmund hall (dr. george dixon) has been indiscreet enough to admit into his hall, by the recommendation of lady huntingdon, seven london tradesmen, one a tapster, another a barber, &c. they have little or no learning, but all of them have a high opinion of themselves, as being _ambassadors of king jesus_. one of them, upon that title conferred by himself, has been a preacher. complaint was made to the vice-chancellor, dr. david durell (principal of hertford college,) i believe, by the bishop of oxford; and he, in his own right, as vice-chancellor, had last week a visitation of the hall. some of the preaching tradesmen were found so void of learning, that they were expelled from the hall." * * * * * a surprising effort of intellect. robert austin, a fellow of king's college, cambridge, was amanuensis to the famous arabic professor, wheelock, who employed him in correcting the press of his _persic gospels_, the first of the kind ever printed, with a latin translation and notes. of this surprising young man, he says, "in the space of two months, not knowing a letter in arabic or persic at the beginning, he sent a letter to me in norfolk, of peculiar passages, so that of his age i never met with the like; and his indefatigable patience, and honesty, or ingenuity, exceed, if possible, his capacity." but his immoderate application brought on a derangement of mind, and he died early in . * * * * * judgment of professor hallifax. when queen elizabeth was questioned on the subject of her faith in the sacrament, she dexterously avoided giving offence by replying-- "christ was the word that spake it, he took the bread and brake it, and what his word did make it, that i believe, and take it." scarcely less ingenious was the reply of bishop hallifax, when regius professor of civil law at cambridge, upon dr. parr and the rev. joseph smith (both resident at stanmore) applying to him for his judgment on a literary dispute between them. his response was in the following official language, by which he dexterously avoided the imputation of partiality:-- "_nolo interponere judicium meum._" his name reminds me that he married a _cooke_, the daughter of dr. william cooke, provost of king's college, cambridge, for whom george the third had so great a regard, that he extended it to his children. the bishop and his wife being at cheltenham when the king was there, and some person asking why his majesty paid dr. hallifax such marked respect, was answered, "sir, he married a _cooke_." this being in the presence of the celebrated oxonian, dean tucker, "i, too," he facetiously remarked, "have a claim to his majesty's attention, for i married _a cook_," alluding to the fact, that his second wife originally held that rank in his domestic establishment. * * * * * oh! for a distich. a pembrokian cantab, named penlycross, having written an essay, a candidate for the norrisian prize (which it was necessary he should subscribe with a greek or latin motto, as well as a sealed letter, enclosing his name, after being for a time at a loss for one,) and having an ominous _presentiment_ of its rejection, he seized his pen and subscribed the following on both: "distichon ut poscas nolente, volente, minerva, mos sacer? unde mihi distichon? en perago." "without a distich, vain the oration is; oh! for a distich! doctor, e'en take this." * * * * * skeleton sermons. the author of the pursuits of literature ridicules the epithet "skeleton sermons," as "ridiculous and absurd," speaking of those of the rev. charles simeon, m.a. now senior fellow of king's college. when, in , that divine published his edition of _claude's essay on a sermon, with an appendix containing one hundred skeleton sermons_, the celebrated dr. william cooke, father of the late regius professor of greek, was provost of king's, and to him, as in duty bound, mr. simeon presented a copy. the provost read it with his natural appearance of a proud and dignified humility, and, struck with the unfortunate and somewhat ludicrous title of _skeleton sermons_, "skeletons! skeletons!" he exclaimed, in his significant way, "shall these dry bones live?" what would the provost have thought and said, had he lived to see an edition of them in ten volumes to. price ten guineas? * * * * * i wish he had paid it first. the present vice-master of trinity college, cambridge, being told that one of his pupils, the author of "alma mater," had therein published his bill, coolly replied, "i wish he had paid it first." another cantab had-- a mind to make trial of the stocks, which unluckily stood in the church-yard, and it happening to be a saint's day, the congregation were at prayers, of which he was ignorant, when he got a friend to put him in. his friend sauntered away, whether wilfully or not i leave my readers to guess, and he was in vain struggling to release himself, when the congregation issued forth, who were not a little _moved_ at his situation. many laughed, but one, an old woman, compassionately released him. a similar story is told of the celebrated son of granta, lord chief justice pratt, who had afterwards to try a cause in which the plaintiff had brought his action against a magistrate for falsely imprisoning him in the stocks. the counsel for the defence arguing that the action was a frivolous one, on the ground that the stocks were no punishment, his lordship beckoned his learned brother to him, and told him, in his ear, that having himself been put in the stocks, he could assure him it was no such slight punishment as he represented, and the plaintiff obtained a verdict against the magistrate in consequence. * * * * * hissing versus money. parker says, in his musical memoirs, that the oxford scholars once hissed madame mara, conceiving she assumed too much importance in her bearing. no wonder they so treated signor samperio, one evening at a concert, attracted, when he came forward to sing, by his "tall, lank figure, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and shrill voice;" in fact, they hissed him off before he had half got through his cavatina. the gentleman who acted as steward was deeply moved at his situation, and, going up to samperio, endeavoured to soothe him. but the signor, not at all hurt, replied, "o, sare, never mind; dey may hissa me as much as dey please, if i getti di money." another anecdote is told of-- two oxford scholars posing dr. hayes, the late musical professor, who was some six feet high, and scarcely inferior in bulk to the famous essex miller. he had at last so much difficulty in getting in and out of a stage coach, that whenever he went from oxford to london to conduct the annual performances at st. paul's, for the benefit of the sons of the clergy, which he did for many years _gratis_, his custom was to engage a whole seat to himself, and when once in and seated to remain so till the end of the journey. the fact became known to two oxford wags, who resolved to _pose_ the doctor, and to that end engaged the other two inside places, and taking care to be there before him, seated themselves in the opposite corners, one to the right the other to the left, and there the doctor found them, on arriving to take his place. "how was he to dispose of his _corpus_?" was the query: they had a clear right to their seats, and no alternative seemed left him, as they declined moving, but to place his head in one corner and his feet in the other. at last our oxonians, having fully enjoyed the _dilemma_ in which they had placed the doctor, consented to give way, confessed their purpose, and even the doctor had the good sense to laugh at his own expense. * * * * * gross indeed. when the celebrated cantab, and editor of _lucretius_, gilbert wakefield, was convicted of a _libel_ before the late judge _grose_, who sentenced him to fine and imprisonment, turning from the bar, he said, with the spirit of a frenchman, it was--"_gross_ indeed." to the same learned cantab, dyer attributes the following-- pun upon pye. being asked once his opinion of the poetry of _pye_, the then poet laureat, his reply was, that he thought very _handsomely_ of some of mr. p.'s poems, which he had read. this did not suffice, and he was pressed for his opinion of the laureat-ode that had just appeared in the public prints. not having seen it, he desired his friend to read it to him, and the introductory lines containing something about the _singing of birds_, wakefield abruptly silenced him with this happy allusion to the laureat's name, in the following nursery rhymes:-- "and when the pie was opened, the birds began to sing: and was not this a dainty dish to set before a king." * * * * * the cambridge family of spintexts begun with john alcock, ll.d., bishop of ely, and founder of jesus college. "garrulus hunc quando consumet cunq; loquaces, si sapiat, vitet, simul atque adoluerit ætas." in , says wilson, in his memorabilia cantabrigiæ, he preached before the university "_bonum et blandum sermonem prædicavit, et duravit in horam tertiam et ultra_," which is supposed to be a sermon that was printed in his lifetime, in , by the famous pynson, entitled, "_galli cantus ad confratres suos curatos in synodo, apud barnwell, th september_, ," at the head of which is a print of the bishop preaching to the clergy, with a cock at each side, and another in the first page. the next most celebrated preacher of this class was doctor isaac barrow, the friend, partly tutor, and most learned contemporary of newton, whom charles the second said was an unfair preacher, leaving nothing new to be said by those who followed him. he was once appointed, upon some public occasion, to preach before the dean and chapter in westminster abbey, and gave them a discourse of nearly four hours in length. during the latter part of it, the congregation became so tired of sitting, that they dropped out, one by one, till scarcely another creature besides the dean and choristers were left. courtesy kept the dean in his place, but soon his patience got the better of his manners, "verba per attentam non ibunt cæsaris aurem," and beckoning one of the singing boys, he desired him to go and tell the organist to play him down, which was done. when asked, on descending from the pulpit, if he did not feel exhausted, he replied, "no; only a little tired with standing so long." a third "long-winded preacher" (and they were never admired at either oxford or cambridge, where "short and sweet" is preferred) was doctor samuel parr. he delivered his justly celebrated spital sermon in the accustomed place, christ-church, newgate street, easter tuesday, , before his friend, harvey christian combe, esq., m.p., the celebrated brewer, then lord mayor. "before the service begun," says one of his friends, "i went into the vestry, and found dr. parr seated, with pipes and tobacco placed before him on the table. he evidently felt the importance of the occasion, but felt, at the same time, a confidence in his own powers. when he ascended the pulpit, a profound silence prevailed. the sermon occupied nearly an hour and a quarter in the delivery; and in allusion to its extreme length, it was remarked by a lady, who had been asked her opinion of it, "enough there is, and more than enough"--the first words of its first sentence,--a _bon mot_ he is said to have received with good humour. as he and the lord mayor were coming out of the church, the latter, albeit unused to the facetious mode, "well," said dr. parr to him, always anxious for well-merited praise, "how did you like the sermon? let me have the suffrage of your strong and honest understanding." "why, doctor," returned his lordship, "there were four things in your sermon i did _not_ like to hear." "state them," replied parr, eagerly. "why, to speak frankly, then," said combe, "they were the quarters of the church clock, which struck four times before you had finished it." "i once saw, lying in the chapter coffee-house," says dyer, in a letter printed in parriana, "the doctor's _spital sermon_, with a comical caricature of him, in the pulpit, preaching and smoking at the same time, with _ex fumo dare lucem_ issuing from his mouth." another class of preachers at cambridge, and eke at oxford, have taken an opposite course, and from their being to be had at all times, have at the former place, obtained the _soubriquet_ "hack preachers." in the _gradus ad cantabrigiam_, they are described as "the common _exhibitioners_ at st. mary's, employed in the service of defaulters and absentees. it must be confessed, however," adds this writer, "that these hacks are good fast _trotters_, as they commonly go over the course in twenty minutes, and sometimes less." gilbert wakefield, whom nobody will suspect of forbearance, calls them, in his memoirs, "a piteous, unedifying tribe." this, however, can scarcely be applied to the ordinary preachers of the present day, and especial care is taken by the heads of the university that the _select_ preachers (one of whom is named for each month during term-time) do not name substitutes themselves. the following poetic _jeu d'esprit_, entitled "_lines on three of the appointed preachers of st. mary's, cambridge, attacking calvin_" were no others than the three eminent living divines, dr. butler, dr. maltby, bishop of chichester, and dr. herbert marsh, bishop of peterborough:-- "three preachers, in three distant counties born, the church of england's doctrines do adorn: harsh calvin's mystic tenets were their mark, founded in texts perverted, gloomy, dark. _butler_ in clearness and in force surpassed, _maltby_ with sweetness spoke of ages past; whilst _marsh_ himself, who scarce could further go, with _criticism's_ fetters bound the foe." this _punning_ morsel, of some _standing_ in the university, is scarce surpassed by hood himself:-- the three-headed priest. old doctor delve, a scribbling quiz, afraid of critics' jibes, by turns assumes the various phiz of three old classic scribes. though now with high erected head, and lordly strut he'll go by us, he once made lawyers' robes, 'tis said, and called himself _mac-robius_. last night i asked the man to sup, who showed a second alias; he gobbled _all my jellies up_, o greedy _aulus gellius_. on sunday, arrogant and proud, he purrs like any tom-puss, and reads the word of _god so loud_, he must be _theo-pompus_. * * * * * my beef burnt to a cinder. the family of the spintexts have, it appears, very lately put forth a _scion_, in the person of a learned divine, a fellow of trinity college, cambridge, who, being appointed a _select preacher_ in , delivered a discourse of the extraordinary duration of an _hour and a half_! the present father of the university and master of peter-house, dr. francis barnes, upwards of ninety years of age, was one of the heads present. he sat out the first three quarters of an hour, but then began to be _fidgetty_. another quarter of an hour expired,--the preacher was still in the _midst_ of his discourse. the doctor (now become right down impatient,) being seated the lowest (next to the vice-chancellor) in _golgotha_, or the "place of skulls," as it is called, he moved, first one seat higher (the preacher is still on his legs,) then to a third, then to a fourth, then to a fifth; and before the hour and a half had quite expired, he joined one of the junior esquire bedells at the top, to whom he observed, with that original expression of face for which he is so remarkable, "my beef is burnt to a cinder." * * * * * short hand writing was invented by a cantab, according to the first volume of the librarian, published by mr. savage, of the london institution; who says, that the first work printed on the subject was by dr. timothy bright, of cambridge, in , who dedicated it to queen elizabeth, under the title of "an art of short, swift, and secret writing, by character." * * * * * the humble petition of the ladies. before the erection of the senate-house in the university of cambridge, the annual grand commencement was held in st. mary's, the university church. "it seems," says dyer, in his history of cambridge, "that on these occasions (the time when gentlemen take their degrees") that is, the degree of m.a. more particularly, "ladies had been allowed to sit in that part of the church assigned to the doctors, called the throne: it was, however, at length agreed amongst them (the doctors) that ladies should be no longer permitted to sit there; and the place assigned to them was under the throne, in the church." this invasion of what the fair almost looked upon as the abstraction of a right, led to a partial war of words and inuendos, and the matter was at last taken up by the facetious roger long, d.d., master of pembroke college, who, he adds, in his supplement to his history, was celebrated for his treatise on astronomy, and for his erection of a sphere in his college eighteen feet in diameter, still shown there. on this humorous occasion, he was a dissentient against the heads, not a little bustle was excited amongst the cambridge ladies, a subject for a few jokes was afforded the wags of the university, and he produced his famous music-speech, spoken at the public commencement of , on the th of july, which was afterwards published, but is now very scarce. it was delivered in an assumed character, as "being the petition of the ladies of cambridge," and is full of whim and humour, in swift's best manner, beginning-- "the humble petition of the ladies, who are all ready to be eaten up with the spleen, to think they are to be cooped up in the chancel, where they can neither see nor be seen, but must sit in the dumps by themselves, all stew'd and pent up, and can only peep through the lattice, like so many chickens in a coop; whereas last commencement the ladies had a gallery provided near enough, to see the heads sleep, and the fellow-commoners take snuff." "how he could have delivered it in so sacred a place as st. mary's," says dyer, "is matter of surprise (though they say, good fun, like good coin, is current any where.") it is pleasant to see a grave man descend from his heights, as pope says, "to guard the fair." though nobody could probably be much offended at the time, unless the vice-chancellor, whom, if we understand the writer's meaning, he calls _an old woman_, when he says-- "such cross ill-natured doings as these are, even a saint would vex, to see a vice-chancellor so barbarous to one of his own sex." but the doctor had a natural turn for humour, as is further illustrated by the celebrated mr. jones, of welwyn, who calls him "a very ingenious person." "at the public commencement of ," he says, "dr. greene (master of bene't college, and afterwards bishop of ely) being then vice-chancellor, mr. long was pitched upon for the tripos performance: it was witty and humorous, and has passed through divers editions. some who remembered the delivery of it, told me, that in addressing the vice-chancellor (whom the university wags usually styled _miss greene_,) the tripos-orator, being a native of norfolk, and assuming the norfolk dialect, instead of saying domine vice-cancellarie, did very audibly pronounce the words thus,--domina vice-cancellaria; which occasioned a general smile in that great auditory." i could recollect several other ingenious repartees of his, if there were occasion, adds mr. jones: but his friend, mr. bonfoy, of ripon, told me this little incident:--that he, and dr. long walking together in cambridge, in a dusky evening, and coming to a short _post_ fixed in the pavement, which mr. b., in the midst of chat and inattention, took to be a boy standing in his way, he said in a hurry, "get out of my way, boy." "that boy, sir," said the doctor, very calmly and slily, "is a _post boy, who turns off his way for nobody_." * * * * * celebrated all over germany. george the second is said, like his father, to have had a strong predilection for his continental dominions, of which his ministers did not fail, occasionally, to take advantage. a residentiary of st. paul's cathedral happening to fall vacant, lord granville was anxious to secure it for the learned translator of demosthenes, dr. john taylor, fellow of st. john's college, cambridge. the king started some scruples at first, but his lordship carried his point easily, on assuring his majesty, which was the fact, that "the doctor's learning was _celebrated all over germany_." * * * * * rebuses at oxford and cambridge. * * * * * beckington. the learned prelate, at whose expense the rector's lodgings were built at lincoln college, oxford, is commemorated by his rebus, a _beacon_ and a _tun_, which may still be traced on the walls. alcock, founder of jesus college, cambridge, and bishop of ely, either _rebused_ himself, or was _rebused_ by others, in almost every conspicuous part of his college, by a _cock perched upon a globe_. on one window is a cock with a label from its mouth, bearing the inscription, [greek: egô eimi alektôr]: to which another opposite bravely crows, says cole, [greek: ontôs kai egô]: "i am a cock!" the one doth cry: and t'other answers--"so am i." there is a plate of him at the head of his celebrated sermon, printed by pynson, in , with a cock at each side, and another on the first page. the subject of the discourse is the crowing of the cock when peter denied christ. eglesfield, the celebrated founder of queen's college, oxford, who was a native of cumberland, and confessor to philippa, queen of edward the third, gave the college, for its arms, three spread eagles; but a singular custom, according to a _rebus_, has been founded upon the fanciful derivation of his name, from _aiguille_, needle, and _fil_, thread; and it became a commemorative mark of respect, continued to this day, for each member of the college to receive from the bursar, on new year's day, a needle and thread, with the advice, "_take this and be thrifty_." "these conceits were not unusual at the time the college was founded," says chalmers, in his history of oxford, "and are sometimes thought trifling, merely because we cannot trace their original use and signification. hollingshed informs us, that when the prince of wales, afterwards henry the fifth, who was educated at this college, went to court in order to clear himself from certain charges of disaffection, he wore a gown of blue satin, full of oilet holes, and at every hole a needle hanging by a silk thread. this is supposed to prove at least, that he was an academician of queen's, and it may be conjectured that this was the original academical dress." the same writer says, the founder ordered that the society should "be called to their meals by the sound of the trumpet (a practice which still prevails, as does a similar one at the middle temple, london,) and the fellows being placed on one side of the table in robes of scarlet (those of the doctor's faced with black fur,) were to oppose in philosophy the poor scholars, who, in token of submission and humility, kept on the other side. as late as the last century the fellows and taberders used sometimes to dispute on sundays and holidays. ashton. in an arched recess of the ante-chapel of st. john's college, cambridge, is the tomb of the celebrated dr. hugh ashton, who took part with the famous bishop fisher (beheaded by henry the eighth) in the erection of the buildings of that learned foundation, and was the second master of the society. his tomb, as fuller observes, exhibits "the marble effigy of his body when living, and the humiliating contrast of his skeleton when dead, with the usual conceit of the times, the figure of an _ash tree_ growing out of a _tun_." lake leman. dyer records of the learned contemporary and antiquarian coadjutor of the late bishop of cloyne, the rev. mr. _leman_, a descendant of the famous sir robert naunton, public orator at cambridge, and a secretary of state, that "his drawing-room was painted _en fresco_ with the scenery around _lake leman_." something in your way. the same relates of himself, that, one day looking at some caricatures at a window in fleet-street, peter pindar (dr. wolcot,) whom he knew, came up to him. "there, sir," said mr. dyer to the doctor, pointing to the _caricatures_, "is something in _your_ way." "and there is something in _your_ way," rejoined the doctor, pointing to some of the ladies of the _pave_ who happened to be passing. peter was sure to pay in full. duns have ever been a grievous source of disquietude to both oxonians and cantabs. tom randolph, the favourite son of ben johnson, made them the subject of his muse. but in no instance, perhaps, have the race been so completely put to the blush, "couleur de rose," as by the following ode on the pleasure of being out of debt. horace, ode xxii. book i. imitated. _integer vitæ scelerisque purus, &c._ i. the man who not a farthing owes, looks down with scornful eye on those who rise by fraud and cunning; though in the _pig-market_ he stand, with aspect grave and clear-starched band, he fears no tradesman's dunning. ii. he passes by each shop in town, nor hides his face beneath his gown, no dread his heart invading; he quaffs the nectar of the _tuns_, or on a spur-gall'd hackney runs to london masquerading. iii. what joy attends a new-paid debt! our _manciple_[ ] i lately met, of visage wise and prudent; i on the nail my _battels_ paid, the master turn'd away dismay'd, hear this each oxford student! iv. with justice and with truth to trace the grisly features of his face, exceeds all man's recounting; suffice, he look'd as grim and sour as any lion in the tower, or half starved cat-a-mountain. v. a phiz so grim you scarce can meet, in bedlam, newgate, or the fleet, dry nurse of faces horrid! not buckhorse fierce, with many a bruise, displays such complicated hues on his undaunted forehead. vi. place me on scotland's bleakest hill, provided i can pay my bill, stay ev'ry thought of sorrow; there falling sleet, or frost, or rain, attack a soul resolved, in vain-- it may be fair to-morrow. vii. to _haddington_ then let me stray, and take _joe pullen's tree_ away, i'll ne'er complain of phoebus; but while he scorches up the grass, i'll fill a bumper to my lass, and toast her in a rebus. [ ] churton says, in his lives of the founders of brazenose college, oxford, that "manciples, the purveyors general of colleges and halls, were formerly men of so much consequence, that, to check their ambition, it was ordered by an express statute, that no manciple should be principal of a hall." queering a dun. a cambridge wag who was skilled in the science of electricity, as well as in the art of _ticking_, having got in pretty deep with his tailor, who was continually _dunning_ him for payment, resolved to give snip "_a settler_," as he said, the next time he mounted his stairs. he accordingly _charged_ his electrifying machine much deeper than usual, and knowing pretty well the time of snip's approach, watched his coming to the foot of the stairs where he _kept_, and ere he could reach the door, fixed the _conductor_ to the _brass handle_. the tailor having long in vain sought occasion to catch him with his _outer_ door not _sported_, was so delighted at finding it so, that, resolving not to lose time, he seized the handle of the _inner_ door, so temptingly exposed to view, determining to introduce himself to his creditor _sans ceremonie_. no sooner, however, did his fingers come in contact with it than the _shock_ followed, so violent, that it stunned him for an instant: but recovering himself, he bolted as though followed, as the poet says, by "ten thousand devils," never again to return. * * * * * gray the poet a contrast to bishop warburton. gray's letters, and bishop warburton's polemical writings, show, that in more respects than one they were gifted with a like temperament: but in the following instances they form a contrast to each other. in the library of the british museum is an interesting letter occasioned by the death of the rev. n. nicholls, ll.b., rector of loud and bradwell, in suffolk, from the pen of the now generally acknowledged author of "the pursuits of literature," j. t. mathias, m.a., in which he says, that shortly after that elegant scholar, and lamented divine, became a student of trinity hall, cambridge, at the age of eighteen, a friend introduced him to gray, the poet, at that time redolent with fame, and resident in peter-house, to speak to whom was honourable; but to be admitted to his acquaintance, or to his familiarity, was the height of youthful, or indeed of any ambition. shortly after this, mr. n. was in a company of which mr. gray was one; and, as it became his youth, he did not enter into conversation, but listened with attention. the subject, however, being general and classical, and as mr. nicholls, even at that early period, was acquainted not only with the greek and latin, but with many of the best italian poets, he ventured, with great diffidence, to offer a short remark, and happened to illustrate what he had said by an apposite quotation from dante. at the name of dante, mr. gray suddenly turned round to him and said, "right: but have you read dante, sir?" "i have endeavoured to understand him," replied mr. n. mr. gray being much pleased with the illustration, and with the taste which it evinced, addressed the chief of his discourse to him for the remainder of the evening, and invited him to his rooms in pembroke hall; and finding him ready and docile, he became attached to him and gave him instruction in the course of his studies, to which, adds mr. mathias, "i attribute the extent and value of his knowledge, and the peculiar accuracy and correct taste which distinguished him throughout life, and which i have seldom observed in any man in a more eminent degree." and i wish every young man of genius might hear and consider, observes mr. m., commenting upon an incident so honourable to all parties, "the value of a word spoke in due season, with modesty and propriety, in the highest, i mean the most learned and virtuous company." what a different spirit was evinced, in the following incident, by that great polemical writer, bishop warburton: but it happily originated the canons of criticism, which were the production of thomas edwards, an etonian and king's college man, where he graduated m.a. in , but missing a fellowship, turned soldier. after he had been some time in the army, says a writer in the gentleman's magazine, for , it so happened that, being at bath, after mr. warburton's marriage to mr. allen's niece, he was introduced at prior park, _en famille_. the conversation not unfrequently turning on literary subjects, mr. warburton generally took the opportunity of showing his superiority in greek, not having the least idea that an officer of the army understood anything of that language, or that mr. edwards had been bred at eton; till one day, being accidentally in the library, mr. edwards took down a greek author, and explained a passage in it in a manner that mr. warburton did not approve. this occasioned no small contest; and mr. edwards (who had now discovered to mr. warburton how he came by his knowledge) endeavoured to convince him, that he did not understand the original language, but that his knowledge arose from french translations. mr. warburton was highly irritated; an incurable breach took place; and this trifling altercation (after mr. edwards had quitted the army and was entered of lincoln's inn) produced _the canons of criticism_. * * * * * bishop barrington's splendid gift, and other traits of him. that munificent prelate and oxonian, dr. shute barrington, sixth son of the first viscount, and the late bishop of durham, a prelate, indeed, whose charities were unbounded, was so conscientious in the discharge of his functions, that he personally examined all candidates for holy orders, and, however strongly they might be recommended, rejected all that appeared unworthy of the sacred trust. on one occasion, a relative, relying for advancement upon his patronage, having intimated a desire to enter the church, the bishop inquired with what preferment he would be contented. "five hundred pounds a year will satisfy all my wants," was the reply. "you shall have it," answered the conscientious prelate: "not out of the patrimony of the church, but out of my private fortune." the same bishop gave the entire of , _l._ at once, for founding schools, unexpectedly recovered in a lawsuit; and amongst other persons of talent, preferred paley to the valuable living of bishop wearmouth, unsolicited and totally unknown to him, save through his valuable writings. * * * * * an admirable pulpit admonition is recorded of the celebrated fellow of trinity college, cambridge, the rev. james scott, m.a., better known as anti-sejanus, who acquired extraordinary eminence as a pulpit orator, both in and out of the university. he frequently preached at st. mary's, where crowds of the university attended him. on one occasion he offended the undergraduates, by the delivery of a severe philippic against gaming; which they deeming a work of supererogation, evinced their displeasure by _scraping_ the floor with their feet (an old custom now scarcely resorted to twice in a century.) he, however, severely censured them for this act of indecorum, shortly afterwards, in another discourse, for which he selected the appropriate text, "_keep thy feet when thou goest to the house of god_." * * * * * the simplicity of great minds. it is not surprising that our distinguished philosophers and mathematicians have rarely evinced much knowledge of men and manners, or of the ordinary circumstances of life, since they are so much occupied in telling "the number of the stars," in tracing the wonders of creation, or in balancing the mental and physical powers of man. our illustrious cantab, bacon, says his biographer, was cheated by his servants at the bottom, whilst he sat in abstraction at the top of his table; and he of whom dr. johnson said (the great and good newton,) that had he lived in the days of ancient greece, he would have been worshipped as a deity; of whom, too, the poet wrote-- "nature and nature's laws lay hid in night, god said, 'let newton be,' and all was light," caused a smaller hole to be perforated in his room door, when his favourite cat had a kitten, not remembering that it would follow puss through the larger one. another more modern and less distinguished but not less amiable cantab, who was _senior wrangler_ in his year, one day inquired-- "of what country marines were?" another distinguished _senior wrangler_, professor and divine, occasionally amuses his friends by rehearsing the fact, that once, having, to preach in the neighbourhood of cambridge, he hired a blind horse to ride the distance on, and his path laying cross a common, where the road was but indistinctly marked, he became so absorbed in abstract calculations, that, forgetting to guide his steed aright, he and the horse wandered so far awry, that they tumbled "head over heels," as the folks say, upon a cow slumbering by the way side. _on dit_, the same cantab was one morning caught over his breakfast-fire with an egg in his hand, to minute the time by, and his-- watch doing to a turn in the saucepan. when he went in for a.b. his natural _diffidence_ prevented his doing much in the first four days of the senate house examination, and he was consequently _bracketted low_: but rallying his confidence, he challenged all the men of his years, and was _senior wrangler_. this incident caused him to be received with rapturous applause, upon his being presented to the vice-chancellor for his degree, on the following saturday. a few days after he is said to have been in london, and entered one of the larger theatres at the same instant with royalty itself:--the audience rose with one accord, and thunders of applause followed! "_this is too much_," said our cantab to his friend, modestly hiding his face in his hat, having, in the _simplicity_ of his heart, taken the _huzzas and claps_ to be an _improved_ edition of the senate house. another cantab, who was also a senior wrangler, and guilty of many singularities, as well as some follies, one who has _unjustly_ heaped reproach on the head of his _alma mater_ (see his "progress of a senior wrangler at cambridge," in the numbers of the defunct london magazine,) had the following quaternion posted on his room door in trinity:-- "king solomon in days of old, the wisest man was reckon'd: i fear as much cannot be told of solomon the second." * * * * * a host of singularities are recorded of the famous cantab and etonian, the rev. george harvest, b.d., who was one day walking in the temple gardens, london, with the son of his patron, the great speaker onslow, when he picked up a curious pebble, observing he would keep it for his friend, lord bute. he and his companion were going to _the beef-steak club_, then held in ivy-lane. mr. onslow asked him what o'clock it was, upon which he took out his watch, and observed they had but ten minutes good. another turn or two was proposed, but they had scarcely made half the length of the walk, when he coolly put the pebble into his _fob_, and threw his watch into the thames. he was at another time in a boat with the same gentleman, when he began to read a favourite greek author (for, like porson, his coat pockets generally contained a moderate library) with such emphasis and strange gesticulations, that his wig and hat fell into the water, and he coolly stepped overboard to recover them, without once dreaming that it was not _terra-firma_, and was _fished_ out with great difficulty. he frequently wrote a letter to one person, forgot to subscribe his name to it, and directed it to another. on one occasion he provided himself with three sermons, having been appointed to preach before the archdeacon and clergy of the district. some wags got them, and having intermixed the leaves, stitched them together in that state, and put them into his sermon-case. he mounted the pulpit at the usual time, took his text, but soon surprised his reverend audience by taking leave of the thread of his discourse. he was, however, so insensible to the dilemma in which he was placed, that he went preaching on. at last the congregation became impatient, both from the length and the nature of his sermon. first the archdeacon slipped out, then the clergy, one by one, followed by the rest of the congregation; but he never flagged, and would have finished his triple, thrice-confused discourse, had not the clerk reminded him that they were the sole occupants of the lately-crowded church. he went down to cambridge to vote for his eton contemporary, the celebrated lord sandwich, when the latter was candidate for the dignity of high-steward of the university, in opposition to pitt. his lordship invited him to dine with some friends at the rose inn. "_apropos_, my lord," exclaimed harvest, during the meal, "whence do you derive your nick-name of _jemmy twitcher_?" "why," said his lordship, "from some foolish fellow." "no, no," said harvest, "not from some, for every body calls you so;" on which his lordship, knowing it to be the favourite dish of his quondam friend, put a huge slice of plum-pudding upon his plate, which effectually stopped his mouth. his lordship has the credit of being the originator and first president of the cambridge oriental club. he was also the inventor of sandwiches. once passing a whole day at some game of which he was fond, he became so absorbed in its progress, that he denied himself time to eat, in the usual way, and ordered a slice of beef between two pieces of toasted bread, which he masticated without quitting his game; and that sort of refreshment has ever since borne the designation of _a sandwich_. parkes, in his musical memoirs, gives him the credit of lapsus linguÆ. it happened, he says, that during a feast given to his lordship by the corporation of worcester, when he was first lord of the admiralty, a servant let fall a dish with a boiled neat's tongue, as he was bringing it to table. the mayor expressing his concern to his lordship, "never mind," said he, "it's only a _lapsus linguæ_!" which witty saying creating a great deal of mirth, one of the aldermen present, at a dinner he gave soon after, instructed his servant to throw down a roast leg of mutton, that he too might have his joke. this was done; "never mind," he exclaimed to his friends, "it's only a _lapsus linguæ_." the company stared, but he begun a roaring laugh, _solus_. finding nobody joined therein, he stopped his mirth, saying, that when lord sandwich said it, every body laughed, and he saw no reason why they should not laugh at him. this sally had the desired effect, and the company, one and all, actually shook their sides, and our host was satisfied. * * * * * oxford and cambridge loyalty. in , george i. and his ministers had contrived to make themselves so unpopular, that the badges of the disaffected, oaken boughs, were publicly worn on the th of may, and white roses on the birth-day of the pretender, the th of june. oxford, and especially the university, manifested such strong feelings, that it was deemed expedient to send a military force there: cambridge, more inclined to the whig principles of the court and government, was at the same time complimented with a present of books. upon this occasion, dr. trapp, the celebrated oxford poet and divine, wrote the following epigram:-- our royal master saw, with heedful eyes, the wants of his two universities: troops he to oxford sent, as knowing why that learned body wanted loyalty; but books to cambridge gave, as well discerning how that right loyal body wanted learning. cambridge, as may be well supposed, was not backward in retorting: and an able champion she found in her equally celebrated scholar, physician, and benefactor, sir william blowne (founder of a scholarship and the three gold medals called after his name,) who replied to dr. trapp in the following quaternion:-- the king to oxford sent a troop of horse, for tories know no argument but force: with equal grace, to cambridge books he sent, for whigs allow no force but argument. not that cambridge was behind oxford in supporting the unfortunate charles the first, to whom the several colleges secretly conveyed nearly all their ancient plate; and cromwell, in consequence, retaliated by confining and depriving numbers of her most distinguished scholars, both laymen and divines, many of whom died in exile: and the commissioners of parliament, with a taste worthy of the worst barbarians, caused many of the buildings to be despoiled of their architectural ornaments and exquisite pieces of sculpture and painted glass. it was at this time appeared the following celebrated poetic trifle, extant in the oxford sausage, known as the cushion plot, written by herbert beaver, esq., of corpus christi college, oxford, when "gaby" (as the then president, dr. shaw, is called, who had been a zealous jacobite,) suddenly, on the accession of george the first, became a still more zealous patron of the interests of the house of hanover. when gaby possession had got of the _hall_, he took a survey of the chapel and all, since that, like the rest, was just ready to fall, _which nobody can deny_. and first he began to examine the chest, where he found an old _cushion_ which gave him distaste; the first of the kind that e'er _troubled his rest,_ _which nobody can deny_. two letters of gold on this cushion were rear'd; two letters of gold once by gaby rever'd, but now what was loyalty, treason appear'd: _which nobody can deny_. "j. r. (quoth the don, in soliloquy bass) "see the works of this damnable jacobite race! "we'll out with the j, and put g in its place:" _which nobody can deny_. and now to erase these letters so rich, for scissors and bodkin his fingers did itch, for converts in politics go _thorough-stich_: _which nobody can deny_: the thing was about as soon done as said, poor _j_ was deposed and _g_ reigned in his stead; such a quick revolution sure never was read! _which nobody can deny_. then hey for preferment--but how did he stare, when convinced and ashamed of not being aware, that _j_ stood for jennet,[ ] for raymond the _r_, _which nobody can deny_. then beware, all ye priests, from hence i advise, how ye choose christian names for the babes ye baptize, for if gaby don't like 'em he'll pick out their i's, _which nobody can deny_. [ ] the benefactor who gave the college the cushion. * * * * * terræ filius relates the following instance of the danger of drinking the king's health. mr. carty of university college, and mr. meadowcourt of merton college, oxford (says this writer,) were suspended from proceeding to their next degree, in , the first for a period of one, the second for a period of two years, the latter further, not to be permitted "to supplicate for his grace, until he confesses his manifold crimes, and asks pardon _upon his knees, for breaking out to that degree of impudence_ (when the proctor admonished him to go home from the tavern at an unseasonable hour,) as to command all the company, with a loud voice, _to drink king_ george's _health_." and, strange enough, persisting in his refusal to ask pardon, as required, he only ultimately obtained his degree by pleading the _act of grace_ of the said king george, enacted in favour of those who had been guilty of treason, &c. these were, it appears, both fellows of colleges, and with several others, who were likewise put in the _black-book_, were members of a society in oxford, called "the constitution club," at a meeting of which it was that the king was _toasted_. amongst the cambridge clubs was one formed, in , by the _wranglers_ of that year, including the late professor waring; the celebrated reformer dr. jebb the munificent founder of the cambridge hebrew scholarships; mr. tyrwhitt; and other learned men. it was called _the hyson club_, the entertainments being only tea and conversation. paley, who joined it after he became tutor of christ college, is thus made to speak of it by a writer in the new monthly magazine for :--"we had a club at cambridge, of political reformers; it was called the hyson club, as we met at tea time; and various schemes were discussed among us. jebb's plan was, that the people should meet and declare their will; and if the house of commons should pay due attention to the will of the people, why, well and good; if not, the people were to convey their will into effect. we had no idea that we were talking treason. i was always an advocate for _braibery and corrooption_: they raised an outcry against me, and affected to think i was not in earnest. 'why,' said i, 'who is so mad as to wish to be governed by force? or who is such a fool as to expect to be governed by virtue? there remains, then, nothing but _braibery and corrooption_.'" no particular subjects were proposed for discussion at their meetings, but accident or the taste of individuals naturally led to topics, such as literary and scientific characters might freely discuss. at a meeting where the debate was on the justice or expediency of making some alteration in the ecclesiastical constitution of the country, for the relief of tender consciences, dr. gordon, of emmanuel college, late precentor of lincoln, vehemently opposed the arguments of dr. jebb, then tutor of peter house, who supported the affirmative, by exclaiming, "you mean, sir, to impose upon us a new church government." "you are mistaken," said paley, who was present, "jebb only wants to ride his own horse, not to force you to get up behind him." * * * * * the retrogradation amongst masters, tutors, and scholars. discipline, like every thing else characteristic of our elder institutions, has for some years been fast giving way in our universities. statutes are permitted to slumber unheeded, as not fitted to the present _advanced_ state of society; and in colleges where it would, as late as the beginning of the nineteenth century, have been almost a crime to have been seen in hall or chapel without _a white cravat on_, scholars now strut in black ones, "unawed by _imposition_" or a fine. i can remember the time when this inroad upon decent appearance first begun, and when the dean of _our_ college put forth his strong arm, and insisted on white having the preference. men then used to wear their black till they came to the _hall or chapel_ door, then take them off, and walk in with none at all, and again twist them round the neck, heedless whether the tie were _brummell_ or not, on issuing forth from prayers or commons. like the whigs, they have by perseverance carried their point, and strut about in black, wondering what they shall next attempt. * * * * * there is an on-dit, that at the time dr. w---- became master of st. john's college, cambridge, the tutors used to oblige (and it was a custom for) the scholars to stand, cap in hand (if any tutor entered a court where they might be passing,) till the said tutor disappeared. this was so rigorously enforced, that the scholars complained to the new master, and he desired the tutors to relax the custom. this order they refused to comply with. upon this the doctor took down from a shelf a copy of the _college statutes_, and coolly read to them a section, where the fellows of the same were enjoined to stand, cap in hand, till the master passed by, wherever they met him; and the doctor, it is added, insisted upon its observance, on pain of ejection, till at length the tutors gave way. * * * * * the worcester goblin. foote the comedian was, in his youthful days, a student of worcester college, oxford, under the care of the provost, dr. gower. the doctor was a learned and amiable man, but a pedant. the latter characteristic was soon seized upon by the young satirist, as a source whereon to turn his irresistible passion for wit and humour. the church at this time belonging to worcester college, fronted a lane were cattle were turned out to graze, and (as was then the case in many towns, and is still in some english villages) the church porch was open, with the bell-ropes suspended in the centre. foote tied a wisp of hay to one of them, and this was no sooner scented by the cattle at night, than it was seized upon as a dainty morsel. tug, tug, went one and all, and "ding-dong" went the bell at midnight, to the astonishment of the doctor, the sexton, the whole parish, and the inmates of the college. the young wag kept up the joke for several successive nights, and reports of ghosts, goblins, and frightful visions, soon filled the imagination of old and young with alarm, and many a simple man and maiden whisked past the scene of midnight revel ere the moon had "filled her horns," struck with fear and trembling. the doctor suspected some trick. he, accordingly, engaged the sexton to watch with him for the detection of the culprit. they had not long lain hid, under favour of a dark night, when "ding-dong" went the bell again: both rushed from their hiding places, and the sexton commenced the attack by seizing the cow's tail, exclaiming, "'tis a gentleman commoner,--i have him by the tail of his gown!" the doctor approached on the opposite tack, and seized a horn with both hands, crying, "no, no, you blockhead, 'tis the postman,--i have caught the rascal by his _blowing-horn_!" and both bawled lustily for assistance, whilst the cow kicked and flung to get free; but both held fast till lights were procured, when the real offender stood revealed, and the laugh of the whole town was turned upon the doctor and his fellow-_night_-errant, the sexton. * * * * * records of the cambridge triposes. the spoon, in the words of lord byron's don juan, "---- the name by which we cantabs please, to dub the last of honours in degrees," is the annual subject for university mirth, and if not the _fountain_, is certainly the very _foundation_ of cambridge university honours: without _the spoon_, not a man in the _tripos_ would have a _leg to stand upon_: in fact, it would be a top without a bottom, _minus_ the spoon. yet "this luckless wight," says the compiler of the cambridge tart, is annually a universal butt and laughing-stock of the whole senate-house. he is the last of those men who take _honours_ of his year, and is called a "_junior optime_," and notwithstanding his being superior to them all, the lowest of the [greek: hoi polloi] or gregarious undistinguished bachelors, think themselves entitled to shoot their pointless arrows against the "_wooden spoon_," and to reiterate the perennial remark, that, "_wranglers_" are born with _golden_ spoons in their mouths; "_senior optimes_" with _silver_ spoons; "_junior optimes_" with _wooden spoons_, and the [greek: hoi polloi] with _leaden_ spoons in their mouths. it may be here, however, observed, that it is unjust towards the _undistinguished bachelors_ to say that "he (the spoon) is superior to them all." he is generally a man who has read hard, _id est_, has _done his best_, whilst the undistinguished bachelors, it is well known, include many men of considerable, even superior talents, but having no taste for _mathematics_, have merely read sufficient to get a degree; consequently _have not done their best_. the muse has thus invoked the wooden spoon. when sage _mathesis_ calls her sons to fame, the _senior wrangler_ bears the highest name. in academic honour richly deckt, he challenges from all deserved respect. but, if to visit friends he leaves his gown, and flies in haste to cut a dash in town, the wrangler's title, little understood, suggests a man in disputation good; and those of common talents cannot raise, their humble thoughts a wrangler's mind to praise. such honours to an englishman soon fade, like laurel wreaths, the victor's brows that shade. no such misfortune has that man to fear, whom fate ordains the last in fame's career; his honours fresh remain, and e'en descend to soothe his family, or chosen friend. and while he lives, he _wields_ the boasted prize, whose value all can feel, the weak, the wise; displays in triumph his distinguished boon, the solid honours of the wooden spoon! that many have borne off this prize who might have _done better_, is well known too. one learned cantab in that situation felt so assured of his fate, when it might have been more honourable, had he been gifted with prudence and perseverance, that on the morning when it is customary to give out the _honours_, in the senate house, in their _order of merit_, he provided himself with a large _wooden spoon_, and when there was a call from the gallery, for "_the spoon_" (for then the undergraduates were allowed to express their likes and dislikes publicly, a custom now _suppressed_,) he turned the shafts of ridicule aside by thrusting the emblem of his honours up high over his head,--an act that gained him no slight applause. another cantab, of precisely the same _grade_ as to talent, who was second in the _classical tripos_ of his year, gave a supper on the occasion of the spoon being awarded to him, which commenced with _soup_, each man being furnished with a ponderous _wooden spoon_ to _lap_ it with. another, now a fellow of trinity college, who more than once bore off the _porson prize_, being in this _place of honour_, a wag nailed a large _wooden spoon_ to his door. hundreds of other tricks have been put upon _the spoon_, next to whom are-- the poll; or, [greek: hoi polloi]: which, said the great bentley, in a sermon preached before the university of cambridge, on the th of november, , "is a known expression in profane authors, opposed sometimes, [greek: tois sophois], _to the wise_, and ever denotes the most, and generally the meanest of mankind." "besides the mirth devoted character," (_the wooden spoon_,) says the writer first quoted, there "are always a few, a chosen few, a degree lower than the [greek: hoi polloi], constantly written down alphabetically, who serve to exonerate the '_wooden spoon_,' in part, from the ignominy of the day; and these undergo various epithets, according to their accidental number. if there was but one, he was called _bion_, who carried all his learning about him without the slightest inconvenience. if there were two, they were dubbed the _scipios; damon and pythias; hercules and atlas; castor and pollux_. if three, they were _ad libitum_, the _three graces_; or the _three furies; the magi_; or _noah_, _daniel_, and _job_. if seven, they were _the seven wise men_; or _the seven wonders of the world_. if nine, they were the unfortunate _suitors of the muses_. if twelve, they became the _apostles_. if thirteen, either they deserved a round dozen, or, like the americans, should bear thirteen stripes on their _coat and arms_. lastly, they were sometimes styled _constant quantities_, and _martyrs_; or the thirteenth was designated the _least_ of the _apostles_; and, should there be a fourteenth, he was _unworthy to be called an apostle_!" an unknown pen has immortalized the [greek: hoi polloi], by the following-- ode to the unambitious and undistinguished bachelors. "post tot naufragia tutus."--virg. thrice happy ye, through toil and dangers past, who rest upon that peaceful shore, where all your fagging is no more, and gain the long-expected port at last. yours are the sweets, the ravishing delights, to doze and snore upon your noontide beds; no chapel-bell your peaceful sleep affrights, no problems trouble now your empty heads. yet, if the heavenly muse is not mistaken, and poets say the muse can rightly guess, i fear, full many of you must confess that you have barely _saved your bacon_. amidst th' appalling problematic war, where dire equations frown'd in dread array, ye never strove to find the arduous way, to where proud granta's honours shine afar. within that dreadful mansion have ye stood, when _moderators_ glared with looks uncivil, how often have ye d--d their souls, their blood, and wished all _mathematics_ at the devil! but ah! what terrors on that fatal day your souls appall'd, when, to your stupid gaze, appear'd the _biquadratic's_ darken'd maze, and problems ranged in horrible array! hard was the task, i ween, the labour great, to the wish'd port to find your uncouth way-- how did ye toil, and fag, and fume, and fret, and--what the bashful muse would blush to say. but now your painful terrors all are o'er-- cloth'd in the glories of a full-sleev'd gown, ye strut majestically up and down, and now ye fag, and now ye fear no more. but although many men of this class are not gifted with that species of perception suited to mathematical studies, however desirable it may be that the mind should be subject to that _best of all correctives_, the abstruse sciences, they are often possessed of what may be justly denominated "great talents." a remarkable instance of this fact was manifested in the person of a late fellow of trinity (now no longer so--"for conscience-sake,") who wrote a tragedy whilst still a boy of sixteen or seventeen, that was produced at covent garden with success, obtained the only vacant _craven scholarship_ in his freshman's year (always considered a high test of classical ability,) and carried off other classical university prizes. yet he, when he came to be examined for his degree, though he sat and wrote out _whole books of homer_ from memory, he was unable to go through the first problem of euclid: for when told that he _must_ do something _in mathematics_, he wrote down, after a fashion, the a's and b's, but without describing the figure, a necessary accompaniment. of the omission he was reminded by the examiner--"oh! _the picture, you mean_," was his reply, and, drawing a triangle of a true _isosceles_ cut, instead of an _equilateral_ one, he added thereto, _a la heraldique_, by way of supporters, two _ovals_ of equal height, which completed his only mathematical effort. his learning and talents, however, procured him his degree and a fellowship. to others, mathematics are an inexhaustible source of delight, and such a mind it was that penned _the address to mathematics_, in "the cambridge tart," beginning-- "with thee, divine mathesis, let me live! effuse source of evidence and truth!" porson gave a singular proof of his "fondness for algebra," says the _sexagenarian_, by composing an equation in greek, the original being comprised in one line. when resident in college, he would frequently amuse himself by sending to his friends scraps of greek of a like character, for solution. the purport of one was, "find the value of _nothing_." the next time he met his friend, he addressed him with, "well, have you succeeded in finding the _value of nothing_?" "yes," replied his friend. "what is it?" "sixpence i gave the gyp for bringing your note," was the rejoinder. the late professor vince meeting a fellow of st. john's college, cambridge, the next morning after a high wind had blown down several of the fine old trees in the walks, some of three centuries' standing, he was addressed with, "a terrible storm last night, mr. professor." "yes," he replied, "it was a rare mathematical wind." "mathematical wind!" exclaimed the other, "how so, doctor?" "why you see it has _extracted a great many roots_!" a johnian one day eating _apple-pie_ by the side of a johnian fellow, an inveterate punster, he facetiously observed, "he was raising apple-pie to the tth power:" another fellow walking down the hall, after dinner, and slipping some distance on _smooth flags_, looked over his shoulder and observed to one following him--"_an inclined plane_." another cantab, when a student of bene't, now rector of h----, suffolk, sung his song of "divine mathesis:"-- let mathematicians and geometricians talk of circles' and triangles' charms, the figure i prize is a girl with bright eyes, and the circle that's formed by her arms. * * * * * the classical tripos and the wooden wedge. this class of cambridge honours, for which none can become candidates but those who have attained mathematical distinction, was instituted by a grace of the senate, in . as its title implies, it is divided into three classes. the first examination took place in , when the cantabs were saved the labour of _gestation_, by the last man in the third class being named _wedgewood_, which was transposed by some wag to _wooden wedge_--and by that _soubriquet_, equivalent to the _wooden spoon_, all men so circumstanced are now designated in the colloquial phraseology of the university. it is but justice to mr. w. to add, however, that he also attained the high mathematical distinction of eighth wrangler of his year. by the same decree of the senate a previous examination was established at cambridge (answering to the oxford "little-go,") by which all students are required to undergo an examination in classics and divinity, in the lent term of the second year of their residence. the successful candidates are divided into two classes only: but there is always a select few who are _allowed_ to pass, after an extra trial of skill: these are lumped at the end, and have been designated "_elegant extracts_." some wag furnished jackson's oxford journal with this syllogistic exercise for the little-go men. no cat has _two_ tails. a cat has _one_ tail _more_ than no cat. _ergo_--a cat has three tails. the following song (in the true spirit of a non-reading man) is from the pen of a learned seceding cantab, the late dr. john disney, who, after graduating at peter-house, cambridge, ll.b., and for some time officiating as a minister of the established church, resigned a living "for conscience sake," and closed his career as minister of the unitarian chapel, in essex-street, strand:-- come, my good college lads! and attend to my lays, i'll show you the folly of poring o'er books; for all you get by it is mere empty praise, or a poor meagre fellowship, and sour looks. _chorus._ then lay by your books, lads, and never repine; and cram not your attics, with dry mathematics, but moisten your clay with a bumper of wine. the first of mechanics was old archimedes, who play'd with rome's ships as we'd play cup and ball, to play the same game i can't see where the need is, or why we should fag mathematics at all. then lay by your books, lads, &c. great newton found out the binomial law, to raise x -|- y to the power of b; found the distance of planets that he never saw, and we most probably never shall see. then lay by your books, lads, &c. let whiston and ditton star-gazing enjoy, and taste all the sweets mathematics can give; let us for our time find a better employ, and knowing life's sweets, let us learn how to live. then lay by your books, lads, &c. these men _ex absurdo_, conclusions may draw, perpetual motion they never could find; not one of the set, lads, can balance a straw, and longitude seeking is hunting the wind. then lay by your books, lads, &c. if we study at all, let us study the means to make ourselves friends, and to keep them when made; learn to value the blessings kind heaven ordains, to make others happy, let that be our trade. _finale._ let each day be better than each day before, without pain or sorrow, to-day or to-morrow, may we live, my good lads, to see many days more. * * * * * a dreadful fit of rheumatism. two cantabs, brothers, named whiter, one the learned author of _etymologicum magnum_, the other an amiable divine; both were remarkable, the one for being six, the other about five feet in height. the taller was eccentric and often absent in his habits, the other a wag. both were invited to the same party, and the taller being first ready, slipped on the coat of the shorter, and wended his way into a crowded room of fashionables, to whom his eccentricities being familiar, they were not much surprised at seeing him encased in a coat, the tail of which scarcely reached his hips, whilst the sleeves ran short of his elbows; in fact, it was a perfect _strait jacket_, and he had not been long seated before he began to complain to every body that he was suffering from a dreadful fit of _rheumatism_. one or two suggested the _tightness_ of his coat as the cause of his pain; but he remained rheumatic in spite of them, till his brother's approach threw the whole party into a fit of convulsive laughter, as he came sailing into the room, his coat-tails sweeping the room, _en traine_, and his arms performing the like service on either side, as he exclaimed, to his astonished brother, "why, bob, you have got my coat on!" bob then discovered that his friends' hints bordered on the truth, and the two exchanged garments forthwith, to the amusement of all present. * * * * * dr. parr an ingrate. the doctor was once staying with the late great and good mr. roscoe, when many of the most distinguished whigs were his guests also, out of compliment to whom the doctor forbore to indulge in his customary after-dinner pipe. at length, when wine and words had circulated briskly, and twilight began to set in, he insisted upon mounting to his own room to have a whiff _solus_. having groped his way up stairs, somewhat exhausted with the effort, he threw himself into what he took to be an arm-chair. suddenly the ears of the party were assailed with awful moans and groans, as of some one in tribulation. mr. roscoe hastened to learn the cause, and no sooner reached the stairs' foot, than he heard the doctor calling lustily for his man john, adding, in more supplicatory accents, "will nobody help a christian man in distress! will nobody help a christian man in distress!" mr. roscoe mounted to the rescue, but could not forbear a hearty laugh, as he beheld dr. p. locked in the close embrace of a large old-fashioned grate, which he had mistaken for an arm-chair, and from which he was in vain struggling to relieve himself. * * * * * mon dieu--le diable. when robert the devil was first produced at paris, and the opera going folk were on the _qui vive_ for the promised appearance of the prince of darkness, a certain cantab, the facial line of whose countenance bordered on the _demoniacal_, went to see him make his bow to a parisian audience, and happened to enter the same _loge_ from whence a parisian belle was anxiously watching the _entrée_ of monsieur le robert. attracted by the creaking of the _loge_ door, on suddenly turning her head in its direction, she caught a glimpse of our cambridge friend, and was so forcibly struck with the expression of his countenance, that she went into hysterics, exclaiming, "mon dieu! le diable!" * * * * * some critical civilities. the famous editor of demosthenes, john taylor, d.d. being accused of saying bishop warburton was no scholar, denied it, but owned he always thought so. upon this warburton called him "the learned dunce." when parr, in the british critic for , called porson "a giant in literature," and "a prodigy in intellect," the professor took it in dudgeon, and said, "_what right has any one to tell the height of a man he cannot measure?_" a dutch commentator having called bentley "egregius" and "[greek: ho panu]," "what right, (said the doctor) has that fellow to quote me; "_does he think that i will set my pearls in his dunghill_?" baxter, in the second edition of his horace, said the great bentley seemed to him "rather to have buried horace under a heap of rubbish than to have illustrated him." and bentley said of joshua barnes, who, to please his religious wife, composed a greek ode to prove king solomon wrote homer's iliad, that he was "[greek: honos pros lyran]--_asinus ad lyram_:" joshua replied, that they who said this of him had not understanding enough to be poets, or wanted the [greek: ho nous pros lyran]. * * * * * sir busick and sir isaac again. i have before spoken of these two cambridge knights and rival physicians, but there yet remains to be told of them, that on their meeting each other, perchance, in the street or the senate house, the latter addressing his rival in an ironical speech of condolence, to the effect, "i regret to hear you are ill, sir busick." "sir, _i sick_!" (sir isaac) retorted the wit, "i never was better in my life!" many of my readers have no doubt seen the anecdote of voltaire's building a church, and causing to be engraved on the front thereof, the vain record, "_voltaire erexit hoc templum deo_." a similar spirit seized a mr. cole of cambridge, who left money either to erect the church or the steeple of st. clement's, in bridge-street, of that town, on condition that his name was placed on the front of it. the condition was complied with to the letter, thus, by the tasteful judgment of some cambridge wag:-- cole: deum. an admirably turned pun, which, i may add, for the benefit of my english readers, signifies, _worship god_. i have already noticed the _mathematical_ "_pons asinorum_" of our mother of cambridge. one of her waggish sons has likewise contrived, for their amusement, a _classical pons asinorum_, known as the freshman's puzzle. i knew a trinity man of absent habits, who actually, after residing two years in college, having occasion to call upon an old school fellow, a scholar of bene't (_id est_, corpus christi college,) before it was _rebuilt_, was so little acquainted with the localities of the university, that he was obliged to inquire his way, though not two hundred yards from trinity. such a man could scarcely be expected to know, what most cantabs do, that qui church, which is situated about four miles from cambridge, "rears its head" in rural simplicity in the midst of the _open fields_, seemingly without the "bills of mortality;" for not so much as a cottage keeps it in countenance. this gave occasion for a cambridge wag to invent the following puzzle:-- "templum quistat in agris," which has caused many a freshman a sleepless night, who, ignorant of the _status_ qui, has racked his brains to translate the above, _minus_ a quod _pro_ qui. * * * * * a sly humourist. edmund gurnay, b.d., fellow of corpus christi college, cambridge, in , was a sly humourist. the master had a great desire to get the garden to himself, and, either by threats or persuasion, get all the rest of the fellows to resign their keys; but upon his application to gurnay, he absolutely refused to part with his right. "i have got the other fellows' keys," quoth the master. "then pray, master, keep them, and you and i will shut them all out." "sir, i expect to be obliged; am i not your master?" "yes, sir (said gurnay;) and am i not your fellow?" at another time he was complained of to the bishop, for refusing to wear the surplice, and was cited to appear before him, and told, that he expected he should always wear it; whereupon, he came home, and rode a journey with it on. this reminds one of a story of a noble oxonian, then mr. afterwards lord lyttleton, to whom the epithet of "_reprobus_," they say, might have been applied with more justice than it was to the famous saxon bishop, st. wulstan, by the monks of his day. humour was his lordship's natural element, and whilst resident at christ church, oxford, he dressed himself in a bright scarlet hunting coat, top-boots and spurs, buckskin breeches, &c., and putting his gown over all, presented himself to the head of his college, who was a strict disciplinarian. "good god! mr. lyttleton," exclaimed the dean, "this is not a dress fit to be seen in a college." "i beg your pardon," said the wag, "i thought myself in perfect costume! will you be pleased to tell me how i should dress, mr. dean?" the dean was at this time vice-chancellor, and happened to be in his robes of office. "you should dress like me, sir," said the doctor, referring to his black coat, tights, knee-buckles, and silk stockings. mr. lyttleton thanked him and left, but to the doctor's astonishment, he the next day presented himself at the deanery, drest in vice-chancellor's robes, &c., an exact fac-simile of the dean himself, and when rebuked coolly observed, that he had followed the dean's directions to the letter. it is related of the same oxford wag, that having a party to supper with him, and being anxious to play the dean some harmless trick, as his delight was to annoy him, he seized a potato off the dish, stuck it on a fork, and bolted off with it to the deanery, followed by some of his boon companions. this was at one, two, or three in the morning, when all the rest of the college, and of course the dean, were locked in the embrace of somnus. mr. lyttleton, however, resolving to have his joke, began thundering away at the dean's knocker, till roused at last, he put his head out at the window, and in a rage demanded the wants of the applicant. "do you think, mr. dean," said mr. l., holding up to his view the _forked_ potato with the coolest effrontery imaginable; "do you think, mr. dean, that this is a potato fit to put upon a gentleman's table?" dr. westphalinge, canon of christ church, afterwards bishop of hereford, and one of the commissioners sent to oxford to abolish _popish practices_, by elizabeth, says bishop godwyn, was a person of such consummate gravity, "that during a familiar acquaintance with him for many years, he never once saw him laugh,"--"_nunquam in risum viderim solutum_." as an antidote to such eternal gravity, i can scarcely do better than append the following aristophanic morsel, attributed to porson, and cry "hold, enough!" chorus of printers' imps--"enough!" inventory of goods for sale. [greek: blankêtoi, kyltoi, duo bolsteres, êde pilôbêr kai en matresson, kai leukon kaliko kirten, kai mia karpettê, kai cheston maiganoion eis kaunterpannos, kai graton kasto sidêzon Êde duô bouroi, duo tabloi, kai duo dittô. touelloi dôsen, dôsen phaukoi te, niphoi te sautpan kai steupan, spitton kai smôkon iakon gridiron, pheirpan, tongoi, phendêr te, pokêr te, koppêz kai boilêr kai killêr êde syeltob. kai en baskêton kata bakchous, kai duo pottyx, kai en drippinpan, kuleres duo, kai salamandêr kai duo p**pottoi, spittinpan, peip te to bakchô.] the end. * * * * * chesnut street, june, new works lately published, and preparing for publication, by e. l. carey & a. hart, philad. in three volumes, mo. jacob faithful; or, life on the water. complete. by the author of "peter simple," "king's own," &c. "it is replete with amusement and oddity. poor jacob was born on the water. 'it was,' says he, 'in a floating sort of a box, called a lighter, and upon the river thames, that i first smelt the mud.'"--_baltimore gazette._ "equal in merit to peter simple, and perhaps even more entertaining, are the adventures of jacob faithful, another of the whimsical creations of captain marryatt's prolific brain."--_saturday courier._ "it is full of character and incident, and will, we doubt not, be a universal favourite."--_lit. gaz._ in three volumes, mo. peter simple; or, adventures of a midshipman. complete. by the author of the "king's own," "naval officer," &c. "the quiet humour which pervades the work is irresistibly amusing, and the fund of anecdote and description which it contains, entertaining. the humour sometimes approaches to downright burlesque, and the incident to extravagance, if not improbability; but, altogether, as a book of amusement, it is excellent."--_baltimore gazette._ "those who are the most competent to judge, say that captain marryatt is altogether superior to any other writer of naval sketches or descriptions, living or dead."--_n. y. commercial advertiser._ "this is the best work that captain marryatt has produced."--_atlas._ "'peter simple' is certainly the most amusing of captain marryatt's amusing novels; a species of picture quite unique; a class by themselves, full of humour, truth, and graphic sketches."--_literary gazette._ "this is an admirable work, and worthy of the noble service it is written to illustrate."--_spectator._ celebrated trials, and cases of criminal jurisprudence of all ages and countries. in one large volume, vo., containing closely printed pages. contents. john thurtell and joseph hunt, for the murder of william ware, at hertford, january, . henry fauntleroy, esq., for forgery, at the old bailey, october , . anna schonleben (germany), for poisoning, . john docke rouvelett, for forgery, . john holloway and owen haggerty, for the murder of john cole steele, on hounslow-heath, february , . the unknown murderer, or the police at fault (germany), . thomas simmons, for murder, oct. , . major alexander campbell, for the murder of captain alexander boyd, at armagh, in a duel, . james stuart, for the murder of sir alexander boswell, in a duel, . martha alden, for murder, . francis s. riembauer, for assassination, . eliza fenning, for an attempt to poison mr. olibar turner and family, april , . william jones, for murder. abraham thornton, for the murder of mary ashford, . castaing, the physician, for murder, at paris, november, . john donellan, esq., for the murder of sir theodosius edward allesly boughton; before the hon. sir francis buller, . sir walter raleigh, for high-treason, in the reign of james i., a.d. . james o'coigley, arthur o'connor, john binns, john allen, and jeremiah leary, for high-treason; at maidstone, . miss ann broadric, for the murder of mr. errington, . william corder, for the murder of maria marten, . william codlin, for scuttling a ship, . joseph wall, for the murder of benjamin armstrong, at goree, . vice-admiral byng, for neglect of duty; at a court-martial, held on board his majesty's ship the st. george, in portsmouth harbour, . richard savage, the poet, james gregory, and william merchant, for the murder of james sinclair, . admiral keppel, for neglect of duty, july, , at a court-martial. sir hugh palliser, vice-admiral of the blue, for neglect of duty, . sarah metyard and sarah m. metyard, for murder, . john bishop, thomas williams, and james may, for the murder of charles ferriar, . sawney cunningham, executed at leith, , for murder. sarah malcolm, for the murder of ann price, . joseph baretti, for the murder of evan morgan, . mungo campbell, for murder, . lucretia chapman, for the murder of william chapman, late of bucks county, pennsylvania, . lino amalto espos y mina, for the murder of william chapman, at the same court, . john hatfield, for forgery, . trial by combat, between henry plantagenet, duke of hereford and lancaster, and afterwards king of england by the title of henry iv., and thomas mowbray, duke of norfolk, earl-marshal of england, . captain john gow and others, for piracy, . william burke and helen mcdougal for murder, . charles macklin (the author), for the murder of thomas hallam, may . mary young, _alias_ jenny diver, for privately stealing, . george henderson and margaret nisbet, for forging a bill on the dutchess of gordon, . john chide, of dalry, for the murder of the right hon. sir george lockhart, of carnwith, lord-president of the court of sessions, and member of his majesty's privy council, . william henry, duke of cumberland, for adultery with lady grosvenor, . robert and daniel perrean, for forgery, . margaret caroline rudd, for forgery, . henry white, jr., for a libel on the duke of cumberland, . philip nicholson, for the murder of mr. and mrs. bonar, at maidstone, . mr. william cobbett, for libel, in the court of king's bench, . john bellingham, esq., for the murder of the right hon. spencer perceval, chancellor of the exchequer, in the lobby of the house of commons, may , . mary stone, for child murder, preferred by her sister, at surry assizes, . arthur thistlewood, james ings, and others, for high-treason, at the old bailey, . thomas, earl of stafford, for high-treason, . _trial of the rebels in_ : lords kilmarnock, cromartie, balmerino, and lovat.--charles ratcliffe, esq.--townley and dawson.--fletcher and syddall.--dr. cameron. rob roy macgregor, and other macgregors, to . alexia petrowitz czarowitz, presumptive heir to the crown of russia, condemned to death by his father, . joseph hunton, a quaker, for forgery, .--his execution. captain witham kidd, for murder and piracy, . remarkable case of witchcraft, before matthew hale, . the salem witches. _sufferers for pretended witchcraft in scotland._ alison pearson.--janet grant and janet clark, .--john cunningham, .--agnes sampson, .--john fien, .--euphan m'calzene, .--patrick lawrie, .--margaret wallace, .--isobel young, .--alexander hamilton, .--john neil, .--janet brown and others, . the samuelston witches--isobel elliot, and nine other women, . impostor of barragan, . trial by combat, between sir john annesley, knight, and thomas katrington, esq., . james george lisle, _alias_ major semple, for stealing, . queen emma, trial by fire-ordeal. john horne tooke, for high-treason, . joseph thompson hare, for mail-robbery in virginia, . richard carlile, for a libel, . _circumstantial evidence_. jonathan bradford.--james crow.--john jennings.--thomas harris.--william shaw. in two volumes, mo. travels to bokhara, and voyage up the indus. by lieut. burnes. "mr. burnes is the first european of modern times who has navigated the indus. many years have passed since the english library has been enriched with a book of travels, in value at all comparable with this. mr. burnes is evidently a man of strong and masculine talents, high spirit, and elegant taste, well qualified to tread in the steps of our malcolms and elphinstones."--_london quarterly review._ "though comparisons may be and often are odious, we do not think we shall excite one resentful feeling, even among the travellers whose productions we have reviewed during a course approaching twenty years, when we say that so interesting a publication of that class as the present, has not fallen under our notice."--_london literary gazette._ in two volumes, mo. the sketch-book of character; or, curious and authentic narratives and anecdotes respecting extraordinary individuals: exemplifying the imperfections of circumstantial evidence; illustrative of the tendency of credulity and fanaticism; and recording singular instances of voluntary human suffering and interesting occurrences. (_nearly ready._) contents. extraordinary individuals. arnaud du tilh, the demetriuses of russia, madam tiquet, francoeur, the lunatic, reneé corbeau, madame rovere, the diary of luc antonio viterbi, who starved himself to death, the italian sleep-walker, william lithgow, the traveller richard peeke, james crichton, mother damnable, valentine greatraks, james naylor, henry jenkins, john kelsey, lodowick muggleton, mrs. aphra behn, aspasia, madame du barré, phebe brown, the mysterious stranger, george bruce, mull'd sack, a notorious robber, sir jervas yelvis, archibald armstrong, the jester, the two brothers, anne george bellamy, susanna maria cibber, joseph clark, titus oates, _alias_ bob ferguson, thomas venner, colly molly puff, eugene aram, matthew hopkins, the witch-finder, jeffery hudson, blasil de manfre, henry welby, catharine, countess dowager of schwartzburgh, richard savage, lewis de boissi, reverend father arthur o'leary, john oliver, john overs, john bigg, mrs. corbett, charlotte maria anne victoire cordey, daniel dancer, esq. rev. george harvest, s. bisset, the animal teacher, roger crab, rigep dandulo, augustine barbara vanbeck, the chevalier d'eon, widow of ephesus, mary frith, anne day, countess of desmond, colonel thomas blood, jane lane, mary carleton, jack adams, samuel boyce, peter the wild boy, charles price, _alias_ the social monster, george alexander stevens, peter isaac thelluson, george villiers, hon. mrs. godfrey, lady godiva, john philip barretier, oliver cromwell's porter, robert hill, the learned tailor of buckingham, hendia, charlotte hutton, mrs. day, the abbe sieyes, countess of strathmore elizabeth perkins, margaret lamburne, ninon de l'enclos, madame des houlieres, mrs. levy, louisa, mrs. lloyd, lucretia, madame de maintenon, catherine de medicis, la maupin. circumstantial evidence. john calas, elizabeth canning, le brun, richard coleman, jonathan bradford, james crow, john orme, john jennings, girl at liege, thomas harris, john miles, a man tried and convicted for the murder of his own father, william shaw, sirven, monsieur d'anglade and his family, joan perry and her two sons, la pivardiere, duke dorgan, a story of irish life, william richardson. credulity and fanaticism. a female monster, (effects of ignorance and superstition,) yetser, the fanatic, the holy relics, jerome savonarola, sabbatei-sevi, anthony, simon morin, robert francis damiens, assassination of the king of portugal, francois michel, st. pol de leon, mr. stukeley, (eccentric self-delusion), peter rombert, the fanatic of carolina. voluntary human suffering. simeon stylites, panporee, indian widows, funeral rites, conscientious murder, conscientious hindoo, female infanticide, processions of penitents in spain and portugal, penance by proxy, the indian penance of five fires, matthew loval. interesting occurrences. the miners of bois-monzil, jaques du moulin, (the uncertainty of human testimony,) remarkable discovery of a murder, charles the twelfth, whimsical marriage, algerine conspiracy, extraordinary adventure, otway's orphan, prison escapes, charbonniers, porral and others, grivet, reign of terror, remarkable trial for murder, singular adventure, heidegger, jemmy taylor. in one volume, mo. magpie castle. by theodore hook. and other tales. in two volumes, mo. legends and stories of ireland. by samuel lover. "here is a genuine irish story-book, of the most amusing character. mr. lover shows us how to tell a tale in the real irish manner. we see the people; we hear them; they are dramatized as they exist in nature; and all their peculiarities are touched with a master's hand."--_lit. gaz._ in three volumes, mo. the port admiral. by the author of "cavendish." "a work full of interest and variety. the scenes are traced with a powerful hand."--_sunday times._ "these volumes will make a stir in what an old writer calls the 'wooden world.' they touch too severely upon blemishes in the discipline, manners, opinions, and principles of our maritime government, not to be eagerly examined and perhaps sharply discussed by naval men."--_athenæum._ in one volume, vo. captain ross's last voyage. narrative of a second voyage in search of a north-west passage, and of a residence in the arctic regions, during the years , , , , and . by sir john ross, c. b., k. s. a., &c. including the reports of commander j. c. ross, and the discovery of the northern magnetic pole. _with a large map._ in two volumes, mo. the king's own; a tale of the sea. by the author of "the naval officer," "peter simple" etc. "an excellent novel."--_edinburg review._ "captain marryat may take his place at the head of the naval novelists of the day."--_united service journal._ "the adventures of the hero, through bold and stirring scenes, lose not a jot of their interest to the last, while the naval descriptions of sights and deeds on shipboard may be compared with any similar production of which we have any knowledge."--_atlas._ "a very remarkable book, full of vigour, and characterized by incidents of perfect originality, both as to conception and treatment. few persons will take up the book without going fairly through it to the catastrophe, which startles the reader by its unexpected nature."--_literary gazette._ "replete with genius. the work will go far permanently to fix the name of captain marryat among the most popular and successful writers of fiction of the age."--_felix farley's bristol journal._ "a work, perhaps, not to be equalled in the whole round of romance, for the tremendous power of its descriptions, for the awfulness of its subjects, and for the brilliancy and variety of the colours with which they are painted."--_spectator._ in one volume, mo. an account of colonel crockett's tour to the north and down east, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four. his object being to examine the grand manufacturing establishments of the country; and also, to find out the condition of its literature and morals, the extent of its commerce, and the practical operation of "_the experiment_." with a portrait of the author. in one volume, mo. colonel crockett's life of van buren. the life of martin van buren, heir-apparent to the "government," and the appointed successor of general andrew jackson. containing every authentic particular by which his extraordinary character has been formed. with a concise history of the events that have occasioned his unparalleled elevation; together with a review of his policy as a statesman. by david crockett. in two volumes mo. the naval sketch-book. by captain glascock. "in 'the naval sketch-book' there are dozens of 'delicious bits,' which, we are sure, will delight our readers."--_john bull._ "the book abounds with animated sketches of naval opinions and character, described to that style which only a thorough-bred seaman can handle."--_times._ "we do not think that there ever was a more _sailorly_ publication than this."--_literary gazette._ "unquestionably captain glascock is inferior to none as a humorous and talented naval writer. his descriptions are true to nature, and his dialogues full of life and entertainment; in short, his _sketches_ have all the characteristics of a true british seaman."--_naval and military gazette._ in two volumes, mo. the black watch. by t. picken. by the author of the "dominie's legacy." "one of the most powerful and pathetic fictions which have recently appeared."--_times._ in two volumes, mo. tales of a physician. by w. h. harrison. containing--the victim, the curate, the gossip, the fate of a genius, disappointments, the neglected wife, the jew, the stranger guest, the smuggler, cousin tomkins the tailor, the life of an author, remorse, the sexton's daughter, the old maid, the preacher, the soldier's bride, the mortgagee. "we cannot withhold from these tales the praise which is due to elegant composition, when intended to promote the cause of morality and religion. in point of elegance, simplicity, and interest, few are so attractive."--_record._ "graceful in language, displaying cultivated taste."--_literary gazette._ "we welcome it with pleasure--they are told in a pleasant style, and with great feeling."--_athenæum._ "evidently the production of an experienced essayist: there is not only considerable power of invention manifested in them, but the diction is always pure, and at times lofty. we should say, he will occupy a very high station among the writers of the day."--_british traveller._ "we cannot withhold from the author of the work before us the warm praise due to its pious design, and decidedly instructive character. the 'tales of a physician' are written with very considerable talent. the idea is a happy one."--_eclectic review._ "a vein of amiable and highly moral feeling runs through the whole volume."--_monthly review._ "the book is well written--an amusing addition to the works of the season."--_new monthly magazine._ "there is a high moral tone throughout."--_spirit and manners of the age._ (_nearly ready_.) the highland smugglers. by j. b. frazer. author of the "kuzzilbash." in one volume, mo. letters and essays, in prose and verse. by richard sharp. "messrs. carey & hart have reprinted the letters and essays of richard sharp, in a beautiful little volume. these excellent productions fully deserve the distinction of neatest dress. they are _sterling literature_."--_national gazette._ "what a pleasant volume! it is the delightful and instructive writing of a cultivated mind upon ordinary occasions and subjects; and the sound sense and elegant literature with which they are treated afford a great treat for judgment and taste to appropriate."--_literary gazette._ in two volumes, mo. the pacha of many tales. by the author of "peter simple," &c. adventures of japhet in search of his father. by the author of "jacob faithful," "king's own," &c. (_in press._) in three volumes, mo. tom cringle's log. complete. a new edition, revised and corrected. "the scenes are chiefly nautical, and we can safely say that no author of the present day, not even excepting our own cooper, has surpassed him in his element."--_u. s. gazette._ "the sketches are not only replete with entertainment, but useful, as affording an accurate and vivid description of scenery, and of life and manners in the west indies."--_boston traveller._ "we think none who have read this work will deny that the author is the best nautical writer who has yet appeared. he is not smollett, he is not cooper; but he is far superior to them both."--_boston transcript._ "the scenes are chiefly nautical, and are described in a style of beauty and interest never surpassed by any writer."--_baltimore gazette._ "the author has been justly compared with cooper, and many of his sketches are in fact equal to any from the pen of our celebrated countryman."--_saturday evening post._ "a pleasant but a marvellously strange and wild amalgamation of water and earth is 'tom cringle;' full of quips and cranks, and toils and pranks. a fellow of fun and talent is he, with a prodigious taste for yarns, long and short, old and new; never, or but seldom, carrying more sail than ballast, and being a most delightful companion, both by land and sea. we were fascinated with the talents of tom when we met him in our respected contemporary from the biting north. his log was to us like a wild breeze of ocean, fresh and health-giving, with now and then a dash of the tearful, that summoned the sigh from our heart of hearts; but now that the yarns are collected and fairly launched, we hail them as a source of much gratification at this dull season. _tom cringle and a christmas fire! may well join in the chorus of 'begones dull care!_'--the 'quenching of the torch' as one of the most pathetic descriptions we over read. the 'scenes at jamaica' are full of vigour. as a whole, we have no hesitation in pronouncing 'the log' the most entertaining book of the season. there has been a sort of waverley mystery thrown over the authorship of these charming papers; and though many have guessed the author, yet we take unto ourselves the credit of much sagacity in imagining that we only have solved the enigma:--there are passages in 'tom cringle' that we believe no living author except professor wilson himself could write; _snatches of pure, exalted, and poetic feeling, so truly wilsonian, that we penciled them as we read on, and said, there he is again, and again, and again; to the very last chapter_."--_new monthly magazine._ the cruise of the midge. by the author of "tom cringle's log." in two volumes, mo. the man-of-war's-man. by the author of "tom cringle's log." "no stories of adventures are more exciting than those of seamen. the warrior of tom cringle's log is the most popular writer of that class, and those sketches collected not long since into a volume by the same publishers, in this city, were universally read. a large edition was soon exhausted. the present is, we believe, an earlier production, and has many of the same merits."--_baltimore gazette._ in two volumes, mo. the port admiral; a tale of the sea. by the author of "cavendish." in two volumes, mo. lives of the english pirates, highway-men, and robbers. by charles whitehead. "these are truly entertaining volumes, fraught with anecdote, and abounding in extraordinary adventures."--_naval and military gazette._ in two volumes, mo. cavendish; or, the patrician at sea. _the following notice is from the pen of mr. bulwer._ "the peculiar characteristics of captain marryatt are shared by some of his nautical brethren; and the author of 'cavendish' has evinced much ability and very vigorous promise in the works that have issued from his pen." "we should find it very difficult to be very angry with the 'patrician,' even if he had fifty times his real number of faults, on account of the jovial, easy, reckless, off-hand style of character that seems to belong to him. our sea portraits multiply so fast, and advance so rapidly in excellence, that we become fastidious, and insist upon a likeness where formerly we were contented with a caricature. 'cavendish' partakes of both.... into these thousand or rather ten thousand scrapes, we cannot follow him, but the reader may, much to his advantage. the navarine narrative, in particular, will be read with an interest proportioned to the truth and spirit with which it is told."--_new monthly magazine._ new and cheap edition, in two volumes, mo., of the memoirs of vidocq, the celebrated agent of the french police. "but it is not our province or intention to enter into a discussion of the veracity of vidocq's memoirs: be they true or false; were they purely fiction from the first chapter to the last, they would, from fertility of invention, knowledge of human nature, and ease of style, rank only second to the novels of le sage. the first volume is perhaps more replete with interest, because the hero is the leading actor in every scene; but in the subsequent portions, when he gives the narrative of others, we cannot but admire the power and graphic talent of the author. sergeant bellerose is scarcely inferior to the sergeant kite of farquhar and the episodes of court and raoul, and that of adele d'escara, are surpassed in description, depth of feeling, and pathos, by no work of romance with which we are acquainted." _from the boston traveller._ "memoirs of vidocq.--he who reads this book, being previously unacquainted with the mystery of iniquity, will find himself introduced at once into a new world: but it is a world which must be known only to be avoided. never before was such a mass of depravity opened to the mind of inquiry in a single volume. it was well said by byron, "truth is strange, stranger than fiction." whoever passes through the details of this singular exposition, supposing it to contain correct delineations of fact, will be satisfied of the justness of this remark. "the details of the varied scenes through which he has passed in private and public life, surpass all the creations of fancy, and all the delineations of fact, from the wonderful relations of the arabian nights to the renowned exploits of mr. lemuel gulliver; and from the extraordinary sufferings and escapes of the celebrated baron trenck to the still more marvellous exploits of the famous mr. thomas thumb. "it would seem, on following this singular writer through his adventures, as if all the crimes of which human nature is capable, all the horrors of which the universe has heard, all the astonishing incidents which history can dovelop or imagination portray, all the cold-blooded malice of the assassin, and all the varied machinations of the most ingenious and systematic practitioners in the school of vice, in all its varied departments, had been crowded into the life of a single individual, or come beneath his cognizance. the lover of mystery, who delights to "sup upon horrors," the admirer of romance, who is pleased with the heightened pictures of the most fanciful imagination, and the inquirer into the policy of crime and its prevention, may here have their utmost curiosity satiated. "vidocq, during the early portion of his life, was personally initiated into all the mysteries of crime, and becoming afterward a pardoned man, and an active and successful agent of the french police in the city of paris, "girt with its silent crimes," as well as its tumultuous depravities, becomes a fit person to delineate its scenes of vice, depravity, and guilt. his work is a study for the novelist, the annalist, the philosopher, and the christian. but it is a work which should be read with a guarded mind; with it disposition to profit by its lessons, and to avoid scenes which have little enjoyment, and which invariably end in misery." in two volumes mo. the hamiltons. by the author of "mothers and daughters." "this is a fashionable novel, and of the highest grade."--_athenæum._ "mrs. gore is undeniably one of the wittiest writers of the present day. 'the hamiltons' is a most lively, clever, and entertaining work."--_lit. gaz._ "the design of the book is new, and the execution excellent."--_exam._ in two volumes, mo. tough yarns; a series of naval tales and sketches, to please all hands, from the swabs on the shoulder down to the swabs in the head. by the old sailor. "here, most placable reader, is a title for thee, pregnant with fun, and deeply prophetic of humour, drollery, and all those joyous emotions that so opportunely come to oil the springs of the overworn heart, and prevent the cankering and rust from wearing them away and utterly destroying their healthful elasticity."--_metropolitan._ "the old sailor paints sea scenes with vigour and gusto; now-and-then reminding us of 'tom cringle,' and with a strong sense of the comical that approaches smollet."--_spectator._ "here we have the 'old sailor' once more, and in all his glory too! the public will join with us in hailing the reappearance of the 'old' boy. he stands at the head of the naval humorists of the nineteenth century. we have rarely seen an affair so richly humorous: it is one of the most amusing and best written volumes of naval fiction we have ever seen."--_observer._ in three volumes, mo. the coquette. by the author of "miserrimus." "the 'coquette' is a most amusing library book. several of the characters are exceedingly well drawn: indeed, they are obviously sketches from life, and there is a sparkling vivacity throughout the whole work."--_new monthly magazine._ in two volumes, mo. the miseries of marriage; or, the fair of may fair. by the author of "pin money," &c. "mrs. gore certainly stands at the head of the female novelists of the day. but we subjoin the opinion of mr. bulwer."--_u. s. gazette._ "she is the consummator of that undefinable species of wit, which we should call (if we did not know the word might be deemed offensive, in which sense we do not mean it) the _slang_ of good society. "but few people ever painted, with so felicitous a hand, the scenery of worldly life, without any apparent satire. she brings before you the hollowness, the manoeuvres, and the intrigues of the world, with the brilliancy of sarcasm, but with the quiet of simple narrative. her men and women, in her graver tales, are of a noble and costly clay; their objects are great; their minds are large, their passions intense and pure. she walks upon the stage of the world of fashion, and her characters, have grown dwarfed as if by enchantment. the air of frivolity has blighted their stature; their colours are pale and languid; they have no generous ambition; they are little people! they are fine people! this it is that makes her novel of our social life so natural, and so clear a transcript of the original."--_the author of pelham._ in one volume, mo. some passages in the life of sir pumpkin frizzle, k. c. b. and other tales. "decidedly one of the most amusing productions of the year. in addition to the adventures of _sir pumpkin_, there are several capital stories, which cannot fail to be popular." in one volume, vo. memoirs of the beauties of the court of charles the second. by mrs. jameson. author of "diary of an ennuyee," "characteristics of women," &c. "new work.--messrs. carey & hart, philadelphia, have in press a popular book, 'the beauties of the court of king charles the second,' written by mrs. jameson, whose father had been employed by the princess charlotte to paint cabinet pictures of those too celebrated ladies. the princess died before they were completed, and the consequence was, they were never paid for. the circumstances of the family required some use should be made of the paintings to produce a remuneration; and mrs. jameson undertook the delicate task of the letter press, the portraits being engraved in the highest style of art. the london copy costs about twenty-five dollars: the american edition will be an octavo without the portraits. nell gwynn, the duchess of hamilton, &c. are not unknown characters in history. mrs. jameson has executed her department in a remarkably graceful manner."--_journal of belles lettres._ memoirs of great military commanders by g. r. p. james, author of "darnley," "henry masterton," &c. including henry v. of england; john, duke of bedford; gonzales de cordova; ferdinand, duke of alva; oliver cromwell; marshal turenne; the great condé; general monk; duke of albemarle; duke of marlborough; the earl of peterborough; marquess of granby; general wolfe, &c. &c. "that mr. james should have been eminently successful in portraying the lives of illustrious military commanders is not surprising; for it is well known that martial achievements have long been his favourite study."--_morning post._ "a more interesting series of memoirs could not be presented to the curiosity of readers, inasmuch as in the lives of such men romantic adventures of the most exciting kind co-exist with the strictest truth."--_courier._ in two volumes, mo. allen breck. by gleig, author of the "subaltern." "the most striking production of mr. gleig."--_u. s. journal._ "one of the most powerful and highly wrought tales we ever read."--_edinburg review._ in two volumes, mo. nights-at-mess. in two volumes, mo. life of a soldier by a field-officer. "a narrative of twenty-seven years' service in various parts of the world, possessing all the interest of the wildest fiction."--_sun._ in preparation, the gift; a christmas and new year's present, for . edited by miss leslie, author of "pencil sketches," &c. among the contributors will be found washington irving, mrs. butler, j. k. paulding, g. w. simms, miss sedgwick, miss leslie, &c. &c. list of the plates. a portrait of miss kemble, engraved by _cheney_. smuggler's repose, " _tucker_. the orphans, " _welch_. soliciting a note, " _ellis_. john anderson, my jo! " _lawson_. prawn fishers, " _graham_. death of the stag, " _tucker_. mirkwood mere, " _graham_. a portrait, " _illman_. in two volumes, mo. traits and stories of the irish peasantry first series. "admirable--truly, intensely irish: never were the outrageous whimsicalities of that strange, wild, imaginative people so characteristically described; nor amidst all the fun, frolic, and folly, is there any dearth of poetry, pathos, and passion. the author's a jewel."--_glasgow journal._ "to those who have a relish for a few titbits of rale irish story-telling,--whether partaking of the tender or the facetious, or the grotesque,--let them purchase these characteristic sketches."--_sheffield iris._ "the sister country has never furnished such sterling genius, such irresistibly humorous, yet faithful sketches of character among the lower ranks of patlanders, as are to be met with in the pages of these delightful volumes."--_bristol journal._ "this is a capital book, full of fun and humour, and most characteristically irish."--_new monthly magazine._ "neither miss edgeworth, nor the author of the o'hara tales, could have written any thing more powerful than this."--_edinburgh literary gazette._ in two volumes, mo. traits and stories of the irish peasantry. third series. "this work has been most extravagantly praised by the english critics: and several extracts from it have been extensively published in our newspapers. it is altogether a better work than any of the kind which has yet appeared--replete with humour, both broad and delicate--and with occasional touches of pathos, which have not been excelled by any writer of the present day. an edinburgh critic says that 'neither miss edgeworth, nor the author of the o'hara tales, could have written any thing more powerful than this.'"--_baltimore american._ in two volumes, mo. pin money; by mrs. charles gore, authoress of "hungarian tales," "polish tales," etc. "her writings have that originality which wit gives to reality, and wit is the great characteristic of her pages."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ "light spirited and clever, the characters are drawn with truth and vigour. keen in observation, lively in detail, and with a peculiar and piquant style, mrs. charles gore gives to the novel that charm which makes the fascination of the best french memoir writers."--_london literary gazette._ in two volumes, mo. makanna; or, the land of the savage. "one of the most interesting and graphic romances it has been our lot to read for many a year."--_athenæum._ "there was yet an untrodden land for the writer of fiction, and the author of 'makanna' is its discoverer."--_atlas._ "the narrative includes some daring adventures which would make timid blood shudder at their magnitude.... this work abounds in interest and is written in a style of great vigour and elegance."--_weekly times._ "the work does not want to be invested with any fictitious interest; end the talent which is visible in its pages is its best recommendation to public favour."--_morning post._ "the attempt was a bold and hazardous one, but it has been fully successful. we have rarely read a production of deeper interest--of interest sustained from the first page to the last. it has been conceived in a fine spirit; the several characters are ably painted.... he is as much at home on the ocean, and there are many scenes on ship-board equal to the best of the great sea-lord, the author of 'the spy.'"--_new monthly magazine._ in one volume, mo. colman's broad grins. a new edition, with additions. "'this is a little volume of the comic,' which we recollect to have laughed over many a time, in our boyish days, and since. it is old standard fun--a comic classic."--_baltimore gazette._ in one volume, mo. the life of david crockett, of west tennessee. written by himself. in one volume, mo. a subaltern in america; comprising his narrative of the campaigns of the british army at baltimore, washington, etc. during the late war. in one volume, vo. select speeches of john sergeant, of pennsylvania. in one volume, mo. the gentleman in black. "it is very clever and very entertaining--replete with pleasantry and humour: quite as imaginative as any german diablerie, and far more amusing than most productions of its class. it is a very whimsical and well devised jeu d'esprit."--_literary gazette._ in two volumes, mo. five nights of st. albans. "some man of talent has taken up the old story of the wandering jew, to try what he could make of a new version of it. he has succeeded in composing as pretty a piece of _diablerie_ as ever made candles burn blue at midnight. the horrors of _der freischutz_ are mere child's play compared with the terrors of the old man or the demon amaimon; and yet all the thinking and talking portion of the book is as shrewd and sharp as the gladiatorial dialogues of shakspeare's comedies."--_spectator._ "a romance, called the '_five nights of st. albans_,' has just appeared, which combines an extraordinary power of description with an enchaining interest. it is just such a romance as we should imagine martin, the painter, would write; and, to say the truth, the description of supernatural effects in the book, fall very little short in their operation upon different senses of the magical illusions of the talented artist."--_john bull._ in three volumes, mo. francesca carrara. by l. e. l. author of "the improvisatrice," "romance and reality," &c. "but in prose she lives with us: now sanctifying; now satirizing; now glittering with the french in their most brilliant court, playing with diamonds and revelling in wit; then reposing on one of the finest creations that human _genius ever called into existence--the holy friendship of guido and francesca_. the whole range of modern fiction offers nothing like the portraiture of these two cousins; it is at once beautiful and sublime, and yet perfectly natural and true."--_new monthly magazine._ "a sparkling and brilliant performance. the observations on life and society have all the acuteness of le sage."--_literary gazette._ "a book of remarkable power and genius; unquestionably superior to any other production of the present time, with the single exception of the writings of the author of 'the last days of pompeii.'"--_examiner._ "a novel it is of beauty, grace, eloquence, noble thoughts, and tender feelings, such as none but a lady--and a lady of exquisite genius, too--could write."--_fraser's magazine._ (_nearly ready._) in one volume, mo. the painter's and colourman's complete guide; being a practical treatise on the preparation of colour, and their application to the different kinds of painting; in which is particularly described the whole art of house painting. by p. f. tingry, professor of chymistry, natural history, and mineralogy, in the academy of geneva. first american, from the third london edition, corrected and considerably improved by a practical chymist. in one volume, mo. picture of philadelphia; or a brief account of the various institutions and public objects in this metropolis, forming a guide for strangers, accompanied by a new plan of the city. in a neat pocket volume. in two volumes, mo. sicilian facts. in one volume, vo. the american flower garden directory, containing practical directions for the culture of plants in the hot-house, garden-house, flower-garden, and rooms or parlours, for every month in the year; with a description of the plants most desirable in each, the nature of the soil and situation best adapted to their growth, the proper season for transplanting, &c.; instructions for erecting a hot-house, green-house, and laying out a flower-garden. also, table of soils most congenial to the plants contained in the work. the whole adapted to either large or small gardens, with lists of annuals, bienniels, and ornamental shrubs, contents, a general index, and a frontispiece of camellia fimbriata. by hibbert and buist, exotic nurserymen and florists. a whisper to a newly-married pair. "hail, wedded love! by gracious heaven design'd, at once the source and glory of mankind." "we solicit the attention of our readers to this publication, as one, though small, of infinite value."--_baltimore minerva._ "'the whisper' is fully deserving the compliments bestowed upon it, and we join heartily in recommending it to our friends, whether married or single--for much useful instruction may be gathered from its pages."--_lady's book._ "the work contains some original suggestions that are just, and many excellent quotations; some of her hints to the ladies should have been whispered in a tone too low to be overheard by the men."--_daily chronicle._ in one volume, mo. principles of the art of modern horsemanship for ladies and gentlemen, in which all the late improvements are applied to practice. translated from the french, by daniel j. desmond. the art of horsemanship.--this is the title of a neat little work translated from the french of mr. lebeaud, by daniel j. desmond, esq. of this city, and just published by carey & hart. it gives full and explicit directions for breaking and managing a horse, and goes into detail on the proper mode of mounting, the posture in the saddle, the treatment of the animal under exercise, &c. an appendix is added, containing instructions for the _ladies_, in mounting and dismounting. the philadelphia public are under obligations to mr. desmond for this translation. we have long needed a manual of horsemanship, to correct the inelegant habits in which many of our riders indulge, and to produce uniformity in the art of equitation. we see daily in our streets, mounted men, who totter in their seats as if suffering under an ague-fit; others who whip, spur, and rant, as if charging an enemy in battle; and again others, of slovenly habits, with cramped knees, and toes projecting outwards, who occupy a position utterly devoid of every thing like ease, grace, or beauty. these things are discreditable to our community, and earnestly do we hope, that this book will have many attentive readers.--_philadelphia gazette._ in one volume, mo two hundred receipts in domestic french cookery. by miss leslie, author of the "seventy-five receipts." price cents. "'the receipts by miss leslie,' published by carey and hart of philadelphia, has been much praised, and we think deservedly. the selection of subjects made by the accomplished writer is of a most tempting and tasteful description, and we must do her the justice to say, that she has treated them in such an eloquent and forcible manner, as to raise in the minds of all dispassionate readers the most tender and pleasurable associations. we commend her to the careful perusal and respect of all thrifty housewives."--_new york mirror._ select medico-chirurgical transactions. a collection of the most valuable memoirs read to the medico-chirurgical societies of london and edinburgh; the association of fellows and licentiates of the king and queen's college of physicians in ireland; the royal academy of medicine of paris; the royal societies of london and edinburgh; the royal academy of turin; the medical and anatomical societies of paris, &c. &c. &c. edited by isaac hays, m. d. in one volume, vo. a practical compendium of midwifery: being the course of lectures on midwifery, and on the diseases of women and infants, delivered at st. bartholomew's hospital. by the late robert gooch, m. d. "as it abounds, however, in valuable and original suggestions, it will be found a useful book of reference."--_drake's western journal._ in one volume, vo. an account of some of the most important diseases peculiar to women; by robert gooch, m. d. "in this volume dr. gooch has made a valuable contribution to practical medicine. it is the result of the observation and experience of a strong, sagacious, and disciplined mind."--_transylvania journal of medicine._ "this work, which is now for the first time presented to the profession in the united states, comes to them with high claims to their notice."--_drake's western journal._ in one volume, vo. tate on hysteria. a treatise on "hysteria." by george tate, m. d. "as public journalists, we take this occasion to return him our hearty thanks for the pains he has taken to shed a new light on an obscure and much-neglected topic."--_north amer. med. and surg. journ. no. xix._ _extract of a letter from_ edward h. courtenay, _professor of mathematics_ in _the university of pennsylvania_. "the design of the author--that of furnishing a valuable collection of rules and theorems for the use of such as are unable, from the want of time and previous preparation, to investigate mathematical principles--appears to have been very successfully attained in the present volume. the information which it affords in various branches of the pure and mixed mathematics embraces a great variety of subjects, is arranged conveniently, and is in general conveyed in accurate and concise terms. to the engineer, the architect, the mechanic--indeed to all for whom results are chiefly necessary--the work will doubtless form a very valuable acquisition." in one volume, mo. _bolmar's levizac._ a theoretical and practical grammar of the french language; in which the present usage is displayed agreeably to the decisions of the french academy. by m. de levizac. with numerous corrections and improvements, and with the addition of a complete treatise on the _genders of french nouns_; as also with the addition of all the french verbs, both regular and irregular, conjugated affirmatively, negatively, and interrogatively. by a. bolmar, author of "key to telemaque," "phrases," &c. &c. in one volume, vo. _teale on neuralgic diseases._ a treatise on neuralgic diseases, dependent upon irritation of the spinal marrow and ganglia of the sympathetic nerve. by thomas pridgin teale, _member of the royal college of surgeons in london, of the royal medical society of edinburg, senior surgeon to the leeds public dispensary._ "it is a source of genuine gratification to meet with a work of this character, when it is so often our lot to be obliged to labour hard to winnow a few grains of information from the great mass of dullness, ignorance, and mistatement with which we are beset, and cannot too highly recommend it to the attention of the profession."--_american journal of the medical sciences, no. x._ in one volume, mo. formulary for the preparation and employment of several new remedies. translated from the french of m. magendie. with an appendix containing the experience of the british practitioners, with many of the new remedies. by joseph houlton, m.d. in one volume, vo. a treatise on lesser surgery; or the minor surgical operations. by bourgery, d. m. p. author of "a complete treatise on human anatomy, comprising operative medicine." translated from the french, with notes and an appendix; by william c. roberts and jas. b. kissam. copy of a letter from william gibson, m. d. professor of surgery in the university of pennsylvania. _philadelphia, nov. th_, . it gives me pleasure to say that the elementary work on surgery, by m. bourgery, and now under translation by drs. roberts and kissam of new york, appears to me _well calculated for the use of students_. so far as i can judge from examination of a small portion of the english text, justice has been done by the translators to the author of the work. w. gibson, m. d. _professor of surgery in the university of pennsylvania_. copy of a letter from george m'clellen, m. d. professor of surgery in the jefferson medical college. _philadelphia, nov th, ._ dear sirs, i have examined bourgery's manual, or work on lesser surgery, and am of opinion that it is an _excellent compend_, which contains a great deal of matter that will be useful to students. the translation which you are about to make, will deserve a large edition, and i have no doubt will meet with a ready sale. yours truly, geo. m'clellan. drs. roberts and kissam. * * * * * transcriber's notes . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected. . the original text includes greek characters. for this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations. . certain words use oe ligature in the original. . other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained. provided by the internet archive oxford by robert peel and h. c. minchin with illustrations in colour new york the macmillan company |this volume is not intended to compete with any existing guides to oxford: it is not a guide-book in any formal or exhaustive sense. its purpose is to shew forth the chief beauties of the university and city, as they have appeared to several artists; with such a running commentary as may explain the pictures, and may indicate whatever is most interesting in connection with the scenes which they represent. slight as the notes are, there has been no sacrifice, it is believed, of accuracy. the principal facts have been derived from alexander chalmers' _history of the colleges, halls, and public buildings of the university of oxford_, from mr. lang's _oxford_, and from the _oxford and its colleges_ of mr. j. wells. the illustrations, with the exception of six only, which are derived from acker-mann's _oxford_, are reproduced from the paintings of living artists, mostly by mr. w. matthison, the others by mrs. c. r. walton, walter s. s. tyrwhitt, mr. bayzant, and miss e. s. cheesewright. oxford oldest oxford |oxford is so naturally associated with the idea of a university, and the collegiate buildings which confront one at every turn have such an ancient appearance, that a stranger might be excused for thinking that the university is older than the town, and that the latter grew up as an adjunct to the former. of course, the slightest examination of facts suffices to dissipate this notion. oxford is a town of great antiquity, which may well have been in existence in alfred the great's time, though there is not a shred of documentary evidence to prove that he was, as tradition so long asserted, connected with the foundation of a university there: it certainly existed in the reign of his son and successor, edward the elder, because--and this is the earliest historical mention of the place--the english chronicle tells us that edward took "lundenbyrg and oxnaford and all the lands that were obedient thereto." that was in , a date which marks the first authenticated appearance of oxford on the stage of english history. . there is a passage in domesday book which gives us a fair idea of the size of the town in the conquerors day. it contained over seven hundred houses, but of these, so harshly had the normans treated the place, two-thirds were ruined and unable to pay taxes. william made robert d'oily, one of his followers, governor of oxford. d'oily's is the earliest hand (a heavy one, by the way, as the townsfolk learnt to their cost) whose impress is visible on the oxford of to-day. we may indeed, if we please, attribute a certain piece of wall in the cathedral to a remoter date, but the grim old tower (which appears in the first illustration) is the first building in oxford whose author can with certainty be named. it is all that remains of the castle which robert d'oily built in order to control the surrounding country; and he built his stronghold by the riverside because he thereby dominated the waterway, along which enemies were apt to come, as well as wide tracts of land in every direction. no doubt the hands of the conquered english laboured at the massive structure which was to keep them in subjection. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] a queen was once besieged in the castle, matilda, henry i.'s daughter. when food gave out she made her escape in a romantic manner, so the story tells. the river was frozen and the ground covered with snow. the queen was let down from the tower by night with ropes, clad in white, the better to escape observation. three knights were with her, clad in white also, under whose guidance she reached wallingford on foot, and so escaped king stephen's clutches. to the period of the norman conquest belongs also the tower of st. michaels church, in the cornmarket. it has been usual to describe this edifice as saxon; but antiquaries incline to think that if robert d'oily did not build st. michael's tower, he at least repaired it. this tower formed a part of the city wall, and from its narrow windows arrows may have rained upon advancing foes. adjoining it was bocardo, the old north-gate of the city, whose upper chamber was long used as a prison. nothing of bocardo now remains; but robert d'oily's handiwork is traceable, as many think, in the crypt and chancel of st. peter-in-the-east and in the chancel arch at holywell. in these buildings, then, the history of norman oxford is written, so far as history can be written in stone; yet here and there about the city are to be seen structures which, although two or three centuries younger, have an appearance hardly less venerable. year after year the aged walls and portals are thronged with fresh generations of the youth of england; and it is in this combination of youth and age that no little of the charm of oxford lies. we speak within the limitations of mortality: but, could we escape them for a moment, "immortal age beside immortal youth" might be her most appropriate description. |when did the university come into existence? that is a question which many people would like to have answered, but which still, like brutus, "pauses for a reply." it is to the last degree improbable that we shall ever know. there were teachers and learners in oxford at an early date, but so there were in many other english towns; the plant struck deeper in oxford than elsewhere, that is all that one can say. there are various indications that in the twelfth century the town had acquired a name for learning. in , giraldus cambrensis, who had written a book about ireland and wanted to get it known, came and read his manuscript aloud at oxford, where, as he tells us, "the clergy in england chiefly flourished and excelled in clerkly lore." that was fifty years after the death of king henry the scholar, who--was it only a coincidence?--had a residence in oxford. it is pleasant to find oxford students, even in those early days, with ears attuned to hearing "some new thing." "doctors of the different faculties," we are told, were among giraldus' auditors: a fact which shows that learning was already getting systematised. a little later it has clothed itself in corporate form, and possesses a chancellor. that official (when, and by whom appointed, is the mystery) is first mentioned in , and we can henceforth look upon the university as a living body. he is named in connection with the first recorded "town and gown" row, when the citizens of oxford took two clerks and hung them. the papal legate (this was in the evil days of king john) intervened, and the citizens were very properly rebuked and fined. a century passed before "the gown" had a building set specially apart for the transaction of their affairs. then, in , bishop cobham of worcester added a chapel to the north-east corner of st. mary's, and gave it to the university as a house of congregation. the office of proctor had already been instituted, and that functionary had plenty of students to employ his time-- , one writer assures us, but him we cannot credit. a fourth of that number is a liberal estimate. they lived in halls and lodgings, a hard and an undisciplined life, preyed upon by the townsfolk and biting their thumbs at them in return (whence collisions frequently ensued) until walter de merton devised the college system, to the no small advantage of all concerned. [illustration: ] benefactions poured in upon the several colleges, but the greater institution was not forgotten. in the divinity school, within whose walls latimer and ridley defended their opinions, and charles ii.'s parliament debated, the university possesses, as is fit and proper, the most beautiful room in oxford and one of the most beautiful in england. the style is perpendicular and the ceiling is particularly admirable. together with the fine room above it, in which duke humphrey's manuscripts were housed, the divinity school was completed in . those six hundred manuscripts of humphrey, duke of gloucester, which he bestowed on the university, had a sad history. they were dispersed by edward vi.'s commissioners, who judged them to be popish in tendency, and only four of them were ever restored to their old home. nevertheless, duke humphreys gift was the origin of the bodleian library. one does not like to think what the library was like in the days which followed, when its manuscripts were scattered abroad and its shelves sold; but in the last years of the sixteenth century there arose a man who took pity upon its desolation. this was sir thomas bodley, fellow of merton, a man of travel and affairs, who devoted the last years of his life to the creation of what is now one of the most famous libraries in existence. it has ever been the delight of scholars since the days of james i., who wished he might be chained to the library, as some of the books were. [illustration: ] the original chamber did not long suffice to contain the volumes; an east and then a west wing were added, the latter over archbishop laud's convocation house ( ) which superseded cobham's chapel. from these the books overflowed into various rooms in the old schools quadrangle, which had been rebuilt in james i.'s reign. further space was gained in , when the radcliffe, set free by the removal of its collection of scientific works to the new museum, was lent to the bodleian; and again in , on the opening of the new examination schools (sketched by mr. matthison), when the old schools were rendered available for the uses of the library. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the various public buildings belonging to the university erected during the nineteenth century, such as the taylor institution, the university art galleries, the new museum, and the indian institute, can hardly escape attracting the attention of visitors to oxford. it remains to say a word of two older structures, which appear side by side in mr. matthison's next drawing--the clarendon building and the sheldonian theatre. [illustration: ] the clarendon building was designed by vanbrugh, and completed in . it is named after the author of the _history of the rebellion_, and was partially built out of the profits of the copyright of that work, which clarendon's son presented to the university. it was the home of the university press until , and is now occupied by the offices of various university boards. the sheldonian theatre, designed by sir christopher wren, is associated with less tranquil occupations. it is here that honorary degrees are conferred and the encænia held; here the _terrce filius_, a licensed jester, used to hurl his witticisms at whomsoever he pleased; and here, in later times, the occupants of the undergraduates' gallery have endeavoured to keep up his tradition. here, too, convocation sometimes meets, when a burning question is to be discussed and masters of arts assemble in their hundreds. on such occasions the sheldonian has been known to be as full of clamour as at the encaenia. it is perhaps pleasanter to view wren's stately building when it is void alike of undergraduate merriment and of graduate contention. st. mary's church [illustration: ] |although st. mary's, being a parish church, cannot be numbered among the buildings which are university property, it has been almost as closely connected as any of them with the life and history of the university. cobham's chapel, as has been already said, was the first house of congregation; and in the room above it the university kept its manuscripts, until duke humphrey's library was built. the chancel and nave, moreover, were used by the gownsmen for both religious and secular purposes; and it is strange to reflect that consecrated walls heard not only sermons and disputations, but the jests of the _terrce filius_ and the uproar which they excited. it was only when the sheldonian was built ( ) that st. mary's ceased to be the scene of the "act"--the modern encænia--and was restored to its original intention. [illustration: ] the porch, with its spiral columns and statue of the virgin and child, is much later than the rest of the building, being the work of dr. owen, archbishop laud's chaplain. architecturally it is not in keeping with the nave and spire, but in itself, especially when the creeper which en-wreathes it takes on its autumnal colour, it is very beautiful. it was found necessary, in , to restore the spire, which with the pinnacles at its base is the special glory of st. mary's. the church is intimately connected with the religious history of the nation. here keble preached the famous assize sermon, which is regarded as the beginning of the oxford movement; here, too, newman, before he withdrew to his retirement at littlemore, preached those many sermons to whose spiritual force men of all schools of thought have borne witness. a later vicar was dean burgon, to whose memory the west window was put up in . but cranmer's connection with st. mary's transcends all its other associations. on september , , he was here put on trial for his religious opinions, which he defended with as much ability as courage. he was then recommitted to his prison, and in december rome pronounced him guilty. the hardships of his imprisonment told upon his resolution, and he was induced to write several letters of submission, in which his so-called errors were recanted. on march , , he was once more brought to st. mary's. his life was to be taken, but he was to crown his humiliation by a public confession. placed upon a wooden stage over against the pulpit, he had to hear a sermon, at the close of which he was to speak. his fortitude returned, and to the amazement of all he recanted his recantation. "as for the pope"--these were his memorable words--"i utterly refuse him, as christ's enemy and antichrist, with all his false doctrine; and as for the sacrament, i believe as i have taught in my book against the bishop of winchester. and for as much as my hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, my hand shall first be punished therefore; for, may i come to the fire, it shall be first burned." he was hurried off to the stake, and there "lifted his left hand to heaven, and thrust his right into the bitter flame; and crying in his deep voice, more than once, 'this hath offended--this unworthy hand!' so held it till it was all burn'd, before the flame had reach'd his body." the cathedral [illustration: ] |at the east end of the choir aisle of the cathedral there is a portion of the wall which is possibly the oldest piece of masonry in oxford, for it is thought to be a part of the original church of st. frideswyde, on whose site the cathedral church of christ (to give its full title) now stands. even so it is not possible to speak with historical certainty of the saint or of the date of her church, which was built for her by her father, so the legend says, when she took the veil; though the year may be provisionally accepted as the last year of her life. st. frideswyde's was a conventual church, with a priory attached, and both were burnt down in , but rebuilt by ethelred. how much of his handiwork survives in the present structure it is not easy to determine; but the norman builders of the twelfth century effected, at any rate, such a transformation that no suggestion of saxon architecture is obtruded. their work went on for some twenty years, under the supervision of the then prior, robert of cricklade, and the church was consecrated anew in . the main features of the interior--the massive pillars and arches--are substantially the same to-day as the builders left them then. the priory was surrendered to henry viii. in , who made it over to wolsey. that cardinal, in his zeal for the new college, which he now proceeded to found, shewed little respect for the old church. he practically demolished its west end to make room for his building operations. the truncated church was used as a chapel for his students, until the new and magnificent one which he had planned should be completed. that edifice was never built. wolsey was disgraced, and the king took over st. frideswyde's, to be the cathedral church of his newly created diocese of oxford. from this date, then, , it is a cathedral, but a college chapel also; for henry was content that the one building should serve the two purposes. the cathedral was restored in the seventeenth century and again in the nineteenth, with considerable alterations. it is hardly worth while here to enumerate these in their entirety; but when one sees in old engravings the beautiful east window, put up in the fourteenth century, which was removed at the time of sir gilbert scott's restoration, it is impossible not to regret a change which appears to be quite unjustifiable. at the same time it may be readily admitted that the east end, designed on norman lines, which the architect substituted, has considerable beauty, and harmonises with the general tone of the building. regret is unavailing, and it is perhaps wiser to console oneself with the reflection that at any rate things might have been worse. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the cathedral is so hemmed in by the various buildings of christ church that it is difficult to obtain a comprehensive view from the outside. perhaps one sees it best from merton fields, with the beautiful rose window prominently visible. even so the cathedral is in part hidden by the ancient refectory of st. frideswyde's (long since converted into rooms). this is the view, sketched from the nearer foreground of the canon's garden, which appears in mr. matthison's drawing, only that the rose window is hidden by trees. the spire--or spire and tower combined--no longer holds the bells which chimed originally in osney abbey, on the river's farther side; they were removed to the new belfry (completed in ), which appears to the left of the refectory. we are now to speak of the interior of the building. it is sketched from various points of view in the accompanying six illustrations: but twice as many would not suffice to exhaust its interest. at no time does the nave appear more impressive than when a shaft of sunlight strikes across the massive columns; and miss cheesewright has sought to fix upon her canvas the charm of such a moment. the lady chapel was added early in the thirteenth century; here are enshrined the remains of st. frideswyde, which were moved several times before they reached their final resting-place. the latin chapel dates from the fourteenth century, and is full of interest. some of its carved woodwork is to be referred to wolsey's time, and it contains the tombs, among others, of lady elizabeth montacute, the chapels reputed builder, and of sir george nowers, a comrade-in-arms of the black prince. other notable tombs in various parts of the cathedral are those of robert burton, author of the anatomy of melancholy; bishop berkeley, the metaphysician and upholder of the virtues of tar-water; bishop king, last abbot of osney and first bishop of oxford; dean liddell and dr. pusey. a window in the south transept depicts the murder of thomas à becket, whose head has been obliterated, by the order, it is said, of henry viii. another window in the same transept commemorates canon liddon. the art of burne-jones has contributed not a little to the cathedral's beauty. in the east window of the latin chapel he has set forth the romantic story of st. frideswyde. another of the windows which he designed is at the east end of the lady chapel, and serves as a memorial of mr. vyner, who was murdered by greek brigands in ; another, at the east end of the north aisle of the choir, commemorates st. cecilia, with which corresponds a "st. catherine of alexandria" in the south aisle, put up in memory of miss edith liddell, daughter of dean liddell. lastly, at the west end of this aisle, the artist has chosen "faith, hope, and charity" as his subject. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the cloister and chapter-house (thirteenth century) must not be overlooked. the entrance to the chapter-house is by a singularly fine norman doorway. the cloister saw the unworthy degradation of archbishop cranmer, after the pope had pronounced him guilty of heresy. enough has perhaps been said to shew intending visitors to oxford that the interest of the cathedral is both great and varied. to those who already know it, these hints will seem a poor and inadequate attempt to express its manifold charm, but the pictures may serve to emphasise their vivid recollections. those who have yet to make acquaintance with it will perhaps exclaim, as the queen of sheba did of solomon's wisdom and prosperity, "behold, the half was not told me." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the streets of oxford |where is the centre, the [greek words] of oxford? the average undergraduate will probably place it within the walls of his own college; but we, detached observers whose salad days, presumably, are over, look for a definition worthy of more catholic acceptance. to us oxford is not a city of colleges only, but of noble streets and wide spaces. them it is our purpose to explore, not with the hasty stride of one bound for lecture-room, or cricket-ground, or river, but leisurely and with discrimination; we are ready to be chidden for curiosity, so we incur not the gravamen of indifference. where, then, shall we start on our pilgrimage, and from what centre? if there be in any city a place where four principal roads meet, as at the cross in gloucester, we may listen there for the pulsations of that city's heart. such a place there is in oxford, carfax,--_quatre voies_,--the spot where four ways meet. this, not too arbitrarily, we will name the centre of oxford, and thence will wend upon our pilgrimage. but let us pause a moment, before we set out, at the parting of the ways. the old church of st. martin's at carfax was pulled down in , and only the tower left. st. martin's was the church of the city fathers, as st. mary's was (and is) the church of the university. nowadays the civic procession winds its way to all saints, a nearer neighbour of st. mary's. such propinquity would have sorted ill with the manners of mediaeval oxford, when the enmity of town and gown, at times quiescent, was never wholly quelled. in an age when the clerks, regular and secular, fell out among themselves in the precincts of st. mary's, even to the shedding of blood, it is idle to look for a more civil temper in the burgesses: and the bells of carfax and st. mary's summoned those who frequented them to battle as well as to prayer. they rang out with the former intention on the feast of st. scholastica in . it is sad to record that the quarrel arose in a tavern, where two gownsmen abused the vintner for serving them with wine of wretched quality. the conflict which ensued was of a very deadly nature. the scholars held their own until evening, when the citizens called the neighbouring villagers of cowley and headington to their aid, and the gown were routed. as many as forty students were slain, and twenty-three townsmen. then edward . took steps to protect the men of learning, lowering, among other measures, the tower of carfax, because they complained that in times of combat the townsmen retired thither as to a castle, and from its summit grievously annoyed and galled them with arrows and stones. the burgesses also were forced to attend annually at st. mary's church, when mass was offered for the souls of the slain, bearing on their persons sundry marks of degradation; and though these were subsequently done away, it was only in that they were excused the indignity of attending the commemorative service. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] such are some of the memories evoked by the tower of carfax, the best view of which is given in mr. matthison's first drawing. the second illustration is from a point rather farther to the eastward. both give a glimpse of the mitre hotel, most picturesque of old oxford hostelries, and the second a part of the front of all saints. at this point we may for a moment leave the high street (which we have begun to traverse, half insensibly, under the artist's guidance) and wander down "the turl," as turl street is commonly called. "turl" is said to be a corruption of thorold, and thorold to have been the name of a postern-gate in the old city walls. the quiet old street has colleges on either hand, lincoln, exeter, and jesus. retracing our footsteps, we get the fine view of all saints which is given in the third illustration. the history of this church, known originally as all hallows, goes back to the twelfth century, but the present building, designed by dr. aldrich, a former dean of christ church, has only been in existence since , the old one having been destroyed in by the fall of its spire. the present graceful tower and spire are a worthy memorial of dean aldrich's versatility. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] we now return to our exploration of "the high," whose magnificence of outline become more and more apparent as one walks eastwards. it was a poet bred at cambridge, no less a poet than wordsworth, whom the manifold charm of oxford tempted "to slight his own beloved cam"; and he it is who has written the most quotable description of "the high" in brief. "the streamlike windings of that glorious street," he writes: and indeed its curve suggests nothing so much as the majestic bend of some noble river. we may cite, too, sir walter scott's testimony, who claimed that the high street of edinburgh is the most magnificent in great britain, _except the high street of oxford_. it is not at all difficult to assent to this opinion. as the view gradually unfolds itself, we have on our left successively the new front of brasenose, st. mary's, all souls, queen's, and magdalen; on our right the long, dark front of university, and many old dwelling-houses, whose architecture does not shame their situation. looking backward for a moment at queen's college (perhaps when the west is rosy, as in mr. matthison's drawing), one sees substantially the same view which delighted wordsworth in ; and we, if we are wise, shall take as much delight in it as he. many thousand times since then has the sun set behind the spires of st. mary's and all saints, but the unaltered prospect obliterates the intervening years, and we are at one with the great poet in his admiration. contrast is always pleasant, and one may reach broad street (which certainly must not be neglected) by several thoroughfares totally unlike "the high." we may traverse long wall street, with magdalen grove on our right, a pleasance hidden from the wayfarer by a high wall, but visible to such as lodge in upper rooms on the other side of the way; thence along holywell street, with its queer medley of old houses, many of them pleasing to the eye. or, still greater contrast, we may go by queen's and new college lanes, with their rectangular turns and severe masonry on either side. or, again, we may go through the radcliffe square with its massive buildings on every hand--the radcliffe dome in the centre, girt about with st. mary's, brasenose, all souls, and the old schools. in any case we find ourselves, at the last, in broad street. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] it is a wide and quiet street, with comparatively little traffic, a street dear to meditation. some such suggestion is conveyed by mr. matthison's sketch. he has not given us here the fronts of balliol, trinity, or exeter,--views of the first two will be found later on,--but just the old houses (the one in dark relief is kettell hall, built by a president of trinity in the seventeenth century) asleep in the sunshine, with the sheldonian on the right, whose guardian figure-heads, traditionally said to represent the twelve cæsars, seem by the expression of their stony countenances to be thinking hard of nothing in particular. at the other end of broad street, marked by a flat cross in the roadway, is the spot where tradition says the martyrs suffered for their faith. [illustration: ] their memorial is a little distance off, in the neighbouring street of st. giles'. it is an effective and graceful structure, with characteristic statues of cranmer, latimer, and ridley, and an inscription stating the manner of their death and the reasons for their martyrdom. it was erected in , by public subscription, when also the north aisle of the adjacent church of st. mary magdalen was rebuilt out of the same fund. the memorial appears twice in mr. matthison's drawings; once at the approach of evening, looking towards the city, and once as it is seen in full daylight, with the widening vista of st. giles' street in the background. st. giles' is surely the widest street in the three kingdoms; broad street is narrow when compared with it. each september it is the scene of what is said to be the largest and the oldest fair in england. but we have not chosen a fair-day for our pilgrimage. the river |if the "towers of julius" are, as gray called them, "london's lasting shame," the river is the lasting pride of oxford. when does "the river" cease to be isis and become thames? one might as well ask when it ceases to be thames and becomes isis. the term is probably not used out of oxford, and with much vagueness there. matthew arnold speaks of "the stripling thames at bablock-hythe" (a very lovely ferry higher up than oxford), and at abingdon nobody talks about the isis. the use of the name is one of the odd and pleasant conservatisms of oxford. then, again, there are two rivers in oxford, according to the map, thames and cherwell; but to the undergraduate there are three--"the river," "the upper river," and "the cher." for the sake of strangers it may be well to elucidate this enigma. "the river" is that part of the thames which begins at folly bridge and ends at sandford, except that on the occasion of "long courses" and commemoration picnics it is prolonged as far as nuneham. it is understood subsequently to pass through several counties and reach eventually the german ocean. you do not go upon "the river" commonly for amusement, but for stern and serious work. you aspire to a thwart in your college "torpid" first, then in your college "eight," with the fantastic possibility of a place in the "trials" or--crown of all--in the 'varsity "eight" on some distant and auspicious day! it is no child's-play that is involved, as every oarsman knows. "the river" is an admirable school of self-control and self-denial, and "training"--long may it flourish!--is one of the best of disciplines. it has been said, and with truth, that boating-men are the salt of undergraduate society. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the "torpids" are rowed in march--you will appreciate this fact if you are rowing "bow" and a hailstorm comes on--in eight-oared boats with fixed seats. the name bestowed on them seems a little unkind. the "eights" come off in the summer term, when sliding seats are used--to the greater comfort of the oarsmen, and the greater gratification of the lookers-on, for this rowing is out of all comparison prettier, and of course the boats travel at a greater pace. both "eights" and "torpids," as most people are aware, are bumping races; that is, the boats start each at a given distance from the one behind it, and the object is to bump the boat in front, and so bump one s way to that proudest of all positions, "the head of the river." a bump in front of the barges (which mr. matthison has sketched), following a long and stern chase from iffley, is a thing to live for. west of folly bridge "the river" might as well, for all the ordinary undergraduate knows of it, sink for some distance, like a certain classic stream, beneath the ground. venturesome explorers tell of a tract of water put to base mechanical uses, flanked by dingy wharves and overlooked by attic windows. but to most boating-men "the river" ends at salter's, only to reappear in the modified form and style of "the upper river" at port meadow. "the upper river" is some distance from everything else, but it is well worth the journey to port meadow. there is nothing strenuous about "the upper river." it always seems afternoon there, and a lazy afternoon. the standard of oarsmanship may not be very high, but no one is in a hurry and no one is censorious. to enjoy the upper river as it deserves to be enjoyed, you should have laboured at the torpid oar a lent term, and have found yourself not required (this year) for the eight. you know quite enough of rowing, in such a case, to cut a figure on the upper river; but you will not want to cut it. if you appreciate your surroundings properly, you will want to sit in the stern while somebody else does the rowing; or, if you take an oar, you will want to pull in leisurely fashion and to look about you as you please, in the blissful absence of raucous injunctions to "keep your eyes in the boat." there is much that is pleasant to look upon--the wide expanse of port meadow on the right, on the towpath willows waving in the wind, and on the water here and there the white sail of a centre-board. as you draw near godstow, you may see cattle drinking, knee-deep in the stream; you may land and refresh yourself, if you will, at the "trout" at godstow; may visit the ruins of the nunnery, with their memories of "fair rosamond;" or, leaning on the bridge-rail over godstow weir, lulled by the ceaseless murmur of the water, may muse upon the vanity of mere ambition and the servitude of such as row in college eights. then, if the day be young enough, you may go on to eynsham or to bablock-hythe, and perhaps afoot to stanton-harcourt, a most lovely village; and returning at dusk, when the stream appears to widen indefinitely as the light fails, you will vow that for sheer peace and enjoyment there is nothing like the upper river. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] unless, indeed, it be the cherwell. this little stream, which flows into the isis near the last of the barges, while it winds about christ church meadow, magdalen, and mesopotamia, is edged about, with shadowy walks; but once clear of the parks, it is embedded in grassy and flower-laden banks, through which your boat passes with a lively sense of exploration. presently, at a break in all this greenery, you come abreast of a grey stone building, with ancient gables and air of reposeful dignity. instinctively your oar-blades rest upon the water, for so much beauty demands more than a moment's admiration. it is water eaton hall, one of those smaller elizabethan manor-houses which have survived the violence of the rebellion and the neglect of impoverished owners. all about its aged masonry is the growth and freshness of the spring. oxford is several miles away, but even so you are reminded of her special charm--the association of reverend age with youth's perennial renewal. merton college [illustration: ] [illustration: ] |merton is in several respects the most interesting of the colleges of oxford. in the first place, it is the oldest; for though the original endowments of university and balliol were bestowed a little earlier, merton was the first college to have a corporate existence, regulated and defined by statute. with the granting of merton's statutes in , a new era of university life began. from being casual sojourners in lodgings and halls, students from this date tended more and more to be gathered into organised, endowed, and dignified societies, where discipline was one of the factors of education. such is oxford's debt to walter de merton, chancellor of england and bishop of rochester, who died by a fall from his horse in fording a river in his diocese, and was buried in rochester cathedral. his tomb there has twice been renovated by the piety of the college which he founded. his statutes are preserved at merton, and were consulted as precedents when other colleges were founded, at cambridge as well as at oxford. "by the example which he set," runs the inscription on his tomb, "he is the founder of all existing colleges." another great distinction of merton is its library (whose interior appears in mrs. waltons sketch), which was built in , by william rede, bishop of chichester, and is the oldest library in the kingdom. in monasteries and other houses where learning took refuge, books had hitherto been kept in chests, an arrangement which must have had its drawbacks, considering the weight of the volumes of those days. mr. matthison's first drawing shews the college as seen from merton street, with the imposing tower of the chapel in the background. a very fine view of the buildings of merton, in their full extent, is obtained from christ church meadow. to speak of them in detail, the muniment room is the oldest collegiate structure in oxford, and possibly dates from the lifetime of the founder. the hall gateway, with its ancient oak door and enormous iron hinges, is of the same epoch. of the three quadrangles the small one to the north (which contains the library) is the oldest. the front quadrangle opens by a magnificent archway into the inner, or fellows' court, built in in the late gothic style, its south gate surmounted with pillars of the several greek orders. the common room ( ) was the first room of the kind to be opened in oxford. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the beautiful chapel has rather the appearance of a parish church, which indeed it is. st. john the baptists parish, however, is so minute as hardly to need, in a city of many churches, a place of worship all to itself, and the building was assigned to merton in the last decade of the thirteenth century, with the proviso that one of the chaplains should discharge such parochial duties as might arise. in the ante-chapel are the monuments of the famous sir thomas bodley, sir henry savile, once master, and antony wood, greatest of oxford antiquarians. wood (who died in ) was associated with merton all his life. he was born in the house opposite the college entrance, called postmasters' hall, and there he passed most of his days. it is from him that we get a great deal of our information about early oxford. royalty has repeatedly enjoyed the hospitality of merton, and here is wood's account of a visit paid by queen catherine, wife of henry viii. "she vouchsafed to condescend so low as to dine with the merton-ians, for the sake of the late warden rawlyns, at this time almoner to the king, notwithstanding she was expected by other colleges." elizabeth and her privy council were equally gracious, and were entertained after dinner with disputations performed by the fellows. one would like to know what subjects were disputed, and what the queen thought of her entertainment. when charles i.'s court came to oxford, queen henrietta maria occupied the warden's lodgings, which were again tenanted by charles ii.'s queen, when the court fled from plague-stricken london. merton has had great men among her fellows, but none greater than john wycliffe; and among her postmasters (so the scholars are called here) no name captivates our sympathies more readily than that of richard steele, trooper and essayist, the friend of addison and the husband of prue. university college |it was long and hotly maintained that university college was founded by alfred the great, and by celebrating its thousandth anniversary in the college would seem to have accepted this pious opinion. the claim was raised as far back as , when the college, being engaged in a lawsuit about a part of its estates, tried to ingratiate itself with richard ii. by representing that its founder was his predecessor, alfred, and that bede and john of beverley had been among its students. now, bede and john of beverley died about a century before alfred was born. _ex pede herculem_. the alfred tradition need not keep us longer. university college owes its existence to william of durham, who, at his death in , beqeathed to the university the sum of three hundred and ten marks for the use of ten or more _masters_ (at that time the highest academical title) to be natives of durham or its vicinity. certain tenements were purchased, one of them on a part of the site of brasenose, and here, in , durham's scholars first assembled; but only in were they granted powers of self-government. the recent foundation of merton no doubt suggested the idea of bestowing a corporate life on what had hitherto been known as "university hall." durham's scholars removed to their present locality in . one of the earliest benefactors whom "univ." (as this college is familiarly termed in oxford) is bound to remember is walter skirlaw, who became bishop of durham in . he ran away from his home in youth in order to study at oxford, and his parents heard no more of him (according to his biographer) till he arrived at the see of durham. he then sought them out, and provided for their old age. another benefactor ( ) was joan davys, wife of a citizen of oxford, who gave estates for the support of two logic lecturers, and for increasing the diet of the master and fellows. had mr. cecil rhodes heard of this lady? to touch on the masters of "univ.," a curious career was that of obadiah walker, who lost his fellowship in commonwealth times for adherence to the church of england; later on was made master and turned roman catholic; enjoyed the favour of james ii.; and lost his mastership at the revolution for adherence to the church of rome. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] of the present buildings of the college none is of earlier date than the seventeenth century. the two quadrangles form a grand front towards the high street, with a tower over each gateway at equal distances from the extremities. above the gateways are statues of queen anne and queen mary, on the outside; two more, within, represent james ii. and dr. radcliffe. it was mainly at the cost of john radcliffe, a member of the college, that the smaller quadrangle was completed. other famous members were the brothers scott, afterwards lords stowell and eldon; sir william jones, the great oriental scholar; and sir roger newdigate, responsible for so many thousand heroic couplets, who gave the handsome chimney-piece in the hall. it is curious to notice, by the way, that the fireplace stood in the centre of this room until . the common room contains two specimens of an out-of-the-way art, portraits of henry iv. and robert dudley, earl of leicester, burnt in wood by dr. griffith, a former master. the beautiful monument to the poet shelley, set up in the college in , is the gift of lady shelley. its honoured position within the walls of the foundation which drove him out so hastily and harshly is indeed a fitting emblem of "the late remorse of love." balliol college |this college was originated about by john de balliol, a baron of durham, whose son for four years occupied the throne of scotland. but inasmuch as john de balliol only made provision for four students, and that as penance for an outrage, the greater credit attaches to his wife dervorguilla, who endowed a dozen more and hired them a lodging close to st. mary magdalen church, on the site where part of the present college stands. devorguilla gave her scholars their first statutes in . she bade them live temperately, and converse with one another in the latin tongue. truth to tell, as the revenues at first yielded each scholar only eightpence a week, riotous living seemed hardly practicable. benefactors, however, presently stepped in, notably sir philip somervyle of staffordshire, who in raised the weekly allowance to elevenpence, and to fifteenpence in case victuals were dear. the grateful college accepted from sir philip a new body of statutes, in which the now familiar title, "master of balliol," makes its first appearance, a title associated twenty years afterwards with the honoured name of john wycliffe. among later benefactors may be mentioned peter blundell, founder of the devonshire school which bears his name; lady elizabeth periam (a sister of francis bacon); and john snell, a native of ayrshire,--it is to his endowment that balliol owes her most distinguished scotsmen, such as adam smith, lockhart (sir walter scott's son-in-law and biographer), and archbishop tait. balliol was an early friend to the new learning, and fostered the scholarly tastes of humphrey, duke of gloucester, son of henry iv., and tiptoft, earl of worcester (to name but two of her most prominent humanists). duke humphrey left his books to the university, six hundred in number--a very large collection for those days, when as yet caxton had not revolutionised the world. and in reformation days, when the humanities were called to account, learning found a zealous supporter in cuthbert tunstall, bishop of durham, who had been bred at balliol. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the annals of the college during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are not particularly distinguished. after the restoration balliol men seem to have been considerably addicted to malt liquors, and much ale does not conduce to profound study. but modern balliol men might apply to their own use the words of dr. ingram's famous song, "who fears to speak of ' ?" for it was in that dr. parsons became master of the college, and with his advent began the great days of balliol. parsons, with two other heads of houses, established the examination system, which has been so much belauded and so much abused. it was soon apparent that balliol tutors had the knack of equipping men to face the ordeal of "the schools"; the college speedily came to the front, and its intellectual pre-eminence in oxford during the nineteenth century is now universally admitted. men trained at balliol during this period occupied and still occupy some of the very highest positions in the state. not to mention the living, whose fame is in the mouths of all men, some of the most prominent names are those of lords coleridge, bowen, and peel (formerly speaker of the house of commons), sir robert morier, and archbishop temple. matthew arnold and clough were undergraduates at balliol with benjamin jowett, afterwards its most famous master; and, to balance the severity of these poets, the lighter muse of calverley sojourned for a time within its walls. the buildings of balliol, which mr. matthison has sketched from four points of view, are extensive, but not conspicuously beautiful. the front towards broad street was rebuilt in by mr. waterhouse. old prints assure us that it had previously a forbidding and almost prison-like aspect. mr. matthison calls attention to the fact that this picture shows the spot where the martyrs were burned. the automobile in the foreground may suggest to the thoughtful reader that martyrdom is no longer by fire. the drawing from st. giles' perhaps conveys a pleasanter impression. the third shews us that part of the college known as "fisher's buildings," erected at the cost of a former fellow in . the fourth drawing is of the garden quadrangle with the chapel on the left (rebuilt in ); here the surroundings are more attractive; we are looking on "a grove of academe," in which vigorous minds may still, as heretofore, grow happily towards their maturity. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] exeter college |this college," wrote fuller the historian, in words which exeter men will approve, "consisteth chiefly of cornish and devonshire men, the gentry of which latter, queen elizabeth used to say, were courtiers by their birth. and as these western men do bear away the bell for might and sleight in wrestling, so the scholars here have always acquitted themselves with credit in _palaestra literaria!'_ the western college was founded in by walter de stapledon, bishop of exeter, who twelve years later met his death as a supporter of edward ii., when that king was overthrown and murdered. a later and liberal patron was sir william petre, father of dorothy wadham, a statesman of the tudor period. of the ancient buildings of exeter hardly anything remains. the hall dates from the seventeenth century, the fronts to the turl and broad streets from the nineteenth. the present chapel is the third in which exeter men have worshipped. designed by sir gilbert scott on the model of the sainte chapelle in paris, it is certainly the most attractive of the college buildings. its interior is richly decorated, and contains a tapestry representing "the visit of the magi," the work of burne-jones and william morris, formerly undergraduates of exeter. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] among interesting members of this foundation may be cited dr. prideaux, rector from to , who began residence at exeter as a kitchen-knave, and lived to be a bishop; the first lord shaftesbury, dryden's "achitophel"; the marquis of winchester, a loyal cavalier, whose epitaph by the same poet may be read in englefield church, berkshire; william browne, author of _britannia's pastorals_; and sir simon baskerville (ob. ), an eminent physician, who would take no fee from any clergyman under the rank of dean. the fellows' gardens, a secluded and beautiful spot, contains two noted trees, a large chestnut known as "heber's tree," from the fact that it overshadowed his rooms in brasenose, and "dr. kennicott's fig tree." dr. kennicott, the great hebrew scholar, regarded this tree as peculiarly his own. during his proctorate, some irreverent undergraduates stole its fruit, upon which dr. kennicott caused a board to be hung upon it, inscribed "the proctor's fig." next morning it was discovered that someone had substituted the audacious legend, "a fig for the proctor." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] oriel college [illustration: ] |oriel college was founded by adam de brome, almoner to king edward ii., in . he was rector of st. mary's, whose spire forms with the dome of the radcliffe a background to the view of oriel street, and obtained leave from the king to transfer the church and its revenues to his college. the college originally had the same title as the church, but five years after its foundation it received from king edward iii. a messuage known as _la oriole_ (a title of disputed meaning), and from this date was renamed "oriel college." the front quadrangle, whose exterior and interior are here depicted, was erected in the first half of the seventeenth century. viewed from without, it has an air of quiet dignity; but the visitor will be even better pleased when he has passed the porters lodge. a striking feature is the central flight of steps, with a portico, by which the hall is reached. on either side of the statues of the two kings (edward ii. and charles i.) stretches a trio of finely moulded windows, flanked by an oriel to right and left. mr. matthison clearly made his drawing when the "quad." was gay with flowers and eights-week visitors, but at no season is it anything but beautiful. the garden quadrangle, which lies to the north and includes the library, was built during the eighteenth century. the adjacent st. mary hall, with its buildings, was recently incorporated with oriel, on the death of its last principal, dr. chase. among famous men nurtured at this college were raleigh, prynne, bishop butler, and gilbert white, the naturalist; but it was in the first half of the nineteenth century that oriels intellectual renown was at its highest. to recall the names of pusey, keble, newman, whately, and thomas arnold suffices to indicate the subject which most preoccupied the oxford of that epoch. oriel seemed fated to be the seat of religious controversy, from the seventeenth century days of provost walter hodges, whose _elihu_, a treatise on the book of job, brought him into suspicion of favouring the sect of hutchinsonians. happily there was some tincture of humour in the differences of those days. when this provost resented the imputation, his detractors told him that a writer on the book of job should take everything with patience. controversy apart, any college might be proud of a group of fellows of whom one became an archbishop, another a really great headmaster, and a third a cardinal. oriel has had poets, too, within her gates, for in a later day clough and matthew arnold won fellowships here. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] but oriel has had no more dutiful son, if liberality is any measure of dutifulness, than cecil rhodes. it is too soon to appraise the value of his scholarship scheme, which provides an oxford education for numerous colonial and foreign students; but his old college, which benefited so largely by the provisions of his will, can have no hesitation in including him among its benefactors. queen's college |opinions will differ as to whether the italian style, of which this college is a fine example, is as suitable for collegiate buildings as the gothic, and whether the contrast which queen's presents to its neighbour, university, is not more striking than pleasing; but the intrinsic splendour of its façade, as viewed from "the high," is indisputable. "no spectacle," said dr. johnson, "is nobler than a blaze"; and those who saw the west wing of the front quadrangle of queen's in flames, one summer night in , must have felt their regrets tempered by admiration, so imposing was the sight. happily the damage was mainly confined to the interior of the building. a fire had already devastated the same wing in . on that occasion, as mr. wells narrates in _oxford and its colleges_, the provost of the day "nearly lost his life for the sake of decorum. he was sought for in vain, and had been given up, when he suddenly emerged from the burning pile, full dressed as usual, in wig, gown, and bands." this recalls cowley's story of a gentleman in the civil wars, who might have escaped from his captors had he not stayed to adjust his perri-wig. less fortunate than the provost, his sense of ceremony cost him his life. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] queen's college was founded by robert eglesfield of cumberland, confessor to philippa, edward iii.'s queen. impressed with the lack of facilities for education among englishmen of the north, he practically restricted the benefits of his foundation to students from the north country, and queen's is still intimately connected with that part of england. philippa did her best for her confessor's institution, and later queens have shewn a similar interest. the statue under the cupola, above the gateway, represents queen caroline. with the exception of the library ( ) and the east side of the inner quadrangle, all the present buildings were erected in the eighteenth century. the library, a handsome room in the classical style, was decorated by grinling gibbons, and contains, as well as a very valuable collection of books, ancient portraits on glass of henry v. and cardinal beaufort. the chapel ( ) was designed by wren, and the front quadrangle by his pupil hawksmoor. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] queen's is tenacious of her old customs. still the trumpet calls the fellows to dinner; still, on christmas day, the boar's head is brought in bedecked with bays and rosemary; a survival, possibly, of the pagan custom by which at yule-tide a boar was sacrificed to freyr, god of peace and plenty. peace and plenty, at any rate, have characterised the annals of queen's; and among those who have enjoyed these good things within her walls may be mentioned "prince hal," addison (before his migration to magdalen), tickell, wycherley, bentham, jeffrey of the _edinburgh review_, and dr. thomson, late archbishop of york. st. edmund hall [illustration: ] |halls for the accommodation of students existed in oxford before colleges were founded, and a few were established subsequently; of these st. edmund hall is the only one which retains its independence. the quaintness and irregular beauty of its buildings may plead with stern reformers for its continued survival. opposite to the side entrance of queen's, st. edmund hall is in another respect under the wing of that college; for queen's has the right of nominating its principal. the origin of st. edmund hall is uncertain, but it is commonly supposed to derive its name from edmund rich, archbishop of canterbury from to . its buildings, grouped round three sides of an oblong quadrangle, date from the middle of the seventeenth century. the first view shews the entrance to the hall, with the interesting old church of st. peter-in-the-east in the background. the crypt and chancel of this church take us back to the times of the conqueror, and may have been the work of robert d'oily, one of william's norman followers, who is known to have built oxford castle. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] in the view of the interior of the quadrangle the building at the back is the library; the abundance of creepers on the left hand adds to the idea of comfort suggested by the homeliness of the architecture. the third illustration shews the hall as seen from st. peter's churchyard. the vicinity of the monuments may serve to remind members of the hall of their mortality. hearne, the antiquary, was a member of st. edmund hall; so also was sir richard blackmore, who was in residence for thirteen years. it was his lot, says johnson, "to be much oftener mentioned by enemies than by friends"; but this is hardly surprising, in view of the interminable epics which he inflicted upon his contemporaries. new college |this college, in respect of its buildings and its endowments, is one of the most splendid in the university. its founder, william of wykeham, rose through the favour of edward iii. to high positions in church and state, being made bishop of winchester in and chancellor of england in the following year. he was a man of affairs, liberal and tolerant, who took delight in building, and had himself great skill in architecture. he had already, before he designed new college, as clerk of the works to edward iii., rebuilt windsor castle. doubtless, zeal for education was one of his incentives; but he must have known a deep gratification, as the work went on, in the growth of the stately buildings which were to perpetuate his name. richard ii.'s sanction was given in , and wykeham's society took possession of its completed home in . during the six years which followed, its founder was occupied with the building of winchester college, the other great institution connected with his name. he died in , in his eightieth year, and was buried in winchester cathedral, having lived long enough to see his two foundations prosperously started upon their several careers. new college, as left by william of wyke-ham, consisted of the chief quadrangle (which includes the chapel, hall, and library), the cloisters with their tower, and the gardens. it is this quadrangle (shewing the chapel) which appears in mr. matthison's first drawing; but it is not quite as wykeham saw it, for the third storey was added, as at brasenose, in the seventeenth century, when the windows also were modernised. passing through this quadrangle, the visitor reaches the garden court, which is also the creation of the seventeenth century, and was built in imitation of the palace of versailles. seen from the garden (as in the second illustration) it certainly has, with its fivefold frontage and its extensive iron palisade, a most imposing appearance. the garden contains a structure older by several centuries than any of the colleges--that fragment of the old city wall which is shewn in mr. matthison's third drawing. its reverse side is visible from the back of long wall street, and another fragment now acts as the wall of merton garden. the city wall existed in its entirety in wykeham's time, though already falling into decay: there is a brief of richard n., issued to the then mayor and burgesses of oxford, wherein the king complains of the ruinous state of the fortifications, and demands that they be at once repaired. he thought of taking refuge in oxford, it appears, if his enemies in france should invade the country. he was soon to learn, at flint castle, how impotent is any masonry to protect a sovereign against subjects whose affections he has estranged. one may climb the old wall in new college garden and think of the days when it was a real defence, when the occupants of the "mural houses" at its base were exempted from all imposts, with the reservation that they should defend the wall with their bodies, in the event of an enemy's assault. on some part of the ground now occupied by the college and its garden stood several of those halls where students lodged in the pre-collegiate days; but the greater part was waste land, strewn with rubbish and haunted by all sorts of bad characters. certainly the whole community benefited, and not wykeham's scholars only, when king and pope sanctioned his undertaking. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the cloisters, of which two views are given, are singularly beautiful. they were designed, together with the area which they enclose, as a burial-ground for the college. it is unfortunate that many of the brass tablets were removed during the civil war, when the college was used as a garrison. royalist pikes, in those days, were trailed in the quadrangle, and ammunition was stored in cloisters and tower. later on the college was tenanted by soldiers of the commonwealth, who in course of fortifying it did some damage to the buildings. the chapel is perhaps the finest extant specimen of the perpendicular style. it suffered severely during the reformation, when the niches of the reredos were denuded and filled up with stone and mortar, with a coat of plaster over all. in course of time the original east end was rediscovered, and the reredos renewed. by statues were erected in the niches; and as the open timber roof had been replaced in , the whole may now be considered to have been restored, as far as is possible, to its original appearance. the west window (in the ante-chapel) is famous as having been designed by reynolds. an illustration of it is here given. the beauty of the figures and of the colouring is universally admitted. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the last illustration shews the new buildings, through which is a back entrance to the college, as seen from holywell street. of these it must be said that they are far less interesting than the quaint old street in which they are situated. the best of them is the most recent addition, a fine tower put up in to the memory of a former bursar, mr. robinson. the hall is a fine building, though its original proportions have been altered, not for the better. here on august , , king james i. with his queen and the prince of wales were entertained to dinner; and here on festival days the scholars were bidden by their founder to amuse themselves after supper with singing and with recitations, whose themes were to be "the chronicles of the realm and the wonders of the world." on the walls are portraits of chichele and william of waynflete, members of the college, who were presently to rival, as founders, the munificence of william of wykeham himself; of warham, archbishop of canterbury, friend of erasmus and promoter of humanism; and of sydney smith. the exclusive connection between winchester and new college, which the founder planned, proved in course of time a disadvantage. in half the fellowships and a few scholarships were thrown open to public competition. since then the college has largely increased its numbers, and representatives of all the great schools of england are sojourners within its walls. the founder's motto, "manners makyth man," is of too wide an application to be limited to the members of any one school; and it is permissible to think that william of wykeham, shrewd and liberal-minded as he was, would approve the change. an earlier alteration he would certainly have endorsed. he secured as a special privilege to the fellows of his foundation, that they should be admitted to all degrees in the university without asking any grace of congregation, provided they passed a satisfactory examination in their own college. his object was to impose a severer educational test than that which the university then afforded; when, however, university examinations became a reality, his good intention was nullified. wykehamists pleaded their privilege, and so evaded the ordeal which members of other colleges must undergo. thus was an originally good custom corrupted. the college, to its credit, voluntarily abjured this questionable privilege in ; and is now second only to balliol in the intellectual race. [illustration: ] lincoln college |john flemmynge, bishop of lincoln, was for the greater part of his life a sympathiser with the lollards; but on changing his opinions--for what reason is not known--he founded a college for the express purpose of training divines who should confute their doctrines. such was the origin of lincoln college, in the year . mr. matthison's first picture shews the entrance to the college, as seen from turl street. farther on is a part of the front of exeter, and the spire of its chapel, with trinity in the background. lincolns entrance-tower dates from the founder's time. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the second gives the interior of the front quadrangle. reference to old engravings, such as that given in chalmers' _history of the colleges, halls, and public buildings of the university of oxford_ ( ), shews the battlements to be a modern addition, and anything but an improvement. the chapel, which stands in the inner court, was built at the expense of dr. john williams, bishop of lincoln and afterwards archbishop of york, and was consecrated on september , . its roof and wainscoting are of cedar, the roof in particular being richly ornamented. the painted windows are also noteworthy. tradition says that they were bought by dr. williams in italy. that at the east end represents six principal events of the gospel narrative, with their corresponding types in the old testament. the following is the complete list:--the creation of man--the nativity of christ; the passage through the red sea--the baptism of christ; the jewish passover--the lord's supper; the brazen serpent in the wilderness--the crucifixion; jonah delivered from the whale--the resurrection; the ascent of elijah in the chariot of fire--the ascension. john wesley spent nine years in lincoln college, being elected fellow in . among its members may be named sir william davenant, poet laureate; and dr. robert sanderson, bishop of lincoln, a man of great piety, learning, and amiability, who forms the theme of one of izaak walton's lives. it is to him that our english liturgy owes the beautiful "prayer for all conditions of men" and "general thanksgiving." a recent rector of lincoln was mark pattison, b.d., who might rival sanderson in learning, though not in the quality of forbearance. his memoirs, posthumously published, contained, with much that was of interest, some unusually outspoken judgments upon his contemporaries in oxford. all souls college |c_ollegium omnium animarum fidelium defunctorum de oxon_. this title expresses one of the purposes for which all souls was founded. it was a chantry first, a home of learning afterwards. an obligation was imposed upon the society to pray for the good estate of the founders, during their lives, and for their souls after their decease; also for the souls of henry v. and the duke of clarence, together with those of all the dukes, earls, barons, knights, esquires, and other subjects of the crown of england who had fallen in the french war; and for the souls of all the faithful departed. to think of all souls is to think of agincourt. as to learning, sixteen of the fellows were directed to study civil and canon law, the rest philosophy, theology, and the arts. the founders were henry chichele, archbishop of canterbury, and king henry vi. chichele is the archbishop who in shakespeare's _king henry v_. urges the king (quite in accordance with history) to vindicate his claims to the crown of france. educated in all the prejudices of his age, he set his face against the followers of wyckliffe; at the same time he protested against the encroachments of rome, and was spoken of in oxford as "the darling of the people, and the foster-parent of the clergy." he was deeply read in the law, and all souls still bears the impress of his legal tastes. the buildings are very extensive, and are grouped around three quadrangles. the first view (which gives also a glimpse of the radcliffe and the old schools) shews the front of the north quadrangle, as seen from st. catherine street, with the windows of the magnificent codrington library. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] but the library is eclipsed, in general opinion, by the chapel. "it is usually observed," says chalmers, "that whatever visitor remembers anything of oxford, remembers the beautiful chapel of all souls, and joins in its praises." it is characterised by dignity and simplicity, and its great reredos has a remarkable history. the chapel was wrecked in reformation days, and the remains of the reredos were covered with plaster in the reign of charles ii. in some workmen accidentally discovered, on removing some of the plaster, the ruins of the now forgotten reredos. it was then reconstructed, and the empty niches refilled with statues of chichele, henry vi., and the great ones of their time. the college also owns a fine sundial, the work of sir christopher wren, who was one of its fellows. the four bible-clerks, as is well known, are the only undergraduates. an all souls' fellowship is now what an oriel fellowship was in the early part of the nineteenth century, the blue ribbon of oxford. since its foundation in the following are a few of the eminent men who have been members of this society:--linacre, sheldon, jeremy taylor, the poet young, blackstone, and bishop heber. magdalen college [illustration: ] |william of waynflete, who founded this college, was brought up in the traditions of william of wykeham, and maintained them most worthily. a member of wykeham's school, and perhaps of new college, he became headmaster of winchester, only leaving it to act as first headmaster of eton, on the foundation of that college by henry vi. like wykeham he lived through troubled times, and like him occupied the see of winchester and was chancellor of england. the latter post he resigned in the last year of henry vi., but remained bishop of winchester until his death in . he was buried in winchester cathedral, where eighty-two years earlier wykeham had been laid to rest. on the present site of magdalen college stood an old hospital, named after st. john the baptist. this hospital, with its grounds, was made over to william of waynflete in ; some remains of its buildings still survive in what is known as the chaplains' quadrangle; and in this hospital the new society found temporary shelter. waynflete did not proceed at once to build his new college; the times were disturbed, and with the victory of the yorkist faction he found himself in some peril. pardoned, however, by edward iv., he was at liberty to carry out his designs. if not his own architect, he certainly superintended the building; and with the exception of the famous tower, the work was completed before his death. in the result, taste has generally decided, what most visitors feel instinctively at first sight, that magdalen is the most beautiful college in oxford. this distinction it owes partly to the perfect proportions of its buildings, and partly to the loveliness of its surroundings. to assure oneself of this, one may take a boat up the cherwell (as the people in mr. matthison's first drawing have done), and, while the sculls rest idly on the water's surface, drink deeply of the beauty of the scene. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the foundation stone of the famous tower (which from different points of view appears in three more of the illustrations) was laid in . tradition says that it was designed by wolsey, who was about that time bursar of magdalen; and also asserts that a mass for the soul of henry vii. used, before the reformation, to be performed upon the top of the tower on every may-day at early morning. it is certain that a hymn is still sung there annually at that season, as those who are up early enough may hear for themselves. whether one approaches magdalen by the water-way or by "the high"--as in the second illustration--the tower is still the dominant feature of the view. on the left are seen st. swithun's buildings, designed in happy harmony with the older structure. when the lodge is passed, one is confronted with the old stone pulpit (sketched by mrs. walton), from which an open-air sermon was formerly preached on st. john the baptists day. * the court on that occasion used to be fenced round with green boughs, in allusion to st. john's preaching in the wilderness. * this custom has recently been revived. the cloisters are next entered, from which is obtained a splendid view of waynflete's quadrangle and tower (the "founder's tower" of the next illustration). the perfect grace of magdalen is here revealed, and praise becomes superfluous. the chapel, hall, and library open out of this quadrangle. the college choir is among the best in the three kingdoms. many theories have been suggested in explanation of the curious stone figures in the quadrangle, which were put up after waynflete's day. the most reasonable appears to be that which makes them represent the several virtues and vices which members of the college should follow after and eschew. but even so that interpretation seems a little forced which makes the hippopotamus, carrying his young one on his shoulder, emblematic of "a good tutor, or fellow of a college, who is set to watch over the youth of the society, and by whose prudence they are to be led through the dangers of their first entrance into the world." * * _oedipus magdalensis_, in the college library. to speak now of the three remaining illustrations, the first shews the garden, reached from the quadrangle, the exterior of which forms the background of the picture. from here a good view is obtained of the new buildings, a stately eighteenth-century pile, which adjoin the deer park; a part of them, as well as of the deer park, is seen in mr. matthison's sketch. finally, he gives his impression of the college as seen at evening from the entrance of addison's walk, with the tower blue-grey against a paling sky. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] that walk, which commemorates "the famous mr. joseph addison," as esmond called him, was in part, at any rate, laid out in queen elizabeth's day; and here the future essayist may have often strolled and meditated, in the exercise of that gift of "a most profound silence" with which, half in jest, he credited himself. there stood in his time at the entrance of the water-walk an oak, which for centuries had been, according to chalmers, "the admiration of many generations." evelyn, the diarist, commemorates its huge proportions. it was overthrown by a storm in , and a chair made of its wood is preserved in the president's lodgings. magdalen in its time has welcomed many royal visitors, among them edward iv. in , and richard iii. in . richard was so pleased with the disputations provided for his entertainment that he presented the two protagonists (one of them was grocyn, the greek scholar) with a buck apiece and money as well. other guests were arthur, prince of wales, elder son of henry vii., and henry, son of james i., whose great promise was cut short by an early death. cromwell and fairfax dined at magdalen, when they received the degree of d.c.l. in , and, instead of hearing the usual disputations, played at bowls upon the college green. meanwhile the college had educated its fair share of prominent men: wolsey; colet, afterwards dean of st. paul's; cardinal pole; william tyndale, translator of the bible; lyly, whose euphues gave a name to a certain style of writing; and john hampden. a notable president ( ) was dr. laurence humphrey, who was among the genevan exiles in queen mary's time. on his return he retained the genevan dislike for ecclesiastical vestments, but was persuaded to wear them on the occasion of queen elizabeth's visit to oxford. "mr. doctor," said the queen, who was aware of his usual practice, "that loose gown becomes you mighty well. i wonder your notions should be so narrow." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the life of a college is in general self-contained, but in the last year of james ii.'s reign magdalen becomes for a time the centre of a constitutional struggle. there is no more glorious page in her annals. james ii. had done his best to turn university college into a roman catholic seminary, and had made a professor of that religion dean of christ church. he now sought to impose upon the fellows of magdalen a president of his own choosing, one farmer, a papist, and a man of known bad character. the fellows replied by electing one of their own number, john hough, upon which they were cited before the court of high commission and bullied by judge jeffreys, while houghs election was declared invalid. farmer was so generally discredited that the king did not press his claims, but shortly afterwards nominated in his stead dr. parker, bishop of oxford. when the fellows respectfully refused to accept him, hough and twenty-six fellows were forcibly ejected, as well as many of the "demies" (or scholars) who sympathised with their action. parker died after a few months' tenure of office, when james named gifford, a roman catholic, as his successor. it was only in october , when moved to terror by the declaration of william of orange, that the king, among other concessions, cancelled gifford's appointment and restored dr. hough and the ejected fellows. but then, as we know, all concessions were too late. hough remained president until . during the eighteenth century magdalen was not exempt from the general somnolence which pervaded the university. gibbon's residence there was cut short by his becoming a roman catholic. his harsh judgment of the college, warped as it was, cannot be entirely refuted. famous nineteenth-century members of magdalen were robert lowe, lord selborne, charles reade, and professor mozley. at present it does not look as if the charge of inactivity could ever again be preferred against waynflete's foundation. brasenose college [illustration: ] |the first thing about this college to excite a stranger's curiosity is its name. the explanation is trivial enough. brasenose hall (which was in existence in the thirteenth century and became brasenose college in ) was so called from the brass knocker--the head of a lion with a very prominent nose--which adorned its gateway. in the members of the hall, from whatever reason, migrated into lincolnshire, taking the knocker with them, and set up their rest at stamford. "there is in stamford," wrote antony wood, "a building in st. paul's parish, near to one of the tower gates, called brazenose to this day, and has a great gate, and a wicket, upon which wicket is a head or face of old cast brass, with a ring through the nose thereof. it had also a fair refectory within, and is at this time written in leases and deeds brazen nose." this building was bought by "b. n. c." (to adopt oxford phraseology) in , and the knocker brought back to oxford, none the worse for its prolonged rustication. the college named after this venerable relic owes its foundation to a pair of friends, william smyth, bishop of lincoln, and sir richard sutton of sutton, in the county of cheshire, an ecclesiastically-minded layman, who became steward of the monastery of sion, near brentford. "unmarried himself," the knight's biographer informs us, "and not anxious to aggrandize his family, sir richard sutton bestowed handsome benefactions and kind remembrances among his kinsmen; but he wedded the public, and made posterity his heir." the college which grew up under the personal supervision of these two friends, occupies the ground on which stood no less than eight halls: a fact which seems to shew that these institutions were not large in bulk. the founders purchased brasenose hall, little university hall, salisbury hall, with st. marys entry--a picturesque lane, which appears in the first of mr. matthison's illustrations; and five more. tennyson's phrase, "the tumult of the halls," must have been peculiarly applicable in mediaeval oxford. distinctly mediaeval were the statues of the new foundation; those who drew them up adhered to the training of the schoolmen, and made no provision for the new learning. when john claymond, first president of corpus, endowed six scholarships at brasenose (in ), he stipulated that the scholars appointed should attend the lectures of the latin and greek readers of his own college. however, brasenose had her own lecturers in these humaner studies, before the century was out. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] if one would see the front quadrangle as the founders viewed it, when the last stones from headington quarries were put in their places, he must imagine it deprived of its third tier of windows and its parapet, for these are jacobean additions. the alteration, so far as it affected the outside, can hardly have been for the better; for the additional storey has certainly dwarfed the proportions of the fine tower, which, with its gateway, is the most striking feature of the second picture. as to the interior of the quadrangle--sketched by mr. matthison from two points of view--it is less easy to form an opinion; the dormer windows are so quaintly ornamental that the severest critic may hesitate to wish them gone. architecture of a totally different order meets the eye when the inner quadrangle is reached, as a glance at the final illustration proves; for the italian style is much in evidence. the foundation stone of the present chapel, which represented an older one, was laid in , and tradition attributes the design of it, as well as that of the library, to sir christopher wren, who was then quite a young man. its windows are gothic, but the corinthian pilasters and the general idea of the structure shew that the architect's adherence was divided between the older and newer methods. the ceiling is elaborately carved in fanwork tracery. the library stands between the chapel and the south side of the quadrangle. there is a curious regulation in the statutes directing that each volume it contained should be described in the catalogue by the first word on the second leaf. the reason of this is that the first leaf, being often splendidly illuminated, was liable to be torn out by dishonest borrowers; and as it was important to be able to identify a book, this could best be done by noting the first word on the second page, because it would very seldom happen that two copyists would begin that page with the same word. hence the initial word of the second leaf of a manuscript would in all probability mark that individual copy and no other. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] famous members of brasenose college were foxe, the historian of the martyrs; robert burton, author of the _anatomy of melancholy_--we may be sure _he_ used the library; john marston, satirist and dramatist, who, along with ben jonson and chapman, was thrown into prison for vilifying the scotch in _eastward ho_; sir henry savile, afterwards warden of merton, founder of the savilian professorship of astronomy; bishop heber; henry hart milman, the historian; and more noted cricketers and oarsmen than we have space to mention. nowell, dean of st. paul's, was chosen principal of the college when in his ninetieth year, but resigned after two months of office. that was in the sixteenth century. corpus christi college |corpus--as this college is universally known among oxford men--was founded in , during the days of the "new learning," by richard foxe, bishop of winchester. zealous for education, he took care that greek as well as latin should be taught to his scholars, appointing two "readers" in those tongues, whose lectures were to be open to the whole university. when, therefore, in corpus endowed the new latin professorship, it was acting in the spirit of its founder. that spirit, indeed, has animated the college throughout its history, for hard work (by no means divorced from athletic excellence) is traditional at corpus. bishop foxes plate and crozier are still among the treasures of his foundation. the first illustration shews the exterior of the college. above the gateway a curious piece of sculpture represents "angels bearing the host," or corpus christi, in a monstrance; on either side is a shield, the one engraved with foxe's arms, the other with those of his see. the second picture gives the interior of the front quadrangle. it is perhaps not too fanciful to suggest that the solidity and simplicity of the architecture are in keeping with the characteristics which experience has taught us to look for in corpus men. a touch of variety is given by the ancient cylindrical dial, constructed in by sir charles turnbull, a fellow. it is surmounted by the effigy of a pelican, a bird dear to corpus. another stone pelican, by the way, broods over the library roof at wadham. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] jewel and hooker among theologians, and stowell and tenterden among lawyers, belonged to bishop foxes college. here, too, was trained oglethorpe, philanthropist and founder of georgia, whom pope chose as a type of "strong benevolence of soul" and j ohnson loved to honour; and here were passed in close friendship the undergraduate days of arnold and keble, who, though later estranged by differences of opinion on religious questions, still retained their old personal regard. christ church |if magdalen is the most beautiful of oxford colleges, christ church is assuredly the most magnificent. building was one of the favourite pursuits of cardinal wolsey, first founder of christ church, as it was of wykeham and waynflete before him: it is almost mysterious how men of this type, who had the highest affairs of the state as well as of the church upon their shoulders, found so much leisure to devote to architecture. wolsey's plans were cut short by his fall from power, but he had already shewn by his completed palace in whitehall and by hampton court, which he built as a present for his sovereign, the grandeur and largeness of his ideas. out of the revenues of suppressed monasteries he had designed to establish a college far larger and far more richly endowed than any of its predecessors; and three sides of the great quadrangle had arisen before he fell upon adversity. then the king stopped the work, and for a century the unfinished structure stood as a reminder of vaulting ambition, that o'erleaps itself, and falls o' the other side. yet wolsey had a public as well as a private ambition. he loved learning, and desired to promote it: he sought to save the church by rearing instructed ministers for her service. if he failed, it was a noble failure; for though henry viii., who now assumed the title of founder, sanctioned an establishment less wide and generous than wolsey proposed, even so the new college easily surpassed all others in the scale of its endowments. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the finest view of christ church from without is that which is obtained from st. aidates street, and is shewn in mr. matthison's first drawing. "tom" tower, which forms the centre of the façade, was not part of the original scheme, but was added in , when dr. john fell was dean. the college owes a debt of gratitude to dr. fell for employing wren as his architect, if for nothing else. wolseys gate, which was no higher than the two smaller towers between which his statue stands, might easily have been spoilt by a less skilful designer, but wren added to its beauty, and made it one of the finest structures in oxford. the tower is named after the great bell which it contains, brought from osney abbey. every night "tom" tolls a curfew of a hundred and one strokes at nine o'clock, and at the closing stroke all college gates are shut and all undergraduates supposed to be within their college walls. dr. john fell, by the way, is the dr. fell whom the epigrammatist disliked without being able to assign a cause. his pictures shew a forbidding countenance enough, but he deserved well of his college and the university. in addition to the tower, he completed the front towards st. aidates, fostered the university press, and did his best to make examinations a reality. he planted also the elms of the broad walk, a beautiful avenue which custom has decreed as the regulation promenade on "show sunday" (in commemoration week); but within the last twenty years storms have made havoc of the trees, and little of the walk's former beauty remains. the great quadrangle--"tom quad." in oxford parlance--dwarfs by its large dimensions all the other courts of oxford. the arches and rib-mouldings indicate the original intention of the first builders, which was to surround the quadrangle with a cloister. as it is, though this design was never carried out, the impression conveyed is one of great splendour. never is the appearance of "tom quad." more effective than at the moment when the white-robed congregation comes out of the cathedral doors. all undergraduates of "the house" wear surplices--worn by scholars only, save here and at keble--and the cathedral is their chapel. mr. matthison has chosen such a moment for his drawing, when the quadrangle is in a moment flooded by the white surplices, varied here and there by the crimson hood of a master or a doctor's scarlet robes. on the left of the drawing appears the cathedral spire; in the centre the belfry tower, a solid and handsome structure put up in dean liddell's day; and on the right the windows and pinnacles of the hall. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] to approach the hall one passes through the archway at the south-east corner of the quadrangle, and ascends a wide staircase notable for the wonderful fanwork tracery of the ceiling. this tracery dates from the time of dean samuel fell (father of dr. john fell), and was completed in ; it appears in mr. matthison's fourth drawing. the hall itself (which is the subject of the next illustration) has no rival in oxford and no superior in england, westminster hall only excepted. it measures feet by , and is feet in height. the window above the dais contains full length stained-glass representations of wolsey, more, erasmus, colet, and other great men of the reformation era; and the walls are hung with a very fine collection of portraits, including those of henry viii. and wolsey (by holbein), deans aldrich and atterbury (by kneller), charles wesley (by romney), george canning (by lawrence), gladstone (by millais), "lewis carroll" (by herkomer), and dean liddell (by watts). [illustration: ] [illustration: ] there is still much of christ church to explore, as the remaining illustrations indicate. from merton street one approaches "the house" by canterbury gate, which opens upon the small canterbury quadrangle (erected towards the end of the eighteenth century). beyond is peckwater quadrangle, built in after the italian model, on the site of peckwater's inn. the black and crumbling walls of this quadrangle are in striking contrast to the smooth surface of "tom quad.," but in the summer term, when every window is gay with flowers, the gloom of peckwater is forgotten. on the right hand is the library, which, beside books, contains an interesting collection of paintings of the early italian schools. the outlook from the meadow buildings ( ), which includes the broad walk, the long walk, and glimpses of the river, is a pleasant one, though the buildings themselves are not, from the outside, particularly attractive. some of the famous sons of christ church have already been incidentally mentioned. as might be expected from its numerous muster-roll, it has had members who attained distinction in every walk of life; but statistics seem to shew that there is something in the atmosphere of "the house" peculiarly favourable to the growth of statesmen. no other college, at any rate, has given england three premiers in succession, mr. gladstone (a double first), lord salisbury, and lord rosebery. to make an exhaustive list might weary the reader, but the honoured name of sir robert peel must at least be mentioned. strenuous as were these men's labours in after-life, it is permissible to fancy that amid the pleasant surroundings of their student days they did not altogether "scorn delights." here, for instance, is an extract from the diary kept by charles wesley when an undergraduate: "wrote to v.--translated--played an hour at billiards." there is no harm in supposing "v." a girl, if we choose. how strangely runs the little list of wesley's day, like isis rippling, while yet the mighty methodist 'mid striplings merry made, a stripling. to quote the words of an anonymous rhymer. again, the expounding of mathematics term after term is a sober pursuit enough, yet c. l. dodgson, mathematical tutor of christ church, had leisure to be "lewis carroll" also, the nursery classic, the delight of children of all ages. the serious purpose of john ruskin, who as the anonymous "oxford graduate" took the art world by storm, could not extinguish his lambent humour. it is a part of the genius of christ church to keep alive a certain sunshine of the mind. let us hope that this was the case even with her austerer thinkers; with locke, who was forced to leave the college on account of his whig opinions; with william penn, who was sent down for nonconformity--you will find sunshine as well as shadow in his little volume, _some fruits of solitude_, which he is thought to have composed, partly at any rate, in prison; and with dr. pusey, as he searched for the way of perfection among the dusty folios of patristic lore. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] trinity college |trinity college was founded by sir thomas pope, a rich lawyer, in . the site was previously occupied by durham college, a now extinct foundation, which existed for the training of students from the benedictine monastery of durham. there is much that is admirable about the buildings and grounds of trinity; and its position is so little secluded that anyone passing down broad street or parks road can hardly help noticing its beauties. the first illustration shews the college as seen from broad street. in the foreground are the handsome wrought-iron gates--there is a companion pair at the verge of the garden, in parks road--beyond which is the square entrance tower leading to the small quadrangle, decorated by four figures representing astronomy, geometry, divinity, and medicine. the old cottage buildings on the right of the porter's lodge, facing broad street, which are now used as college rooms, are in striking contrast with the new buildings designed by mr. t. g. jackson, r.a., and finished in ; these are some of the last century's most successful additions to ancient oxford. the chapel has an unwonted fragrance, for the wainscot is of cedar; it is famous also for its carving, being in this particular one of the best examples of the work of grinling gibbons. the hall has an unusually good collection of portraits. of all the buildings the buttery is probably the most ancient. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the second illustration, taken from parks road, shews a part of the garden, with the inner quadrangle in the background; this latter is built in the italian manner, after wren's design. the costume of the loiterers in the garden, of both sexes, suggests that mr. matthison painted his picture on some warm day of spring. on such a day it is pleasant to fleet the time carelessly amid such scenes as these; nor must the beautiful lime tree walk escape mention, whose pleached boughs form a continuous archway of foliage. trinity can point to a remarkably long list of distinguished members, of whom it may suffice to name here the poets lodge and denham, harrington (author of _oceana_), chatham, professor freeman, bishop stubbs, and richard burton. but burtons stay was a short one; he heard already "the call of the wild." st. john's college [illustration: ] |archbishop chichele's college of st. bernard, established by him in and suppressed by henry viii., occupied the site of what is now st. john's college. one reminder of the older foundation is the statue of st. bernard, which still stands in the tower over the gateway. this gateway, sketched from st. giles', forms the subject of the second illustration. the hall and chapel too, though much altered in later times, were in the first instance used by the cistercians. st. john's was founded by sir thomas white, lord mayor of london, in . his portrait hangs in the hall, as well as those of laud and juxon, successively presidents of the college and archbishops of canterbury, and that of george iii. st. john's was devoted to the stuart cause, so it may be supposed that the likeness of the hanoverian king was not hung without compunctions on the part of senior members. the library contains a portrait of charles i., and statues of him and of his queen face each other in the inner quadrangle. reference has been already made to the second illustration. the first shews the exterior of the front quadrangle, sketched from within the walled row of elm trees. this quadrangle was only finished in , when its eastern side (facing the gateway) was built. the inner quadrangle, which was begun at the same date and completed in the first half of the seventeenth century, is, from an architectural point of view, of unusual interest. the visitor may naturally inquire what two classical colonnades are doing in a gothic quadrangle. there is no more satisfactory reply than that the architect, inigo jones, made a somewhat bold experiment, combining italian reminiscences with a gothic scheme. individual taste may determine how far he was successful; probably most critics will admire the colonnades in themselves, but think them out of place where they are. laud furnished the funds for inigo jones' work, but happily the pair excluded the italian element from their garden front, which is certainly one of the most beautiful things in oxford. diverse as are the judgments which have been passed upon laud's character and actions, there cannot be two opinions as to the beauty and fitness of this building, nor could any head of a college desire a worthier memorial. coming up to st. john's as a scholar in , laud became president in , and on the completion of his new buildings had the honour of receiving king charles i. and queen henrietta maria as his guests. full of stress as his life was, and tragic as was its end, his most peaceful hours were probably passed within the walls of the foundation which his generosity did so much to adorn. his body, which had been buried in london after his execution, was brought to st. john's at the restoration, and laid to rest, as he had desired, beneath the altar in the chapel. the library contains a valuable collection of ecclesiastical vestments which are said to be his gift. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the third and fourth illustrations shew the north and south ends of the garden front. the open window in mrs. waltons sketch is that of the room occupied by laud. the garden is among the most delightful in oxford; and for beauty and diversity of flowers it certainly bears the palm. like the garden at wadham, it was formerly laid out in the stiff dutch style. sir thomas white, the founder, was a member of the guild of merchant taylors; and a considerable number of the scholarships are given to members of that company's london school. [illustration: ] jesus college |jesus college since its birth in has always been closely connected with wales. queen elizabeth, who did not forget her welsh ancestry, and "took no scorn," perhaps, "to wear the leek upon saint tavy's day," was willing to accept from hugh price, its actual originator, the honorary title of founder. the college possesses three portraits of this sovereign, as well as pictures of charles i. and charles ii. (who were benefactors). the buildings are in the late gothic style. the two illustrations shew different aspects of the front quadrangle, which conveys an impression of beauty and restfulness. the chapel is interesting. above the entrance is a latin inscription, signifying "may prayer ascend, may grace descend." within are the tombs of dr. henry maurice, professor of divinity, ; sir edward stradling, a colonel in charles i.'s army, ; and several principals of the college:--dr. francis mansell, who held that office three times; sir eubule thelwall, principal from to ; and sir leoline jenkins, appointed in . first appointed in , dr. mansell resigned the following year in favour of thelwall, who had completed the building of the college. his second term of office was cut short in commonwealth days, but he was reinstated at the restoration; the only head of a college, perhaps, who underwent such repeated vicissitudes. sir leoline jenkins did much to repair the damages which the college suffered in the civil wars. the service in the chapel on wednesday and friday evenings is entirely in the welsh language. distinguished members in the past of jesus college were henry vaughan, the poet; "beau nash," the arbiter of fashion in bath; lloyd of st. asaph, one of "the seven bishops"; and j. r. green, the historian. were sir hugh evans and fluellen, those embodiments of welsh humours, suggested by jesus men? we may think so, if we will; for shakespeare is known to have visited oxford, and is quite as likely to have picked up his welshmen there as anywhere else. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] wadham college |it can only be conjectured how long the vision of a stately building which, like absalom's pillar, should preserve the memory of his childless house, haunted the vacant hours of nicholas wadham of merifield, in the county of somerset. what is certain is that death cut short his day-dreams, and that he committed the accomplishment of his design to his wife dorothy. this remarkable woman was seventy-five years of age when the task devolved upon her. she assumed its responsibilities to such good purpose that within three years the college which bears her name was completed. the members of the first foundation were admitted in , and the foundress lived some five years more. wadham is one of the most perfect specimens of late gothic architecture in existence. no alteration whatever has taken place in the front quadrangle since its erection; only, where the stones have crumbled, they have been cunningly replaced. the chapel, though perpendicular, was erected at the same time as the other buildings. the late mr. j. h. parker made the reasonable suggestion that the architect desired to emphasise by this variation of style the religious and secular uses of the several structures. wadham, whether viewed from parks road or from its own delightful gardens, is a veritable joy to the beholder, as our illustrations indicate. the hall, moreover, which is one of the finest in oxford and contains a large collection of portraits, should not be neglected, nor the interior of the chapel, with the sombre grandeur of its stained windows and "prophets blazoned on the panes." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] wadham's early prosperity received a check in civil war times, when its plate was melted down for the king and its warden driven out by the roundheads. yet wilkins, its new warden, did not abuse his trust; and, thanks to his interest in science, it was within the walls of this college that the idea of the royal society was conceived. wadham has not lacked famous members, of diverse professions and highly divergent opinions. there is admiral blake, whose statue watches to-day over his native bridgewater; wilmot, earl of rochester, who was made master of arts at fourteen; onslow, speaker of the house of commons; lord westbury, whose inscription in the ante-chapel tells us that he "dated all his success in life from the time when he was elected a scholar of wadham at the age of fifteen"; dean church among ecclesiastics and dr. congreve among positivists. finally, there is sir christopher wren, whose name has been kept to the end in order that there may be coupled with it the name of mr. t. g. jackson, r.a.; for these two architects, both sons of wadham, have left impressions which deserve to be indelible upon the oxford that we know. pembroke college |pembroke dates its collegiate life from , but it had already existed and flourished for several centuries as broadgates hall. it owed its rise in the world to the benefactions of thomas tesdale and richard wightwick, burgesses of abingdon, who desired to endow a college for the benefit of their native town, and its new name to the earl of pembroke, then chancellor of oxford. thomas browne, who was later to be the author of _religio medici_, being senior commoner of the hall at this epoch, delivered a latin oration at the opening ceremony, in which he did not fail to employ the metaphor of the phoenix rising out of its ashes. architecturally, pembroke is a little put out of countenance by the neighbouring glories of christ church; nevertheless, the interior of the inner quadrangle ("the grass quad.," as it is called), which is the subject of the first illustration, possesses an irregular but restful beauty. up and down its staircases trod george whitefield, who, as a servitor, had the ungrateful duty of seeing that the students were in their rooms at a fixed hour; yet not one syllable of discontent with so humble a vocation disfigures the pages of his diary. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] on the right hand, as one enters the front quadrangle, is the library, formerly the refectory of broadgates hall, and the only surviving part of that institution. the chapel, renovated and decorated by mr. c. e. kempe in , should be visited. the view of the gateway possesses an added interest from the fact that samuel j ohnson, when an undergraduate of pembroke, lodged in a room in the second storey over the entrance. johnson ever retained an affection for his university and college, but it is to be feared that during his residence of fourteen months poverty and ill-health combined to make him far from happy. to others, perhaps, he appeared "gay and frolicsome," bent on entertaining his companions and keeping them from their studies, but to boswell he gave a different explanation. "ah, sir," he said, "i was mad and violent. it was bitterness which they mistook for frolic. i was miserably poor, and i thought to fight my way by my literature and my wit, so i disregarded all power and all authority." in a more cheerful, mood he spoke of pembroke as "a nest of singing birds"; and it is on record that he cut lectures to go sliding on christ church meadow. dr. johnson is pembroke's most famous son; but she can also point to the names of francis beaumont, john pym, shenstone, blackstone, and birkbeck hill, boswell's greatest editor. worcester college [illustration: ] |worcester college is the successor to gloucester hall, a hostel of the benedictine order founded in the thirteenth century. this hall was originally designed for students from the monastery at gloucester, but was soon thrown open to other benedictine houses. suppressed at the reformation, it was called back to life in elizabeth's reign by sir thomas white, who had already shewn his zeal for education by founding st. john's college, and for several generations had a successful career. among its distinguished members may be mentioned thomas allen, mathematician; sir kenelm digby, the romantic wooer of the brilliant and high-spirited venetia stanley; and richard lovelace, the cavalier poet. at the restoration bad times came, and gloucester hall, like the earlier hertford college of a subsequent age, seemed likely to perish of inanition. at this crisis there stepped in a benefactor, sir thomas crookes of worcestershire, with a bequest of £ , ; and the transformed hall was known, from onwards, as worcester college. worcester is comparatively at some distance from the other colleges, a fact on which undergraduate humour loves to dwell; but jests on this subject reflect rather on the poor walking powers of those who make them. at any rate, a "well-girt" visitor to oxford need not hesitate to take the journey, and will certainly find his pains rewarded, for worcester has much to show that is of interest, and much that is beautiful. the first view gives the interior of the front quadrangle. the buildings here are stately and dignified, if a little cold; they are obviously of the same date as those overlooking the deer-park of magdalen, and suggest the genius of the eighteenth century. there could hardly be a greater contrast to these than the ancient structures which are at the left hand of the quadrangle, as one enters; for these old buildings take us back to the monastic days of gloucester hall. a glimpse of them, as viewed from the garden, is given in the second illustration. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the garden itself is delightful, and has, alone of oxford pleasances, the additional feature of a lake. mr. matthison's drawing shows how beautiful this lake and its surroundings can be, when the colours are newly laid on by the brush of summer. hertford college |hertford college consists of an anomalous collection of buildings, of various styles and dates. the eye rests with most pleasure on the jacobean part of the quadrangle, opposite the gateway. one view gives the interior of the quadrangle--in which is a sloping stairway reminiscent of a larger one of the same type in blois castle, the other shews the college from without, and includes the new buildings recently finished. this medley of structures is suggestive of the vicissitude through which the college has passed. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] so far back as the thirteenth century it was in existence as hart hall; and here the students of exeter and new college were successively lodged, while their own colleges were building. rightly or wrongly, exeter college claimed the ownership of hart hall for four centuries; but in the then principal of the hall, dr. newton, was successful in asserting its independence, and hart hall became hertford college. the endowments, however, were insignificant; the members fell off and the walls (or a part of them) fell down; and in a commission declared that hertford college no longer existed. about this time magdalen hall, which stood close to magdalen college, was burned down, and the university allotted the buildings of hertford to its roofless inhabitants; and the name of hertford was changed to magdalen hall. the final transformation came in , when hertford college, its title revived by act of parliament, was endowed by mr. baring, the banker. thus, with finances very different to the slender endowments of dr. newton's time, the college began a new era of prosperity. the famous selden was at hart hall, and charles james fox at hertford; the old magdalen hall bred william tyndale, sir matthew hale, lord clarendon, and thomas hobbes, author of _leviathan_. keble college |membership of this college is restricted to those who belong to the church of england. another primary purpose of keble is to provide a less expensive education than that afforded by other colleges. at the moment when the scheme was formulated died john keble, author of the christian year, and it was decided to name the new foundation after him, at once as a tribute to his memory and in order to enlist the active sympathies of his many admirers. an appeal for funds met with a liberal and widespread response, and keble college was opened in the michaelmas term of . [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the external appearance of keble is not commonly admired. it is a pleasanter task to dwell for a moment on the beauty of the interior of the chapel, which was presented by mr. william gibbs, and completed in . the visitor will be struck by the noble proportions of this edifice, its finely toned windows and its elaborate mosaics. a small ante-chapel contains holman hunts celebrated picture--the light of the world, presented by mrs. combe. keble soon took its place among the other colleges, both in work and play. it has a splendid hall and library, given by the gibbs family. in accordance with the economy of the scheme, the rooms of the undergraduates are small, and all meals are taken in common in hall. there is consequently more of the air of a public school about keble than is looked for in ordinary college life. its first warden, dr. talbot, is now bishop of southwark. "_the wealth of youth, we spent it well and decently, as very few can. and is it lost? i cannot tell: and what is more i doubt if you can._" hilaire belloc. years of plenty by ivor brown london martin secker number five john street adelphi _first published _ contents book one: school book two: university book one school i life seemed to martin leigh, as he gazed at the wooden walls of his cubicle, very overwhelming: there were so many things to remember. he had lived through his first day as a boarder at a public school and at length he had the great joy of knowing that for nine hours there would be nothing to find out. he seemed to have been finding things out ever since seven o'clock that morning: finding out his form and his form master, his desk at school and his desk in the house, his place in chapel and his place at meals, his hours of work and his field for play. he had moved in a world of mystery, a world of doors which had to be opened and of locks which had to be picked. it had been terrifying work, this probing of places. all day martin had been shown things by formidable people in a hustling, inadequate way: he had been far too awed by the majesty of his conductors to ask any questions and he realised now that he had forgotten nearly all that he had been told. he knew that he was in the lower fifth, classical, and that his form master was a renowned terror: he knew also that he was supposed to play football with the other small boys of his house in a muddy-looking field some distance away. but his place in chapel ... that had vanished entirely from his mind. and to-morrow morning he would either have to pluck up his scanty courage and make a fool of himself by asking one of the formidable people, or else trust to luck and probably make an even greater fool of himself by wandering disconsolate in the aisle. he was vague also as to the locality of the lower fifth classroom: there was, indeed, one other member of that form in the house, but he was a gigantic, moustachioed person, a man of weight in the football world: to approach him would be impossible. martin came to the conclusion that not only would chapel make him notorious for life, but that he would also get lost in school and reach his classroom late: then he would come in blushing, amidst the smiles of the superior. and the terror would not rage and swear like a gentleman: he would smile, as he had smiled that morning, and make a little joke. life was undoubtedly overwhelming. and there were other no less cruel facts to face. his collars were all wrong. all the other new boys, he had noticed, wore eton collars: these, apparently, should be retained for a few terms, until the owner considered himself sufficiently dignified for 'stick-ups.' martin, who was fourteen and tall for his age, had been sent to school with 'stick-ups' and no eton collars. he saw at once the horrid nature of his offence: it was side of the first degree, involuntary side, but who would know that, much less conjecture it? the new boys, as timid as himself, had of course said nothing, but he had observed the smiles and queer looks of the people about a year older, who had themselves only just assumed the emblem of position. it was a very awkward and bothering occurrence, and he had already written home for others to be sent as soon as possible. in reality martin was more worried about this than about all the information he had forgotten. what made him dread the morrow with a fear he had never known before was not so much the possibility of his wandering about school and chapel like a lost sheep, but the certainty that he would be dressed in open defiance of all the sartorial traditions of elfrey school. martin tried to console himself with the reflection that nothing could now deprive him of nine hours' peace. he was glad that he was allowed a cubicle and could enjoy a certain amount of privacy: he had anticipated a large, bare room with rows of beds and the continual shower, so dear to the books of his youth, of hurtling slippers and sponges. instead he had found a comfortable dormitory with a broad passage separating two rows of nine wooden-sided cubicles. as far as he could gather most of the boys adorned their cubicles with family photographs, presumably because they were content with a hasty glance at their parents and sisters during the shamefully few seconds in which the acts of washing and dressing were completed: their actresses they pinned inside their workroom desks, or, if they were study owners, hung on their walls so that the long watches of the day were not uncomforted. it struck martin that here was another gap: he had not brought with him any family photographs, and he expected that to seem unfilial would be very bad form: nor had he a favourite actress. he would have, he saw, to ask for his family photographs to be sent with the eton collars and the sardines, which he had discovered at tea to be essential to the good life. the actress problem could be dealt with later. the rules of the dormitory were strict. lights were turned out at ten and no one could leave his cubicle without permission. no talking was allowed after 'lights out.' but to-night things were disorganised. in the first place, moore was the prefect on duty, an occurrence which usually meant that no one was on duty, for it was moore's habit to go back to his study to find a book and then to forget about returning. and besides it was only natural that at the beginning of term discipline should not be established in all its accustomed rigour. everyone, except the six new boys, had plenty to say, and in the prolonged absence of moore they passed freely about from cubicle to cubicle. it was already a quarter past ten. martin, of course, lay quietly in bed gazing at the cracks in the plaster above him and wondering how long it would be before the lights went out and sleep became possible. his thoughts shifted painfully from chapel to collars, from collars to the lower fifth. this invasion of a new world which had seemed only a week ago to be so supreme an adventure was nothing but a nuisance and an agony. his sole comfort lay in the reflection that bed, even a hard, knobbly, school bed is an excellent place: here at least there was nothing to find out. suddenly he realised that a conversation was in progress close to the curtain of his cubicle. cullen, his neighbour in the dormitory, was talking to a friend called neave: already he had marked them both as giants of a year's standing, youthful bloods of surpassing glory. "i've got a ripping photo of sally savoy," said cullen. "she's a bit of fluff for you," answered neave. "yes, by gum. my brother at sandhurst told me a grand story about her." "what was it?" "it's jolly hot stuff." "all the better. let's have it." then cullen launched out. martin, who could not help overhearing every word, understood the beginning of the tale, but just when neave's exclamation betrayed the listener's thrill, he found it unintelligible. and later on there was the recitation of a limerick which he could not at all understand. it was not that anything deeply wicked was related, but martin had been a day boy at his private school and had only received a vague impression of the ways of nature and of man. never before had it struck him how confused and ignorant he was. then a mighty voice roared: "what the deuce are you all playing at?" numerous forms in more or less advanced stages of nudity started like rabbits to their proper cubicles, while moore bellowed in the doorway. if it had been anyone but moore there would have been a row: but moore was an angel and never did anything but shout. the lights were turned down and the voices died away. cullen took one lingering glance at sally before he put her away and said his prayers: neave, having ended his supplications, lay chuckling quietly in bed. martin began to feel acutely miserable. in spite of all his hopes that the dormitory would bring him peace, he had only come across another door which had to be opened. there was no escape: he would have to find out, for he might be expected to join in one of these conversations and then he would be shown up. he would have to discover some decent new boy and question him tactfully. it would be embarrassing: it would be perfect hell: but it would be inevitable. he began to wish he was back in devonshire, at home. god, how he loathed life and elfrey and sally savoy: he wanted ... but just when, in spite of the promptings of conscience, he was yielding to the soft embrace of sentiment and memory, sleep saved the situation. ii it is one of the world's happiest phenomena that pessimism, by creating expectations gloomier far than any possible event, destroys by that very process its _raison d'être_. for martin the future had, almost of necessity, to be brighter than its promise. he was pushed into his right place in chapel and found his way, without undue meandering, to the lower fifth classroom: he even appeased the terror by his ability to explain the history of the genitive case in greek. a schoolmaster's lot is hard enough without his making it worse, and the terror sensibly seized any opportunity of investing his work with an element of real interest. with the bloods who found higher progress impossible and remained to clog the lower fifth, it was always routine: but martin had come with a scholarship and was capable of an ingenious and tasteful turn in translation. he was obviously a boy in whom an interest could be taken, and the terror warmed to him even to the extent of abandoning the sardonic humour on which he so prided himself. according to all the best traditions of scholastic fiction, martin should have been unpopular for this reason, but as a matter of fact the bloods were far too bored with the terror and all his works, and far too contemptuous of all clever kids and 'sweat-guts,' to take the least notice of what happened: or, if they did take notice, they were not going to give themselves away by showing it. the collar problem had been the hardest to face, and martin still longed eagerly for the etons to arrive. as for the question of neave, cullen, and sally savoy, he found that here too his fears had been exaggerated. most of the smaller boys did not talk on this subject: neave and cullen turned out to be remote and superior creatures: by their well-oiled hair and exquisite variety of ties and socks and handkerchiefs they revealed the majesty of their doggishness. but martin was not prepared to run any risks: he became intimate with the most imposing of the new boys, one caruth, and plied him with questions. he saw plainly that it was an ordeal which had to be gone through if he was ever to attain peace of mind, and consequently he bravely endured caruth's surprise at the deficiencies in his knowledge. martin had foolishly begun by hinting that he really knew a good deal and only wanted a few supplementary details, but he soon discovered that he was giving himself most terribly away. then he broke down and confessed his ignorance. "you are a kid," said caruth. "you with your stick-ups!" "well, it's not my fault," protested martin. thereupon caruth became very patronising and talked to him at length, telling him much that was true and more that was false: he also gave information as to suitable passages in shakespeare and the bible for the confirmation of theory. at first martin was sickened and disgusted by his investigations, but his sense of repulsion was soon outweighed by the consideration that another barrier had been broken down and that now he could join in conversation, if need be, without that gnawing fear of being shown up. caruth had the decency not to betray martin's ignorance to the other new boys. martin was in berney's house. berney's had a reputation for mediocrity--that is to say, it rarely won many challenge cups, and those which it did hold were gained more often by individuals than by teams. berney's usually had some brilliant athletes, but it never succeeded in training good sides. occasionally at the bidding of a conscientious prefect it made an effort; but its efforts were nearly always in vain. berney's had a lofty contempt for pot-hunting, which the other houses of course attributed to jealousy. when martin came to berney's the house was in its usual state: two of the prefects, jamieson and parker, were very clever men but indifferent athletes: the other two, moore and leopard, were brilliant athletes and not at all clever. the house as a whole was listless and apathetic, and there was a healthy spirit of tolerance resulting in the formation of groups. there was a doggish group, which discussed socks and hair oil and other more exciting things, a young athletic group, a group of 'sweat-guts,' and a group of complete nullities. the new boys remained in a bunch until half-term and then began to drift to their appropriate circles. martin, reasoning from certain conversations at his private school, had been afraid that the new boys might have a rough time. nothing of the sort occurred. they were left very much alone and, as long as they put on no side, received quite reasonable treatment. in all his career at elfrey martin never saw a fight or a case of bullying: at times there would be a little playful ragging, and insolence usually met with its reward, but there was no systematic oppression. above all, the 'sweat-guts,' though they might be laughed at now and then, were never persecuted. at the end of this second week martin received two invitations to supper. one was from mrs berney, the other from mrs foskett, the headmaster's wife. mrs berney's hospitality came first. instead of going in to house tea and eating bread and butter and whatever else he chose to provide for himself, he went to the front part of the house with a clean collar (eton by now) and hair 'sloshed' down with copious water. there he met caruth and two others, all equally wet about the hair. they were fed with fried soles, cold tongue, meringues, tea, toast, and marmalade--not at all a bad business, thought martin, and well worth the previous exertions of the toilet. mr berney sat at the head of the table. he was a little, freckled man with a fair moustache: he had become a schoolmaster through despair and a housemaster through patience. his chief interest lay in natural history and botany, and he was never so happy as when he forgot all about the school and his house and tramped the surrounding country. he managed his house with a bare minimum of efficiency and was never loved and never hated. in the routine of teaching at school and administration at home he worked steadily, without mistakes and without enthusiasm. he said all that a housemaster ought to say about games and work and religion and moral tone without stopping to think whether it was desirable or even consistent, for he had long ago discovered that to start thinking would be to court anxiety, if not disaster. he lived, on the whole, for his holidays. at the other end of the table was his wife, small and dark and interesting. she it was who ran the house, not because she liked it, but because she worshipped her husband and knew that he loathed responsibility. she was popular with the boys, who could pardon her complete inability to understand games (a heinous sin in a housemaster's wife) because of her unfailing kindness and sympathy. she fed them well, as schools go, believed in culture, and used to gather select spirits to read poetry in her drawing-room. martin sat next to her and found her easy to talk to. she too was relieved, because she usually had to struggle with an athletic conversation, a prolonged torture in which she would cause horror and dismay by confusing half-backs and cover-points. but martin could talk about books and even pictures: she became interested and forgot to dole out meringues, until, reminded by her husband, she looked up and saw with shame the expectant faces of her guests. afterwards she took them to her comfortable drawing-room and talked on general school subjects: she kept them until she was certain that of this batch martin alone had possibilities. then she drove them to prep. the fosketts, as befitted a headmaster and his wife, were more formidable. to begin with, their hospitality involved, in addition to the clean collar and sloshed hair, the wearing of sunday clothes and the completion of prep in odd moments. the six new boys at berney's all went together, very timid and overwhelmed at the thought of being entertained by one so remote and so tremendous as the head. he was not in their eyes so infinitely great as llewelyn, the captain of football: but, distinctly, he counted. foskett was one of the new headmasters. he was young (elfrey figured early in the _cursus honorum_ of one who aspired to the greatest thrones), and he had declined to take holy orders. but, though fashionably sceptical about the hardest dogmas, he believed intensely in all the right things, in the classics and the empire and moral tone and the educational value of athletics and our duty to the poor and the need for personal service. consequently his name was already a byword with all the conscientious young men in london and at the universities who form quasi-religious clubs and believe that the world can be reformed by heartiness and committee meetings. foskett was a very able man, who knew quite well what he wanted and was determined to get it: being an englishman to the backbone, he combined an affection for the word duty with an invincible belief that duty, for him, always corresponded with his own particular ambitions. he was by no means a hypocrite: it simply never occurred to him that his policy of 'getting on' might be inconsistent with some of his moral ideals. while he had chosen to disguise the more unpalatable articles of faith with a sugary paste of scientific catch-words, he never questioned the absolute value of christian morality. he had married, characteristically, the daughter of a colonial bishop, a tall, gaunt woman with sparkling eyes and an immense capacity for enthusiasm. not only was she prepared to take up all her husband's causes, but she also took up him and worshipped at his shrine with a persistent and unflinching devotion. he represented for her all that was estimable: he was strong and wise and pure: he was just the man to mould the lives and ideals of the new generation, to make the finest religion and the finest patriotism vital forces in the school, and to pass through the richest headmasterships in england to a dignified old age as head of an oxford college. they were both of them supremely methodical, and she bore him a child every three years. naturally her guests were overwhelmed. while foskett looked quiet and authoritative and made bad jokes in a quaint, theoretic manner at the head of the table, his wife chattered and gushed and became vastly enthusiastic over house junior football teams and the personnel of next year's cricket eleven. her grasp of detail and statistics carried dismay even to boys. martin was glad that he was in the middle of the table and avoided the necessity of making conversation. "medio tutissimus ibis," he quoted to himself from that morning's 'trans' as he listened to caruth, who had used brilliantine instead of water and was eager to shine socially, answering her questions and assenting to her tremendous declamations. "isn't it splendid," said mrs foskett, "about the school athletics? when we first came here elfrey hardly ever won its school matches and now we never get beaten. fermor's play last summer was marvellous, positively marvellous. d'you know, he actually got fifty wickets for . and had a batting average of . he's sure to get a blue at cambridge. the last elfreyan to get a blue was staples: he made at lord's and was run out by an old etonian." "hard luck," said caruth. "i do think being run out is rotten." "are you a cricketer?" continued mrs foskett. "well, i was captain of my preparatory school," said caruth, assuming the humble voice and depreciatory smile that betoken a proper modesty. "but of course that's not much." "it's the best beginning. you're sure to play for the school before you're done." "oh, i don't suppose so," answered caruth. he felt it to be an inefficient answer and wondered, fingering his tie, what the ideal reply would have been. would 'oh, mrs foskett!' have been too familiar? then it turned out that caruth had been to murren for the winter sports. this was one of mrs foskett's well-known themes. her subjects included greece, switzerland, patriotism, sport, and the nobility. "oh, i think murren's so lovely," she began. "to be so high up, right above those wengen people. i love ski-ing. and the sun. and the glorious air. there's nothing like it. and such nice people. such really charming people. last winter we met lord and lady dalston. they're so interested in the personal side of social service. lord dalston has a club in the mile end road, and in the evenings he goes and sings there himself--such a beautiful voice. of course they don't get many people yet because of----" "the picture palaces," suggested caruth nobly. he thought it about time that he got a word in and was eager to excuse the scandalous absence of appreciation of lord dalston's art. "yes, those terrible places. and they do have such sensational films in the east end. i'm sure they have a bad influence. what the people really need is a drill hall with exercises and good music. i've been putting the case to lady dalston." "rather," said caruth, who was himself a staunch patron of the pictorial drama. and then he added: "i think national service would be a good thing for the poor." he had given mrs foskett her cue. she broke out into a triumph song in whose turbulent flow the words 'physique' and 'efficiency' came frequently rolling. she was careful to say that she was not a militantist and hated the thought of war, but she didn't see any harm in teaching people how to shoot one another if need be. "war's so educational," she ended. "brings out the strength of the nation." and then there floated from the other end of the table the throaty voice of the head as he told an antique jowett story, which had been picked up in his under-graduate days and always did good service when the flame of conversation flickered. martin, sitting silently in the middle of the table, concentrated on the supper. it was worth all the attention he gave it. he managed to consume a plate of soup, some fried sole, two sausages and bacon, one helping of trifle and one of fruit salad, and as much dessert and chocolate as came his way. the fosketts certainly understood the art of feeding. afterwards there was a feeble attempt made to play some games, but not even mrs foskett could overcome the self-consciousness of her guests. interest waned and the head's jokes became worse and worse. they were all relieved when the time came for departure. as they walked back caruth, who was secretly pleased with his conversational display, said loftily: "thank the lord that's over." martin answered: "i should think so. ghastly show." in reality he was thinking, 'ripping grub.' he was not a particularly greedy person, but elfrey air is keen and any growing boy can appreciate a solid meal about half-past six. martin was quite prepared, for his part, to change his clothes and undergo the ordeal of any company, even mrs foskett's, for the sake of a meal which included sausages and trifle. iii elfrey was one of the numerous public schools brought into existence by the sudden growth of the middle class during the nineteenth century. consequently it had neither money nor traditions. the lack of the former was a severe handicap and could only result in the scandalous underpayment of the masters and the abominable necessity of sending round the hat, which of course returned half empty, whenever the school needed a new building or playing-field. the absence of the latter was more wholesome. everyone had a hearty contempt for eton and harrow and winchester and considered that the fuss made about them was ridiculous. "we could have damped the lot at cricket last summer" was the general opinion, and it may have been correct, so great had fermor been. how far this attitude was based on mere jealousy, and how far it represented a sound distrust of top-hats, side, and antiquated customs, it would be difficult to decide. as a result of their abhorrence for tradition, elfrey had no organised system of fagging, and each house had established its own regime. at berney's any prefect or member of the sixth could, theoretically, command the services of anyone who had not a study; but this right was little used, and it was generally felt that too great assumption on the part of a sixth would lead to unpopularity. prefects, however, as opposed to sixths, were accustomed to take unto themselves a small boy and give him the use of their study on the condition that he dusted it, cleaned their cups and plates, and made himself generally useful. although this office received the derogatory title of 'being study-slut,' it was, on the whole, rather sought after, as only the more attractive and popular members of the workroom were chosen for the position. martin was therefore considerably surprised when one of the prefects, called leopard, adopted him in the fourth week of term. leopard was a genuine olympian. he had played with distinction in the historic elfreyan eleven of last summer: he was school sports champion: he had played rackets for elfrey at queen's club: and now he was being tried as wing three-quarter in the rugger team. by specialising in science he had scraped into a sixth, and he was intending to continue his athletic, if not his scientific, career at cambridge. this ambition, however, necessitated the study of greek, and the study of greek necessitated for a scientist laborious days. leopard had discovered that martin was in the lower fifth and could write greek prose without howlers. he seemed also to be quite an attractive individual, and neither law nor custom forbade the acquisition of a second menial. so martin became, to his own great satisfaction, the junior study-slut of leopard. pearson, his senior in that office, naturally attempted to make him do all the work of tidying, but leopard put an end to that, and it was soon understood that martin's function was the composition of correct greek prose. this he fulfilled efficiently and leopard, who had recently been harried by his instructor in greek in a way quite revolting to his dignity and self-respect, found life at once more easy and more honourable. he became very intimate with martin and would talk to him at great length in a patronising but amusing way: he would even allow martin to rag him and call him by his nickname, spots. inevitably martin worshipped spots. the study became to him a temple, a very awful and a sacred place. on its walls were scores of photographs, signed pictures of school bloods past and present, photographs of elevens, photographs of fifteens, photographs of the racket pair, and photographs of a girl, who was usually on horseback. these last were carefully framed and signed in round, sprawling letters, 'kiddie.' martin, as he gazed upon them, began to form conceptions of the perfect life. there was a bookcase, too, with a fine collection of shilling novels whose paper covers bore lurid pictures of life and love. in spite of a certain monotony of theme and a devastating dullness in its elaboration, spots seemed to derive considerable pleasure from those works, which he always read while martin was doing his greek prose. martin was kept too busy to do much reading, but he appreciated the pictures on the covers and was impressed by the dark-eyed women in red who accepted on divans the passionate kisses of blond young men in faultless evening dress. the room also contained some old swords (bought from a predecessor), a number of rackets, a bag of golf-clubs, and a fine array of cushions with humorous designs. the culinary outfit and china were complete to the verge of opulence. the leopard's den, as the study was commonly called, had achieved a certain reputation for magnificence, a reputation in which martin gloried. he even enjoyed the dusting and cleaning and despised pearson for his laziness and lack of proper pride. but it was not mere priggishness that animated him. meanwhile mrs berney had not forgotten his possibilities, and it was arranged that he should attend her poetry circle which met after prayers on saturday evenings. it was composed mainly of older boys, and two of them were vast intellectuals in the upper sixth, so that martin felt very awed at the prospect of reading keats amid such company. one of them was actually the school poet and had lately worked off in _the elfreyan_ the emotions evoked by a summer holiday in the lakes: "the flaming bracken fires the breast of bosky borrowdale, down swoops the sun in a riot of red behind scawfell to a watery bed, and the moon hath clomb o'er skiddaw's head, so perfect and so pale." martin, who had also been in the lakes, thought this rather good and much better than wordsworth. he was still a tennysonian and connected poetry with the lavish use of alliteration and words like 'clomb' and 'bosky.' the thought that on the next saturday evening he was to read in the company of such an one was as terrifying as it was inspiring. but it was not yet to be. leopard's one fault was, in martin's opinion, his tendency to sulk: his career had been so uniformly successful that he was easily piqued by a reverse. once or twice before martin had thought it expedient to slip away quietly when he saw spots looking black, but on this particular saturday fate fought against him. leopard was dropped from the school fifteen for the match against oxford a. it was admitted that once leopard had the ball in his hands no one on earth could catch him, but it was rumoured that his defence was weak: it was always the way with these running-track sprinters; they couldn't tackle. so the captain had taken notice of a mere child of sixteen, called raikes, who played "back" for his house and could tumble anybody over. oxford brought down a strong team, but they only won by sixteen points to eleven: and raikes not only scored two excellent tries, but marked with unerring certainty the notable rhodes scholar who had made history in south african rugby. it was on the lips of all that spots was in the soup or the apple-cart (the popularity of the rival metaphors was evenly balanced), and sporting members of raikes' house were laying ten to one that their hero would be 'capped' within a month. spots had watched the match dismally from the touch-line and he did not take it at all well. when he came back to berney's his angry soul cried out for tea: and he found that all his cups were dirty. it was pearson's duty to clean the cups, and pearson was in 'sicker' with influenza. martin had been told to do pearson's work for the next few days, but he had not realised what pearson really did and he had forgotten about the cups. moreover, after watching the match, he had gone off to the tuck-shop to eat ham and chocolate: so leopard shouted for him in vain, and then, spurning the proffered aid of sycophantic aliens, he furiously washed his own cups and made his own tea. an angry man does not lightly reject an excuse for wrath, and spots thoroughly enjoyed the nursing of his grievance. on his way back from the tuck-shop martin borrowed a copy of keats from the school library: then he settled down at his desk in the workroom and began to look through the odes to see if there were any words that he could not pronounce. the meeting of the poetry circle was formidably near and the old fear of being shown up was vigorously attacking him. suddenly caruth came up and said: "spots wants you." so he put away the book and went up to the study. he saw at once that spots was in the blackest of moods. "why the blazes didn't you wash the cups?" he said. "i told you to do pearson's work." martin trembled. "i forgot," he said. "i couldn't think of all the things pearson did." "i should have thought that the washing of cups might have struck you as a fairly obvious thing to do." "yes; i'm sorry." "the fact of the matter is, you're getting a bit above yourself. just because you're clever you think you're everyone. now you're too good to wash cups." "it wasn't that really, leopard. i forgot." "well you damned well mustn't forget. you're too good to keep awake. that's just as bad. now get out, you little beast, and come to me after prayers." martin went back to his keats in misery. he could guess what was in store for him, but he could not be certain, because spots might have recovered from his wrath by the appointed time and then he might treat the matter as a joke. but if spots didn't recover ... well, then he would be swiped. martin had never been caned at his private school and this would be his first experience; he wondered how much it would hurt. then fear came surging over him, not the dread of anything definite, but the hideous fear of the unknown. he was not so much afraid that he would be hurt as that he would show that he had been hurt: that was the deadly, the unpardonable, sin. he wished to heaven he had been swiped before so that he might know his own capacity for endurance. keats became intolerable. house tea was a long-drawn agony. discussion centred on the match and the brilliant play of raikes. "what did old spots want?" asked caruth. "he seemed to be in the deuce of a hair." "only about cleaning cups," said martin gloomily. "thank the lord i'm not a study-slut. was he very ratty?" "oh, not very. flannery, you hog, pass the bread." the conversation had at any cost to be changed, and martin was pleased when the general attention was directed to the colossal hoggishness of flannery, who was mixing jam, sardines, and potted meat. as time went on the agony of suspense grew like an avalanche, carrying all before it. martin did practically no work during prep. impossible to linger over algebra or the bacchæ when spots and his cups obsessed the mind. it was not the injustice of being victimised for a slip of the memory when pearson was in sicker, but the possibility of being shown up as a coward that tortured him most. he knew that other boys were swiped with some frequency and managed to pretend that they did not mind. but it might turn out that he was not so tough as other boys. besides spots had the wrist of a racket player and was renowned for his powers of castigation. and then there was the poetry circle. if the worst happened, he would have to cut that and explain afterwards. what on earth could he say? the thought was too horrid for consideration. after prep and supper mr berney used to read prayers, while the boys knelt down and thought about any odd subject that came to mind. they were not, as a house, particularly irreligious, but it is astonishingly easy to acquire the habit of saying 'amen' at the right place and repeating the lord's prayer without being aware of your actions. but to-night martin was conscious of all that was said and did not open his lips. as he gazed in silence at the backs of the wooden benches he began to feel physically sick. after prayers the house dispersed to talk, or finish work, or go to bed. martin hurried to leopard's study. there he waited for five age-long minutes: he felt that a hundred swipings would be better than this delay. the study seemed a vast blur of photographs, all dim and misty except one: that was a large picture of kiddie, the equestrienne, who beamed on him from close at hand, gripping her riding-switch. kiddie became the only object in the room. the smile and the switch fascinated him. they were symbolic, they were abominable. at this same kiddie he had often gazed in rapturous worship, wondering whether leopard was the more blessed for knowing her or she for knowing him. god, how he loathed her now. at last leopard arrived. the clouds had not lifted. he had just overheard moore remarking to a friend that, as a three-quarter, raikes was worth a dozen of spots. "oh, you," he said quietly. "just go to the prefects' common-room." martin turned and went out. his fate was settled. he felt, as he walked down the long passage listening to the tread of leopard behind him, as though all his internal organs were falling into his feet. when they reached the common-room leopard turned up the light and locked the door. then he took a cane from a cupboard in the corner and made martin bend over with his head under the table. leopard had suffered during the evening, for the almost certain loss of a rugger cap on which he had counted was a terrible blow to his pride and his ambitions. he was angry, desperately angry, and his only desire was to express his anger in action. the fact that he was fond of martin only added piquancy to the situation. the maximum punishment that a house prefect could inflict was eight strokes. he did not stop short of his maximum. after the first three strokes martin felt as though nothing could prevent him crying out: then a blessed numbness seemed to come over him and he remained silent and motionless. afterwards he had to climb on to the table and put out the light. then he went upstairs to his cubicle: he was not in the mood for poetry. on such occasions rumour has swift wings, and when he reached the dormitory the news had magically been spread abroad. voices cried: "how many?" "eight." "did it hurt?" "no, not much." he lied, for he had learned the tradition. there were murmurs of: "bad luck," "old spots is the limit," "just because he got the chuck for not tackling." and then neave remarked in the midst of a silence: "if we get nailed funking a collar we get swiped. but if spots gets nailed, then he swipes someone else. that's justice." the expressions of genuine sympathy were very comforting to martin. though now the numbness was wearing off and the reality of his pain came home to him, he was happier than he had been for days. he had opened another door: he was getting on with his task of finding things out. not only was the cruel suspense finished for ever, but he had learned his own capacities: he could stick it like the others. and to have the regard, the compassion, of one so great as neave! he had suffered, he still suffered, but who would not suffer to become a martyr? he began to realise, as he pulled the bed-clothes over him, that spots had not been the minister of a fortune sheerly malignant. iv in the morning martin was stiff and sore and began his toilet by examining himself in a looking-glass: when he discovered the havoc that had been wrought he felt very proud of himself and knew that this appearance in the changing-room before football on monday need cause him no distress: those who wanted to see the damage would have something to look at. the discomfort which he experienced during the day was quite outweighed by his satisfaction at his achievement and fortitude: that he was the first of the new boys to be swiped rendered him in their eyes a distinctly important person. even caruth, who always patronised martin, began to climb down. the berneys had midday dinner with the house, and martin succeeded in catching mrs berney as she left the dining-hall. "i'm very sorry i couldn't come last night," he said, blushing. "so am i. you must come next saturday. what kept you?" "oh--er--i had to see one of the prefects," he answered with hesitation. mrs berney, knowing that 'after prayers' was the hour of justice, could guess from the boy's manner what had occurred. "that was a pity," she said kindly. and martin knew that she knew. he felt prouder and more heroic than ever. then she added: "come in after prayers to-morrow night. there won't be anyone there." "oh, thank you very much," he said in ecstasy. he had become in a moment the slave and worshipper of mrs berney. afterwards caruth asked him the subject of his conversation with mrs b., and he answered: "oh, nothing." on monday night he went to the drawing-room and read the odes with which the circle had dealt on saturday. mrs berney gave him cocoa and cake and was entirely charming. as he left her he even thanked heaven for old spots. leopard, on the other hand, was extremely angry with himself. he realised on the following day that he had behaved like a brute: under normal circumstances he would have ragged martin and told him not to do it again. at the most a mild four would have been considered ample. but eight! it was undeniably excessive. if it had only been someone else it wouldn't have mattered so much (for abstract justice made no great appeal to spots), but there was that kid slinking about his study and cleaning everything that he could lay hold of with maddening assiduity. not for a moment could he forget his iniquity. one thing, however, was certain. it would be quite inconsistent with the dignity of a blood to say anything about what had occurred. so martin noticed several changes in spots' demeanour. he was more silent and did not rag him as before: nor did he follow his custom of bringing the greek prose to martin on tuesdays and fridays. nobly he toiled at it alone and was roundly abused in form on the following days. but the memory of youth is short and soon they drifted back into the old friendly relations. martin, however, took good care not to be guilty of further slips, for though he was glad now that he had been swiped, he did not in the least wish it to happen again. the term ran smoothly on. caruth was adopted, to his infinite joy, by cullen and neave and the youthful nuts, while martin drifted into more soulful society. he was even taken up in a kindly way by the poet of borrowdale, who lent him an anthology and used to hold forth to him about men and letters. martin was very much impressed and could not decide what to think when spots said the poet was a bilger. to martin the voice of spots was still the voice of a god. later on he heard the poet call spots 'a piffling philistine,' but he did not know what it meant and was ashamed to ask. life began to expand in many directions and new doors pressed themselves on his attention with haunting urgency. on the whole martin was enjoying his first term. and so he settled down gladly to the routine. school life is liable to a clearly marked dichotomy; there is a world of games and a world of work. for martin both had their pleasure, both their monotony. football, for instance, distinctly afforded moments. there were seventy minutes of consummate joy while the school, released from the round of "league" games, watched the match with their greatest rival, ashminster. martin never forgot that struggle. it was the first school match which he had been able to see, and he had not yet escaped from the age of worship, the age in which every blood is a true olympian and reveals the deity as he walks. it was tremendous to watch moore battling in the line-out, or llewelyn heaving an enemy to the ground, or raikes, capped now and the undisputed successor to spots' position on the left wing, go plunging along the touch-line with that long and powerful stride. martin could even forgive him for ousting spots when he saw him pick up an opponent by the knees and pitch him a full three yards into touch. for sixty minutes martin stood wedged in a mass of shoving, bawling humanity. and he had bawled, bawled till his voice and breath were gone and he saw that he would need all his strength to avoid being barged out of his position in the front row, a treasured post won by a tedious wait. and now the long-drawn roar of 'schoo-ool' went up almost in despair. ashminster were leading by six points to three and elfrey, with only ten minutes more, were being penned in their own twenty-five. never had their prospects looked more gloomy: the forwards were losing the ball in the scrummage time after time and only the perfect tackling of the backs kept down the score. suddenly ross, on the right wing, intercepted a fumbled pass and was off. someone shouted: "kick, man, kick." but this was no moment for safety play, and ross went on. not till he was close to the fullback did he kick, and then it was no feeble punt into touch that he made, but a great swinging kick across field. for a moment there was a silence. then a great roar went up, the greatest roar since the beginning of the match. raikes, on the left wing, had foreseen the move, and following up with the speed of the wind had magnificently caught the ball and was making for the enemy's undefended line. it was the kind of movement that comes crashing into the mind of the spectator years later on without cause or suggestion just because it is unique. but he was not over the line yet. carter, the ashminster centre, who had captained his school for three years and played for the harlequins in the holidays, was in desperate pursuit. it was a race from the half-way line and raikes had five yards' start. martin, crushed against the ropes, hoarse and gasping, discerned with horror the deadly speed of carter. it was growing dark and a november mist was creeping over the great field: impossible to trace that relentless pursuit: one could only wait and listen. a roar went up. raikes had been collared. the teams gathered round the fallen figures and the referee. at last they parted. ashminster remained on their line and armstrong, the elfrey scrum-half, was bringing out the ball. raikes had fallen over the line in a central position. the school gave vent to a shout that stirred mr foskett to quote homer on the wounded ares. llewelyn of course took the kick. a safe thing, one said. but now, incredibly, he failed. the ball trickled feebly along the ground and a vague moan passed down the ranks. six all and five minutes to go. play settled down near half-way. both teams were fighting like devils: and still there were found men to go down to the rushes. then the ashminster back miskicked in an effort to find touch. llewelyn had made a mark. it was far off, but he was going to have a shot at goal. as the teams separated and llewelyn balanced the ball in the half-back's hands, there was silence. only here and there a muttered voice would be heard as someone strove to relieve the strain by objurgation. "callingham, you blighter, don't barge," or: "after you with my feet, ginger," or: "hack that stinker murray, he's oiled up two places." then, as llewelyn took his run and the enemy charged, there was no sound. the ball went soaring up. he had done it? the mist was ubiquitously damned. then the touch-judges behind the goals raised their flags, a signal for the greatest roar of all. the match was over, gloriously over. it only remained to charge headlong to the tuck-shop and fight the whole game over again with ham and eggs or the succulent cho-hone. these were moments. football too brought other, more directly personal, moments. there was the occasion when moore and spots came down to watch the juniors of berney's and martin scored a try beneath their awful gaze. surely it was the very essence of triumph to see the enemy scowling on their goal-line while berney's sauntered away with the ball, and to know that he and he alone was responsible for this cleavage of the hosts. martin walked with all the tremendous humility of glowing pride. it was the first try he had ever scored, and moore and spots had seen it. that evening moore approached him after prayers. "hullo, leigh," he said. "you scored this afternoon, didn't you?" "yes," said martin, making a desperate effort to conceal his satisfaction. "well," answered moore deliberately, "you hadn't any business to. you're a forward and it isn't your job to cut the scrum and lurk about for the ball. they were pushing us and it was a mere fluke that they kicked too hard. anyhow the half could have scored: it was only a matter of going two or three yards. you ought to have been in the middle, shoving like hell. see?" "yes." "well, don't lurk any more, or there'll be trouble. it isn't a forward's business to score tries. anyone can be a 'winger': it takes a man to shove." moore was one of the old school of forwards. he believed in foot-work and read _the morning post_. "so don't let me catch you loafing outside the scrum again," he concluded. "there's quite enough chaps doing that already." and he strolled away. moore was not a person of much imagination and he never saw that he was not going the right way to make a great forward. a word of encouragement coming on the top of this, possibly injudicious, success would have made martin play like a devil. instead he deliberately slacked for a week. indeed footer, in spite of its moments, became monotonous. martin had to play four and often five times a week in all weathers, and very often the sides were uneven and the game, consequently, a farce, a shivery, cheerless farce in which everyone longed for the pleasant signal for release. by the end of term nobody liked the games and everybody was as sick of the fields as of the classrooms. if was not merely that the games were too frequent, but that they were scarcely ever treated as games. as the end of the term approached, bringing with it challenge cup matches for old and young, house feeling ran strong and the various teams were goaded by their prefects with relentless severity. sometimes whole fifteens would be swiped in turn for their failure to win matches, quite irrespective of their capacity to do so: slackness could always be alleged. at berney's, it was true, no great rigour was displayed. had spots been captain more blood might have been shed, but moore, who directed the house teams, was more lenient and rarely went further than guttural abuse and threats. being, however, himself a forward, he instituted scrumming practice in the evenings, and martin found himself being pushed about the house gymnasium at great pain to his ears and limbs, while larger boys planted shrewd and stinging blows on the prominent portions of the losing side: it was no fun being in the back row. as he shoved and groaned in the perspiring mass, there flamed across his mind the remark of a well-meaning aunt: 'how you will enjoy the games!' martin was not particularly weak or unathletic: his physique and taste for games were quite up to the normal, but he did not stand alone when he proclaimed to his friends his weariness with the official recreation which only doubled life's burden. "of course," said caruth, after scrumming practice one night, "it's awfully good for us. bally influence and all that. you know what the crushers say." "and they ought to know," added martin, "as they never play, at least not compulsorily." "anyhow," said caruth, "there is one comfort." "what is that?" "we don't have to sweat it out like randall's. their pre's make them groise at it all day and all night." "good job. the stinkers." martin's sympathy with the oppressed was not yet as strong as his hatred of randall's, the pot hunters, the unspeakable. work with the terror was not always terrible: for martin it even had its moments. he enjoyed turning out a good verse or a good translation, and he enjoyed also the commendation that it won. the terror, whose real name was vickers, was a young man soured by misfortune. he had meant to go triumphantly to the bar: he had connections, he had brains, he would rise. but a financial crisis in the family had left him in despair, too old to enter for the civil service, too poor to attempt the bar in spite of his connections. he had drifted, of necessity, to the arduous, responsible, and despised task of moulding the future generation. the future generation, as represented by the lower fifth, classical, of elfrey, seemed to vickers a loathsome crew, fit only to be the victim of the sarcastic tongue on which he prided himself. he hated the elderly bloods who remained calmly and irremovably at the bottom of the form: he hated the ink-stained urchins with brains who passed through his hands on their way to higher things. the lower fifth he held to be an abominable form because it was neither one thing nor the other. the teaching was not mere routine, the soulless cramming of impenetrable skulls: on the other hand, it wasn't like taking a sixth. there were times, especially in the afternoons, when the frowst of the water-warmed room, the dingy walls and desks, the ponderous horror of mistranslated Æschylus, and the unmannered lumpishness of the human boy (average age sixteen) would all combine to play upon his nerves and to rend the amorphous thing which once had been an active, ambitious soul. wearily he vented his wrath upon the form. his method was, as a rule, the sarcasm courteous. he lounged magnificently while he played with his victim. "simpson!" this to a clever but idle youth remarkable for his large, inky hands and persistent untidiness of apparel. there was something in simpson's grimy collars and straggling bootlaces that infuriated vickers. "simpson!" "yes, sir?" "you owe me, i think, a rendering of virgil." "please, sir, i haven't quite finished it yet, sir." "and how much, may i ask, have you finished?" "well, sir, last night i had the agamemnon chorus." "i see, simpson. i see." "please, sir, i was very busy." "our simpson was busy early this morning also, i suppose." "yes, sir." "at your ablutions, i presume." here the form would laugh: simpson's cleanliness was a standing joke. "please, sir, i didn't wake up very early." "that was very distressing." there was a silence. "well, simpson?" vickers would continue in his softest tone. simpson gazed moodily at the desk, digging nibs into the wood. "our simpson seems fonder of water than of maro. we must tighten the bonds between simpson and the poet. may i say the whole of the first georgic this time?" "oh, sir." "you think the quantity excessive?" simpson summoned up his courage and said he did think so. "ah, but the verse is so beautiful," came the answer. "i couldn't deprive you, simpson. anyhow, you may begin your _magnum opus_ and let me know when you have reached line two hundred." "yes, sir." "thank you, simpson, that will be delightful. you were translating, grant, i think." vickers aimed at being a strong man and he never set a grammar paper in which he did not ask for a comment on the phrase: "oderint dum metuant." "a capital sentiment, simpson," he would say with his gentlest smile, as he mouthed out the words. but his pretensions were not idle, as was shown by the fact that he could lose his temper without becoming ridiculous. if a weaker man had called the giant batson 'a contemptible ass,' batson would have laughed and the form would have sniggered. but when vickers flared up he commanded the silence of the greatest. vickers had a gift of phrase and martin learned much from him, partly because he was so afraid that he always worked hard, and partly because vickers took a fancy to him and would give him little hints about translation and composition which he did not choose to waste on the ruck. martin was less inky and more intelligent than the average new boy who was placed in the lower fifth. moreover, his fear of his master was obvious, and there was no more effective method of flattering vickers than to fear him and to let your fear be seen. yet it was a relief, even to martin, to escape from the tension of the terror's classroom to the turbulent relaxation that prevailed in the dark chamber where barmy walters taught mathematics. old barmy suffered from acute poverty and incipient senile decay. he had once been a brilliant undergraduate at cambridge and then a wrangler, a man with a future: he now lived in a red-brick villa with a chattering wife and two gaunt, unwedded daughters. for nearly forty years it had been his function to instruct the classical side in mathematics: he had never been a strong man, never fitted for his work. and so in spite of all his brilliance as a mathematician he had missed promotion, seen his chance of a house go by, and eventually lost grip. to retire was financially impossible (elfrey was too poor a school to have a pension fund), and he stuck to his work grimly, sitting beneath his blackboard with an overcoat under his dusty gown, wheezing and grumbling and looking for his glasses. plainly he could be ragged: and ragged he was without mercy or cessation. a couple of hours with the terror had a vicious effect on the tempers of his victims, and barmy walters found in the lower fifth, coming straight from vickers, torturers of a fiendish devilry. to begin with, there was the distribution of the instrument-boxes before geometry. the boxes stood in great piles at the end of the room and it was the duty of the bottom boy to deal them round. it was also part of the established order of things that the bottom boy dropped the two and twenty boxes with a series of slow and deafening crashes. at the end he would say: "oh, sir, i'm so sorry." and barmy would answer: "um, ah. really, really, you boys will shatter my nerves. how many times have i told you to be careful? um, ah!" then there would be a rush to recover the boxes, a long, clattering rush with much jostling and swearing and spilling of ink, some of which would find its way to barmy's glass of water. when peace had been restored people would begin to ask questions, to demand elaborate demonstrations on the blackboard, or to consume food. barmy's room was renowned as a resort for picnics. biscuits were popular in winter, but in summer there was a special line in fruit. once a daring individual threw a biscuit at barmy's head and hit him, whereupon he had to carry to his housemaster a note which began: "dear randall,--morgan struck me with a macaroon." the conjunction of the words 'strike' and 'macaroon' so pleased mr randall that he omitted to deal with morgan. all the obvious things were done to barmy by one or other of his classes. mice were brought into form and released, and once a grass snake. he found a hedgehog in his mortar-board. barmy had an idea that fifty lines formed a long imposition and he used to whine out: "um, ah, boy, i'll give you a long day's work. take fifty lines." he would enter the imposition in a note-book which he left in his unlocked desk, and in the morning he would find 'shown up' written against it in his own handwriting. after a long day of wheezing and grumbling about his shattered nerves barmy would be seen mounting his aged bicycle with fixed wheel and pedalling laboriously to the villa and the chattering wife and the gaunt, unwedded daughters. yet perhaps he was not altogether unhappy, for, if a master is to be ragged, he may as well sink to the depths: the tragedy of the defenceless dotard has less pathos than the suffering of the young man with ideals, whose burning desire to teach well and to succeed is thwarted by just the slightest lack of that presence and authority which make the master. undoubtedly, however, barmy could be hurt, and martin was not old enough to understand the consummate brutality of the proceedings in that dismal room. like all young schoolboys, martin regarded a master or crusher as a natural foe, a person with whom truceless war is waged. if he is fool enough to let himself be ragged, that is his look-out: he has all the resources of punishment on his side and if he cannot use them he deserves no mercy. so martin worked off his vitality in ragging, and, being of an ingenious turn of mind, became noted for the improvisation of new japes. he was patronised by the bloods of the form and enjoyed himself hugely: without realising the nature and results of his conduct, he even lay awake at nights devising new and exquisite methods for completing the destruction of barmy's nervous system. v every school, even so modern a foundation as elfrey, has its traditional rows, its stories of rags perpetrated on a colossal scale by the heroes of old: but the modern schoolboy finds that, like fights, they don't happen. martin's life moved calmly on and its monotony was only broken by sundry interludes, painful or humorous, with masters or prefects. still, ragging old barmy was tame enough and only once was he involved in a genuine row, an affair that counted and was history for several years. partly because it was his only rag, and partly because it chanced to occur in his first term, while he was still very impressionable, the memory remained with him clearly and for ever. it is true also that he played a part in the drama and even was responsible for its name, so naturally he remembered that notable december night with its comradeship and perils and glorious achievement. the end of term, so exasperating to the harried teacher, brings exhilaration to the taught. as christmas approached martin found prefectorial discipline slackening and, though exams might mean harder work in school, there was in the house a very agreeable relaxation of tension. even games were taken less seriously, and one or two of the more audacious spirits actually cut without detection. but just as berney's began to slacken their reins, randall's, the neighbouring house, became more vigorous than usual: for randall's were in the final of the "footer pot." berney's always objected to randall's. this animosity might have been accounted for by the mere fact of neighbourship, but there was more in it than that. as was athens to sparta, so was berney's house to randall's. berney's stood always for an easy-going tolerance and, though, for instance, it was not a particularly well-dressed house, it left its nuts in peace. in all its pursuits it was either brilliant or ineffectual, and, if it did anything at all, it did it beautifully: both in games and work it was a house of individuals. a typical batsman from berney's would make three divine, soul-satisfying cuts and be caught in attempting an impossible fourth: berney's was never thorough and never took defeat to heart. randall's, on the other hand, had no nuts and suspected with draconian severity the faintest traces of nuttishness. the average member of the house was tall and lumpy and sallow, badly dressed and with no grease to his hair. it was a standing joke with the school that randall's youths owed their yellow faces not only to general unhealthiness, but also to a dislike of soap and water. they trained like professionals and made tin gods of their challenge cups. they worked always with a dull, sickening energy: they never had a decent three-quarter among them, but won their matches by working the touch-line and scoring from forward rushes. yet undoubtedly, despite all their ignorance of the way things should be done, they achieved results. of course berney's hated randall's bitterly and for ever. but towards the end of term relations became more strained than was usual. to begin with, randall's had defeated berney's by thirty-five points to three in the first round of the footer pot. once spots had romped away, but for the rest of the match the heavy randallite scrum had kept the ball close and pushed their light opponents all over the field. and randall's juniors had crowed over their triumph, had hailed every fresh try with much shouting and throwing up of caps (it was generally held that gentlemen showed their joy by reasonable yelling and that only a low soccer crowd would hurl their caps into the air), and behaved as offensively as could be expected. now randall's prepared to win the final as though the future of the world rested on their efforts, while berney's jeered from study windows or the house yard. so randall's sulked and refused to send back balls which were kicked over into their yard, and berney's had to scale walls secretly to recover their property. nor did they always succeed. but the actual cause of open hostilities was the affair of gideon. gideon's real name was edward spencer lewis-murray. some reader of mr eden phillpotts had called him gideon because he was dark and had a large nose. whether or not he was a jew is immaterial. certainly he not only went to school chapel, but consumed ham in large quantities. one day he had been ragged about his nose and straightway he marched to the tuck-shop, ordered an unparalleled amount of ham and pork sausages (for he was wealthy) and devoured the entire feast before a large assembly. his capacity was enormous, and he thus gained two ends at once: he demonstrated his loathing of jewish practices and established an undoubted record in consumption. his nose, however, was certainly large, and the name of gideon clung to him: but he took his ragging sensibly, and, while remaining a butt, he became, in a way, popular. so when, a few days before the end of term, he was shamefully mishandled by some members of randall's the berneyites were furious and gideon became temporarily a martyr and a hero. he had kicked a football into randall's yard: then, having shouted "thank you" in vain, he had climbed over the wall to look for it. shouts of "gideon," "berney's yiddisher," "jew-beak," "back to joppa you dirty jew-ew," and lastly a great roar of "stone the dirty semite" had been heard. and gideon had not returned. he had, it turned out, been ceremoniously stoned--that is to say, he had been lashed to a pillar in randall's house gym, and pounded with footballs thrown hard from a distance of five yards. then he had been stripped and thoroughly washed in cold water: they had, he said, made jokes about jordan and total immersion. he reappeared just before tea, raging and very battered. all through the meal his nose bled profusely and it was a sign of the times that no one made jokes, the old, inevitable jokes, about gideon's 'konk.' berney's discussed the affair with animation. jew or no jew, gideon was of berney's and as such he deserved respectful treatment. the workroom seethed with wrath and gideon revelled in hospitalities hitherto undreamed of. even cullen and neave stooped from their heights and actually led the wail of sympathy. "the swine," said neave. "forty of 'em lamming into one poor devil." "jaundiced bible-bangers," said cullen. "i suppose they're praying now for that mangy pot." it was a traditional jest that randall's had house prayers before cup matches to invoke heavenly aid for their team. "let's hope smith puts it across them." there was a chorus of approval. "my sainted aunt," neave went on. "can't we do something?" "what?" "can't we avenge our gideon?" it was then that martin, standing timidly on the outskirts of the crowd and drinking in every word of the great ones, remarked boldly: "for gideon and the lord." he raised a roar of laughter. the school had been working at judges that term in divinity and the story of gideon was familiar to all. martin's allusion to the israelites' act of revenge was distinctly opportune. the ringing of the prep bell abruptly ended the conversation. on the following day randall's put it across smith's, scoring twenty-eight points to nil. again the victory was due to forward rushes. "not a decent movement in the match," said spots angrily to martin. "it's scandalous that the pot can be won by a pack of well-drilled louts." randall's began to stink in the nostrils of the whole school, for their elation at their successes was always characteristic. they revelled with a serious, unconvincing revelry. other houses always celebrated the occasion by demanding and obtaining ices (in mid-december) at the school tuck-shop: it was a tradition and a noble one. randall's gorged themselves with lumps of bread and ham. martin happened to walk back to berney's just behind cullen and neave. he would not have spoken to them had they not turned and addressed him. it was condescension, and he appreciated it. "hullo," said cullen. "what about old gideon?" "i don't know," answered martin. "can't anything be done." "possibly. do you remember what you said last night?" "for gideon and the lord?" "yes." "what about it?" "we'll let you know in dormy to-night." "good. that's ripping." proceedings in the lower dormy that evening were unusual. silence was called and then neave read from the book of judges: "and the three companies blew the trumpets, and brake the pitchers, and held the torches in their left hands, and the trumpets in their right hands to blow withal: and they cried, the sword of the lord, and of gideon." then he continued: "that, my brethren, is the text. and what is its lesson for us here in a community such as ours?" there was a laugh, for he was beautifully constructing a lay sermon on foskett's lines. "only to avenge our gideon very mightily with pitchers. to-morrow night, as you may know, is the last night of term and our brothers next door" (cries of "swine" and counter-cries of "order") "will hold a supper to celebrate their triumph in the playing-field. now it is a good tradition of the public schools and a byword among clean-living englishmen" (laughter, for it was sheer foskett) "that we do pass the last night of term in what my form master would call--thorubos. a greek word, o stinkers of the modern side. my brothers, it is up to us to infect randall's with thorubos or disorder. (cheers and a voice, "what about pitchers?")." "ah, my young friend, you hit the nail on its head. as everybody knows, to get on to randall's gym is as easy as falling downstairs. from there you can get to the fire ladders and up to randall's dormies. to-morrow night it is proposed to invade the dormies while the whole house gorges below and listens to slush about their pestilential pots. meanwhile we snitch their water jugs and empty the water on their little beds. then we bring the jugs back here and wait. the windows on this side of the dormy look out on the zinc roof of randall's gym: beyond is the dining-room, where the swine will be guzzling. with windows open we can easily hear what's going on. when old toffee randall gets up to propose his blighted house" (neave had in his excitement sunk from the level of the lay sermon) "i move that we chuck all the empty jugs on that zinc roof and shout: 'for gideon and the lord.' there ought to be row enough to raise hell. you know what those roofs are ... and there will be forty pitchers. they won't have the least notion what the row is till they get upstairs and see their beds. they'll think it's a private rag of our own, but they'll learn in due time. now don't anyone say a word. we've got to keep this to our dormy or the pre's are bound to find out." the hurried arrival of spots, followed by the extinction of the lights, put an end to further devising of conspiracy. for a long time martin lay awake, gazing at the ceiling and turning restlessly from side to side. excitement, that terrible mingling of sheer joy and sheer terror, gripped him, almost physically: as he thought of the splendours and the perils of to-morrow night he felt as he had felt before when he was walking down the study passage to the prefects' common-room and listening to spots's following tread. what, he wondered, would be the end of it all? there would be a row, inevitably. they might even be kept back a day: that would be wretched. but swiping? he could endure that for the glory of sharing in a rag, a colossal rag with neave and cullen as leaders. besides he hated randall's, hated them so bitterly that the prospect of soaking their beds and smashing their pitchers was heavenly even at the cost of swipings innumerable. nowhere is group feeling more obvious and more powerful than in the world of youth. in a single term martin had become so passionately one of berney's that his hatred of randall's and their smudgy type of success made him quiver with anger. he didn't care a straw for gideon's nose: nobody really cared for gideon's sufferings. they were all linked by the single bond of hatred. it was randall's that mattered ... the swine. naturally the last night of term was not distinguished for its discipline. there was, of course, no prep, and the dormitories were open for packing. consequently it was not difficult for twelve members of the lower dormy to creep out when randall's had settled down to their gorge and to range themselves along the gym roof. it was beautifully dark and dry: fortune was helping the cause of gideon and the right. neave and cullen were to ascend the fire-escape and enter randall's two dormies, one taking each. they were to go through the cubicles, removing the jugs, soaking the beds, and handing out the empty pitchers to others who passed them quietly down a line of waiting figures. this seemed the best, the quietest method of transport. ultimately all the jugs would be awaiting in berney's lower dormy the great moment of toffee randall's speech. martin formed one of the hidden line and shivered for half-an-hour on the roof of randall's gym while he passed jugs carefully along. never in all his life had he known a night like this. he was thrilled by the sense of comradeship in danger and the knowledge that he was working in the company of great ones, working for the pain and humiliation of randall's. never did he forget the supreme exhilaration of that night attack: the climbing in the dark, the whispers, the nervous strain, the dread of blundering and betraying his party, the intolerable waiting. each movement of the trees in randall's garden made him think that the conspirators had been noticed and that someone was coming. at length every bed had been duly drenched and forty pitchers had been silently transferred to berney's lower dormy. each member of the dormitory took two jugs, and four of them had three. then they waited. they could see down into the lighted windows of randall's dining-hall where the enemy feasted; but the supper was drawing to its end. by the resounding chorus of "for he's a jolly good fellow" they knew that toffee randall was "up" for the last speech of the evening. when the singing and cheering were over randall began his oration. at the same moment neave gave the signal. everyone in berney's lower dormy cried aloud, "for gideon and the lord," and, as they cried, forty pitchers crashed on the zinc roof of randall's gymnasium. no one, not even the manipulators of three jugs, had failed or been late. there was but one cry and one crash: and there on the zinc roof lay myriad morsels of china, glittering in the half light thrown from the windows of either house. the noise had been terrific, the effect stupendous. it was in the true spirit of the saga. a moment later spots dashed into the room. "what the devil's all that row?" he roared. everyone was peacefully in his cubicle, putting the last touch to his packing or getting into bed. "randall's trying to be funny," suggested neave. "but didn't you shout?" "well, we helped a bit. that din would have made anyone squeal. randall's must have been breaking china for the sake of their dirty pot. they are swine." spots looked baffled. the row had been tremendous, yet here everybody was calm and quiet. it must have been randall's, but they were still at their supper. it was amazing, it was a miracle. to save his face he returned to his study. meanwhile it was ascertained that, after some confusion, toffee randall had continued his speech: then they heard the long-drawn, surging roar of "auld lang syne." it took randall's twenty minutes to finish "auld lang syne." "the swine," said neave. he said it often, but he said it beautifully, with a whining drawl of contempt. "just wait till they get to their dormies." so they waited, and presently the pandemonium began. randall's were discovering that not a bed had escaped, not a jug remained. as they looked out of their windows on to the gym roof they realised the full meaning of the battle-cry and the crash that had startled them at their supper. "water, water everywhere," cried cullen in ecstasy as he heard the tumult rising in the neighbouring house. randall's, flushed rather with insolence than the weak claret-cup of their supper, bellowed in their dormitories and shouted from their windows: after all none but berney's could have done the deed. it was sheer joy for berney's as they listened: wisely they made no answer and randall's cried aloud in vain. again spots came into the lower dormy. "what are randall's shouting about?" he asked. "joy of life," said neave. "the swine." "well they needn't yell at us." "they've got no manners, leopard." spots advised his dormy to take no notice of the creatures and again went out. shortly before midnight mr randall rang at mr berney's front door and demanded an interview with the master of the house. berney came down in his dressing-gown: he was very tired and his eyes ached. he was promptly informed by his raging neighbour that his house had disgraced itself, and he listened to a strange story of soaked beds and broken pitchers. "must have been your boys," randall ended fiercely. "the jugs couldn't be thrown on to my gym except from your dormitories. there has been an invasion. it's scandalous." "but what evidence have you?" asked berney, who hated randall as only one housemaster can hate another. "it's obvious, man, obvious. jealousy. footer cup. my boys were at supper when the crash was heard: and your boys shouted, i heard them. besides, would my people soak their beds? i demand an inquiry. i shall go to foskett. your boys shall be kept back a day." this roused berney, whose nerves were already strained with fatigue and worry. "i entirely decline," he said sharply, "to board my boys for an extra day to please you. i shall put the matter in the hands of my prefects. if that doesn't satisfy you, go to foskett by all means. you won't get much out of him at this time of night: he's probably more tired than i am. if my prefects find that my boys----" "there's no 'if,'" said randall. "if they find that we're responsible," berney continued icily, "the jugs shall be paid for and the guilty punished. good-night." and he led randall to the door. randall was renowned for his temper and his powers of self-expression in school. but now he was sublimely speechless. berney held a nocturnal consultation with his form prefects. they all smiled as the tale was told. spots even roared with laughter. "er, leopard," said berney, "this is--er--a serious matter," and then he broke down and laughed himself. he and randall had never hit it off. spots told berney of the suspicious innocence of the lower dormitory. moore had been on duty all the evening in the upper room so that its inhabitants were certainly not guilty. the prefects marched in a body to the lower dormy. "look here, you chaps," said spots, "it's all up about this jug business. it was done here. who are the culprits?" simultaneously every boy left his cubicle and said: 'guilty.' it was a triumph of organisation. neave had foreseen that detection was inevitable and had determined that, up to the very end, the dormy should display its solidarity. "well," said spots, "you'd better all come down to the pre's room." so shortly before one o'clock eighteen boys in dressing-gowns, led by cullen and neave in garments of great colour and splendour, went down to the prefects' common-room. there was just room for all. neave had to tell the whole story: he told it simply and well, duly emphasising the biblical aspect. "berney has left the matter with the prefect," said moore, who was suffering tortures from a half-thwarted desire to laugh. "you'll have to pay for the jugs next term. randall wants you to be kept back, but berney wouldn't hear it. anyhow, it's been a grave breach of discipline" (here he saw the impenetrable solemnity of neave's face and almost broke down), "grave breach of discipline. yes. you're to have four each." martin sighed with relief, for he had expected eight. they were taken to the house gym, where space was ample, and with all four prefects at work the business was soon over. they were even allowed to keep on their dressing-gowns. never had swiping been so farcical or so inefficient. when they were all back in their cubicles spots came in. "i'd have given a great deal," he said, "not to have been a pre to-night. it seems to me that we have scored off randall's. gentlemen, i congratulate you, and i sincerely hope that no one has been hurt by our recent ministration." they assured him that they had not suffered. and then, because they were all going away very early the next morning, it was decided, with spots's permission, to abandon sleep. gideon had to make a speech and offer thanks for the public revenge: and stories were told interminably. martin, as he lay half asleep, came to the conclusion that life's burden was exquisite. it wasn't only that the holidays began to-morrow: the night's achievement had been perfect. there is something essentially satisfying to human nature in the lavish destruction of property: with joy we watch the havoc wrought by the cinema comedian or the pantomime knockabout, and with joy the patron of fairs smashes the bottles in a rifle-range. martin revelled in the thought that forty pitchers lay shattered and shimmering on the zinc roof below him. and now, more than ever, he felt the pleasures of comradeship. randall's had been humiliated: berney's had triumphed. it was for him far the most significant fact of his first term that he had taken part in an enterprise worthy to be recounted for ever in berney's. he was proud of his dormy, for it had worked as one man. above all, he was proud of neave, the contriver, the leader of men. even now he was saying: "we've put it across them, the swine." then spots said: "for gideon and the lord. it was a great notion. who thought of it?" "young leigh gave the name," said neave. "good for you, leigh," shouted spots. "you're keeping up the reputation of the leopard's den." naturally that seemed to martin the supreme moment of the whole superb affair. vi at one o'clock in the afternoon of december the twentieth a motor car left tavistock station and tore fiercely westward until it reached the excellent village of cherton widger. then it panted up an abrupt hill and, passing a lodge, ran up a short drive to the steading, a square low-roofed house surrounded by irreproachable lawns that sloped away to the coverts. the chauffeur descended and carried on to the steps a portmanteau and a corded play-box. martin, looking uncouthly smart in a new overcoat (with a strap behind) and a bowler hat, stood rather nervously by the door. he had come home for the holidays. in the hall he met his aunt. he kissed her: or rather she kissed him. his uncle burst out of his study and shook hands with him: his cousin margaret, aged fifteen, also appeared and shyly shook hands. it seemed that his cousin robert, aged seventeen, would not escape from rugby till to-morrow. everybody began to ask him questions which he mechanically answered. "you must have left elfrey very early," said his aunt. "about seven." "and in december too! had you got to?" "no; but everybody does." these well-meaning people did not realise that you do not stay at school after term has ended. though you perish with cold and lack of sleep, the first possible train is the only train. martin had secured an hour's sleep, breakfasted at six, and caught his train at seven. all the way to exeter he had smoked. about this smoking he had felt afraid, for here was another new experience: but everyone else in the carriage had smoked and there was no escape. one of the boys had dealt in cigars, another produced a pipe which he cleaned extensively and smoked but little. martin had kept with the majority to cigarettes and had laboured to disguise the swift nervous action of the novice beneath the languid air of the connoisseur. one thing at any rate was certain: he had not been sick. by the time he reached exeter he was feeling a little queer, but with a supreme effort he had staved off a disaster which would have been fatal to his reputation. and now he was intensely hungry and found cold chicken and ham a very pleasant substitute for the 'roast or boiled' with which the board of berney's was laden. it was heavenly to sit once more in a comfortable chair in a fire-warmed room and to have chicken and fresh bread and lemonade. martin was an orphan. his guardian, john berrisford, to whose house he had just come, was his mother's brother. his father had been most things to most men, and despite, or possibly because of, his very considerable ability he had achieved a rich versatility in failure. he had started by being a captain of industry, or perhaps a sub-lieutenant would be a more accurate description; but his complete inability to remain awake in the office between the hours of two and four had put a sudden end to his commission. on parting from his general he had said: "it's no use your getting chaps from the varsity to give the show tone. they won't work till they have had their tea." the general had sworn and taken his advice. richard leigh then discovered that he had been so damnably well educated that there was nothing for him to do but think. so he thought and wrote and went hungry. now and then, to give his creditors a run for their money, he became a commission agent or an architect or a producer of plays. but he never paid very much in the pound. at the time when he met joan berrisford, a young woman of property, he was once more engaged in thought. she was beginning to feel the need of permanence in her life and was quickly interested in his work and the giant despair which he swore was the greatest of his creations. virginity bored her: richard attracted her: possibly her conscience stung her: for she was suddenly struck by the idea that she might repay society for her dividends by rescuing for society an artist whom it didn't want. nowadays this would seem reasonable enough, because we don't believe in democracy any longer and shower divine rights on anyone who chooses to call himself an intelligent minority and make himself sufficiently objectionable: but at the time when the incident occurred joan berrisford was certainly thinking in advance of her age. everybody said she was a fool to pay any attention to the creature, for she came of the class that thinks every artist has necessarily something wrong with him. only her brother john pointed out that joan's husband was, primarily, joan's affair, and then, to her intense delight, he had added that he didn't care twopence whom she married as long as the rest of the family hated him. the marriage was a success. richard threw off his despair and gave society some excellent books of which it took no notice. they lived in italy, and there martin was born. when he was only eight his mother died suddenly and his father came to london. he had been left comfortably off by his wife, but after her death the old restlessness returned: he gave up writing and gambled gracefully on the stock exchange--that is to say, he bore his continual losses with an exquisite nonchalance. martin used to go to a day school and was enabled by his brains and some sound teaching to win a good scholarship at elfrey. then in august his father had succumbed to a long illness and the boy was left to the guardianship of his uncle, john berrisford, to whom richard leigh had written the following letter: dear john, you are the only one of my relations by blood or marriage with whom neither joan nor i ever quarrelled. and so, just because you left us alone, i can't leave you alone. i want you to be martin's guardian, in case this illness should do for me: you have seen something of him and i know you like him. there is no home in the world to which i would sooner entrust my son than yours. i have only a thousand pounds and i want him to be decently educated. you have a family and i should hate to think that i was burdening you. so you must just go for the capital: he has a good scholarship at elfrey and ought to get one at oxford. in that case the thousand pounds ought just to see him through. it's plainly no use investing for fifty pounds a year. don't encourage him to be an artist: he can't afford it. besides it's a poor life to be a wanderer when you're old, and that's what he would be without money. if he seems inclined for safety and the civil service, let him take his chance. anyhow i trust you absolutely. yours ever, richard leigh. so martin had spent the last three weeks of his summer holiday at the steading and thither he had now returned. john berrisford was a round, ruddy little man who was too english to be like napoleon and too napoleonic to be like an english squire. in all matters of theory, especially moral and political, he was fiercely progressive, in all matters of taste a conservative. he combined revolutionary fervour with a strong belief in old customs, old cheese, and old wine. he ran a small estate on which he gave his labourers a twenty-shilling minimum, decent cottages, and free beer on festal occasions, and to the grief of the neighbouring farmers he made it pay. sport of all kinds attracted him, and on saturdays in the autumn and winter he would bring down partridges and pheasants with remarkable certainty, but he was sufficiently logical not to cap his battues by going to church on the following day. he made friends with everybody and was criticised by the squires for being a rebel and by the rebels, of whom the village had two, for being a squire. this amused him intensely and his first answer to all criticism was a drink. then he would start out magnificently to justify his position. "i get the best of everything," he said, and meant it. martin, of course, missed his father's companionship: they had lived on very intimate terms and the customary limitations of the parental relationship had been broken through. but it is the privilege of youth to forget easily, and it was fortunate for martin that almost directly after his father's death he should have been plunged into a new world, a world whose thronging cares and pleasures gave few moments for reflection. by the time he had returned to the steading his personality had so grown and developed that he was freed from painful memories and able to enjoy his holidays. the berrisfords were people of sound sense, and seeing what manner of boy he was made no effort to entertain him. robert, the son at rugby, was seventeen and a prefect, so that martin was afraid of him and kept aloof: of margaret, as a girl, he was naturally shy. he preferred to wander alone in the fields and coverts, now marking the ways of bird and beast, now plotting out his future and building up strange fantasies of thought. ever since he had been a tiny boy he had played with himself a game of imagination in which he fused his personality with that of a mysterious hero called daniel. always when he got into bed he would become daniel until he fell asleep and in imagination he would go through great adventures and sufferings and triumphs. daniel was very strong and brave and perfect: perhaps martin had been influenced by henty's heroes. daniel's life varied with martin's own vicissitudes. when martin read ballantyne, daniel was the son of a trapper and wrought wonderful deeds among the esquimaux and redskins on the shores of hudson's bay: when martin was under his father's influence he abandoned trapping and came home to write wonderful books about grizzly bears: when martin's thoughts were centred on his preparatory school, daniel had laboured at the verbs in [greek: -_mi_] and been the finest athlete in the land. at elfrey, daniel had suffered an eclipse, as always happened when martin had anything very much to think about: at berney's he had either been tired enough to fall asleep immediately or else he had had something on his mind, to-morrow's repetition, an order of leopard's, or a game of football. and, besides, martin had reflected that such methods of amusement as the 'daniel game' were childish and quite incompatible with the dignity of a public school boy. but at the steading the temptation to restore daniel to life became very urgent and martin at length swallowed his scruples. while he lay in his bed or wandered in the woods he would become daniel once more, a daniel at elfrey, a prodigious daniel, who surpassed all records in popularity, played stand-off half for the school at the age of fourteen, endured the most tremendous swipings without a moan or a movement, and was irresistible at every game he took up. mrs berrisford was somewhat distressed by martin's solitary walks and quiet ways and made several efforts to draw him from his shell. but she made the mistake of trying to base the conversation on his experiences at school and the result was not encouraging. "and who is your form master?" she began one evening. "chap called vickers." "is he nice?" "oh, he's all right. bit of a terror sometimes." "does he go for you?" "not for me very much." a pause. "and what's mr berney like? do you get on with him?" "oh, he's all right." "do you like the house?" "yes; it's quite all right." "have you any special friends?" "no one in particular. i like most of the chaps." "how do you get on with football?" "fairly well." and then she gave it up. without being openly rude martin had made it plain that he was not to be bolted from his earth of modified optimism. when martin had gone to bed john berrisford pointed out to his wife that she had taken the wrong line. "martin is just old enough and wise enough to be thoroughly self-conscious," he said. "he resents questions about school because he thinks you're regarding him as a schoolboy and playing down to him. talk to him about botticelli or free trade or beerbohm tree." "what nonsense," said mrs berrisford. "he's only fourteen. it's just shyness." but on the following morning she took her husband's advice and found that, as usual, he was right. there was a good collection of books in the house and martin was allowed to pick and choose. john berrisford suffered some anxiety from the problem of free choice: he was not concerned about the boy's morality; because he knew that no power in the world can alter human nature. so when he noticed that martin took down _tom jones_ and read only a portion of it, and later on paid great heed to _the sentimental journey_, he had the good sense to say nothing at all. what worried him was the fear that martin would read many really good things before he was able to appreciate them and might thus be prevented or prejudiced from reading them in after life. for instance, when martin struggled with robert louis stevenson and called him dull, his uncle knew well enough what was wrong. on the other hand, he dreaded dictating a course of reading or advising the boy in any way, for he knew the value of spontaneous selection and remembered the vivid loathing which he himself had felt for 'advised' books and the infinite lure of the forbidden fruit. so he discreetly held his peace, hoping that martin would be able to return to stevenson without prejudice. a few days before the end of the holidays the whole family went up to town to see the theatres. martin was old enough to appreciate the pantomime and would have sat there till three in the morning readily. he was bored by the interminable ballet and the garish medley of flashing lights and countless colours which most of the audience liked so much, but the comedians and the more humorous scenic effects he found perfect. besides, as a public school boy and grown-up person, he had to admire robinson crusoe when, in gleaming fur-trimmed tights, he, or rather she, so irresistibly sang: "somebody wants me surely, some heart bleeds for mine." no less fascinating was the comedienne with her: 'cupid got a bull that time,' and the comic man's triumph: 'there are lots of funny things about a clothes-line.' at last the end came and martin went to meet the special to elfrey. he was afraid that his uncle and aunt were making a great mistake in proposing to see him off. he wondered whether it was done, whether you could possibly appear on the platform surrounded by relations. as usual his fears were not justified and he found the station full of mothers and sisters. everything went well, and as they walked through the crowd martin noticed a group of bloods with leopard in their midst. spots saw him and greeted him quite effusively. it was a tremendous moment, and afforded martin a fine thrill of pride. "who was that?" asked his aunt. "oh, that was leopard. he's a pre at berney's. an awful blood, and ripping too." somehow or other he had never informed the berrisfords that he did menial work or wrote greek prose for another. then he came across cullen and neave, resplendent with white spats and yellow canes. they too were ready to greet him, almost as if he were one of their chosen circle. "got a seat?" said neave. "no." "well come into our carriage. we want to get a gang of berney's. two swine from randall's had the cheek to shove their bags in here, but when they sloped away to get papers we plugged their stuff into the guard's van and now they can't find their carriage. you'd better bag a pew here." this was fame and ecstasy indeed. martin hurriedly said good-bye to his uncle and aunt and made certain of his place in neave's carriage. when the train had left the station they settled down to talk and for a splendid half-hour they refought the battle of the pitchers. then they talked theatres and ultimately the more experienced told of amorous conquests. martin had been content to listen for the most part and now he relapsed into complete silence. he supposed there must be something in this girl business, though as yet he didn't understand. but he was not unhappy. he sat with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand in his waistcoat pocket and felt the milled edges of two sovereigns which his uncle had just given him. two pounds, forty shillings, four hundred and eighty pence! he possessed the equivalent of one hundred and sixty poached eggs or two hundred and forty ham rolls. it was a ravishing thought. vii scholars, like nations, are happiest when they have no history: judged by that standard, both elfrey school and berney's house must have been fortunate. everything ran smoothly and martin flourished in mind and body. he not only reached the upper sixth in the shortest possible time, but also played with average success in his house teams. without being a brilliant scholar, he always did sound work: without being a born athlete, he could easily hold his own among boys of his size and age. generally speaking, he had no adventures. beyond a few petty rows with masters and prefects, such rows as fall inevitably to the lot of all, be they sinners or saints, he pursued an even course and found in life a quite tolerable combination of boredom and excitement. his main interest consisted now, as before, in discoveries. religion is always a field for engrossing, if unprofitable, exploration. until the time arrived for his confirmation martin had adopted the average position of his kind. he had taken everything for granted, but his acceptance had implied neither strength of faith nor the application of faith to the phenomena of workaday existence. during chapel he had chanted the psalms and sung the hymns when the music or his own mood encouraged him to do so. hymns like 'fight the good fight,' which offered an opportunity for a good, throat-bursting yell, he had always enjoyed: his young emotions had at times been touched by the more sentimental tunes and he found 'for all thy saints' peculiarly affecting. he was not so impassive as the average elfreyan who could easily forget the sermons of the reverend frank adair, the one master who had the courage to let himself go when he preached and the ability to gain his effect. adair could grip martin and make him feel a very weak vessel. foskett delivered an address from time to time, exhortations, as a rule, on the duties of a gentleman and the traditions of school life. as he never dealt with concrete instances or dabbled, as did one or two preachers, in thrilling casuistry of the study or the cricket field, no one paid much attention to his high-pitched voice and rapt expression. during the repetition of prayers martin's thoughts wandered to secular subjects, prep, and games, and so-and-so's chances of a cap: and he knew, as he gazed at the long rows of kneeling figures, that nineteen out of twenty minds were engaged upon the same topics. most boys took confirmation very much as a matter of form, as something you had done to you at some time or another. perhaps they prayed a little longer at night, for it was the custom to say prayers, and the traditional shoe, had it been flung, would more probably have been aimed at the shirker than the devotee. but otherwise they were unaffected. martin took a deeper interest because he had listened closely to an address in which there had been almost a definite promise that the first communion would bring a gift, a spiritual reality about which no mistake could be made. he was curious to discover what exactly this gift was and how it would feel to be filled with the holy ghost. so he awaited with more enthusiasm than most the day of his strengthening in the church. confirmation stirred him because the bishop spoke warmly and, as bishops go, sensibly. but first communion was a disappointment. he had expected so much, he had looked forward with so tense a curiosity to the receiving of a priceless and unknown gift, and he had to admit that he felt exactly as he had felt before. it couldn't be, he decided, his own faith that was lacking, for he had gone to the sacrament in perfect confidence about the blessing that was to come, and he resolved to continue his search for the truth and the help that it would bring. so for two terms he attended the communion with fair regularity. but still nothing happened, the promise seemed to him unfulfilled, and he came to the conclusion that it was no use going on. for the future he lay in bed on sunday mornings and listened to the faithful washing and groping for their studs. the position of the sceptic had, after all, its consolations. in course of the following holidays he discovered among some paper-covered books of his uncle's a three-penny copy of blatchford's _god and my neighbour_. he read it through almost without a break, for he had just reached the necessary stage to appreciate it. the short, stabbing sentences and the obvious good-will of the author made a great impression upon him, and he was thrilled by the peroration and flaming appeal for a world set free from kings and priests and all such evil-doers. he caught the spirit of the book at once and read it aloud to himself, rejoicing: "'rightly or wrongly, i am for reason against dogmas, for evolution against revolution: for humanity always: for earth, not heaven: for the holiest trinity of all--the trinity of man, woman, and child.' "this," he thought, "is literature." and then the final thunderclap: "'let the holy have their heaven. i am a man, and an infidel. and this is my apology. besides, gentlemen, christianity is not true.'" martin saw it all now: christianity was not true: it was a lie and a fraud kept alive by priests and bishops with a view to salaries. he wanted very much to speak to his uncle and question him about science and the new testament authorities, but, though they were on very intimate terms, he dared not approach him on this occasion. the reason was that he had taken the book from a cupboard usually locked. martin had found the key by accident while his uncle was up in town and could not resist the temptation to look through the hidden literature. so he put the books away and remained silent. but when he went back to elfrey he felt that he could no longer restrain the gushing fountain of secularism, and he determined to talk to a berneyite called gregson. martin was sixteen and a member of the upper sixth: gregson was a year older and in the same form. he was much less adaptable than martin, hated all games, and had taken up the position of school heretic. in the evenings they used to settle the problem of the universe over cocoa and sardines, and there was nothing on which they had not touched. martin had picked up some revolutionary politics from his uncle and he was delighted to find in gregson a disciple of william morris. at one time they had been joint leaders of liberalism in the school debating society (they had one follower in a house of thirty), but now, to the great joy of the tories, they turned to socialism and lashed their former supporter. consequently it was natural for martin to approach gregson on the subject of doubt, and to his great surprise he found that gregson knew all about it. as a matter of fact there could have been few more fruitful grounds for the seed of scepticism than gregson's soul. gregson had an acute hair-splitting brain and an abhorrence of emotion: he came from a country parsonage, and he had to attend church in the holidays whether he liked it or not: moreover he had a brother at the varsity who possessed a great genius for blasphemy and a quantity of rationalist pamphlets. gregson took up comparative religion, used long words, and became very bitter. "why didn't you let on that you were an agnostic?" asked martin. "oh, it's no use. they think you're wicked. it's best to wait till you have escaped from this prison before you open your lips." "but you might have told me." "i thought i'd let you find out for yourself. it was bound to happen." martin was surprised at gregson's certainty. "bound?" he asked. "very few people doubt." "all rational people doubt," said gregson with decision. "tell me this. how can god be all-good and all-powerful and leave misery in the world?" martin had a vague idea that there was an answer to this. "training, i suppose," he answered weakly. "yes, that's what the bishops say. good for people to be poor, strengthens the fibre and all that. and back they slope to their palaces. but what i want to know is, why this beastly training? if god was all-powerful, the thing could be done without it and we would all be angels at once. after all, why should people die of cancer or inherit filthy diseases?" martin didn't see why they should. "and then there's the atonement," gregson continued. "there's a childish story for you. first, it seems, god made men: then he was angry because he hadn't made them good enough. then, just to complete the muddle, he found it necessary to kill his son to pay for the sins of the people whom he might have made perfect if he had wanted to. that's not good enough, thank you." it was just the type of sharp, bitter-phrased reasoning to complete the extinction of martin's spark of faith. at first gregson's violent attitude naturally drove martin to a modified defence of religion, but gregson carried far too many guns when it came to a battle of argument. he could make great play with his comparative religion, and martin used to leave gregson's study with a wealth of new phrases ringing in his ears: at last he could think of nothing but solar myths and gods of dying vegetation. it seemed to him very strange that the world should continue to pay any attention to the monstrous imposture which the combined efforts of blatchford and gregson had shown christianity to be. but his discoveries did not make him unhappy: he had his secular socialism and, as religion had never formed a vital element in his life, its loss could involve no pain. viii martin derived from his study a rich and constant enjoyment. true that it was a diminutive box of a place: true that in winter he had to choose between freezing with an open window or enduring the atmosphere that only hot-water pipes can create. there would be rows too outside, in the passage, scuffling and ragging and the singing of all the latest successes. but after the dusty turmoil of the workroom it was a possession and, though martin was not at that time the kind of person to care intensely about his surroundings or little pieces of property, he took a definite pride in his books and pictures. he was old enough now to be above actresses: other and greater persons might bedeck their walls with fair women, but gregson and he had decided that such things were only good for the army class. the upper sixth, classical, should have traditions and its traditions should include the things of art. gregson, on the advice of a cubist cousin, brought back to elfrey some modern studies of the nude, but mr berney discovered them and after a close examination came to the conclusion that the objects depicted were women. then he thought the matter over and nervously demanded their removal. this naturally fanned the flame of gregson's bitterness against the world of school and led him to hold forth copiously to martin, who enjoyed his rich outbursts of invective. "poor old berney," he would say. "i suppose we can't blame him. he doesn't understand. ma b. hasn't got further than matthew arnold and i don't suppose either of them ever heard of a chap called wilde. [wilde was tremendously the god of gregson's rebellious soul.] they'll live and learn. i suppose some day schools will be reasonable places." gregson was not really a prig or a bore, but at times he ran the risk of combining the parts. the public school system does just as much harm by isolating the thinker and driving him into an immature and self-conscious spirit of opposition as it would if it crushed him altogether. gregson did not get on with the prefects. he used to allude to the iron heel of their system, despised their methods of keeping order, and exposed to martin the futility of entrusting matters of conduct to swollen-headed athletes who could only just struggle into the history sixth. "they don't know what they're doing and don't care what they do. if they see or hear anything they haven't seen or heard before they trample on it. they all crib in form themselves and go for kids when they crib." "that's very british," said martin, who could still mistake a platitude for an epigram. "british or foreign, it's all alike. just as capital sits on labour everywhere, so muscle is still on top all over the world. it's worse at school than anywhere, but it's the iron heel all the same." martin agreed to these sentiments at the moment but gave little thought to their bearing. he was less rebellious than gregson and was on reasonably good terms with all the present prefects except heseltine. also his pictures had not been banned. martin combined with the society of gregson a strong friendship for a pleasant but unintellectual person called rayner. rayner was robust and practical and efficient: he took everything for granted, his education, his prospects, and his religion. he never questioned anything, not because he was too lazy, but because it never struck him as a normal thing to do. naturally martin had to discriminate carefully between the topics of conversation with his various friends. with rayner he talked of cricket and football, the chances of this man and the failure of that, the reasons for england's success at twickenham and scotland's failure at inverleith, the prospects of the varsities in their different contests. above all, rayner was sound about food. gregson was too superior to 'brew' extensively, so on half-holiday afternoons in winter rayner and martin used to collaborate in the production and consumption of food. they were both well off for pocket-money, and between them they would often devour a dozen or more sausages, a tin of sardines and a large bunch of bananas, not to mention the accompaniments of the feast, cocoa and bread and jam. martin was a strong eater, but it was rayner who really achieved the bulk of the work: together they defeated all rivals and established a house record. after feeding-time they would lie torpid in a heavenly frowst reading _wisden's annual_ or sixpenny magazines. gregson secretly despised martin for enjoying these plebeian orgies, but he could not afford to quarrel since that would have meant the loss of his only audience. it was into the life of this martin, the intermediate martin, who was neither the servant of spots nor the commander of servants, that anstey rushed in. anstey was a small clever boy who had climbed to the lower sixth at great speed: he had not only considerable ability, but also possessed a genius for covering the gaps in his knowledge or reading and he would talk with martin about authors he had never read. his manners and appearance were charming and he played half-back for berney's second team with skill and pluck. without being made conceited by the influential friendships which he found awaiting him wherever he turned, he had a quiet manner of self-assertion which fascinated martin. and so when rayner or gregson came to martin for a talk they would find anstey chatting away with his feet on the table. then rayner would go away hurriedly, for he thought anstey a frivolous and unreliable creature, and if ever there was a reliable man at elfrey it was rayner. gregson's objections to anstey were based on the latter's sentimental attachment to the catholic faith. on first acquiring a study anstey had bought 'peggy' and the usual pictures: three weeks later he was converted, exchanged 'peggy' for a madonna, and dotted the room with candles. to martin, anstey would talk on any subject, from religious experience, which he had not undergone, to the beauty of his elder sisters which was equally fictitious. at times they read together, prose and poetry, classics and english, and after reading they would launch out into vast discussions. in the christmas holidays martin went to stay with the ansteys in kensington: he was disappointed in the sisters, who indeed took very little notice of him, but cyril anstey was more than usually charming. they wandered about london together, went often to the play, and spent far more money than the anstey family could afford: but of course martin did not know that. it was not, however, until the summer term that martin's friendship for cyril anstey reached its height; now at last he discovered how limited and pent up all his school life had been. he had had no enthusiasms. religion had no appeal for him, the ancient literatures had been so fouled by pedantic notes and introductions that they had not moved him as they should have done, for games he had only a lukewarm affection. he liked discussing teams and the chances of teams, but he had never had personal successes in athletics; while he knew that the correct hitting of a ball might be one of life's most splendid things, his experience of that pleasure was too fragmentary to satisfy his appetite. his talks with gregson had been enjoyable, for they had given him an opportunity to let himself go: but life, on the whole, this life at school which was universally supposed to teem with opportunities, had become monotonous and barren. one could live without feeling. but anstey made a difference. on sunday afternoons or whenever through the week they could escape from cricket, they wandered together on the downs and lay on the short grass watching the white clouds sailing majestically like galleons in the blue dome above them and listening to the larks and the charge of the wind. below them were the school towers and the green patch of playing-fields and the glittering pool of water where in summer one bathed: behind them ran the smooth sweep of the downs, clear-cut against the sunset and firm and strong as when the roman came and built his camp upon the brow and threw his road across the hill, despising these grassy slopes as befitted one who knew the apennines. here were line and colour and wind and a freshening spirit that was alien to the stuffy town below: here was something to enjoy in peace, something which made the georgics real and the world something more than a place to live in. and anstey had brought him to the downs. the average elfreyan thought climbing that slippery turf a horrid sweat, connected it with the compulsory runs of winter, and preferred to lounge in his arid house yard. until now martin had avoided the downs, because it wasn't the thing to go there: but when he had found the dip to friar's hanger and the great wood of larches beyond, he cursed the game of cricket and longed to escape from the tyranny of games. he had taken beauty for granted just as he had taken goodness and truth for granted: somehow they existed and that was all. now he found the idea suffusing visible things and he knew how much he had missed by lounging in berney's yard. a new door was opened. it had been opened by anstey and the light from within was reflected on the opener, transfiguring for martin the swift grace of his movements and giving to the rapid stream of his thoughts a depth which they really lacked. a dam had burst and martin had no longer to seek an outlet for his emotions. gladly he entered on strange paths of sentiment, and he no longer deceived himself with the lie that his friendship with anstey was comparable to his friendship for gregson or rayner. one afternoon they found a new path and a new hollow where the young bracken made a couch softer than the bare hill-side. here there was no clack of cricket balls, no nets, no shouting of 'heads' and terrified ducking. only the wind whispered in the bracken and an old sheep grunted in the sun, for the weather was warm and he should long ago have been sheared. the two boys lay in silence, pretending to read. "it's ripping of you to be bothered with me," said martin suddenly. "what do you mean?" said anstey. "i mean that you aren't my sort. you see things much more quickly than i do. you don't plod like me." "i haven't your brains--that's the truth." "no, it isn't. of course it isn't." yet martin was half-conscious that he lied. his affection for anstey had forced him to tell a needless falsehood in a futile effort to quiet the voice which cried within him: "he isn't good enough for you." then he added: "you've shown me all this." "i may see things you miss," said anstey, "but i've no practical ability, no thoroughness. anyhow i'm glad if i've given you something in return for what you have given me." martin had bought books for anstey, synge at five shillings a volume. he had been proud of knowing about synge at school. "oh, that was nothing," he answered. but it had meant fewer sardines and sausages when he fed with rayner. "then we're quits, dear old fool." "why old fool?" "for taking me seriously." "why shouldn't i?" "nobody else does. i amuse them and they like me all right. but i think you really care----" "yes, of course. honestly, i care." they lay in silence, looking at one another. later on they went headlong down the slopes and assuaged their heat by bathing in the pool, which was almost deserted. it was still warm enough to lie on the soft banks so that the setting sun might dry their bodies. they were late for house tea. at this point heseltine comes into the story. he was head of berney's, a fact of which he was most painfully aware. though not prominent in games, he was sound in all branches of life: above all, he was a man with an influence, a force for good, one of foskett's darlings. he held strong views on the duty of a prefect and the possibility of 'feeling the school's moral pulse.' berney's objected to his constant attentions: the house preferred to have its pulse unfelt. everyone resented heseltine's new rules and posted notices and petty interference, but of all berneyites the most opposed to heseltine in spirit and conduct was anstey. that night heseltine asked martin to see him after prep. "oh, i want to have a chat with you," said heseltine when martin arrived. "just one friend to another." "yes," said martin suspiciously. "you've been going about a lot with young anstey," the prefect went on. "yes." "i don't want to seem interfering" (sure sign, martin knew, that he was going to interfere), "but i think i ought to warn you against him. he's not good enough for you. his record isn't a good one." "he's in the lower sixth." "i know that. he's clever enough. but we've had trouble with him. he doesn't fit into things: he's dangerous." martin wanted to say: "you think everybody dangerous who has more brains than you." as a matter of fact he said: "oh?" there was something formidable about heseltine. "of course," he continued, "one can't be too careful in matters of this sort. in a community like this sentimental attachments won't do. we prefects are responsible for the moral health of the school and we've got to keep our fingers on its pulse...." he prosed away and martin regarded the literature he favoured. he read, it seemed, seton merriman and the publications of the agenda club. suddenly he realised that heseltine was saying: "i want you to promise me to see less of him." martin flared up at once. "i don't see why," he said angrily. "i've given my reasons. he's not a fit friend for you." "surely that's for me to judge." "you're not infallible. i'm only speaking for your good. i should like to have your promise. i know i can't compel you, but i ask it as a favour." "i think my friends are my own affair," answered martin, infuriated by what he considered to be the oiliness, the furtive oiliness, of heseltine's methods. during the next three days martin was constantly with anstey and, as a result, heseltine declared war. he definitely forbade the friends to visit each other's studies without permission, and on the following evening he swiped anstey for impertinence. to swipe a member of the sixth was a violation of tradition but not of law. not even anstey could have denied that he had been sublimely impertinent, but his appeal was to custom. heseltine smiled calmly and said that he couldn't be limited by hide-bound traditions when the maintenance of discipline was at stake. he enjoyed his triumph and did not spare his victim. the news came to martin through rayner, who, though secretly pleased at anstey's discomfiture, honestly admitted that heseltine hadn't played the game. martin listened to him in silence: he did not volunteer any conversation and was glad that rayner went away at once. he picked up a book and went straight to heseltine's study. "can i speak to anstey?" he asked quietly, "it's about some words in homer!" heseltine looked at him suspiciously: he could hardly call him a liar to his face. "very well," he said. "but don't stay." martin found anstey in his arm-chair. his face was very white and when he saw martin he smiled the forced, flickering smile that is so often born of an effort to conceal pain. "it's all right," said martin, "i've got permission." anstey told him to sit down. "it's frightfully rotten luck," martin began. "heseltine is simply a devil." "he didn't hurt me as much as he thought he had." the thought gave martin a thrill: it was something more than sympathy. "what did he have you up for?" he asked. "cheek. you must have heard what i said. i certainly shouted." "but i joined in that." it had been in the tuck-shop. heseltine's entrance had been greeted with remarks about the advent of the deity. "he didn't hear you." martin knew that he hadn't shouted: he had only muttered something. he hadn't anstey's pluck. the thought was bitter and increased his admiration of heseltine's victim. anstey had suffered for what he had helped to do. "but what about this persecution?" he exclaimed suddenly. "i'm damned if i stand it." "and what do you propose to do?" "i don't see why we shouldn't remain friends." "nor do i. but the powers disagree." "damn the powers." "certainly." "well, i'm going to see you as often as i like if you'll have me. if heseltine says anything i'll tell him to go to berney or foskett if he likes." anstey made no reply. "do you mean," said martin, "that you won't go on, that you don't want me?" "of course i want you. but it's no use fighting. i've got a bad name with the beaks and it's a hundred to one they back up heseltine. you know how they drop on this sort of thing. i think they're all wrong: in this case i know they are. but there it is. they've got the whip hand and we can't fight against the odds." "i'm willing to try." "if you do, you'll be very admirable and very foolish. look here. you may be a pre next term. fighting means you miss that; it means nothing but trouble all day long. i've been in rows and i know. it's no use. there's more pluck in surrender." martin got up. "i think i'll go," he said. "i hope you don't think i'm playing a low-down game," interrupted anstey. "no, it isn't that. i just want to think things over. besides, time is up." he went back to his study and tried to clear his mind. at first he was bitterly angered by anstey's surrender, but later on he realised that, after all, anstey had already been under fire in the war's first skirmish, whereas he, martin, had gone unscathed. he was in no position to make criticisms, much less taunts. then his thoughts turned from anstey to heseltine. he knew now what gregson meant when he talked of the iron heel: he could feel its pressure now. more clearly than ever before he learned that membership of society is a doubtful blessing and that it means cruelty and waste and sacrifice and compels us to jettison the rare to save the common. for the sake of example, to preserve discipline, to keep the house working he had now to give up the most precious thing in his life. in the last few weeks something new had burst into his soul like a drunken reveller, upsetting things and setting things up, something at once beautiful and terrible: but its beauty had surpassed its terror. beauty had been blown into his sight and imaginings on the wind-swept downs and now it was to be swept away again by the grim forces of convention and utility. just because others spoiled things he must be deprived of them: the high must be of less account then the low, the beautiful must yield to the ugly. this was morality and the social good, this was the law of whose glories complacent philosophers loved to preach. he ought to fight it; he must fight it. but how? the question was as unanswerable as it was insistent. at length he gave it up. all that he could do was to pour out his soul to gregson, for here, if anywhere, gregson might be of use. together they denounced the iron heel, and it was well for martin that this outlet was not denied him. he was saved from despair, perhaps from disaster, by a fortnight's ferocious anarchism. and in a fortnight the wound had healed. enforced abstention from anstey's society did its work. anstey easily picked up new friends and martin was astonished to find that he was not jealous of them. he was equally astonished at his own speedy reconciliation with the order of things and his swift relapse from anarchism to socialism. anstey had been right: there was, after all, much to be said for social peace and convenience. in another week he was beginning to ask himself what he had ever seen to admire in anstey. climbing the downs was a horrid sweat and cricket with rayner had undoubted fascinations. ix in the michaelmas term martin became a house prefect. he was glad to obtain the position, not only because authority has always some attraction, but also because it brought with it some definite and desirable privileges. no longer need he observe hated bounds, no longer was he obliged to turn up at games if he felt disinclined. martin now became a person to be consulted, an organiser with a voice in the affairs of a community. though he was not, like many of mr foskett's disciples, fired with a passion for 'running things' indiscriminately and irresponsibly, he quite realised that bossing has its pleasures and possibilities. it was typical of the new situation that he was able to give up playing forward for the house and to obtain a trial as wing three-quarter. he had pace and managed to score in the first game: soon he improved wonderfully and settled down in his position. it struck him that there was a great deal to be said for playing football, even regular, incessant football, when you could choose your own position in the field and play without fear of being sworn at. naturally his duties brought him into closer contact with his housemaster and he became intimate with the methodical ways of mr berney and the efficient management and culture of his wife. in the evenings he received frequent invitations to the drawing-room, where he would talk about florence and botticelli, oxford and matthew arnold. in his younger days he had worshipped mrs berney with a flaming devotion. now he was more critical, but, while he understood the limitations of her culture and suspected her of attending university extension lectures in order to be told about the poets, he did not cease to like her. at any rate she did not bubble over with unconvincing enthusiasm, like mrs foskett, and she did care in a rather ignorant, muddle-headed, but thoroughly genuine way for the things of art. martin had of course outdistanced many of her tastes and they would have great arguments about tennyson and browning and swinburne. mrs berney, who was deeply religious, could never forgive swinburne. it seemed strange to martin that so persistent and so sincere an affection for poetry should be so limited. what did it matter, he asked himself, whether swinburne liked god or whether he didn't? the point was to him that swinburne had a great, angry soul and could let himself go. but mrs berney insisted that that had nothing to do with it: poetry was the making of a beautiful thing and swinburne had tried to make ugly things beautiful. of course martin urged that poetry consisted in pouring a true thing out of yourself, and then he shocked her by saying he hated the word "beautiful." and so they would be carried away with long arguments on æsthetics, sometimes childish and always futile, for neither realised when they had reached an ultimate or what exactly they were trying to prove. yet both enjoyed the conversation: martin was intellectually isolated since gregson had gone to oxford, and mrs berney always welcomed the appearance of intellectual tastes in the house. besides, she had sense enough to understand that martin had made some good suggestions and was armed with a consistent principle of criticism. the actual work of office was not so pleasing. heseltine had gone on to cambridge, where it was hoped that he would be taken in hand, and rayner was head of the house. rayner was bigger, stronger, and more reliable than ever and he could keep order successfully without a constant use of penalties: martin admired him, in spite of his intellectual limitations, and aspired to a similar method of government which should be at once peaceful and efficient. it had occurred that, without becoming 'the boy among boys' or 'the workroom pet' or anything horrible of that sort, it might be possible to avoid irresponsible tyranny. mainly owing to the influence of his social and political views he had bullied himself into the belief that the workroom would be much better if left alone. what the younger members of the house needed was to be trusted, not beaten. they only fell from virtue's path because so many people were engaged in the task of keeping them straight with whips and scorpions. he had been sickened by the stupid despotism of athletes which had often culminated in acts of cruelty and injustice and he wanted to bring to his work a finer attitude and endeavour. and so it was with the crude, untested idealism of a seventeen-year-old humanist that he approached the formidable task of subduing a fifteen-year-old mob. the beginning was not auspicious. the trouble began, as trouble always began, with master j. r. f. gransby-williams, a rotund youth with a genius for keeping within the letter of the law. his chief aim in life was to rag, and he worked hard to attain it; but there was a subsidiary ambition to be a nut. consequently he was very scrupulous about his ties and socks and handkerchiefs; his hair he kept very long and parted with miraculous precision. during martin's first prep granny (for so he was called) showed signs of a cold. he blew his nose perpetually and with skill: the noise was as the blare of trumpets. "would you mind moderating your efforts?" suggested martin from his chair. "certainly not," said granny with supreme urbanity. it was cheek, and a titter ran round the workroom. martin had been gifted by nature with an unfortunate capacity for blushing, and he blushed now. "don't give me any of that lip or you'll get into trouble," he said without conviction. "that was not my intention," answered granny, urbane as ever. "i'm very sorry." again there was a titter. martin blushed and swore inwardly: he knew that he was not beginning well. a few minutes later one dickinson said: "please can we have the window open: there's an awful frowst." "i suppose so," answered martin. "it does seem a bit thick in here." here was granny's chance. he sneezed magnificently. "may i go and fetch my overcoat?" he asked mildly. "shut up," said martin. granny turned up his collar, blew his nose with gentle persistence, and started to shiver. others followed his example, and the room began to resound with the chattering of teeth. martin felt desperate. what exactly was the right way to deal with this kind of ragging? what would rayner do? that was where the difficulty lay: the workroom never tried this game with rayner, so that it was impossible to say what rayner would have done. swearing at them wouldn't do: he couldn't swipe the whole company. besides, there were his ideals. foolishly he determined to try and work in his idealism under the pretext of a joke: it was a cowardly compromise and it deserved to fail. "i suppose," he said, "we might take a vote about the window." there was a genial roar of acclamation. "those in favour of keeping it open," he went on} "shove up your hands." there was much talking and throwing of paper balls. hoarse whispers such as, 'jones, you stinker, put your hand down or i'll kill you afterwards,' came to his ears. the counting was complicated by the necessity of disqualifying all those who held up both hands with a view to fraud. when the oppositions were being numbered there were murmurs of: 'lowsy swine,' 'frowsters,' and so on. the affair was soundly managed by the mob and a tie resulted, so that martin had to give a casting vote. imploring faces were turned towards him: the opening of the window was plainly a matter of life and death to that valetudinarian assembly. "keep it open," said martin, determined to abide by his first order. there were subdued cheers and moans, nasal snufflings and raucous coughs. above it all the voice of granny was heard. "may i borrow some quinine?" he demanded. martin now saw the folly of his actions. the matter had gone too far, he had lost grip, and a tremendous rag was imminent. "shut up," he roared with all the authority he could command. and just then rayner came in to take his spell of prep. there was an immediate silence. martin left the room in an agony of despair. what the deuce would rayner think? as he sat in his study pretending to read tacitus the prospect of failure and misery became cruelly imminent. he couldn't make out why the workroom people would shut up for rayner. rayner wasn't noted for his severity and didn't make half as much use of the iron heel as some of his predecessors in berney's or contemporaries in other houses. martin was faced with the eternal paradox of government, that those who can govern do not need to punish, while those who punish do not thereby govern. he had always suspected the common talk about personalities and strong men: but now he began to wonder whether there wasn't something in it after all. anyhow it seemed that by one action of hesitation he had lost his chance: his prestige was going, and if he once gained a reputation for 'raggability' there would be no more peace. the memory of barmy walters and the sordid tumult of his classroom came to him with a new piquancy. "my god!" he said, "it sha'n't be that." he would have to go for granny. but how did one go for such a creature? granny always kept to the letter of the law and protested that he had meant nothing: was one simply to disregard his assertions, to call him a liar? how did rayner manage? and there were the ideals. would this method be consonant with the humanism of the new prefecture? it was all immensely difficult. later in the evening rayner came to his study: he was very nice about it. "i say, old man," he said kindly, "that wasn't a good beginning." "it certainly wasn't," admitted martin. "granny, i suppose?" asked the other. "yes, mainly." "well there's only one thing for master gransby-williams. damp the little beast." "it's not so easy. he's always on the safe side of the fence. if he swears that he didn't mean what you think he meant, you can't very well do anything." rayner smiled. "can't you?" he said. "well, can you?" "you jolly well must. otherwise there'll be no end to it." "all right, i'll try. but it seems rather rotten." "doesn't it strike you as rotten to be ragged by a tick like granny?" martin had to admit that it was. three nights later martin interviewed granny after prayers. there had been a rag in the prep. a mouse had escaped from granny's desk and had been the target of many marksmen. the air had been positively black with hurtling dictionaries. the mouse of course escaped and the missiles struck human flesh, compelling recrimination and redress. "the mouse came out of your desk," said martin. "please, i didn't put it there," whined granny. "i don't care. you must have known it was there when you got your books out." "it may have been asleep," suggested granny with sudden brilliance. "rot!" "well, i read in a book that mice sleep fourteen hours out of twenty-four. anyhow i didn't notice it. it's got to put in its fourteen hours some time." "the fact remains," said martin, "that you're responsible for the contents of your desk." "if another chap puts a mouse in your desk, i don't see----" martin was tired of the squalid haggling. but what was he to do? on his own theories, he ought to give granny the benefit of the doubt and let him go. that was plainly the idealist's course. but there was rayner's advice: should he yield to the claim of expediency and try it? suddenly the impudent whine of granny's voice became intolerable and he determined to be stern. but the subsequent swiping was, as granny told the workroom, sketchy and amateurish. presently dickinson knocked at martin's study. "please," he said, "i put that mouse in gransby-williams' desk." martin, who was just beginning to repent of his fall from idealism, turned upon him in despair. "why the deuce didn't you own up at once?" he demanded. "you never asked who did it." "i did." "well, i couldn't hear. there was such a row going on." that was a stinging retort for martin: he was certainly getting the worst of it. and granny was in a strong position, a painfully strong position. fortunately, however, martin acted wisely: he was faithful to the new policy, forswore his ideals, and swiped dickinson. moreover, his second effort was more thorough, and dickinson sorrowfully maintained that this talk about sketchy and amateurish methods was a delusion: the blighter, he said, was an artist. on the next day granny, the martyr, organised a meeting of protest. rayner, hearing of it, asked martin for an explanation. "that's capital," he said when he had heard the story. "you've been thoroughly unjust, and now you can go on damping granny with a free conscience. in for a penny, in for a pound." "i'm sick of the whole business," said martin. "don't be an ass," answered rayner, and that evening he spoke firmly to granny. somehow or other the combined effect of martin's treatment of dickinson and rayner's conversation with granny led to a change of policy in the workroom. that night martin again took prep. as he sat on his dais regarding the victims of his wrath, he was haunted for a moment by the ghost of his murdered ideals; but only for a moment. and he sat in peace. x during the winter term before he was to go up to oxford for a scholarship examination martin felt more than ever isolated. rayner was a good enough companion for 'brewing' or a casual talk, but he had, distinctly, his limitations. it was only now, when gregson had gone to oxford and the light, that martin realised how much he missed him and how dark and murky was the cave of school life. there is little satisfaction to be derived from discoveries which cannot be communicated: to find a perfect poem, or, if you are young, a perfect epigram, is good, but to let your friends know you have found it is doubly delightful. and now martin had to keep his discoveries to himself: if he devised another argument against the existence of god or detected another logical absurdity in christian dogma there was no one to whom he could declare his joy: if he stumbled in his reading on a thing which pleased him--well, the rest of the house were swine for such a pearl. because martin was treading the path of knowledge alone he was driven by sheer force of necessity into intellectual priggishness and crudity. when he was not engaged in prefectorial work, he tended to become a recluse and to read in his study for long periods at a stretch: and because he had no opposition and no conversation, save the rather mild stimulus of discussing æsthetics with mrs berney, he became, as time went on, more violent in his opinions. he often longed for the bitter tongue and incisive reasoning of gregson, not least when he had completed a course of shaw's dramas. there was no escape from attendance at chapel and prayers and the wrath always engendered in the sceptic by compulsory religion should have an outlet. martin, having no one to talk to, was forced to amuse himself with blasphemous imaginings: but even that began to pall. it was at this point that he became aware of finney. until he had become a prefect and learned by experience that the ruler's task is not always the easiest and most enjoyable, he had always adopted the natural attitude to masters. a 'crusher' was just a person whom, if possible, one ragged. if he could hold his own, well and good: if not, he merited contempt, not mercy, and the more he was ragged the better it would be for the world at large. but when martin discovered from his own experience that to be ragged is torture, he began to regard the doings and sufferings of the masters in a different light. it suddenly struck him, with all the vivid effect of a surprise, that these people were human beings of like passions with himself. following quickly on that discovery came the recognition of the fact that finney was being ragged. reginald finney, b.a., had not left oxford for more than two years, but he had bravely married, and now he lived in a tiny cottage some distance from the school. every day he bicycled in to take the upper fourth, classical, and to devote occasional hours to the upper sixth. in time, of course, he would become a sixth form master, for he had excellent degrees--two firsts and a 'mention' in the ireland scholarship. he had lingered at oxford with a view to a fellowship, but nothing turned up: at last he had been compelled by economic pressure to take the position offered him at elfrey. nothing could have been more disastrous. for twenty years the upper fourth had passed a somnolent existence under the direction of an amiable and unassuming cleric. much to the general disgust the dear old man had, after a severe attack of pneumonia, resigned. in twenty years, as was only natural, the upper fourth had become an institution: terms and times continued to change, but the upper fourth did nothing of the kind. fourth-formers came and went in scores, but their successors always managed to keep up the traditions of their inheritance with spirit and success. there would be four or five clever and energetic children, people rising rapidly to the fifth, sixth, and university scholarships; then there would be eight or ten inky and unambitious persons who would never get beyond the fifth. and lastly there would be four or five monsters of seventeen or eighteen who were engaged in getting the greatest possible enjoyment out of their last year at school. good athletes as a rule, they were popular in their house and merely stayed on till the fatal day of superannuation in order to win cups and caps and enjoy a serene life before disappearing into the dingy office of an uncle or the rough and tumble of a planter's existence. in the days of the amiable cleric the upper fourth had been to them nirvana. to such a form came finney, clever, inexperienced, nervous: not even his physique was imposing. he liked and encouraged the clever little boys and made fruitless efforts to bully the ink-stained loafers; he also determined to assault the fortress of the olympians and to make the great ones work; but he broke his soul upon a rock. when he adjured them to do a little work they smiled in toleration. when he suggested a change in the quantity or quality of their preparation he was politely informed that mr foss never expected so much. he then lost his temper, remarked savagely that he wouldn't be bound by the idiosyncrasies of mr foss, and dealt out impositions. a schoolmaster cannot afford to lose his temper unless he has complete self-confidence and the will never to retract. finney had not been gifted with a forceful personality, and the weak man in a temper is a most pitiable sight. the impositions meant the declaration of war and in that war finney was beaten all along the line. to begin with, however, he relied on his hours with the upper sixth for spiritual comfort, but his own experiences at school should have warned him that even upper sixths are human. it was his duty to read classical authors with them at a great pace and without attention to detail in order to give the competitors for university scholarships a wider knowledge of the ancient literature. when he came to read tacitus with them he soon discovered that they were quite capable of amusing themselves. having learned that journalese translations annoyed him, they racked their brains and searched the halfpenny press for new phrases. finney shuddered and protested: next he whined and finally lost his temper. this display was gratifying to the upper sixth, who had just spent two tedious hours listening to foskett on greek dialects. besides, there is always satisfaction in luring fish to one's bait. martin loathed and dreaded these hours. not only did his recent experiences as a prefect compel him to sympathise with the impotent wielder of authority, but he had been attracted by finney from the first. finney worked in earnest and without pose or pretension, a fact which set him, in martin's estimation, on a plane far above foskett. he worked for finney as he never worked for foskett, and consulted him about his reading: naturally finney liked martin and did all he could to help him. on several sundays martin went to lunch at the cottage and met mrs finney, a pleasant little woman whose beauty was somewhat marred by an expression of perpetual surprise. she was, like her husband, a slight and unimposing figure, and she shrank from the society of the college ladies with their continual "shop" conversation, partly from shyness and partly from boredom. when she was not looking after her baby she used to play the violin and read _the bookman_ and _the studio_. for several hours every week she struggled with accounts and wondered how things would work out: she managed well, and somehow, miraculously, but persistently, they did work out. she also liked martin and he would come often to them. in a world that was hard and unsympathetic he was graciously different; he was essentially someone in whom interest could and should be taken, and this was what the finneys needed. they saw and, after a time, understood his limitations, realising how his intellectual solitude was narrowing his outlook and how his heretical views about politics and life in general were left crude and immature because he dared not pronounce them openly and demand criticism. criticism he lacked, and it was criticism they gave him, not the best perhaps, for the finneys erred occasionally on the side of excessive culture and preciosity, but such criticism as would turn violence into strength and reveal possibilities of reason and feeling where he had seen before nothing but ignorance and sentimentality. as martin was destined for oxford finney thought it wise to introduce him to the writing of belloc. "you'll get heaps out of him," he said. "of course he goes to extremes, but his criticism of socialism is the only sane one and worth a million of mallock and cox and that gang. and his arguments about religion aren't all nonsense. i don't agree with him" (finney attended school chapel regularly and was a party liberal), "but it's a point of view. and he can write." martin had never considered this outlook on the world before, and, though at times he was angry, he began to read belloc eagerly, especially the verses. he had often heard his uncle talking about belloc, but so far he had never troubled to investigate the matter further: now he was glad. after lunch on sunday afternoons he would walk with finney on the downs, and sometimes they would talk about the public schools. at first finney was reticent on their subject, but later he spoke with growing freedom and intimacy. "it's odd how we get chucked into it," finney used to say. "everyone says teaching is the most important thing in the world, and they chatter away about training and so on: and yet when it comes to the point they allow their precious boys to be taught by men who are quite untrained for this profession. no master at a public school has had any technical training or been taught how to see and shape things. he just clears out of the varsity with some debts and a little despair and then starts casually to do what is perhaps the most difficult and important thing in the world. and they don't get the pick of the varsities either: the standard keeps going down. the best men won't do it if they can keep out." finney could not, in the presence of a pupil, finish his indictment as he wished. had it been possible he would have added: "the salaries are contemptible and are kept low by the bribe of a house: which in reality means that we have to pinch and scrape now because, if we are lucky, we may be able to make a thousand a year at forty if we don't overfeed our boys." "and yet," suggested martin, "don't you think it's rather refreshing to find something left to common-sense. everything gets into the hands of faddists now. i once met an old lady who spent her life in teaching children how to play. imagine the cheek of it! you put me on to belloc and i think he's right about that sort of thing. we don't want too much of the bureaucratic specialist." "i quite agree," said finney. "that's the tragedy. just where spontaneity really does matter, as in children's games, they go blundering in and knock imagination out of their victims, or give them someone else's, which is about the same thing. but just where training might be of some use, they do nothing. the superstition that a man can teach because he has taken a first in classics at the varsity is childish. i don't claim to know very much now, but when i started my work i was hideously ignorant about the working of boys' minds: i never knew when i was being obvious or when i got beyond them. of course one picks things up by experience, but it might be done so much better...." "and then the narrowness," he rambled on, for he found a good audience in martin. "you'll get a first in mods, if you take the trouble, and by the time you're twenty or twenty-one you'll know all about athenian law-courts and what the greek is for a demurrer or a counter-claim, and you'll know all the hard words in homer and be able to translate cicero's jokes. you'll cram up a lot of variant readings for your special play and collect a nice set of texts with all the difficult passages marked. and when it's all over you'll thank god and imagine that you've done with it, only to find out that greats is rather worse and means spotting the words for egyptian bogwort in herodotus and getting up the most meaningless bits of gibberish in thucydides. it's the same all along. a schoolmaster wants to make some money, a don wants to make a name, so out comes a new reading, a new conjecture, a new edition and a thousand other straws of pedantry to be piled on the back of a poor old camel that collapsed years ago." "it sounds pretty rotten," said martin. "but i suppose at oxford one can read and talk freely and follow up the things one likes?" "yes, you must do that. don't get worried about mods. are you thinking of the civil service?" "yes, i suppose so." "well mods won't matter much. so take up anything you really care for. that's the only thing in life worth doing, and it may be about the only time in your life when you're able to do it." of course finney never spoke to martin about school discipline, but it was not hard for martin to see that he was very much depressed. his sufferings with the fourth he might have expected: but that the upper sixth should rag childishly was a cruel blow. he was so keenly anxious to take an interest in his work and to make those hours of rapid translation valuable: but everything seemed to go against him. he went through some tacitus and juvenal and pindar at a great pace amid considerable amusement. for tacitus gave facilities for journalese, juvenal for obscenity, and pindar for colossal bathos. in despair finney turned to the sixth book of the Æneid, "just to help your hexameters." they surely wouldn't rag that. yet trouble did break out. one cartwright, a large, genial, athletic person who expected to get an exhibition at cambridge for his games, was always to the fore when there seemed any opportunity of baiting finney. to him fell the daedalus passage at the beginning of the book: his rendering was picturesque and contained such gems as 'intrepid aeronaut' and 'bird-man.' "that's not english and it isn't in the latin," said finney sharply. "i don't know, sir," said cartwright weightily. "'præpetibus pennis ausus'--note of daring. intrepid. intrepid aeronaut. why not, sir? and then 'levis super astitit'--note of hovering over. bird-man. why not, sir?" finney paused in silence. the upper sixth were tittering like infants of twelve, with the exception of martin, who stared self-consciously at his desk, hating every moment and dreading what was to come. fortunately finney controlled his temper and said quickly: "don't be childish, cartwright. translate, warren." warren was an intelligent youth and gifted with endless audacity. a week or two later they turned back to the first book (finney couldn't tolerate their assault on the second half of book vi.), and warren had in his section the line: "succinctam pharetra et maculoso tegmine lyncis." this he rendered: "with a check golf-skirt and a bag of clubs." there was a wild roar of laughter and finney went very red. again he controlled himself and merely said: "quite good. but you might keep your jokes till the end of the hour." at last an event occurred which he could not overlook. cartwright was translating tacitus and he had a book open under his desk. the words flowed smoothly, with unwonted smoothness, for cartwright was slow of wit. at the end of the chapter finney remarked: "are you aware, cartwright, that you have reproduced the excellent translation by messrs church and brobribb word for word?" "have i, sir?" answered cartwright with astonishment. "you have. and what is your explanation?" cartwright reflected. "only that great minds think alike," he said at last. "i shall report you to the headmaster," shouted finney above the roar of laughter. hitherto he had shrunk from informing foskett of the way things went. he had been afraid that any such move might be taken as a proof of his own incompetence. foskett might reasonably hold that it was a master's business to look after himself and that a man who couldn't deal with an upper sixth couldn't deal with anyone. and he had heard in the common-room that foskett was remarkably fond of his prefects and would even back them against the masters, because he regarded them as more valuable allies in strengthening his own position with the rank and file of the school. after all, the masters were employees and far too deeply concerned with the problem of earning a living to do any harm to foskett: they would be unwilling to resign, because, even if they found posts, it would mean loss of seniority at the new school. distinctly he had the whip hand over them; but the prefects were harder to control and demanded more respect. so the masters had grown chary of reporting matters to the head, and finney had been warned that such a policy might lead to snubs. but on this occasion there was plainly nothing else to do. foskett spoke gravely to cartwright for ten minutes on the subject of example, and matters went on as before. cartwright was captain of football at the time. so finney continued to suffer, and because finney suffered martin inevitably suffered too. the ragging got on his nerves and he began to dread those long hours with their mirth and tragedy. at last he could bear it no longer, and he determined to speak to cartwright and his allies and to point out how miserable they were making finney: the man was a human being after all, he would say, and as an enemy he was not worth their efforts. at first it seemed an easy thing to do, but when the time for action came he shrank from the task. it would be so strange, so opposed to all traditions. and martin was distinctly one of the class of people who hate asking questions or worrying tradesmen or exacting their rights: he would rather have put up with a badly cut suit than protest to his tailor. he was not afraid of cartwright, but he was undeniably afraid of asking cartwright to be kind to finney: it was just the kind of task which martin most dreaded. he could imagine cartwright's tolerant smile, the slight raising of the brows, the polite: 'oh, certainly!' it would be painful, it would be intolerable! but it would have to be done. one final jest, one final look of despair on finney's face convinced him. so he nerved himself bravely for the crusade. cartwright was, as he had foreseen, quite nice about it: he agreed that it was not good form to behave as the fourth did, and warren and the others assented. martin had struck the right note when he used the phrase 'good form,' for no member of a public school, young or old, can stand the imputation that he is not a gentleman. martin was astonished at the ease and success of his task and was angry with himself for not having acted before. henceforward finney taught in peace and even made cartwright begin to display a keen interest in pindar. it was a thorough change and altered the whole aspect of finney's work: he could forget the unspeakable fourth-formers if he could really care about his work for the sixth. his relief was obvious, and martin, eagerly watching for every expression of it, felt justly grateful. finney could not guess the real cause of the new behaviour. for a moment he thought that perhaps his manner was becoming more imperious and that he had made definite progress in his efforts to acquire authority. but, on reflection, he had to abandon this flattering hypothesis, and he ultimately attributed the change to the growth of a collective conscience and the recognition that scholarship exams were dangerously near and that it might be as well to work seriously. that he could have made such a mistake showed that he still had much to learn about his pupils. but, from the pragmatic standpoint, his ignorance was for his own good: had he known that he was merely the recipient of charity, 'the something bitter' might have risen and destroyed the new-born happiness. xi in december martin, who was now seventeen and a half years old, went up to oxford to compete for a scholarship in classics. foskett had encouraged him to wait another year, but john berrisford held that boys should be free from the pettiness of school life before they were nineteen and advised martin to go up early: this course would give him another twelve months for civil service preparation if necessary. martin himself had no desire for another year at elfrey, for, without positively disliking the place, he wanted freedom. his prefecture had brought him more trouble than release, and the finneys, while they had undoubtedly refined his tastes and broadened his views, had also inevitably rendered him more discontented with the limitations of a society which drove him to silence or to crudity. martin was not a remarkable classic and never learned to sympathise with the somewhat pedantic traditions of a classical training, nor had he the imitative faculty necessary for the composition of good prose and verse in greek or latin; his work was always sound and often interesting; but he never acquired the infallible dexterity of touch which is the fruit of perfect sympathy with classical modes of thought and expression. his translation into english showed more style than accuracy, and he preferred rather to play loosely with ideas and to follow the literary and social questions arising from a study of the ancient literatures than to apply himself vigorously to pure scholarship. there never had been any doubt about his being an oxford man. his tastes and abilities, his family connections and his project of entering the civil service all pointed in one direction. moreover, he had somehow been obsessed with a notion that all cambridge colleges, with the exception of king's and trinity, were like public schools continued. had not heseltine gone to cambridge? but oxford would be very different; for how could oxford, the home of shelley and swinburne and morris, be anything but beautiful and brilliant? martin was thrilled by the exquisite promise of life: oxford would be heavenly, and heaven--well, heaven would be all atheism and epigrams. the paradox pleased him and he wondered whether it was the sort of remark he would make to his college debating society next october. but first of all, he sadly remembered, there was this affair of scholarships. he entered for a small group and gave king's pride of place. it had been his father's college and was in many ways suitable. its scholarships were neither too hard nor too easy to win. it was a small college in the first rank and commanded universal respect. it prided itself on being successful, not brazenly, like balliol, but with discretion, unassumingly. in spite of the opinions of poets, literary gentlemen and writers of guide-books, it is possible to maintain that oxford is not a nice place in which to live, much less to work. in december it is, on the whole, at its worst, and it was on the second monday of that month that martin arrived in the city. term had ended on the previous saturday, and only a few undergraduates were to be seen wandering about the deserted streets with a bored and lost expression. oxford has a double personality: in term it serves efficiently as a crowded pleasure resort; in the vacation it is one of those cities, like bruges la morte, whose justification is in the past and the memorials of the past. a compromise is fatal and undergraduates must exist in hundreds or not at all. a soft drizzle fell from a yellow, smudgy sky and the streets were covered with a particularly loathsome mud. as he drove down from the station to king's (he was to have rooms in college), martin was horrified: he felt that he had never seen a more lamentable place. to be rattled in a hansom down george street and then brought face to face with the front quad of balliol is not an inspiring method of approach to beauty. but king's was more presentable. an aged man, who looked dyspeptic and morose, staggered out of the lodge and asked martin's name: then he summoned a brisk underling, immaculately dressed in a bowler hat and dark blue suit. the underling picked up his bag and guided him up three flights of rickety stairs into a dingy apartment, mainly remarkable for the smallness of its windows. outside the door martin had seen the word 'snutch.' "mr snutch's," said the underling. "these will be yours." then, to martin's great surprise and at the expense of his own perfect trousers, he knelt humbly down and lit the fire. it seemed incredible that one so magnificent should stoop to light a fire. then he said: "your scout will be in at six, sir," and vanished. martin turned to survey the room. on the walls were some extraordinary banners or ribbons, on two of which were the words: ahwamkee university. there were some photographs, plainly american, and a large engraving called 'love's pathway.' on the wide expanse of shelves there stood six lonely books--five large volumes on law and the rubáiyát of omar khayyám. at the beginning of each was written: 'e libris theo. k. snutch.' martin was tempted to amend the inscription to 'e libris sex theo. k. snutch.' on the mantelpiece were some athletic trophies. mr snutch's residence at oxford, at three hundred a year, was not altogether unjustified: he could terrifically throw the hammer. next, martin found a penny paper called _the university_ and eagerly glanced through it to discover the quality of oxford journalism. there were jokes about socialists with red ties and there was an open letter to the varsity heavy-weight boxer. it began, 'dear chuckles,' and ended with best wishes for 'the dear little girl who will some day take the ring with you.' the reader was not even spared the allusion to the possible appearance of 'chucklets.' "my god!" said martin. he began to wonder whether he hadn't made a mistake in refusing to go to cambridge. the room was depressing, so he put on his overcoat and walked out into the rain: he went down st olde's to the river. in those days horse-drawn trams still rattled slowly through the streets, making a feeble pretence of antiquity. it angered martin that in this town, with its new yellow banks and new college buildings, such hypocrisy should go on and that people should confuse the relics of medieval squalor with the works of medieval beauty. he came from a clean town of the hills, and the clinging dirt and the sordid grime and meanness of st ebbs seemed haunting and insistent. before tom tower and the spacious splendour of christ church there was a common slum; he had never pictured oxford a place of slums. the thames, too, had been in flood for two or three weeks, and in the playing-fields across the river goal-posts stood up amid acres of water, gauntly desolate. as he passed out along the abingdon road he found meadows where the floods had receded and left the grass rotten and stinking. the straggling squalor of oxford's edge only served to increase his despair: he had expected to find a city with dreaming spires, and so far he had found merely a slum, with yellow gasworks. only now and then did he catch a glimpse which charmed him. as he turned back and climbed the hill to carfax he began to loathe the place. but it must be remembered that he had had an inadequate lunch and was under the shadow of an exam. on returning to snutch's rooms he found that the fire had almost gone out. with the aid of _the university_ he managed to create a fitful gleam, but it gave no heat. someone was moving about in the rooms opposite, another scholarship candidate presumably, a rival--damn him! martin began to think about tea: he did not know what to do and his scout was not coming till six. ultimately he went out to the cadena café: it was full of young women from north oxford who sat in mackintoshes, feeding with desperate gaiety. after he came back to snutch's rooms and read a shilling novel which he had found in the bedder. soon after six the scout appeared and told martin that he could dine in the hall at seven: he was a large, grimy man and sniffed prodigiously. dinner in hall was very trying. half-a-dozen dons sat at the high table trying to pretend by forced conversation that they were not thoroughly sick of one another: about thirty schoolboys sat shyly on the long benches, apprehensive, miserable. here and there would be two from the same school, chatting with animation and appearing to be very much in the know about life and the varsity: elsewhere strangers were huddled together, some silent, others making fitful conversation. financial distinctions were not forgotten, and the candidates from public schools had gravitated to one table, those from grammar schools to another. martin found himself by the side of a red-faced, ingenuous boy, who asked for the water and then said: "the harlequins are better than ever this year." martin assented, and added: "what's your school?" "rugby. what's yours?" "i'm from elfrey. have you anyone else in here?" "no. we had four up for balliol this year." "that's a lot. are the results out?" "yes, this afternoon. we got a schol. and an exhibition." "that was jolly good." the dialogue became more and more technical and immensely dull. the rugbeian was plainly a bore and after dinner martin fled from the college: he found a new cinema in broad street and went in. presently some undergraduates who were stopping up for a few days at the end of term came cheerily in and shouted vaguely. an obsequious manager pleaded with them and they wandered down the gangway looking for company: it did not seem very hard to find. martin watched their progress with interest and began to wonder whether the girl next him wanted to talk. she had dropped her wrist-bag once and he had picked it up: during the course of the proceedings his eye had been caught by the glitter of a light grey stocking. she wasn't, he had to admit, beautiful. but she was alone, and so was he. did she, on the other hand, want him to talk? the dropping of the bag might have been an accident. besides, what did one say? martin cursed his inexperience and racked his brains for a conversational lead. he could hardly make some remark about the films: that would be obvious and heavy. something light was wanted: but what? why on earth couldn't she drop the bag again? he would take the hint this time. his mind became a blank and he felt acutely miserable. at the end of the film he rose and walked away in despair. he stopped at the back of the hall and noticed one of the varsity men glance round and then move quickly into his place before the lights were again turned out. martin returned to college, read some more of snutch's novel, and went to bed. till friday night martin was kept hard at work doing papers in the college hall. on tuesday morning he had to write an essay on the relations of the artist and the state, an obvious subject, perhaps, but pleasing. it was the only paper which he enjoyed. afterwards he was kept hard at work with unseens and compositions. never in his life had he felt more irritable or more intellectually impotent. the yellow blanket of mist hung over oxford continually: the hall smelled abominably of stale gravy and recent meals, and, worst of all, the pens supplied to such as did not bring their own were quills; consequently the stuffy room was never free from a maddening scratch and squeak. a youth with a sloping brow and waving, faultless hair who sat next martin made great play with his quill: he was a 'dog' whose doggishness took the form of a graceful abandon in his dress; he wore soft collars and long woolly waistcoats and dilapidated pumps. he held his quill between his first and second fingers, and he wrote splashily with brave flourishes and a spasmodic squeak; also he had a habit of marching out majestically half-an-hour before the time for a paper was finished. martin wondered whether this implied that he was immensely bad or immensely good: he feared the latter. altogether he was a fascinating and disconcerting neighbour, and one morning martin, struggling with verses that would not 'come,' wanted to kill him. another cause of depression was the presence of boys from grammar schools. martin was no snob, but he could not keep himself unspotted from public school tradition, and he felt that these smug-looking youths were rivals in a way that the dull rugbeian never could be. he was certain that they were far better scholars than he was, that they had worked like slaves and could translate anything ever written in greek or latin: he might have escaped much mental suffering had he known that, even if they had been so brilliant (and in reality they were amazingly dull), the dons are, with a few exceptions, well rooted in class tradition and are not going to sacrifice the public schools on the altar of modern honesty. but martin did not know these things, and when he saw the grammar school candidates parading the town with little crested caps on the backs of their heads and greasy curls sticking bravely up in front, the natural dislike of the rival was fused with the public school man's loathing of inferior form. there was one unforgettable person who came every day to king's wearing a black overcoat and black kid gloves: his cap had a little silver button gleaming over the inevitable curl. he looked both wise and good. on the thursday evening martin glanced through the rough copy of his latin verse. there he found-- "via strata patebat hostibus; ardentes surgunt ducemque sequuntur." true that the lines did not sound beautiful: in a copy of twenty-two lines you must have one or two dull moments. but "via strata" and "ducem"--two false quantities in a line and a half. how could he have done it? he flung the rough copy into the fire and swore violently. silver button wouldn't make false quantities: silver button would have learned about 'dux' and 'duco' when he was twelve--so had martin. but then silver button wouldn't, couldn't, forget. martin was convinced now that, as far as a scholarship was concerned, he might as well never have entered. he wandered morosely into the streets: it started to rain and he took refuge in the cinema. for half-an-hour he watched the films and, more particularly, an amorous couple in front. a girl came and sat on his right: she was distinctly attractive and her chin, poised daintily in the air, conveyed an exquisite invitation: the rest of her face was hidden by hat. he began to feel, as before, self-conscious and miserable. this time he would speak, must speak ... but how? the couple in front had reached their limit in proximity. suddenly her foot touched his and with a surreptitious glance he saw below the brim of that entrancing hat. she was perfect. she had taken off her glove and her hand lay on her lap: before martin knew what he was doing, he had taken it and pressed it. the girl turned abruptly round, snatched her hand away, and said coldly: "please leave me alone." martin obeyed, blushing furiously. "i'm very sorry," he muttered, but she took no notice. he sat gazing in front of him, humiliated and tortured. what a fool he had been! why hadn't he said something and made an opening? the film clicked monotonously on. one fact alone flamed across his mind: he must get out before the film was over. he couldn't endure the raising of the lights. but either he would have to crush past the girl on his right or else go out to the left, a journey which would involve forcing his way through a long row of stout people. both alternatives were unpleasant. the film was ending. the music had ceased to ripple and begun to sob, always a proof of impending embraces. the hero and heroine were rolling great lurid eyes at one another. the lights went up. martin pushed his way out to the left past the stout and sulky: then he hurried back through the rain to snutch's gloomy chambers. there was nothing to do but to contemplate his own blunders classic and modern. he told himself that he had made a rotten shot and received a nasty snub. if he had only been aiming at something worth having, he wouldn't have minded. but what, after all, was the use of a girl to him? and why on earth had he wanted to grab her sticky hand--for it had been sticky. he knew now that he hadn't really wanted to do it, for its own sake: he had wanted to do it because other people did it. now it all seemed so hugely silly. "i suppose love's all right," he thought to himself. "but this hand and kiss business is piffle." on friday evening martin returned to elfrey in a state of advanced pessimism. early in the next week he learned that he had been elected to a classical scholarship at king's college. he gazed blankly at the telegram and the words 'via strata' and 'ducem' flashed before his mind. it was quite incredible, but it was true. xii martin spent his last two terms without effort and without emotion. the fact that he was a scholar elect of king's college, oxford, caused him to feel in some strange way that his career was made and that there was nothing more to be done. so he chattered to finney on sunday afternoons, read poetry (condescendingly now) at mrs berney's saturday soirees, and enjoyed the modern novelists when he should have been doing his prep. he had found a copy of butler's _way of all flesh_ in his uncle's study: this he read with joy and lent to the more worthy members of the upper sixth. a book with an appeal so universal naturally made an effect: it seemed to crystallise the religious experience of all. martin was eager to discover whether foskett had read it and consequently alluded to it at some length in an essay on 'recent aspects of evolution,' in which he courageously let himself go. foskett made no allusion to butler and merely wrote on the last sheet: 'good, but lacks balance. don't dogmatise on subjects of this kind. many of your ideas, though well put, are crude.' martin groaned as he read the criticism. if foskett had been a bigoted parson and had lectured him on the perils of free thought, he could have looked on himself as a martyr and enjoyed the nursing of a grievance: if, on the other hand, the strength and sincerity of the essay had been genuinely praised, martin's vanity would have been gratified. but this kindly tolerance, so well meant, was infuriating; it was typical foskettism. perhaps what contributed most to martin's disgust was the lurking suspicion that his ideas were, after all, a trifle crude. with foskett, martin was never in sympathy. he was out of touch with all the causes for which foskett stood, and it was among the small set of desperately serious and religious boys that the headmaster found his champions. the very fact that he had not taken orders seemed to them, perhaps justly, proof of the deepest faith: in after life they would all have signed photographs in their studies and point him out to their sons. 'that's old foskett,' they would say. 'fine character. great influence.' but the popular verdict was against foskett. the really strong man can get his way without criticism: he says 'do' and people just crumple up and do it. when foskett said 'do,' things were done as a rule, but the doer had a habit of saying, as he went grudgingly to his work: 'silly ass, thinks he's a blood-and-ironer.' martin said of him to his uncle: 'he's quite efficient and all that, and he's bound to get on. as crushers go, he might be a lot worse.' and that was the common view. foskett took the upper sixth in composition and greek plays. martin could not help admiring foskett's fair copies which showed undoubted feeling for the classical languages, but he could never quite endure his enthusiasm for the greek drama. when foskett enjoyed literature in public, it always seemed as though he was saying sternly to himself: 'this is good stuff and we've got to like it.' he would stride up and down the room with the text of a play, chanting the iambics or the choruses as though they were everything in the world to him, and all the time martin felt that it couldn't mean so much to him, just because he sought beauty with a fervour so literary and so incessant. with martin, appreciation was a thing of moods, coming swiftly and as swiftly departing: he could not understand how foskett's enjoyment remained always at high pressure: it must, he thought, be artificial. foskett's affection for euripides was the most unconvincing of enthusiasms: how could a man so far removed from euripides in taste and temperament really appreciate that passionate rebel of genius? martin could have tolerated an open enemy, a thorough conservative who called euripides a botcher, and a dirty-minded botcher at that: but foskett's liberal attitude, sweetly reasonable to the extent of being nauseous, was harder to endure. it was not so much that foskett had set out to like euripides because euripides was fashionable once again, though that of course was possible: but it was his determination to be fair at all costs that was fatal. foskett was so pertinaciously fair, so eager to do justice to both sides of the literary problem that martin considered that he didn't in the end properly understand or sympathise with either side. it occurred to him that compromise is always necessary in human affairs and usually fatal. and so while foskett declaimed the electra and gave out the points to be noticed for and against such treatment of the tragic theme, martin shuddered and sometimes sulked. intellectual isolation is not good for the manners, and foskett found martin difficult: the two remained always at a distance, never openly hostile, and never sympathetic. few public school boys are critical of the institutions amid which they are brought up, but it was natural for martin to ponder, as he idled through his last two terms, on the value of the things he had learnt and of the habits in which he had been trained. he had been interested in h. g. wells' pungent comments on the way we manage education, and he was fascinated by the sweeping schemes of reconstruction. was all this classical business, he asked himself, just a waste of time and effort? was he just groping at the door of a treasure-house whose contents had long ago been rifled? he resolved to consult finney. though finney was now always charitably treated by the upper sixth, his warfare with the upper fourth was telling on him. even in a few months he had lost vivacity and ambition, for he was beginning to suffer from the spiritual blight that attacks every unsuccessful schoolmaster in his time. in a year or two he would be shrivelled up into an irritable bunch of nerves, his ability wasted, his hopes stifled. martin could foresee no escape for finney, unless by some lucky chance he could get back to oxford: but that was impossible, for those who leave oxford rarely return. finney was willing enough to talk, but martin was disappointed with the conversation. he was a liberal both in politics and disposition, and as a result he had no point of view: he was angry about things and could suggest little reform, but there was no comprehensive unity or vitality in his ideas. he was the kind of man who makes great play with the word 'efficiency.' "we aren't clear enough," he used to say, "about what we want. we chatter airily at congresses about education, but we never really formulate our wants and bully people into doing things. we don't train our teachers or tell them what is needed ... we just plug them down. besides the schools aren't to blame: we've got to keep in touch with the two big varsities, and if they insist on everybody mugging up just enough greek to be a nuisance, we've got to see about the mugging. "and on the other side there are the parents. we don't get the boys till they are thirteen or fourteen, fashioned all ready in many ways. i don't know what the parents do want, but they certainly don't want education. ask any housemaster about the letters they write: they're nearly always economic. why does this cost extra and why doesn't harry get that free?" "i suppose that's fairly natural," said martin. "of course. but it shouldn't be all. it's typical of the british attitude. you buy your son an education costing so much, as you would buy him a suit of clothes. they don't care twopence about the teaching or the curriculum, except in so far as it concerns passing exams and leads to money. parents write about tom's chances for sandhurst, but who ever writes about his classics? it's all taken for granted, even its sickening narrowness. no one ever heard of a parent slanging the headmaster because his son didn't know who wrote _the alchemist_ or because he thought chopin was a music hall comedian." "do you suppose," asked martin, "that fifty per cent of the elfreyan parents know there is a play called _the alchemist_?" "well, i wouldn't bet on it," said finney. "still there it all is. ignorance and muddle. we've got so horribly linked up. union may be strength, but strength may be tyranny. capital is all knotted together. labour soon will be, and education is in the same way. we can't change without the others changing, the others can't change without the varsities----" "and the varsities won't change till public opinion blows them to bits," added martin. "so it all comes back to the dear old _vox populi_." "i suppose so," said finney wearily. "come and have some tea." although he found finney's suggestions disappointing, martin continued to ponder occasionally on the phenomena of school life, and when he went to devonshire for the easter holidays he took the opportunity of questioning his uncle, for whose views he had a great respect. john berrisford was always willing to talk after his third glass of port and he welcomed martin's questions. "of course you know," he said, "that though i'm a revolutionary in politics and economics, i'm a sound tory about institutions and the things that matter, like beef and beer. so i believe in the public schools and the universities, not because they're good, but because they _are_. everything that is, must be an expression of human nature, and, being rather an optimist, i think it has some good in it. anyhow, we can't take human nature and twist it about, as social reformers want to do. the people who cry out for censors of art seem to imagine that art makes public opinion. it may do so now and then, but it's much more important to realise that public opinion makes current art. art is the emergence of what people are feeling and thinking, and our schools, like our art, must be an expression of the national self." "but the national self," said martin, "is pretty stiff." "that is true, but it doesn't matter. my idea is that, being englishmen, we ought to make the best of it. smash international capitalism, which is hellish, and stick to any good things england can give. of course if you like to turn your destructive criticism on our school system you can knock it to pieces in a minute, just as you can knock out socialism, or the co-operative commonwealth, or any other sensible proposition. a half-educated person can criticise anything; it takes a man to appreciate. "no, it's no use battering the public schools. they are there, so let's make the best of them. they may not teach very much, but men learn to behave reasonably and not to get on one another's nerves. tell me: if you had to live on a desert island for six months with one other man, would you take a chap with ideas who had been co-educated or privately educated and generally fad-educated or an unintellectual but reasonable man from elfrey, a person you could always rely on, if it was only to be dull?" martin wanted the elfreyan. "well, that says a lot for the schools. you can't smash them until you have smashed the british character: of course that would be a capital thing to do, but it's a stiff proposal, and while we are waiting let's make the best of it. i quite expect that at times you must have been sick to death of elfrey, but didn't you like it on the whole?" "i think i did," answered martin reflectively. "exactly. you liked the chaps, because, with all their intellectual limitations, they're reliable. you know they won't play dirty tricks behind your back. you liked your study and you liked cooking enormous and hideously indigestible meals and gorging until all was blue. you liked shutting the window on a cold night and collecting a crowd and raising such a frowst that the air was solid and the windows steamed. you liked smoking your secret cigarette and discussing who was going to be the school wicket-keeper three years hence and who was the worst bat in first-class cricket. am i right?" "absolutely." mr berrisford started a new cigar with satisfaction. "good. then the system hasn't altered altogether. oh yes, and you liked some of your classics?" "most of them, when i could escape the notes and grammarian's drivel." "the classics are worth sticking to. it's no good these scientists talking about translations being as good. they aren't and there's an end of it. good translations have their uses, but they aren't the real thing. we don't read homer to find out what happened. so let's thank god for homer and philosophy and leave psychology and applied mechanics to the life force." mr berrisford had certainly a definite point of view, and he did not fall between the two stools of acceptance and sweeping reconstruction as finney seemed to. so martin was not only amused but influenced and on his return to elfrey for the summer term gave up worrying about the pros and cons of public school education. he determined to enjoy himself, and he knew that in order to enjoy himself he must have an interest. it couldn't be concerned with art, because in that case he would have to keep it to himself. it must be a common interest, a part of school life. ultimately, he fixed upon the bowling of googlies. his batting had always been respectable and had won him a place in his house team for two summers, and now, as rayner was likely to be engaged in school matches, or practice games, martin became house captain on most afternoons. ever since the day when, as a small boy being tried in 'firsts,' he had shivered with terror in the field and dreaded more than death itself the agony of the fumbled catch, he had always envied house captains. now was his chance: he could become a slow bowler. he believed that most things in this world can be achieved by bluff and a little hard work, and it seemed a simple thing to get wickets if you had unlimited power of keeping yourself on and had terrorised your fielders into holding on to anything. and so, weary of the upper sixth and foskett and even finney, and wearier far of wondering whether the public schools were right, and how and when the trade unions would take them over, he found comfort in the googly. during the holidays he had put up a stump on the berrisfords' lawn, and practised leg-breaks, waiting patiently for the desired freak which should turn from the off. sometimes it had come, but martin never had the least notion why it came: still the essential and undeniable fact was that it had come. on the second night of term he put it to rayner that he was intending to bowl googlies. "my hat!" said rayner. "and you'll be house captain usually!" "exactly," answered martin. "that is the point." rayner smiled grimly. "think of the house, old man!" he exclaimed. "i shall. really i do break both ways." "and how often do you bounce?" "that depends. anyhow it's the googly man's privilege to pitch one ball in six on his own toss. have you ever seen young jack hearne?" rayner neglected the question. "look here!" he said, "are you really going to bowl?" "rather! but i'll make you an offer. if i don't take ten wickets in the first fortnight with an average under eighteen, i'll never do it again." "done!" said rayner confidently. martin triumphantly kept his side of the agreement. the ordinary house pitches were rough and ready, the ordinary house player a slogger. martin's ordinary ball was well pitched up and apparently simple. but he had had his eye on two or three small boys in the junior team who, though poor bats, could run like hares in 'the country' and hold on to anything they touched. these he translated to the first, to the vast indignation of several clumsy hitters who were moved down in their stead. the policy was a success. martin used to go on first before the other side were set and occasionally got a victim in the slips or enticed a steady man in front of his wicket. then he made way for orthodox 'fast rights,' but after the fall of five or six wickets he would polish off the tail with atrocious slow stuff. his small boys were scattered far away and interfered considerably with an adjacent game: they had plenty to do and were given an ice for every catch they held. martin soon found it an expensive amusement and became extremely unpopular with the tenants of the neighbouring pitch. he never sulked if he were 'knocked off,' an unusual trait in a house captain and a cause of popularity with his team. and the fielders knew that he only pretended to mind when catches were dropped: martin was incapable of being ruffled by a mere game. as a result the eleven played keenly and with efficiency. though berney's had only one man, rayner, in the school eleven they succeeded in reaching the final of the cock house matches. they were to play, just before the end of term, their old enemy, randall's. martin now became thoroughly engrossed in cricket. he neglected to work for one or two school prizes, but he knew that he could get a leaving scholarship without difficulty. thus he became a more prominent figure in the house and was, on the whole, much happier than in the days of reading and thinking. he abandoned wells the social theorist for wells the fantastic romancer and combined _wisden's almanac_ with arnold bennett for his literature in prep-time. he knew now that he couldn't bowl googlies at all: on the house pitches it depended on the lie of the land which way the ball broke. but he kept up the fraud for his own amusement, and continued to take the wickets to which his confidence entitled him. the school were laying five to one on randall's, who had far the better record and were as usual a hard-hitting, level, ugly lot. berney's won the toss and only made a hundred and thirty on a good wicket. martin's first ball bumped a little and he poked it into slip's hands: rayner made twelve and was run out. the runs were made by martin's small protégés, who scored by fluky shots over and through the slips. it was a disgraceful display. randall's knocked up two hundred and fifty. martin was bowling unusually well and consequently never looked like taking a wicket. the batsmen played forward correctly and stayed for hours. even when in despair he tossed up the most tempting half-volleys, they were content to play him along the ground for one. randall's never risked anything when a cup was at stake. in the second innings rayner put up a fine century and martin made a pleasing thirty: had he resisted the temptation to cut "the uncuttable," he would have stayed in and served his house better. but martin could not play cricket in that spirit. the rest did little this time and randall's was left with only eighty to make. the score stood at fifty for two when rayner, who was, of course, captain when he played for the house, put on martin to bowl. spectators were moving to the tuck-shop to drown grief or express elation. martin knew that it was all over and sent down, by way of a change, a fast, straight ball. randall's captain was expecting something very different, mistimed it, and was bowled: his successor scraped nervously at a leg-break and was caught at the wicket. the next man survived three balls: the last delivery of the over was monstrous. it was pitched very short and went slowly away to leg: the batsman hit under it and was taken far out. a gift indeed. the score was now fifty for five wickets and the tuck-shop began to empty again. randall's were not the sort of people one suspected of having nerves. but to lose three wickets in one over of the last innings is startling, and randall's were rattled, despite their stodginess. martin's second over was weak in direction and pitiable in length, but he might have been barnes for the respect he received. it was another maiden. martin knew well enough that if one batsman had the sense to go for his bowling and treat it according to its merits the match was finished. he took another wicket with a slow leg-break and then a brawny youth named coxwell came in. he had been warned by his frantic housemaster 'to lash at 'em.' he did so and scored three fours in succession. during martin's next over coxwell was at his end. he saw now that the secret was discovered and that randall's would knock off their runs with impunity: he could imagine the gloating joy of randall's, all the greater because victory had been in doubt: berney's would be in the position of the mouse set free and recaptured. in his anger martin bowled an amazing ball. he had really meant to send up a "googly," but it pitched half-way to the wicket and scarcely left the ground. the batsman drove it back and martin, stooping quickly, just touched it with his left hand: the ball crashed into the wickets. coxwell, who was backing-up, was a yard outside the crease. the batsman who might have won the match had been run out by a gross fluke. "the stars in their courses," said martin to rayner, as they waited for the next man. the score was sixty-five for seven. martin took all three remaining wickets, or rather the batsmen handed him their lives. they came in half dead with fear (was not a cup at stake?) and demanded their own extinction. the first played forward to a slow half-volley and was caught and bowled, the next put his leg in front of the straight ball on the leg stump, the last was caught off a slow full toss. that was how berney's won the cup. rayner walked home silently with martin. "you great man!" was all he could say. "it was the great god funk," answered martin. "they just asked to get out." "you certainly bowled muck," admitted rayner. "but it was all sheer joy." and though they pretended to treat the matter as a great jest, they both felt a very genuine pleasure because they had won the cup for berney's. that evening the captain of the school eleven, who had heard that martin had taken seven wickets for twelve and thereby rendered berney's cock house, gave him his second eleven colours. he had not seen martin bowl. martin took the news to rayner. "well that," said rayner, "fairly puts the lid on it." together they shook the walls with laughter. life is occasionally dramatic, and the finale of martin's school career had certainly a touch of comedy. it is commonly believed that boys undergo regrets and deep emotions when they leave school. but martin noticed that only a few elfreyans were moved at the thought of saying good-bye: some were charmed by the prospect of entering a world of unlimited smokes and drinks and girls and motor bicycles, others by the prospect of intellectual as well as practical freedom. there were some who really regretted the end of life's first act, boys who had enjoyed the games and the friendships and were now passing to office work without the freedom of three or four years' residence at the university. but those who were more fortunate were eager as a rule to be up and off. martin had been amused by his last term with its athletic adventures and he had come to appreciate to the full his uncle's advice about making the best of existing institutions. rayner, too, was a good sort and an excellent friend. but the prospect of oxford, notwithstanding his gloomy foretaste of the place, attracted him undeniably--no, he could not be moved. on the last sunday night foskett delivered an address and ended with a special appeal to those who were leaving to remember the honour and welfare of their house and their school as well as their king and country. but martin was wondering all the time whether it were more satisfactory to have won colours for good, solid cricket or to have extorted a cup by mere bluff. there was something pleasant indeed in the thought that a real cricketer would go on with his career, whereas martin would never dare to call himself a bowler at oxford: on the other hand, there was an exquisite piquancy in the consideration that he had set out to 'do' cricket and had very successfully done it. also he had 'done' randall's, and he was still boy enough to hate the rival house with a fervent loathing. as the organ thundered out the farewell hymn, he decided that to succeed in a fraud which does no real harm is a very gratifying process. then he pulled himself together and sang dutifully. xiii martin spent august and september at the steading. the weather was kind and he could lounge and play tennis to his heart's content. in his spare moments he read homer and virgil, marking the hard passages with a blue pencil, according to advice. his cousin robert, who had just finished his third year at balliol, was working in a frenzy of confusion and despair. he had devoted the whole previous year to becoming president of the union and, having gained his end, was now endeavouring to condense all his greats work into one year. he had foolishly given way to panic, which meant that his work was as unintelligent as it was ferocious. in the mornings he read thucydides and cicero's letters, smoking and swearing continuously. martin used to sit in the same room reading his homer, but concentration was rendered difficult by robert's habit of roaring when he came to a speech in the text of thucydides. and when the roar was over he would mutter in his distress: "but the seeming firmness of those who will join in the contest is not the actual loyalty of those who brought it on, but if, on the other hand, anyone has much the greater advantage..." having progressed so far, he would look up and say: "did i speak? i'm sorry!" then he would return sorrowfully to his speech. in the evenings robert read bradley's _logic and appearance and reality_; if martin came into the room he would be met with an outburst on philosophy. "it's all bunkum," robert used to assert, throwing bradley (library copy) across the room. "just organised bunkum. i suppose philosophers have to make up some twaddle to justify their salaries, but they might have spared us the absolute!" robert was very angry about the absolute and used to draw obscene pictures of it, adding appropriate lyrics. martin came to the conclusion that greats must be bad for the temper, but he was not troubled by the reflection that some day he himself would be a sufferer, for no sane person of eighteen thinks more than a year in advance. he began now to feel a growing dignity and responsibility. plainly he was no longer a schoolboy, not even a god-like prefectorial schoolboy, but an undergraduate and a man of the world. such status implied duties, and he made efforts to cultivate a manner: he smoked a pipe openly instead of cigarettes in secret: he also set about the task of liking wine. this did not turn out to be so big a business as his first experiences had led him to expect. further, he began to prefer his tennis mixed: he had been happier before when there were only men and they could have a hard-hitting, vigorous set. but now he wanted to display his newly acquired american service and deadly smashes at the net to the girls who hit patiently from the back line: he was inwardly ashamed of this desire to make an impression on girls, but there it undeniably was. margaret berrisford he had always taken for granted. she was a year older than he was and very often she went away, for her father was taking every precaution to save her from the usual limitations of the squire's daughter. they were cousins and good friends and scarcely ever spoke to each other alone: they merely said 'good-morning' and 'good-night' and played tennis together. because they were practically members of the same family they never took the trouble to find out about one another. margaret had beauty of a subtle, unimposing kind and a strong athletic figure: moreover, she had brains and could talk. her interests were wide and she had an astonishing fund of information. if she had been precipitated suddenly into the house as a visitor martin would certainly have fallen in love with her. as it was, the idea never occurred to him. it remained, as frequently happens, for a married woman to inflict the first wound. one afternoon at the end of september martin was leaving the tennis lawn after a vain effort to play in the failing light on dew-soaked grass. he had stayed behind to collect the balls and was walking slowly with three folded deck-chairs in one hand, while with the other he carried the balls on his racket. suddenly he became aware of voices and almost ran into mrs berrisford and a stranger. he was introduced to mrs cartmell. "you can't very well shake hands," she observed. "we're going in. suppose i take the balls." "oh, please don't bother," said martin. but mrs cartmell grasped the racket and took it from him without dropping any of the balls. "thanks very much," martin remarked. "do you play tennis?" "in a feeble kind of way. i'm out of practice too." "we'll put that all right," said mrs berrisford. "the court is quite dry, up to tea-time," added martin eagerly. "the dew is very heavy later on and it gets dark soon, but it's all right if you play early." martin's keenness amused mrs cartmell. "of course i should love to play," she said. to his own astonishment martin felt greatly relieved. godfrey cartmell was prospective radical candidate for the division. to pass away the time he had been called to the bar, but he never had any need or any inclination to practise. at oxford he had, like most people, been president of the liberal club, and his faith was nebulous but genuine. he had had the good sense to marry a capable woman who carried him off maternally and saw to it that he didn't hang about any longer, but made his terms with the whips at once. viola cartmell was neither egoistic nor vulgar, but she combined ambition with practical driving power, and she had eaten the bread of obscurity far longer than she liked. godfrey had chances, but she saw that he had picked up during his first-class education a capacity for doing nothing in a very charming manner. she had already made him a candidate: she intended to make him a success. the cartmells were close friends of the berrisfords, and it was through the connection that godfrey had been introduced to the local liberal association. now they had come down to look round: the seat was held by a tory but had sound radical traditions, so that a change was not impossible. naturally godfrey cartmell spent much of his time with the agent: his wife thought it more tactful not to be too conspicuous at first, for she had resolved that, when the time arrived, she was to direct the campaign. so she had time to play tennis and go for walks and make, quite unwittingly, a conquest. it was certainly not with any feminine charms that viola cartmell won martin's adoration: rather it was by reason of her difference from the average girl who came to play tennis or to visit the berrisfords. there was no need to talk down to her or to make conversation, no need to take the initiative and play the gallant male. viola neither patronised martin, as did the men who came to the house, nor expected patronage, as did the girls. she treated him as an equal and talked about reasonable things; she had ideas and could think clearly. if a man had expressed her views martin would have been interested, but the fact that they came from a woman rendered them doubly attractive. during the vacation martin had begun to form a vision of the perfect woman: it had been the ideal that appeals to most intelligent boys at some period of their adolescence, the union of masculine mind and female beauty. he was old enough now to be troubled by sex, not as something abstract that might crop up in a theoretical future, but as a present pain and pleasure: in his growing restlessness he tended inevitably to find his ideal personified in every woman who was not quite a fool, the wish being always father to the thought. viola cartmell's masculine attributes, her managing ways, and her power of thought and argument gave him a genuine excuse for setting her on his pedestal. yet martin's attitude was one of adoration, not of passion. quite apart from the manifest impossibility of making love, apart too from the fact that, even if circumstances had allowed, he did not know how to make love, he did not even want to make love. he wanted to be with her, to watch her, above all to talk with her: and that was the limit of his desires. on the tennis court margaret and he were too strong for robert and viola; accordingly the two berrisfords fought great battles against the visitors and as a rule prevailed. but they were not invincible. once martin and viola had lost two sets in succession and in the third the score was five-three and forty-fifteen against them. viola had said, "now we're going to win," and martin had performed the most impossible feats at the net, smashing and cutting and getting back for the lob. martin finished the set with a perfect drive down the said line. "wimbledon," said robert, making no effort to reach it. as they went in to tea his partner smiled upon him and said: "you were simply wonderful." that moment gave him greater joy than he had ever gained from the avenging of gideon or the conquest of randall's with fraudulent googlies. on the last day of his holidays (it is a nice point whether the two months before a man goes up to the university are to be called 'summer hols' or 'long vac') a discussion was held after breakfast as to procedure. robert was sorry, but he had to give himself to the ethics: he had one day in which to settle the business of friendship and pleasure (long neglected), and he had discovered to his horror that some pieces of aristotle must be learned by heart with a view to translation. margaret had to go to a dentist at plymouth. at last martin asked viola cartmell to come out on the moor and to his joy she assented. they went by car to merivale bridge and then climbed up to maiden hill and cowsic head. it was a superb october day. a great south wind came up from the sea, salt and stinging but with no load of rain. down in the village the autumn had kindled the first fire in the woods and no hue of flame was absent from the leaves. shimmering with green and yellow, gold and copper, the boughs made music for ear and eye. and on the moor there was the wind and the sky and the infinite sweep of ridge after ridge, broken with harsh tors and intractable granite. it may be that the brave struggle of the dying year has its effect on man, for there is something challenging in a good autumn day, something that lifts and braces a man as spring can never do. spring, at its best, is languorous and its pleasures cloying, but autumn is a rousing friend and makes exquisite the burden of life. as they ate their sandwiches by the bear down man, martin could not refrain from quoting: "'and oh the days, the days, the days, when all the four were off together: the infinite deep of summer haze, the roaring charge of autumn weather.'" and indeed it was in the face of a charge as of cavalry that they fought their way down to two bridges. there is rough going where the moormen have cut for peat and trenched the heathery ridges in their labour: and now, in addition to the need of leaping the rifts and skirting green morasses, they had to battle with a wind that shrieked and wrenched and gave no quarter. they talked but little until they sheltered in a hollow. then martin took up the thread of an earlier conversation. "do you really believe in this liberalism?" he asked. "yes, of course." "but do you think modern liberal politics have any connection with liberalism?" "not much, i admit." "then i don't understand your point." "it's quite simple. i believe vaguely in liberalism, but we live in a busy world where everybody is far too much occupied to think about anything except business. parliament's busy too: it has got to get certain things done and it hasn't time for too much idealism and spiritual attitudes and things of that sort. and when it comes to the rather dull but very necessary work of keeping things going and administering the empire, i prefer the liberals, because they have got leaders with brains." "i see." "you think me very worldly?" "not at all. but i think you are wrong on your own canons. liberal leaders may be cleverer than tory leaders, but that doesn't prove liberalism to be efficient. just look at things!" "and for efficiency you propose socialism?" "not only for efficiency. it's a philosophy as well." "but we're considering efficiency. do you really suppose you have got at your disposal the human capacity and good will and reasonableness to build up a co-operative commonwealth? i don't say man hasn't the brains to plan things. he plainly has, as you can see by reading the wiser socialists. but he hasn't a corresponding capacity for cohesion and give and take. you'll have to depend on your labour leaders and trade unionists; but just look at them! they can only squabble and bicker and show up their jealousy and pettiness. that's where the stumbling-block lies." in vain martin contested. his opponent confronted him with the old dilemma (new to him), that if, in setting up collectivism, you confiscate property, you act unjustly to many, while, if you compensate, you maintain an idle rich class. by the time that they were once more on the march, martin was becoming a devotee of 'efficient liberalism.' but he enjoyed his defeat. if this method and insistence had come from a man he would have felt very differently. at last they reached two bridges and had tea at the hotel and waited for the car to fetch them as had been arranged. it pleased martin to pay for the tea with his own pocket-money (his allowance would begin to-morrow) and to refuse to listen to demands. she thought him silly for the moment, since she did not understand how much he cared. dinner that evening was a capital meal. john berrisford was in his best form and kept up a lively duel with viola cartmell. even robert managed to shake off the depressing effects of aristotle. they drank to martin's career at oxford. "you're certain to like oxford," said godfrey cartmell when the men were alone. "i'm afraid i wasn't much impressed by it in december," answered martin. "that wasn't oxford," interrupted robert. "that was a dismal city in the midlands seen at its worst." "exactly," said mr berrisford, breaking into the conversation. "oxford isn't a place. everybody talks about the buildings and the age and the dreaming spires. it goes down with the yankees and the people who are proud of having read _the scholar gipsy_, and i suppose it keeps up the picture post card business." "but there are good things," said cartmell resentfully. he was of magdalen. "certainly. but these things are incidental and not essential. after all, the best college--with all due respect to you, cartmell, and to you, martin--has a front quad like a toy castle and a chapel--well, i suppose it's the kind of chapel that particular college ought to have, according to all tradition--a great speckled warning against god. half the most sensible people in oxford don't know a jot about the architecture, but they know oxford." "then," answered cartmell, taking up the argument, as behoved a liberal, seriously, "would you mind if the whole show--the educational work, i mean--were transferred to margate or southend or some place with a little air? on your theory that would be a very sound plan." "it has its points," added robert. "just think of the progs on a seaside promenade." "and the sea," continued his father, "is limitless. many young men would go down to the sea in ships and have business in great waters. what a chance for enterprise! moonlight trips round the bay." "but seriously," said cartmell, still smarting under the implied contempt for magdalen's beauty. "the port lingers at your side," was the answer. "restore the circulation." "well, seriously," john berrisford continued, when his glass had been filled again, "to move would be fatal, because the traditions would all go if you took them away from their home. but it's the traditions that count, not the place. god knows i'm willing enough to be sentimental about places. i can even enjoy hearing the song about 'devon, glorious devon,' sung by a dandy coon baritone at an audience of cockneys at teignmouth. i can understand a scottish exile in america going a hundred miles to hear harry lauder. to my mind places are the only things about which a man has a right to be sentimental. no causes or catch-words for me: but hills and valleys--as much as you like. that's nationalism, and therefore liberalism, cartmell." "i agree!" "you don't, but i'll take your word. but what was i saying? oh yes, about oxford. oxford is all right. i know you get the worst wine in the world there--i suppose it's specially imported for the benefit of the young men of the world who believe that anything is nectar if you pay more than ten bob a bottle for it--but you still find people drinking properly. richly, i mean, and with conviction. i think i'd rather be a teetotaller----" "which god avert!" put in cartmell. "amen to that. yes, i'd rather be a true blue than drink one glass of wine at dinner. one glass! it's an insult. now at oxford----" "but, father," robert interrupted, "the don of to-day is just the sort of person who does drink one glass of wine. with a kind of ghastly self-conscious moderation he sips some claret and then hurries off to organise a mission meeting. there aren't any good old fogeys left, only some fogeys without the merits of fogeyism. they've got consciences and think about social reform and the possibility of all classes pulling together before the last red day. you know the kind of thing. by good will out of nervousness." "well then," answered mr berrisford, "i'm wrong. oxford is going to the dogs. i suppose they had to let the dons marry, but they might have foreseen that the kind of women who would pounce on the dons wouldn't understand about the good life. i expect it's the women that are destroying oxford. when oxford spread northwards, it spread to the devil." "but this is downright toryism," protested cartmell. "you call yourself a revolutionary!" "so i am. but i'm sound about tradition and things that matter. i don't want soaking: i want proper drinking and proper talking. i thought it might have lingered in one or two common-rooms. anyhow, the undergraduates----" he paused a moment and then went on: "i remember oxford as a place where i had some excellent pipes and never took my breakfast till i wanted it. it was a place where i worked devilish hard when i hadn't anything better to do. and i worked sensibly. no gentleman works after lunch or dinner. he walks or buys books after lunch and after dinner he talks. you must talk at oxford, martin." "at debates, do you mean?" "not at the union. oh, lord, not there. robert has done that, and look at him. he's a broken man. he used to spend his vacs wondering how he could get the votes of malthusian mongols in worcester without losing the support of church and state in keble. didn't you, robert?" "i shall draw a veil over the past," said robert. "i became president, anyhow." "be warned, martin," his uncle went on. "speak at college debates, if it amuses you. but shun a public career. talk all night to your friends, for afterwards you won't get talk like it. you'll get shop talk and small talk and dirty talk, but at oxford you'll get the real thing with luck." martin, remembering the tastes of theo. k. snutch, felt doubtful. "of course you'll find lots of nonsense there," john berrisford added. "lectures, for instance. they're nothing but an excuse to keep the dons from lounging: it certainly does give them an occupation for the mornings. just think of it! there they are, mouthing away term after term. either wisely cut----" "hear, hear!" from robert. "--or laboriously taken down, by conscientious youths with fountain pens and patent note-books. i suppose the rhodes scholars use shorthand." "possibly," said robert. "certainly they have nasty little black books to slip in their pockets like reporters." "anyhow the stuff could be got out of reputable books in half the time with no manual labour of scribbling. sometimes the man's lectures are actually published in book form and yet he solemnly dictates them year after year!" "but sometimes," put in cartmell, "a man has got something original to say." "well," said robert, "why doesn't he publish his notes at a price? i'm quite willing to buy his knowledge, but i dislike having to waste time and trouble in a stuffy lecture-room in order to get it." "the whole thing is preposterous," his father concluded. "but the system will last for fifty years or more. just like the discipline. so beautifully english, they drive everything underground, make it twice as dangerous, and then pretend it doesn't exist. instead of men having open and honourable relations with women, they'll be slinking about in back streets and snatching their kisses in taxicabs." "well," said martin, "you set out to praise oxford but you haven't made it seem very attractive." "oh! you'll find it all right, when you come to it. if a man has got to earn his own living it's about the only time when he can live a reasonable life. you'll be able to say what you like, read what you like, go to bed when you like, get up when you like, work when you like, and, if you use a little discretion, do what you like. don't become a slave to any one thing, the river or the union or even the classics. you can get into the civil service without straining yourself, so make the most of your time. doing the kind of work you like is the only really good thing in the world." just then margaret opened the door and looked in. "father," she said, "you're booming terribly. mother says you must come and play games." "i never play games." "well, mother says you must. all of you!" "are we wanted at once?" "yes." "then, gentlemen, we must yield. we were born too late. the matriarchy has returned. do you agree to that, cartmell?" "certainly!" "there was a time when no young lady would have the daring to invade the dining-room and order the men to play games. games, indeed!" "don't start again, father," interrupted margaret. "i won't budge till you do." "just think what you might hear!" "oh, i'm not a 'puffick lidy.' they passed away with the patriarchy. now, come along!" games were a success because they were taken seriously. mr berrisford asserted that if he must waste time in that particular way he meant to do it properly. so they all exercised great ardour and ingenuity, composed pretty rhymes, and drew the strangest pictures. at the end he insisted, however, that instead of taking famous men beginning with c, they should have infamous people. the test of infamy was to be a referendum. the game began well enough, because no opposition was raised to such people as cicero or christopher columbus. but the inclusion of both cromwell and charles i. caused a heated argument and cartmell was sure that they couldn't both be on one black list. but mr berrisford exposed the crimes of both at great length. crippen and calvin both had defenders and the game at last broke up in confusion. martin enjoyed the evening, partly from vanity (he had done some quite clever things), and partly because he could watch viola cartmell without being noticed. to watch her was heavenly. there was nothing subtle or analytic in his adoration: for him there was just an indivisible whole called viola. and that was perfect. at eleven robert declared that he still had some of the ethics left and retired to find out about the contemplative life. mr berrisford took godfrey cartmell to smoke a cigar in his study and the rest prepared to go to bed. martin went to his room and then came back and lingered by the staircase window. as he looked out he could see a solid line of fir-trees standing out with black severity against the moonlit sky, and farther away was the long shoulder of the moor--he could see the ridge they had climbed together and the rough peak which broke its symmetry and made its splendour. someone was coming up. it could only be viola: the berrisfords slept on the other side of the house. it was she. trembling, he heard the rustling of her skirts, the creaking of the stairs, her voice by his side. "hullo!" she said. "star-gazing?" "it's a great night," he answered. she came and stood at the window. the closeness of her thrilled him. "i wish those owls wouldn't hoot," she said. "is that the ridge we climbed?" "yes. i did enjoy the walk." "so did i! the air up there is so splendid. and it's all so gorgeously empty." "i've been up before. but i enjoyed it much more this time." naturally she did not take it as he meant it. "one doesn't often get such a perfect day, i suppose," was her answer. martin was at a loss. he wanted to say all sorts of things: fortunately they stuck. she turned to go: "i'm sure you'll have a good time at oxford and make the most of it!" "thank you very much. everyone does seem to enjoy it." "good-night!" she said, and left him to go to her room. the door closed behind with a sharpness that hurt. as martin lingered in the passage it began to occur to him that he was a silly fool, that boys of eighteen shouldn't fall in love with married women of twenty-five or even more, and that, even if they did, there was no point in being tongue-tied and nervous. but what was the good of self-reproach? he wasn't to blame if she was perfect. and she was perfect. to-morrow he would have to go up to oxford. he would scarcely see her again. there was nothing left of her now, nothing except the boots which stood outside her door, their strong brown leather stained with the peat of bear down and devil's tor. at last he moved quickly to his room and undressed. as he lay half naked on his bed he recalled the glories of the moor and the way they had talked. god, how she had talked! they had defied that leaping wind from whose onslaught his cheeks still burned. it had been a day of days. then he heard godfrey cartmell come up and again the door closed. the sound of it hurt him. how could she waste herself on that correct, that unutterably correct, young liberal? why was life so full of silliness, of waste and bungling? why ... but one thing was certain--he would never, never forget her. book two university i "these 'ere deemagogues ... it's them as battens on the worker." martin woke with a start. he looked round his slovenly 'bedder' vaguely. his scout, mr algernon galer, was slowly pouring out cold water into a bath and continuing last night's conversation. it was typical of galer that he never dropped a conversation until he considered it completed, until, that is to say, by his fiendish ability to bore he had reduced the other side to silence. at present martin had no other acquaintance in king's, for he had only come up on the previous evening. on reaching his rooms he found that the cupboard had been filled with a quantity of jam and pickles and other kinds of food, all carefully opened, so that they could not be returned if disliked by the purchaser. galer pointed them out with pride as though they testified his devotion to martin's welfare. there was nothing galer did not know about the ways of looking after a fresher. this galer was a small, bunched-up, greasy man with a ragged black moustache, scarlet cheeks, and great watery eyes underhung by bags of loose skin. during the mornings he shuffled about the stair in a pink shirt, green fancy waistcoat, grey flannel trousers, and lurid yellow boots; later on he retired with a large black bag to the iffley road, where he was supposed to maintain a timid wife and innumerable children. it was a matter of conjecture among the residents on galer's stair whether he wrapped up the coal in newspaper or whether the bag contained coal and food exquisitely mingled. by the afternoon the bag had always achieved a certain bulk and wore a swollen look. but it was as a politician that galer excelled. no truer tory than galer ever voted for valentia or took the empire to heart. he did not exactly know where the map was red or how it became red; not that that would have mattered, for galer was not the man to be worried about little points of honesty. but he knew that much of the map was red, and he was genuinely glad about it: it seemed to him a logical inference and a capital idea that the map should be all red. of the catch-word he was a master. few conversations with galer were allowed to end without some allusion to 'hands across the sea' and the thickness of blood (compared with water) and the 'necessity for a cash nexus just to symbolise the brother'ood.' but it was the new type of 'deemagogue' that really vexed galer. during the previous evening galer, after explaining to martin the ways, the abominably expensive ways of the oxford world, had gone on to elaborate his favourite theme. and now, before eight o'clock in the morning, he was at it again. "clors against clors," he grunted. "wot i says is capital and labour 'as identical interests. identical. these 'ere strikes plays the jimmy with both." martin yawned, turned over, and pretended to sleep. "quarter to eight, sir," continued galer. "it was orl right when these unions knew their proper business and kept their contrax. wot i says is a bargain is a bargain." and with this discovery he went wheezing from the room. martin got up at nine, inspected the tin bath which had an inch of icy water on its blackened, paintless bottom, and concluded that it was not inviting. however, moved by his fear of galer and a desire not to win his scout's contempt at the outset, he splashed feebly with the water. he deferred shaving and went to look at his breakfast. in the fireplace he found two poached eggs beneath a tin cover. they had been standing for over an hour and had become solid, resembling jelly with a tough crust on the edge of it. the fire had been a failure, the kettle sat in obstinate silence, and martin ultimately made tea with water that had not boiled. the result was a greenish beverage with shoals of tea-leaves floating on the surface. there were four solid boards of toast, once endued, presumably, with the crisp seductions of youth, and an immense roll whose spongy giblets would have beaten the strongest digestion. no one ever ate these monstrous things and what galer did with them was another matter of conjecture. some maintained that he fed his family on them neat: others that there was a permanent bread-and-butter pudding on the galer menu. martin had come up to oxford firmly convinced that he was about to sink into luxury's softest lap. he found that he had to live in two dingy rooms three storeys from the ground. the "bedder" had a tiny slot of a window opening on to the kitchens of a neighbouring college: the "sitter" was slightly larger but just as dark. all the furniture, for which a heavy rent was charged, had fallen into a state of gloomy squalor suggestive rather of camberwell than of mayfair. the carpet, whose flagrant ugliness of colour and design was obscured by the dirt of ages, had actually given way in places and everywhere there was dust. galer, who, with the aid of a harassed boy, had charge of nine sets of rooms, had neither the time nor the inclination to do any cleaning. he flicked cupboards with a duster in a dilettante way from time to time but further than that he never went. martin also discovered that the college did not contain hot baths and that the only method of procuring such a luxury was to heat a large can of water at his 'sitter' fire. all meals, except dinner, were brought through the open air across two quads and arrived in a tepid state; nor was this improved by the fact that martin lived at the top of his stairs and had to wait till those below had been supplied. there was no service lift and no means of emptying slops on the stairs, and everything had to be carried up and down the tortuous steps, even the bath-water. but galer would have been the last person to encourage the introduction of lifts; he was at least thorough in his toryism. dining in hall meant swallowing four abominably served courses in twenty minutes. "so this," thought martin, "is the princely life," and he wondered whether he would suffer the same fate as uncle paul, who "was driven by excessive gloom, to drink and debt, and, last of all, to smoking opium in his room." all saturday he was pestered by invaders who wanted him to row or be a soldier or join the national service league, or the men's political union, or the fabian society, or the tariff reform league. in despair he joined everything, except in cases where the man talked about immediate subscriptions: then he boldly refused. but few secretaries had sufficient enthusiasm to collect money. so martin became a member of numerous societies of the majority of which he heard nothing more. sometimes he received a printed notice of various meetings which he did not attend. he used to wonder vaguely who paid for all the printing ... certainly he did not. and so for the first two or three days of his residence he felt pestered and irritable. there were so many things to find out, such as when and where to be gowned, who were freshers and who were unapproachable seniors, what attitude to adopt to one's scout and one's tutor. it was all very perplexing, and although martin did not suffer the acute agony of apprehension that had made terrible his first few days at elfrey, he remained, in spite of all the hints given him by his cousin robert, ashamed of his ignorance and fearful of mistakes. soon he was sent for by his future tutor, mr reginald petworth. martin found him surrounded by undergraduates who called him reggie and conversed with unconvincing heartiness. he knew that he hadn't ever to say "sir" to a don, but he was not prepared for christian names. however, that would only begin after a considerable acquaintance. the crowd began to melt away and he was soon the only man left. "well," said petworth cheerily. "let me see, you're----" "leigh." "oh yes, of course. you wrote some very jolly hexameters for us in the scholarship exam." martin was deeply astonished. two howlers! "why, i thought that paper would have done for me," he said. "oh, you howled once or twice. but you were jolly, very jolly." martin was silent and petworth produced cigarettes. "um, yes. have a good vac?" "splendid, thanks. i was in devonshire most of the time. dartmoor way." "dartmoor is good, isn't it? i want to go down and dig about in the hut circles. i am sure they haven't done enough. passingham of exeter found some awfully jolly bones, besides some arrows and things. do you like digging?" martin confessed that he had never tried: he would have liked to add that he found the hut circles disappointing. but he didn't dare to say so. this conversation was rather trying and he was relieved when petworth came to business and mapped out his lectures and hours for showing up compositions. "i'm usually in after ten," concluded the tutor. "come up and see me and bring any questions. and don't do less than an hour a day." "that won't kill me," said martin. "it's possible not to reach that standard, i find. oxford is full of things to do. don't do all of them." martin went away with a muddled impression of countless book-shelves, two excellent arm-chairs, some nice prints, a little, bright-eyed urbane man and a general atmosphere of invincible jolliness. he was not at all sure that he liked it. for the first week or two martin was the unwilling but abject victim of galerism. galer had a way with youths and could handle even the most pronounced, aggressive, 'damn you, i'm a man of the world' type of fresher. his influence, he knew, would never utterly die, but time would weaken it: and so in the first few days he did his best to train the new-comers on his stair in the best traditions of the college and university. also he endeavoured to keep them from sowing political wild oats: there was nothing galer loathed more bitterly than carrying up radical or socialist newspapers. martin soon began to hate the man fervently. he wanted to find out how one could change one's rooms, for he would live in a pigsty to avoid galer. "your cheese, sir," the wheezy voice would say. "i see as 'ow these deemagogues 'ave brought a lot of transport workers out. wicked i call it. wot the gov'ment ought to do is to be firm. 'ave out the troops and 'and out a bit of sleeping-draught. that's my notion of ruling. one of those there riff-raff killed a loyal worker." "in other words, a scab," said martin boldly. "it's a 'orrid name to give a chap," said galer. "i don't see no crime in bein' loyal. i 'ope you don't 'old with these paid agitators!" "i certainly hold with trade unionism." "the trade unions aren't wot they were. oh no! swelled 'ead too big for their boots and all that." martin made no answer and, while galer rambled on, he saw that the only policy was to declare himself a revolutionary and have done with it. of course galer would despise him: but he might cease to argue. the crisis came at lunch-time two days later. "by the way, sir," said galer, bread in hand, "are you 'aving a paper?" "yes, i start to-morrow. _daily herald_ and _manchester guardian_." galer sniffed, threw down the food, and left the room in silence. ii if baedeker treated of oxford colleges as he treats of continental hotels the visitor would probably be informed that king's is 'well spoken of.' king's is small and comfortable but plainly in the first grade. no taint of specialism mars its charming mediocrity. it is not, like balliol, aggressively successful, cornering the university scholarships and claiming half the important people in europe as its alumni, nor does it, like new college, combine a gentle attachment to the humaner letters with supremacy on the river. it does not aspire to royalty or rugger blues. most class lists contain one or two firsts from king's and the king's eight never falls from the top division. the college has two excellent quads, a garden, a pleasing chapel, and some astonishing beer. its port, however, is the worst in oxford. king's men were essentially public school men. few rich young men from eton came to a foundation which was neither particularly notable nor particularly notorious. wealth is not scrupulous as to which of those types it favours, but it abhors the mean. nor did the grammar schools or the colonies supply more than a tithe of the college, which drew mainly upon the middle rank of public schools. herein lay both its strength and its weakness. its strength lay in its freedom from cranks and bores, its weakness lay in its uniformity: a house which is not divided in itself may stand firm, but it is likely to be a dull and gloomy mansion. martin would have preferred to go to balliol or new college, but as he was paid eighty pounds a year to go to king's there was no profit in grumbling. and so he set to work to find company, in which respect he was indeed fortunate. while many of the freshers turned out to be good men and dull, some even bad men and dull, the scholars were all interesting. the uniformity of public school tone naturally drove the more critical together, and in martin's year the house was saved from gloom by at least a partial cleavage. necessity aided inclination in forming the push. the push consisted of five men and contained a governing trinity. these were martin, lawrence and rendell. rendell, the first classical scholar, was attached to what the others called the ineffable effs--fabianism, feminism and faith. his god was paradoxical, but not so exciting as mr chesterton's, and more interested in social reform and municipal trading than in beer and ballads. rendell managed to entertain his various faiths without becoming a prig or a puritan. during his first months of emancipation from school he had shown a suspicious hankering after beans and djibba-clad women, but martin and lawrence suppressed such tendencies with a firm hand. rendell, though not pliable on the subject of religion, yielded on this point and soon declared his complete contempt for the eating of vegetables and drinking of ginger ale. lawrence was primarily noticeable for size. he was six foot three and broad in proportion: he had a ruddy and cheerful countenance and prodigious hands and feet. essentially he believed in violence. he didn't care twopence, he declared, for fabianism or construction policies and professed an intense desire to smash things, especially religion and the social system. he called himself a neo-nietzschean, but he certainly could not have distinguished between neo- and palæo-nietzscheans. to tell the truth, he had, like many followers of that great dyspeptic, never read a word of him. lawrence hated music, except the marseillaise (for its associations) and the barcarole (for its effects) but he was taught at oxford to like sullivan. he read the poems of john davidson and the philosophy of georges sorel. in smoking, eating and drinking he did all that might be expected of him, and he could play rugger amazingly well when he was not too lazy to turn out. the trinity talked to each other all day and all night, and there were soon very few problems of the universe which had not been satisfactorily settled. the need for a new point of view became apparent. "let's have that fellow chard in," suggested martin. "coffee in my rooms?" said lawrence. "right-o! to-morrow night, if he'll come." "oh, he'll come," said rendell. "he's rather sick of life. isolated, you know. he only talks to davenant." "shall we have davenant too?" suggested martin. "the ass with the ties?" said lawrence; "and the cloak! oh, not him. oscar wilde is a bit played out by now." "he's no fool," said rendell. "i had a long conversation with him about pointillism. he knows some of the camden town school." "post-impressionism is less rot than most art," lawrence growled, "so have him in." thus the push was formed. chard was the son of a political k.c. and patently marked out for the acquisition of similar honours in the shortest possible space of time: for he believed firmly in the liberal party and himself, a quite irresistible combination in these democratic days. he held no opinion on religion or art, because they were not concerned with his career except in so far as an open declaration of atheism was unwise. davenant looked sublimely down on politics. art was his sphere. having been appropriately named aubrey, he had undertaken from an early age to know all about beauty. he had learned the names of all the unknown painters and could make great play with them: how much taste or feeling he really possessed no one ever discovered, for he was one of those disconcerting people who mingle acute with ridiculous judgments. at times he affected a vague interest in the catholic faith and had been known to attend mass. concerning the love of women he was at once mysterious and supercilious. he laid claim to a vast knowledge of the sex, and by reason of a continental year spent since leaving school his boast of experience demanded some respect. in england, however, he never spoke to women. one night lawrence, being tolerably drunk, told him he was afraid of women. whereupon davenant said he hated rosebuds and liked his flowers faded. lawrence called him 'an unnachral beas',' and made a long speech about purity, in the middle of which he upset his beer and swore most filthily. davenant's evening cloak, wrought of a dark but flashing blue, caused its owner more trouble than joy. lawrence stole it one saturday night and, clad in it, went roaming through the town, to the great joy of the oxford maidens who like that kind of joke. he made great play with it in the cinema and ultimately left it in the grapes. when davenant called for it on the next day it had vanished, and he was not sorry. the cloak had been an embarrassment, nor had he even really cared for it. but they didn't mind his posing so long as he avowedly posed. he was, after all, amusing, and at bottom he had a great fund of human kindness. martin firmly believed that if he had to ask a friend for help or advice he would rather have appealed to davenant, the apparently supercilious, than to rendell, the faithful feministic fabian. it must not be supposed that the push became a push in a day. they only worked up to friendship by rather heavy conversations. they would begin on politics or literature, talking at first with reticence and slight suspicion, but soon their relative isolation brought them closer together and made way for clearer statements and more liberal confessions about sex and religion. it was astonishing how soon after the final breaking of ice they established complete intimacy. davenant, who had æsthetic friends in other colleges, was least merged in the joint personality of the push. but all wise men need an audience, and davenant was not going to desert them while there were still points on which he could gain a hearing. on several matters they were in complete agreement. they were all 'damned if they were going to row.' the secretary of the boat club turned out to be the rhodes scholar, theo. k. snutch, whose rooms martin had occupied during the scholarship exam. he pointed out gently that the tradition of the 'cahlege' laid down that all freshers should be tubbed. davenant managed to persuade snutch that he had a weak heart and snutch, taking stock of davenant, prudently forbore to demand a doctor's certificate. chard magnificently refused to go near the river and was henceforward ignored by the college athletes: but he did not mind, for none of them had votes at the union. "the thing for us," suggested lawrence to martin and rendell, "is that what-you-may-call-'em strike. grêve perlé or something or other. stay in and rot the show. catch a crab every other minute." "how does one catch a crab?" asked rendell, but no one could tell him. like most of lawrence's intentions (he was rich in schemes), the idea was never put into practice. what eventually occurred was the appearance of the rugger secretary demanding the assistance of lawrence 'just to stiffen up his pack' and the speedy release of martin and rendell owing to their dismal inefficiency. snutch was entirely charming and martin, who had feared a terrific, blustering coach, was agreeably surprised at the experience. another point of agreement with the push was the essential loathliness of hearties. king's had rather more than its fair share of hearties and the freshers seemed likely to keep up the supply. all hearties were religious, but all the religious were not hearties. the hearties always shouted at one another in the quad, and banged each other on the back. they always called each other tom and bill, and when they were not back-banging, they were making arrangements for mission work. they did much solid work for the college athletics, took seconds and thirds in history, and afterwards became schoolmasters and parsons and went to switzerland in the winter. rendell, who had a passion for classification, insisted on distinguishing between neo-cardiacs and palæo-cardiacs. "neo-cardiacs," he said, "are more spiritual and more dangerous. they don't shout like the whole-hoggers, but their eyes glitter more and they're keener about the new type of bishop. look at steel-brockley. he's a scholar and a 'mind' and can't swallow all the rot of the old school, but he's more sinister really." "i suppose that hodges is the ideal palæo-cardiac," said martin. "yes, hodges, the great ass." "of course he's out to set up a kingdom of heaven upon earth," said lawrence. "and can't you imagine his idea of it? it'll be stiff with people like himself, all blustering round and organising things. football, rich _v._ poor. of course there will still be rich and poor, for our hodges is a tory, but there'll be a spirit of fellowship oozing everywhere." "'running things' is all these chaps really care about," said davenant, intervening. "i don't believe they care a straw about their summer camps and boys' brigades as far as the boys go. they like to be in charge of clubs and canteens and order kids about and tell them what a good thing discipline is and how wicked trades unions are." "those are the neos," added rendell quickly. "the old ones like to rag about, and there's something to be said for that. hodges likes ragging. of course he is an ass, but he's not a dangerous ass. on the whole, we may call him a dear old thing and let him go on shouting. but the bad men are steel-brockley's gang. they all suffer from bossing fever and can't live unless they're running something. and they're desperately fair-minded and don't believe in party, which simply means that they are tory agents, and tell the boys what a sin it is to be discontented with five or six bob for a seventy-hour week." "and they're dragging in the freshers," said lawrence. "ought to be strangled." so in private they settled the business of the hearties. but in public, partly because they were freshers and partly because they had not the courage of their convictions, they found themselves being quite polite to these good young men. religion had an ever-living appeal for the push, because it is one of the few subjects about which argument is as fascinating as it is futile. chard, it is true, couldn't be bothered with metaphysics: he was a history scholar, and his line was a first in history and then the bar. but the discussions were never metaphysical in the technical sense and it amused him to listen and sum up with an epigram. davenant used to murmur that he thought christ rather a beautiful figure and that the church had saved art in the middle ages, but he did not receive much attention. it became more and more the custom to regard davenant as a picturesque background to conversations, except when artistic matters were under discussion. then he held the floor, or rather he stood gracefully before the fire and spoke slowly between puffs of smoke. they met most often in lawrence's rooms, which were large and conveniently situated on the ground floor. he had added to the dilapidated furniture some new cushions and a really good arm-chair, and, having no money, he started a colossal bill at blackwell's, so that his shelves were soon piled with books which he rarely read. but he was not the man to care deeply for his rooms, as did davenant, who believed in gordon craig and used to mess about in the afternoons, putting the light in remote corners or hanging up curtains of a new colour. it was well that lawrence cared little for his rooms, as he became invariably drunk on saturday nights, and when drunk he was violent. he would lie on the floor kicking and declaiming limericks until someone put him to bed: even then he was known to rise again and break things. lawrence swilling beer in his rooms was a great spectacle. usually blasphemous and always obscene, he did everything on such a generous scale and with such a childish innocence and honesty that he was always attractive and rarely repelled even one so fastidious as davenant. it was on sunday nights that the push talked about religion. lawrence would pull out the sofa and build up a roaring fire: then with the aid of pipes and much swallowing of beer they would set about it. every sunday rendell was pilloried, but the victim never objected and always returned to the combat. the great point about religious discussion is that you can never be beaten. they treated either with the truth of christianity or the value of its practical results. in the latter case lawrence would boom about bishops with fifteen thousand a year, and martin would demonstrate with irrefutable logic that religion had always resisted freedom and education and had made the world the hole it is. as they both talked interminably rendell had little opportunity of answering. one night lawrence rushed into his rooms shortly after dinner and found the push assembled. "my god!" he said, plunging into the sofa. "i thought you hadn't one," said chard. "don't be obvious. i'm angry, my god, i'm angry." he was asked to explain. "steel-brockley asked me to go to coffee in his rooms and when i got there i found he had provided a lecturer gassing about the value of faith for us." "well," said davenant, "that was very considerate of our brockley." "exactly. but he might have warned me. it didn't matter. i couldn't stick it long." "i should think not. it's barely a half-an-hour since dinner now." "what happened?" asked martin. "it was like this," began lawrence. "brockley produced a battered chap from the colonies, all pockmarks and freckles, you know the type. of course he began, as they always do, by saying that he had seen men die in all parts of the world and they all died the better for their faith. none of them seemed to live, or else he had a morbid mind and likes death. i don't know. anyhow he had the cheek to say that king's spiritual life wasn't as strong as it had been. he was deeply concerned about us. he whined about us. he thought we were all going to the devil because the scholars have taken to cutting chapel. just imagine a little tick like that coming here to tell us, whom he doesn't know, that we're not so soulful as the clean young men out west. thank god we're not. i gave him about ten minutes and cleared out." there was a murmur of delight. "i suppose no one heard you leave the room," said martin, but lawrence never rose to jests about his bulk and gait. "and there were all brockley's gang," he went on, "sitting with all the light of grace in their eyes. and when the pock-marked chap got busy in the impressive line you could fairly hear them thinking, 'god's in his heaven, all's right with the world.'" "and a very good thought," said rendell. lawrence would always rise to the religious bait. "just the kind of thought that you would expect from a well-fed liberal poet." lawrence opened violently a bottle of munich beer and drained the contents. then he gave a vast sigh of relief, pulled out his pipe and stood expansively before the fire, exposing, unconsciously, a large gap of shirt between his waistcoat and the grey flannel trousers whose sole support lay in their tightness. "it isn't god that matters," he declared. "it's the godites. they're worse than ever." "they've at least begun to move with the times." "exactly," said martin, coming in as usual to assist lawrence. "they swallow everything new and say they meant it all the time. i don't mind good old burn-the-devil bigots, but this up-to-date interpreting and restatement and revaluation and earnest wash, it makes me sick. why can't they give up their tribal deity and do something sensible?" "you're so beastly crude," answered rendell. "oxford isn't exactly a brainless place, and it's full of religion." "it's full of a washed-out, watery, emasculate ghost of a faith," said martin. "they daren't say what they really do mean for fear of giving the show away. so they talk about evolution and the unknowable and 'may be something in it.'" "the religion of the oxford don," said chard magnificently from his corner, "is the sickly bastard of nervousness and inertia." "i'll give you a quid to say that at the union," said martin. but chard valued his career at more than a sovereign. "aren't you men a little out of date?" interrupted davenant. "chivvying priests and kings was about , wasn't it?" "exactly," rendell cried in triumph. "you've done for priests and kings. nobody believes in them any more. they've collapsed, and by collapsing become infinitely stronger. bradlaugh's brigade never foresaw that, when you take away nominal power, you begin to create real power. the weakest side always wins in the end." "don't talk chestertonian drivel," growled lawrence. "nobody believes it." "it's quite true. religion is stronger than ever just because it's weaker." "the last flicker," said martin. then the conversation, having reached an impasse, turned of necessity and they were off once more upon matters episcopal. "i don't see why a bishop should get thousands a year while the curates are half starved," said lawrence. "they don't spend it on themselves," retorted rendell. "only on palaces and motors and flummery. no, my boy, it's all bunkum. look at the fortunes they leave." lawrence had collected a list of episcopal fortunes which he read with glee upon every possible occasion. it was an excellent array of figures, starting well up in the hundred thousands. "oh, chuck it," said rendell. "we've heard all this before." but lawrence read irrepressibly on. "what about your needle's eye now?" he roared. "oh, don't be a child," said rendell. "that's all you ever say. childish! you with your athanasian creed and incense and swindling priests. ever been to notre dame and seen the advertisements? forty days' purgatory remitted in return for so many prayers! and you call me childish!" lawrence had a fine flow of metaphors and expletives. he had been known to continue one sentence for ten minutes, his oratorical method being to substitute copulas for full stops. he began jerkily, it is true. but once the lumbering coach was set moving nothing could withstand its impetus. rendell yielded and began to discuss with davenant the personality of christ. lawrence continued roaring at no one in particular. at last he sat heavily down in his arm-chair, so heavily that one of its legs gave way. he tore off the broken member and brandished it wildly, as a symbol of his attitude to all things episcopal. as usual it was chard who closed the discussion. "davenant's faith," he said, "makes me think of a mendicant professor of æsthetics and rendell's of the first secretary of the amalgamated society of carpenters and joiners (nazareth branch). i move the question be put." his advice was taken. "beer," said lawrence. "my god, more beer." and so the evenings would begin. iii incredibly the push were blind to their amazing superficiality. even had they suffered from an inclination to be serious, life came so easily and so rapidly that it would have been impossible to do anything but play with it. so they trifled with wisdom and trifled rightly. for when a man is only nineteen and has enough to eat and drink, and more than enough to read and say, it were a crime to stop in thought and laboriously dam the pleasant shallows of an easy-going stream. alike in the winter nights by lawrence's fire or by the lingering twilights of early summer when they threaded a maze of back-waters or lay in the cool fastness of the college garden listening to the wind in the great elms or the tinkle of a distant piano, they built great castles of argument, flimsy and fantastic piles untouched by reality and doomed to fade away at the coming of experience. they talked of great things and small, of god and woman and sometimes of man, of futures and careers, of the dons, of the college, of the varsity teams, of books and plays and poets, of the coldness of the pretty girl in this shop and of the wantonness of the plain girl in that. they lived with an excellent method. in the mornings they lay in bed, thought about breakfast, ate breakfast, and read the papers. in the junior common-room there were all the dailies and on wednesdays there were _punch_, _the tatler_, _the sketch_, and _the bystander_, on saturdays the weekly reviews. they were catholic in the reading, but, if the supply happened to give out, they could always consider what to do in the afternoon. by that time it was one o'clock and they lunched frugally and together. in the afternoon they took their various amusements. perhaps lawrence and martin played rugger, while chard and davenant strolled round addison walk. rendell insisted on playing hockey, insisted in the face of opposition. "you can't play hockey," said martin. "it's no game for a gentleman." "it's quite a good game," rendell apologised. "it may be all right for internationals who dart about and toss the ball in the air and catch it on the end of their sticks, but it's no game for incapables like you." "i'm in the team anyhow. and you, by the way, are winning renown as the worst wing three-quarter in oxford." "that is probably true," martin admitted. "but it doesn't destroy my contention that hockey is a scrappy, uncomfortable business and only good enough for men who can't get into any other teams." "you're a stark old reactionary," retorted rendell. "hockey is the game of the future. there'll be a 'full blue' for it in a year or two. and don't make the obvious remark." martin didn't. but he continued to jeer when rendell went off in the rain and came back with bruised shins and perhaps a black eye. this only encouraged rendell to take the game very seriously, to turn out always, and to run like a hare down his wing, whereas martin and lawrence treated this rugger team with disdain and only played when it pleased them. the secretary, being hard up for players, could not drop them altogether, for even martin was better than his substitute. in the summer rendell played cricket as seriously as he had played his hockey, so that he just gained a place in the college eleven. martin played sometimes for the tennis six and the other three fled, when it was warm enough and at first when it was not--for such is the way of freshers--to navigate the cherwell in the communal punt. in the evenings they dined out as often as their college would let them and went to meetings of clubs or, on the rare occasions when there was a play worth seeing, to the theatre. work they neglected, thoroughly and with a good heart. chard and davenant, who were to take modern history, both failed in pass mods in march, but passed in the summer after a fortnight's reading. the other three had resolved that honour mods could easily be squared in a long vac and two terms: they did not realise that a year of idleness (or nearly two years, for none of them had worked since gaining their scholarships) creates a habit of mind which cannot easily be shaken off. two stiff terms are easier to contemplate than to achieve. martin, indeed, had his uncle's blessing, for john berrisford had told him that the first year was meant to broaden one's point of view: it struck him as a joyous process, this broadening of one's point of view. his tutor, reggie petworth, he did not like. petworth turned out to be a "neo-cardiac" of the first water: even then he hadn't the decency to be whole-hearted in his heartiness and wavered between complete allegiance with hodges and the college 'right' and a feeble attempt to conciliate the 'left' as represented by lawrence and martin. petworth had come from balliol with the hertford, the ireland, and a philosophy of fun. it was fun to write jolly compositions and fun to set proses out of george meredith which bore no relation to classical thought or idiom and couldn't conceivably be translated into reasonable latin or greek. it was fun to be a high churchman, fun to talk about priests and masses, fun to date your letters by feasts of the church, fun to be a liberal and believe in the people. fun to have bad cigarettes sent from a remote oriental town because its monarch was a balliol man, fun to collect things without sense or purpose, fun, in fact, to pretend to be a child. "one doesn't mind davenant pretending to be decadent now and then," said martin to lawrence, "because decadence always depends on posing for its real point. a man isn't a decadent unless he knows he's a decadent and plays up to it. but childhood is rather different, and i don't see why blighters like reggie should try and ape it." "just the balliol touch," said lawrence. martin was supposed to show up two compositions a week to reggie petworth and to do occasional translation papers. he attended with some regularity to make up for his complete absence from lectures. petworth exhorted him mildly to make more strenuous efforts and told him what fun demosthenes could be if one read the private speeches, about mining rights and water-courses and assaults. whereupon martin was coldly polite and retired to renew his conversations about the world at large, while petworth would find a 'jolly' man and walk out to eat lunch at beckley, saying 'what fun!' if he saw a pig with pleasant markings. to martin, as he lazily reclined one september morning in the black woods behind the steading, the past was a vision of undimmed radiance. oxford had threatened but it had not fulfilled: rather it had grudged him nothing of its plenty. it had given him friends (miraculously the push had not quarrelled) and views and a year of fine living. he knew now how tainted by the poison of exams had been his first impressions of that grey and gracious city, he knew that it was not just a midland town with a liability to fogs and floods. also he knew that his uncle had been wrong when he said that the place didn't matter and only the institution counted. for he had even learned to love the lambent tongues of mist that crept stealthily from the river to the walls of corpus and merton and drifted over roofs and towers to the noise and splendour of the high. the myriad lights of rooms piled on rooms flashing out into a blue dusk of winter, the reds and greys of holywell, the clatter of the corn and the bells that told unfailingly the hours of the night were now in his memory the blended symbols of a growing intimacy. he had found out cumnor hurst and besselsleigh, and the sweep of the downs clear-cut against the sky, and the old towns to the west, burford and fairford and all the chippings of the wolds. but clearest of all in his memory were the canoe voyages made by rendell and lawrence and himself at the close of the summer term. then, while a horde of wealthy trippers came to oxford to dance and flirt and hold sumptuous revel, they pierced every dim recess of the upper river and probed the secrets of the evenlode. they had bathed in the morning and in the afternoon and again by moonlight, running in wild nakedness over strewn hay to recover warmth. at bablock hythe they had eaten cold ducks and drunk cider in gallons: they had lain for hours on the long leas gazing into an infinite dome of stars and waiting for the idle nightingale. and lawrence had nearly murdered rendell for quoting matthew arnold. martin was eager to be back, despite the prospect of two stiff terms. and when he was back once more in oxford, no longer the leaf-clad city of pleasant waters but grey and dripping with the autumn mists, he found that both he himself and his friends had far too much to say. they were all in new and more desirable rooms and martin was free from the domination of galer. he had chosen to dwell high up in the back quad, where the windows were large and the rooms airy, and lately he had revised his pictures. this term he purchased some quaintly luminous and misty landscapes which were the fruit either of startling genius or blank incompetence. as to which was the case there was great argument. rendell, being senior scholar of his year, had been able to claim the famous rooms of the college, oak-panelled and majestically dark. for art he relied upon rembrandt and dürer: but then rendell never risked anything. undoubtedly they had all a great deal to recount, for sixteen weeks of vacation could hardly fail to bring new friends and new experience, new books and new ideas. and the push knew that there is no satisfaction in mere discovery: it is the telling of a tale that makes for pleasure. so night after night martin neglected to settle down after dinner, began to tell tales, and concluded, somewhere about twelve, that it was too late to begin now. then they would play a rubber of sixpenny auction just to make them sleepy and, playing till three or four, would so succeed in their ambition that they could not breakfast till eleven. only rendell refused to be tempted and went dutifully to his books. before long martin quarrelled with reggie petworth, sulked foolishly, despaired of the term, and began to rely on the winter vacation and the subsequent six weeks of term to grapple with the problem of mods. he spent a miserable christmas at the steading and came to the conclusion on new year's eve that he had forgotten nearly every word of greek and latin that he had ever known. he did not look forward to the term, and on january the fifteenth he went to oxford as a lamb to the slaughter. it was a term of infinite depression. the early months of the year, everywhere unkind, are singularly uncharitable to oxford: the glamour of autumn had departed and winter has no majesty in muddy streets. the days were yellow with a sticky warmth that brought exhaustion and despair. martin, passing from book to book, felt always, at whatever time of day, as though he had eaten too much lunch and would die if he didn't soon have tea: it was that kind of weather. he gave up football because it made him sleep after tea: and then, being without exercise or diversion, yawned all morning and read garbage after lunch. rendell had his work well in hand and was, men said, sure to get a first. lawrence had manfully abandoned hope and sought consolation in beer and bridge. martin, foolishly but characteristically, took the middle path. he had neither the energy to work nor the courage to be idle, but sat mournfully with his books, gazing blankly at the pages and wondering why it was all so new to him. then he would consult recent papers, and his heart would sink yet lower as he realised his amazing ignorance. as the weeks slipped away he took to learning up lists of hard words and legal technicalities. he became a master of the virgilian vegetable and the demosthenic demurrer, and though he knew the latin for burrs and calthrops and succory and bogwort, he would have been quite incapable of distinguishing those herbs from one another. thus do we study the poets and orators. but it was distressing work. and then he became aware of pink roses. he noticed her because of her ubiquity and partly, perhaps, because she was always alone: he noticed her in the broad, in the high, at a football match in the parks, once in the cinema. she was not beautiful, not even pretty: otherwise she need scarcely have remained alone in a community so rapacious. usually she wore a coat and skirt of dark blue and a little black hat with pink roses. beneath her hat martin had observed light fluffy hair done witchingly about her ears and he had been able to notice that she had a pleasing smile and the tiniest of dimples. but her features, too heavy to be piquant, were not strong enough to be striking. he pointed her out one day to lawrence and demanded his opinion. "oh, that's your pink roses," he said critically. "pretty poor stuff." "she may be all right," answered martin meekly. "she walks all right, but she has got a face like a milk pudding." martin did not attempt to argue against this higher criticism. lawrence, he thought, was an old dear but he certainly lacked perception. there was something about pink roses. and then one evening, when he was turning into a main street, he walked right into her. he smiled vaguely and apologised, but she had hurried past him and did not hear. he turned and watched her. she stopped outside the cinema and studied the programme: eventually she went in. martin had meant to do an hour's work before dinner and began walking back to college. soon he stopped again and stood vaguely on the pavement, gazing at the passing crowd. at last resolvedly he resumed his journey to the college and the poets. five minutes later he was passing a shilling through the grille of the cinema ticket office. it seemed an age before a film ended and the light went up. then he saw the pink roses flowering alone in the sixpenny seats. as soon as the pictures began he would go in her direction. but when the time came he felt self-conscious and afraid. 'ridiculous ass,' he said to himself. "you desert lucretius for pink roses and now you don't even gather the rose-buds." and then again: 'who is the silly girl--after all? here am i, a scholar of a college, deserting lucretius for that funny little person! it's too childish.' so he rose to go out and walked instead to the sixpenny seats. the girl looked round to see who was coming next to her. "hullo!" whispered martin as though surprised. "didn't i nearly knock you over in the street just now?" "someone ran into me," she answered. "i didn't notice who it was." "i think it was me. i'm so sorry." "oh, it didn't matter, thank you." she said it very nicely and martin was encouraged to go on. it was rather difficult and he wished he was fortified by a sound dinner. "you come here a good lot?" he said at last. "yes. nearly every time the pictures change." "don't you get bored?" "it's better than doing nothing." "but the pictures are so silly as a rule." "oh, i like the pictures. 'sixty years a queen'--that was lovely. the girl that did queen victoria was just sweet." to his own surprise martin did not object to her taste: he would have loathed any other admirer of "sixty years a queen." "do you know many people here?" he asked. "i know some girls i was at school with." "no men?" "not many. i know mr carter; brasenose, isn't he? do you know him?" "only by sight. he's going to be chucked out of the varsity boat." "is he? i'm so sorry. he's awfully nice." "do you know him well?" "only a little. i met him in here. he asked me to have tea in his rooms in beaumont street, but of course i couldn't." so she had ideas about propriety. there was a silence. "do you always live in oxford?" asked martin. "we live out at botley." "pretty deadly spot, isn't it?" "yes, it's something awful. i want to go to london only my family won't let me go into business. i'm awfully bored." "so am i." "why are you bored?" "i've got an exam coming on." "oh, you poor thing! i could never do exams. i think they're horrid. i do hope you'll get on all right!" "thanks very much!" it pleased martin to have her sympathy. they chattered on. her name was may williams and she seemed to be very, very tired of botley and her own company. before martin went away to dinner he asked her to meet him at the same time the next evening. "it's wednesday," he said. "so you'll get your new pictures. i think it's nicer at this time: there's such a crush in here after dinner." may agreed with evident pleasure and martin went back to dinner rejoicing in his courage and his first steps to adventure. he had been right: there was something about pink roses, indefinable perhaps, but plainly something. she wasn't just one of the oxford girls. so they met again and on saturday night they drove out in a taxi to abingdon and dined in rather squalid pomp. henceforward they saw much of one another and had more drives and dinners and were happy: for both had won a release. they did not at all know what they wanted, but both knew quite plainly from what they wanted to escape. martin wanted to throw off for a few hours the burden of his work, which was neither mere routine, like copying addresses, nor definite creation, like the making of a poem or a good mashie shot. this minute preparation of books and this learning by rote of variant readings and emendations seemed so appalling just because they defied both a mechanical application and a vivid interest. and may wanted to escape from the frigid respectability of a red-brick villa at botley, where she lived with her father, a retired oxford tradesman: she wanted to escape from an existence which contained nothing but meals, a bicycle, _the daily mirror_, and walks with the girl next door. so she invented an old school friend who had jolly evenings in walton street. her father had the virtue of credulity and allowed her to go her own way, and martin's. so much they knew and nothing more. martin never discovered whether he actually felt any enthusiasm for may as a real person abstracted from mods and his own despair and the black mass of circumstance: he didn't think about it, but just took her as she was. there were times when she amused him and gave him pleasure, and times when he thought that the satisfaction of her kisses was as nothing to the boredom of her conversation. yet, because he was young and simple and far more conscientious than he would have cared to admit to the advanced young men of the push, he was not prepared to confess to himself that she was just an amusement. the martin who talked so airily in lawrence's rooms about women and the world was an innocent impostor: as a matter of fact the push, also conscious and a little ashamed of their own excessive virtue, were not taken in by his magniloquence. may was equally ignorant about her own attitude and intentions. she was not at all a fast or desperate young woman: an impartial critic might even have noticed in her a leaden morality. but her conscience did not forbid the unaccustomed thrill of a lover's attendance and the subsequent lie of convenience. no one had ever encouraged her to think things out or to formulate her purposes. consequently she drifted placidly, and if conscience whispered or martin suggested another evening's pleasure, it was too much trouble to listen to the one or refuse the other. mods were to begin on a thursday. on the preceding saturday martin was going down to the berrisfords to seek fresh air and to forget the existence of demosthenes. he had wanted to stay and cram to the end, but ultimately he had yielded to petworth's advice and decided to go. at eleven o'clock on the friday night he was wandering back alone through osney. he had walked with may along the eynsham road: it had been a perfect night with the moon hanging over wytham woods like a silver slit in a cloth of blackest fabric. but may didn't bother about the moon, and they had gone to a deserted barn where they had met before, a good enough place for lovers in the mood but otherwise draughty and forlorn. they had not quarrelled: neither had alluded to the possibility of such a thing. but martin had thought may dull and may had thought martin cold. the evening had not been a success, and the fact that it had not been a confessed failure made it all the worse, for martin had arranged to see her again on wednesday night before his exam. now, as he tramped slowly home, he fell into a great anger and despair. that night at least he might have devoted to learning the long lists of words which he had so laboriously compiled. but he hadn't: he had dallied in an outhouse with a girl who didn't think, didn't know, didn't care, a girl whose only attraction lay in her wistful eyes and an engaging atmosphere of loneliness. to have to philander in back roads and crumbling sheds--how revolting it all was when he looked at it in cold blood. to have to--well, perhaps he hadn't to, but life, with its misery of mods, wasn't much fun if he didn't. this was the only escape. martin wanted to meet women openly, if he had to meet them, and to face things clearly and honestly. but he couldn't do so because of morality, official morality with its peeping proctors and furtive pettiness. how lawrence and he had thrashed it all out! it seemed that men should have honourable and reasonable relations with women, and yet, because of decency, it came to this. wherever man met woman, there also must be mean slinking and shame-faced meeting, taxis and back lanes and a sordid round of evasion. earlier in the term the sheer joy of release had blinded him to the squalor of it. now, when enchantment had been staled by habit, his fastidiousness returned. it wasn't only that pink roses were beginning to fade: he was beginning to realise that pleasure demands its pleasance and pink roses an adequate rose-bed. and then came four days of devonshire, with clear winds from the sea such as never breathed strength and spirit into oxford's mellow torpor: four days too of the steading's restful beauty, of real hills and whispering coverts. and there were two days of golf on a distant course, a season of great hitting with driver and brassie, fierce efforts to make "fours" of fives, with rare successes and frequent disaster. in the evenings john berrisford was more wonderful than ever. nor was fresh company wanting. margaret had a friend staying with her, a miss freda neilson. at first martin thought her insignificant, but he soon saw that her insignificance was intensely significant. she wasn't just a small and timid person with nothing to be said for or against her. in her quick-glancing eyes of deepest brown lurked courage and speculation, and there was a charming ease about her clothes and the swift movements of her body. she certainly was not a frowsy intellectual, and the fact that margaret had brought her down for inspection was a guarantee that she wasn't a stupid little thing. martin had talked a little to her on saturday night: after breakfast on sunday he noticed her on a seat in the garden enjoying the strong sunshine. he went towards her and looked over her shoulder. she was reading one of mr berrisford's more private french works. careless of margaret to leave it about! "on sunday, too!" said martin. "just to counteract the very english breakfast," she laughed. "i don't think i ever ate so much in my life since i came here." "my uncle's sound about breakfast. those were true sausages." "i suppose so. i don't think i'm very good at sausages. i'm afraid i hanker after rolls and fruit and things." "then you're all wrong. you've no case at all." "and who gave you permission to lay down the law about taste?" "my own common-sense. how can two people talk unless someone starts by dogmatising? supposing i started off, 'sausages may possibly, if they are good ones and of sound pork richly fried, seem nice to some people, the world being as it is,' ... we wouldn't get far, would we?" "and who said i wanted conversation?" "i ventured to deduce it from the fact that you looked round when you thought i wasn't looking." "i never did." "didn't you? then i made a bad shot. i'm sorry!" martin wasn't very happy about this rather heavy beginning. the conversation was floundering hopelessly. freda, seeing this, took him firmly in hand. "well," she said, closing the sinister work of decadence, "as you've come, you'd better stay and enjoy the sunshine and take an interest in me." "will you take one in me?" "oh yes! fair play. don't let's talk stilted rubbish any more: it's such an effort. now then, i'll begin. what about oxford and mods?" so he told her the weary tale. she was sympathetic in a rather challenging, offensive way, which he enjoyed. "and now you?" he said. "oh, i'm just an office girl. i ought to read _the mirror_ and _the london mail_, but i don't. you know margaret was doing some work for the women's trade union movement: that's how she ran into me. i do the typing in the office where she works. we had a rush of work owing to the strikes in lancashire and my silly health collapsed. she brought me down here. the berrisfords have been awfully good to me." "do you like being in the office?" asked martin. "it might be worse, because the letters i have to type are sometimes about something mildly interesting. just fancy having to do business letters all day. but the society is so short of funds that they work me hard and don't overpay me." "i always knew that sweating began with the charity-mongers. but i thought your people might be a bit better." "i suppose i oughtn't to grumble. shouldn't i pay a small sacrifice to the great cause of efficiency?" "i hate collectivism. i mean the efficiency type." "so young, my lord, and a syndicalist?" "in parts. anyhow, they might treat you better." martin spoke with conviction. "it's nice of you to be worried, but you needn't. i used to be a school-ma'am and teach english literature to girls with pigtails and secret societies to giggle about. can't you imagine me? we always did _as you like it_ or _the tempest_. that was just hell. i'd much sooner pinch and scrape in london than live in a school with bells and prayers and the younger members of my own sex. it was quite a good post and everyone said i ought to have stayed on. but i just couldn't. so now i have only myself to blame if i'm unhappy." "i think it was very plucky of you," was all martin could think of. "oh, i'm safe enough. i don't starve, you know. but there's not much over for books." "it must be rotten!" there was a silence. "do the berrisfords go to church?" freda asked suddenly. "i only came on tuesday." "no, rather not." "thank god!" "then you aren't one of the faithful?" "no. taking the girls to church had a bad effect on my temper. besides, after all----" "well?" "i'm keen on philosophy. are you?" "i'm going to be when i begin greats." "don't you like it now?" "in a crude sort of way. we're always talking about god at oxford." "that must be splendid. i have to do it with myself, but i don't get any further." "than what?" "than a tremendous conviction that there can't be one." "there isn't." "you've settled it?" "long ago." "i suppose," said freda, "that people laugh at you, like they do at me. i don't care. margaret talks about the unknowable and says i'm presumptuous. i hate the unknowable: it seems so cowardly, somehow." "you're quite right," decided martin. "the unknowable is the limit." "but we mustn't agree about everything," freda put in: "otherwise it will be frightfully dull." "well, let's talk about art," he suggested. "we're bound to quarrel then." and they did. it was astonishing how soon lunchtime arrived. later on they talked about everything in the world. martin knew that he had found what he wanted, a woman with an undergraduate's mind. in a way it was like talking to one of the push, but yet there was all the difference in the world. why there should be that difference he couldn't tell. but there it undeniably was. to meet men who could argue was good: to meet a woman who said the same sort of things was more than good. freda walked with him on the moor on tuesday, and he had the chance of helping her over bogs and chasms. on that evening she accepted a billiard lesson at his hands. of these opportunities he made the most. may williams had at least had an educational value. these four days were magically sundered from the rest of life: he had succeeded, to his own great surprise, in forgetting oxford altogether. but the day of reckoning was at hand, and when martin settled down in the train on wednesday he fell at once from the heights to the depths. to begin with, he was going back to mods. before the tumult of his mind flashed visions of texts marked with blue lines, texts which he had omitted to look up. he wondered whether he really knew about ulysses' abominable boat and whether he remembered which words in the greek meant dowels and trenails. and he was going back to pink roses. the squalor of it! to-night he was to meet her and slink away somewhere. he couldn't, he simply couldn't! he had learned, rather he thought he had learned, what a conversation with a woman ought to be. there could be no more whisperings with may. on reaching oxford martin sent a telegram: he was unavoidably prevented from seeing her. he felt that he ought to be angry with himself because it didn't hurt him to treat her like this: but his conscience failed to rise to the situation. quite plainly he had done with may. mods in the actual presence afforded him eight days of consummate torture. it was all right for rendell, who knew his work thoroughly, and lawrence, who didn't know it at all. they could view their papers without concern, the one scribbling diligently, the other yawning complacently, guessing words, and tossing up with a penny when there seemed to be two equally probable meanings to a passage for construe. but for martin every prepared paper was a thing of reminiscence and suggestion. he knew just enough to appreciate his own ignorance: as he stared at the passages on which he had to comment he recognised them with maddening vagueness as a man who cannot put a name to a face he knows. hauntingly they seemed to cry out at him: "you saw me last january, but you don't know what the devil i'm about." while rendell used his knowledge and lawrence his imagination, martin sweated and racked his memory and got everything half right. his nerve went and he began, he thought, to make a mess of his composition. afterwards he was left with a blur of sensations and images which included a large clock and a smiling invigilator, aching hands and nights of relentless preparation. when it was all over he hurried down to devonshire, leaving lawrence to forty-eight hours of continuous intoxication. freda would still be there. but, to his fury, he discovered that she had gone to paris with margaret. he sulked obviously, and hated the whole world: life and letters had tended to leave his nerves raw and anything stung him. finally he went to join rendell and lawrence in belgium, and there, with memling and bock and conversation, he forgot his woes. the exam results came to them at rochefort, rich in grottoes, that notable town of the ardennes. rendell had taken a first, martin a second, and lawrence a third. martin had entertained fears of a third and lawrence of a fourth, so they agreed that things have been worse. "anyhow," said martin, as they went in search of tea and _gateaux_, "that's an end of those infernal classics." which was both an error on his part--for in greats, as he later on discovered, one deals mainly with translation--and a commentary on the plain man's attitude to the poets and orators by the time that he has been taught all about them. iv the summer term was a joyous interlude. martin and lawrence had nothing to do but play tennis or regard the world from a punt, and an early summer encouraged these methods of killing time. rendell was cajoled by petworth into entering for the hertford scholarship, which involved some attention to the latin language. while martin read novels rendell was perusing some of the worst poetry that the world has ever produced, it being the habit of the examiners to select passages from the frigid obscurity of silver latin. "there's your classical education," shouted lawrence contemptuously. "silius italicus and drivel about etna and its siphons." rendell had to admit that, taken as a whole, latin literature made a poor show. "there's lucretius and catullus," he said. "they're all right," said lawrence. "but who else is there? virgil, the victorian before his time. the cave scene, so refined and all that. better than old arthur from the barge. virgil the most blatant pirate and lifter of literary goods that ever made a name. virgil who couldn't even translate the originals right and showed himself to be a fool as well as a knave. if we're going to have thieves, let's have them competent. virgil! ugh!" lawrence always spoke like this about virgil: the subject gave him eloquence, and the others had long ago ceased to argue with him on this theme. to withstand his river of rhetoric was like trying to make a match-box float up-stream. "no, my lad," he continued, "you are making a distinct fool of yourself by believing mr petworth's flattery. not only is latin literature rot, but that rot will be more efficiently done by those intolerable creatures from balliol, who think of nothing else but these pots. you're wasting valuable time, failing to improve your execrable tennis, and demeaning yourself into the bargain. i wouldn't compete with those swine." of course rendell took no notice and continued to read the more obscure romans. but lawrence was right; he did himself no good. in june martin went down to devonshire. only his uncle and aunt were at home: margaret was abroad and robert was working in chambers in town. martin had much time for recalling the past and considering the future. he saw now that a day of reckoning was at hand. for two years, with the exception of a few weeks, he had taken life very, very easily, and it was inevitable that he should begin to take it with corresponding seriousness. he would have to settle down: his second in mods had been a fluky affair, based rather on previous knowledge than on any real work done at oxford. "greats" would depend on genuine reading, and after greats the civil--and his livelihood. probably he would have to go to india: how unthinkable it all was! martin thought of india as a very hot place, where you either died before you got your pension or sat in clubs drinking whisky and soda with bullet-headed soldiers who didn't know the difference between chopin and cézanne, didn't know probably that such people had been. the future became hatefully plain. either he would fail for the civil and go to slave dismally at wren's or else he would pass and go out to colonels or to death. he wanted none of these things: he wanted books and friends and work in london, just enough work to neglect. it was scarcely possible for him to get a job at home and he hadn't money enough for the bar. in fact he hadn't a penny, and he knew that his uncle couldn't help him: as it was, mr berrisford had been more than generous. it was a bad prospect. to make matters worse, he set out to read herodotus. he had been told that herodotus was the jolliest man on earth (of course by petworth) and he expected a treat. he found two immense volumes about nothing in particular, which contained a description of the world, occasionally amusing but more often fruitful only of hard words. what it all had to do with the greek states and why the father of history had chosen to write almost anything but history, and that in the most muddled way possible, he found it hard to discover. and then he tried the ethics of aristotle: he penetrated as far as book v. and then gave way. for two whole days he yawned and swore alternately. there was not even anyone to talk to. one night he decided to put the case to his uncle. he approached it in a rather tentative way after dinner as they sat smoking. "don't you ever get tired of being the country gentleman?" he asked. "frequently," said john berrisford. "does it pass off, or what do you do about it?" "sometimes i go up to town to a company meeting and sometimes i bravely defy boredom by catching, or failing to catch, trout." "and it works?" "tolerably. but why this anxiety about country life?" "it just occurred to me." after a silence, john berrisford said to martin: "you've got a lit of depression and you want to meet men and talk about art or the good life or women. it's quite right and natural that you should. where have all your set vanished to?" "two or three have gone to paris." "well, go thou and do likewise." martin paused. "i'm afraid i can't afford it. i've only got twelve pounds to keep me going till october. and i've got some bills as it is." "i'll give you twenty-five. go and talk your head off. do some work too." "it's frightfully good of you. they were going to work. they're living very cheaply in rooms somewhere: later on, when it's too hot, they're going into brittany." "well, i don't know how long the money will last, but we'll expect you when we see you." "thanks awfully!" "now let's walk in the garden." it was a perfect midsummer evening. away to the west the sky was still red with the sunset and higher up above them the changing hues of opal merged into a lustrous blue which again was turned to steel in the summit of the vault. to the east shapely stems of firs rose to a black bulk of branches, spread out against the sky like tails of giant peacocks. and behind them was the splendid body of the moor with its great bosom of heather towering into nipples of stone. the night, which had stolen away colour and left only light and shade, had given strength and meaning to every line and curve and silhouette. they walked over soft, clinging grass to a paddock dotted with hen-coops, where the tiny pheasants were wont to squeak and scuttle. the black line of a distant bank twinkled with the tails of startled rabbits and an owl clattered heavily through leafy boughs. then followed a silence, vivid and unforgettable, but soon to be broken by the shrill note of a bat that came and went with magic swerve and speed. "well," said john berrisford, after lighting a fresh cigar, "isn't this rather convincing?" "about the country, you mean?" "yes. on such a night do you thirst for paris and café chatter with a drink-sodden futurist?" "it's too clear," answered martin, looking round. "perhaps to-morrow night it will be pouring, and then even you may have a hankering after the roar of traffic and the fine smell of a city." "my dear martin, you're impossible. you can't have everything your own way. if you intend to worship at one shrine you've got to keep it up for a bit and give the deity a chance of getting hold of you." "and what if you don't believe in worshipping deities?" "then you'll be very unhappy." "but you don't worship and you profess to be happy?" "don't i worship?" "it's the first i've heard of it." "how do you suppose i would be here now if i didn't worship the place? i'm a positive mystic." "and the mystery?" "the blessed mystery of ham and eggs." "it sounds very fleshly. tell me about it." "fleshly! it's the most spiritual thing on earth: in fact it's the cardinal point in the country gentleman's faith. but i'd better explain it all from the beginning. just after i'd left oxford your grandfather died and left me this estate. i was young and rebellious, as every young man should be, and i can tell you i didn't enjoy the prospect of settling down as a squire. like herrick, i preferred london to 'that dull devonshire.' i wanted to hang about town, to join the devotees of morris, to be a genius, a writer of brilliant plays and beautiful books, to be a lover of woman and to have breakfast after lunch. so i let this place to a tenant and fooled round." "but i don't want to fool round. i want reasonable work." "that's what they all say. it's what i said. but i never did any work." "and you liked it?" "on the whole, yes--until at last i went down to stay with a friend at a gorgeous place in the cotswolds. there was a great grey manor-house, jacobean and very good about the windows. my host gave me ham and eggs for breakfast: i had been used to omelettes and white wine. after breakfast--god, how i remember it--he took me across his wide, smooth lawns to talk to the keeper. we shot all day--i hadn't forgotten how to bowl over a pheasant--and then we dined and drank port and smoked cigars. suddenly it all flashed across me, the fitness of things, the rich joy of escaping from chattering artists and cranks and reformers and all the crowds who had done something: i understood about pomp and circumstance. as i ate my ham and eggs next morning i became an initiate into their perfect mystery. (the eggs, i may say, must be fried, not poached.) the ham was a hill red with autumn and the eggs houses of gold in pure gardens of white. then i swore to go back home and kick out the cotton king who used to come here for three weeks in the year. i would set up a new temple to the goddess and, worship her with all due rites. so i married my host's daughter, who was sound about ham and eggs and never played with fruit at breakfast-time, and here i am. i've stuck to it, for, as i said, you can't worship for a week and then go away: that isn't fair on the mystery. you've got to let things soak in. i've let the spirit of ham and eggs soak into me and i'm not tempted now to get it out again." "and you didn't repent at the beginning?" "never permanently. i'm not idle. i'm a j.p., a soundly democratic j.p., to the disgust of the colonels. i work on a host of committees and i direct two highly disreputable companies. just because i like to live here in the country and be an acolyte for the goddess, there's no reason why i shouldn't do a lot besides. you can believe that i'm a much better squire than the rest of them. of course i'm well aware that there oughtn't to be squires and that the whole thing is wrong. but equally plainly there are squires, and squiredom has its point, of which i may as well make the most. so i've played the part properly. to begin with, i put my farms on a business basis, gave a reasonable minimum, and became unpopular with my neighbours because i made them pay. if the state demands my abolition, i'll go like a shot, but i don't intend to let some magnate from mincing lane, who never eats ham, come and buy the place, redecorate the house--as he'd call it--buy some ancestors at christie's and arrange an aerodrome. you young men think that because you like one sort of pleasure you've got to drop the others. it's all rubbish. i'll read any literature you want and talk you silly, but only after ham and eggs for breakfast and port wine for dinner. to hell with lunch!" john berrisford talked happily on and martin was always pleased to listen. "you're not converted?" said the elder man at last. "only on fine nights." "well you aren't fit for the mystery. go away to your latin quarter and squalid digs and midnight settling of the universe." so martin went and found various members of his college living in contented poverty. it seemed to him that, at the rate at which they were existing, twenty-five pounds would keep him for a lifetime. their nights were late but frugal and an ability to sleep saved the expense of _petit déjeuner_. they found where to obtain the noblest dinner for one franc fifty and made the acquaintance of artists, male and female, who would expound the whole theory of life and its artistic expression if someone paid for their drinks: which martin did, purposing to improve his french. the weather was dry without being too hot, and one sunday they went to versailles in search of amusement, which materialised, for martin and lawrence, in the shape of two delightful women who said they had lost their way in the woods and needed a guide. martin and lawrence guided them with some skill to a house of refreshment, where the strangers became pleasantly intoxicated and very charming. they soon announced that they had lost their husbands as well as their way and were going to look for them at the station. thither they went, with martin and lawrence following discreetly at a distance. the husbands were found to be in other company and the wives made a scene on the platform; it all ended by martin and lawrence, themselves not frigidly sober, removing the other company to a café and comforting their insulted dignity. they had a strange evening, and martin learned a lot more french. owing to one or two reckless evenings he found himself a pauper just when the others were setting off to see pierre loti's fishermen, paimpol and guingamp and the quaint religion of the west. of necessity he returned to devonshire, fired with a determination to settle those texts which he had carried in vain to paris. he crossed by night and came down during the day. when he arrived, it was an evening of great beauty. suddenly, as he was driven between banked hedges and silent woods of purest green, he came to view the mystery of ham and eggs as he had never viewed it before. he knew now how sick he was of paris with its noise and penetrating smell of petrol, how tired of street cafés and superficial chattering about art. it struck him that if a man isn't going to create something he may as well shut his mouth and leave off jabbering for a bit. here there was at least silence. paris had been kindly in its way, but its way was sordid. he had been left with an impression that the city lacked baths and the citizens a cleanly comprehension. to forego ham and eggs and then to eat vastly in the middle of the day! what insipidity it showed, despite their reputation for taste. and there through a gap in the woods he saw the steading, solid and calm as ever. solidity and calmness counted, he knew, and what had paris to do with them? that evening he walked again with his uncle in the paddock, drinking in the sweet air, amazed at the restfulness. "i enjoyed myself all the time," he said. "it was splendid!" "that was good. and did you learn anything?" "nothing much from our talking. but i think i understand about the mystery." "i thought paris might drive it home; it used to smell so in august. does it still?" "in places." the scent of fir-trees came to him on the summer breeze. "i do see really," he added, almost pleadingly. "i'm glad for your own sake. it's as well to look at the future. you may have to go to india. that may mean the end of books and talking and ideas. but you'll get reasonable pay and occasional leave and then you won't feel like anything but shooting and fishing. and perhaps when you're fifty or so you'll struggle back to this kind of existence. i assure you there's something in it all. and once you've dropped your philosophy of this and art of that for thirty years they won't come back. ham and eggs will be your only deity. but it isn't merely carnal." "i see that," martin replied. somehow the future did not seem so ugly to martin as he stood watching the young moon hanging lightly over the dark shoulder of the moor. it would be good to come back and worship the goddess in devonshire. "thanks for the initiation," he said as they turned back to the house. v "the' being no fur' questions, much pleasure call on mr leigh for his paper on industrialism and the home." (_mild applause._) the members of the king's essay society were scattered about martin's rooms, lounging in window-seats or strewn on the floor. the air was thick with smoke, the carpet invisible by reason of the mingled feet, tobacco, coffee-cups, books, and crystallised fruit. the push were present in force, and lawrence, larger than ever, lounged on the sofa and smoked a cigar with ungainly opulence. martin, from his seat by the reading-lamp, began to inform them about the home. he started philosophically, taking as his text the assertion that voluntary associations are always preferable to compulsory grouping and that it should be our object to restrict such compulsion as far as possible. the home is a compulsory association and its sphere must be limited. he pointed out that since the whole trend of industrialism had been to invade the home, to capture the women and to drag them out to wage-slavery, it was irrational to stop in the present position. the home must be either a real thing where women were free from the direct clutches of capitalism and made up for indirect economic dependence by freedom from drudgery in offices and factories, or else we must be logical and complete the tendency by industrialising the home. this process would of course destroy the home as at present understood. but it would substitute for the present compulsory group a voluntary association: and this he would welcome because the home of to-day was not only a compulsory but a fundamentally rotten institution. (_loud applause from emancipated young men._) he didn't care whether women had votes or not: that was inessential. the great thing was to smash the home by making it a commercial unit. this, he maintained, could be done by the state endowment of motherhood and by marriage contracts in which payment for all domestic work should be made by the husband. there must be honest, open payment; wheedling and pin-money must go. probably the best solution would be to insist on a fixed percentage of the husband's income going to the wife as a matter of course so long as she lived with him and kept his house. even more important was the case of the children. they too must be economic members of a commercial unit. of course in early childhood that was impossible, but as soon as they reached a reasonable age--say seventeen--they too should have a legal claim to a certain percentage of the family income, to be continued until they were self-supporting. in the interest of youth, no one should be compelled to support himself until the age of twenty-four, for it was wicked to drive people into offices at eighteen, before they had known freedom of any kind. during these seven years the child might either take his salary and go or stay at home as a paying guest. the amount paid for such board would depend on the standard of life of the family. after all the parents had brought the child into the world without asking if he wanted it, and consequently, so far from having rights with regard to the fruit of their pleasure, they had only duties. aristotle was reduced to pulp with regard to this point. such a policy would safeguard the liberties of the child, who, on reaching a reasonable age, could always go away and need not accept his father's politics and religion with his father's beef. the home would thus be a compulsory association only during early childhood and would be a voluntary association for the adolescent. thus would we solve the woman question and build an honest, self-reliant nation. let dr bosanquet maunder on about organisms and compare the family meal--that ghastly rite--to the holy communion. to hell with such sentimentality! (_applause._) martin then reverted to political philosophy and maintained that no group whose membership was not spontaneous could have a vital purpose and a common will. in so far as the family remained compulsory it could have no such will: because a man was born a jones he need not have the same interests as the rest of the jones' group: indeed most great men loathed their relations. for the small children a home of some sort, whether private or municipal, was inevitable. the question was whether they were going to save the young adult from sentimental tyranny by insisting on incomes and latch-key rights for sons and daughters and building up a multitude of voluntary co-operative groups on a strictly business basis. "of course i admit it is more or less impossible," he said as he finished. "but we may as well talk theory." there was a short interval, and then rendell, by grace of his three "f's," was chosen to open the discussion. he couldn't, he said, accept all that about voluntary associations. he wasn't a syndicalist, though, judging from the latest efforts of the tories, we were all not only socialists, but syndicalists nowadays. he believed in the state.... the state ... yes, organisms and all that. he didn't mind the commercialism, provided it was state commercialism. couldn't have these voluntary groups ... dangerous. besides, he wanted domestic work all done by clever machines, electric stoves and automatic beds that "made" themselves and became sofas in the next room by slipping through the wall. this would liberate woman. "woman's sphere is not the home, her home is the sphere." with these feeble aphorisms he sat down. he had at least convinced the company on one point--namely, that discussions are always a futile anti-climax. but davenant was up, and he was amusing, though he always said the same thing. "i protest," he said, "against industrialism being carried any further. it has marred our men, let us keep it from our women. i want to see a world full of guilds and craftsmen and artificers, not working eight hours a day and then going to a municipal park to drink municipal cocoa and hear the municipal band, but working because they love their work, because it is their creation, their life. and i want to see women working as they love to work, not sordidly and cheaply in a market of labour. the women i want will not work against men, but with them and for them, fashioning beautiful homes and beautiful things of every kind. and you will find that it is no use to put woman on a level with men because women are not crudely rational like men, who analyse and destroy. with woman lies the future, because she alone can create without destroying. man is destructive and analytic. woman is ultimate, intuitive, basic, and synthetic." the less experienced members of the essay society began to wonder whether this could mean anything and roused themselves from sleep. but those who knew davenant understood. he had an affection for certain words and loved to entwine them with any subject that came to hand. woman was not the only entity which davenant had been known to call "ultimate, intuitive, basic, and synthetic." then a remote, unknown young man in spectacles and spats said in a plaintive way that the reader of the paper did not understand about laav: that laav made all things different: that religion was morality tinged with emotion: that the home was just what its inhabitants made of it: that a change of heart was needed: that you couldn't make men good by act of parliament; that, just as dancing was the poetry of motion, so laav was the poetry of life. then this master of the catch-word sat down amid a deathly silence. it appeared afterwards that he had got in by mistake: he thought he was attending a meeting of oxford churchmen on home missions. lawrence rose. he began, suitably, by treading on some coffee-cups and bananas, stumbling backward and tripping over the cord which united the reading-lamp and the wall. the lamp fell with a crash and confusion and foul language ensued. at length order was restored and he could let himself go. "it may seem odd," he said, "but i agree with the last speaker more than with anyone else: and he was about as wrong as can be. he was right when he said love mattered but wrong in what he meant by it. the love that counts isn't the squidgy, religious thing he wants and it hasn't anything to do with the great passions of poets and intellectual young men. it isn't even browning's ethereal penguin, half angel and half bird. the love that really matters for people who are interested in the way the world is going is just extensive, sentimental wallowing. nothing more. has it ever struck you remote philosophers that making love is the only thing that most people really care about? the papers may rave about a great political crisis or a strike movement. but if you met the average man you wouldn't bet a button that he cared twopence either way, but i'd bet my bottom dollar that he cared about taking a girl out on saturday night. that's the permanent and irresistible fact. every cinema film, every piece of cheap fiction, every popular song has one message. there must be 'a strong love interest.' the world has known friendship and sensuality and passion since the beginning. this great flood of sentimentality is as new as it is strong." he paused a moment to look round. the sleepers had been roused: lawrence was good when he was under way. "it came in with the industrial system," he went on. "i believe that there is in man a natural tendency to look for beauty somewhere. capitalism made of work so foul a thing that it couldn't be found there. and in answer to demand it turned out a numberless horde of stunted, overworked, half-educated people. work was foul: for ordinary amusements there was no time, except on sunday, and then it was wicked. some means of self-expression had to be found, something to bring comfort of a sort, something that would be suitable for sundays and the evenings. there was sex. i wonder why it never occurs to the parsons who protest against sunday games (for the poor) that the british sabbath is nothing but a forcing-house for sex. the average artisan or shop-girl has not the possibility of any other occupation. "the worker has combined with his notion of love the notion of home as a place where he will be free to do as he likes, to express himself, to create the ugliness which he or she thinks 'so sweet.' the capitalist has bound his hands and his brain and, if the eugenists get their abominable way, he'll bind his emotions and his body too. hitherto he has been free to love as he chooses, and that's why he loves such a lot. it isn't for nothing that a very popular song tells of a little grey home in the west where people go to amatory bliss 'when the toil of the long day is o'er.' "well, what's the upshot of it all? merely that the home matters far more than you imagine, because it's the one place where the servile state hasn't really got hold of its victims yet. it's true that a middle-class home may be deadly; so far i agree with the paper. but i don't agree that the minor's next step is to smash the home altogether. no, we've got to save it if we want to save men from being turned into mere wealth-producing machines. we've got to save it with all its dangers because it is the expression of genuine and valuable emotion. you people are all for smashing the home before you've smashed the system: my idea is just the reverse. when you have a state in which men can take pride and find beauty in their work, you can go in and smash the home. if you try and put the home on a business basis you may help a few middle-class people who have brains and time enough to quarrel, but you'll be taking from the oppressed their only release and making life more commercial and sordid than it is at present. set up a society where life has rational interests, where a man can express his desire for beauty without leaving it to nocturnal sentimentality, and i'm with you. in the meanwhile there's a good deal to be said for the little grey home in the west. it answers a need. to kill that need you must smash industrialism. and that, my fabian friends, is some business." after such an oration, not silly and blatant as the words of lawrence often tended to become, it seemed wrong to talk further. martin, who was by nature far more sympathetic to the popular taste than was rendell, had been influenced by the last speech and the defence of the little grey home: in his reply he made a considerable recantation. the society adjourned, the visitors disappeared, and the elect remained to talk. once more woman was the theme, and her position and claims were thoroughly discussed until, about midnight, the conversation drifted, like early greek history, "into the mythical" and fiction succeeded theory. that, from the male talker's standpoint, is the advantage about woman; equally she can point the moral or adorn the tale. martin was enjoying his third year. he still had rooms in college and had enough work to keep him contented while the shadow of exams was too remote to cause apprehension. the push had risen to fame and were running the college: they had taken charge of its societies in a lordly way and talked sense or nonsense as they chose. but the heavy hand of age was beginning to make them increasingly fond of sense. they were none the less happy, however, for being less superficial, and secretly they were pleased by the admiration of the advanced freshers and the effort made to cultivate their society. martin's third year was a time of activity, free both from the boundless and discursive idling of his "fresher" period and the anxious strain that pending examinations cannot fail to produce. chard, however, was deserting them, for his career at the union made him a busy man. his triumph (he was junior librarian early in his third year) had been mainly achieved by hard work. office at the oxford union can be won either by courting or despising the members: there is no middle path. the latter method needs audacity and ability. the man who never pulls strings, dashes in late to make his speech, and dashes out again to seek reasonable company may win the votes of the people whom he so treats, provided that he is either really witty, a peer, or a blue. a titled blue could afford to do anything, but fortunately neither peers nor blues deign to have much business with so common a place as the union. chard had adopted the other method. he had pulled strings diligently. he had got to know the right people: he had learned up the right epigrams for the right speeches: asked the right questions of the officers and, when himself an officer, had made the right retorts. he had worked hard in search of votes and had addressed, carefully and capably, nearly every debating society in oxford. he was standing for the presidency at the end of the spring term and had every chance of success. the union loved him, because, not being a balliol man, he had beaten the balliol people at their own game. for the visitors' debate bavin, k.c., m.p., was coming down, bavin than whom no fiercer lawyer flayed the government on provincial platforms and was photographed at country houses. his fees were unparalleled, his wife, a peer's daughter, the most beautiful woman in society. bavin had done everything as it should be done, at eton, at balliol, at all souls, at the bar, in the social world. his career was an epitome of success. he would, of course, speak last. chard, a strong supporter of the government, would precede him. it was hard luck on chard, one felt, that he should have to come first: bavin's oratorical bludgeonings would make a mess of chard. still chard was the only man who had any chance against bavin. one pinned one's faith on chard to rise to the occasion. anyhow it would be fun, and everybody would be there. martin liked chard for his thorough-going pursuit of success, his willingness to borrow brilliance from any source, his capacity for making use of anybody and anything. "chard is getting the limit," rendell complained to martin. "do you think he ever has a single thought outside his career?" "chard is to me as a modern hotel palace to arnold bennett. his methods fascinate me: i can't help loving him." "i suppose he'll be a cabinet minister in twelve years or so." "i trust it won't be long. he'll be very nice on a front bench." so martin remained a friend of chard's, and chard read to him all the great speech wherewith he was to extinguish in advance the raging fire of bavin's dialectic. chard knew his audience and had included just the right jokes. but chard was not liked by everyone. many of the college objected to him for seeking friends outside their walls: the athletic mandarins had never forgiven his method of meeting their request for his presence at the boats. chard didn't mind: these people were not voting members of the union. most of all he was disliked by smith-aitken, whose father, _né_ smith, had made a fortune in pickles. this father, being a self-made man, had entertained notions of his son as a hard worker and had refused to send him to one of the more expensive and aristocratic colleges. foolishly he forgot to limit his son's allowance, and so smith-aitken rode horses and joined the bullingdon. he was not a nice man. he had greasy yellow curls, several rings, an eyeglass, a motor car, some horses, and a very special taste for liqueur brandy. chard used to make jokes about him and his victim knew it. one night smith-aitken, having ridden after a fox all day, returned to a repast whose main features were champagne and the very special liqueur brandy. before he was put to bed he threw the junior dean's bicycle through chard's window. chard spent the next morning making out a little bill. it amused him. in addition to ordinary claims for broken glass he included other items, as: "to new tablecloth to replace old cloth spoiled by ink upset by bicycle propelled by mr r. w. smith-aitken--one guinea." "to essay on austin's 'theory of sovereignty,' spoiled by ink upset by bicycle as before: at two guineas a thousand words--four guineas." the total amount claimed was twelve pounds ten shillings. by return of messenger chard received a cheque for that amount. smith-aitken had made the obvious retort. chard couldn't, he thought, take the money when the damage had really been small. chard considered the problem: he was disagreeably surprised at receiving the cheque: it had made him look a fool. there was only one reply, to cash the cheque and give the money to a hospital. this he did. smith-aitken, on discovering what had happened, was furious. the money didn't matter much to him, but he didn't see why he should have to pay four guineas for making a splash of ink on one of chard's jocular essays; besides, he now looked the fool. but he was very polite to chard whenever he met him and they talked to one another with urbanity. on the afternoon of the great day on which chard and bavin were to batter one another in the arena of the oxford union society, chard was walking across the quad when smith-aitken came out of the porch. he carried a telegram in his hand and rushed up to chard at once. "i've just seen bob marshall," he said. marshall was the president of the union, a new tory blood and a close friend of smith-aitken's. "he has had this telegram from bavin. it says that his car has broken down badly. they're close to a village with a telegraph but miles from a railway. he wants someone to go and fetch him in. marshall is too busy; he's got to see to the dinner and a heap of things. but he saw me in my car and asked me to run out. you've met bavin, haven't you? what's he like?" "i met him at a dinner once," said chard. "successful barrister. face like a hatchet. stern, morose, and inexorable, you know the type. but i believe he's nicer than he looks." "well, look here. you'd better come and talk to him while i drive him in. it would be better to have someone who knows the man. you can arrange what names to call each other." chard was attracted. bavin was, he thought, a bouncing jackass, but he bounced before a large audience. he was certainly a person to 'acquire,' and chard went about the world 'acquiring' the people whom he deemed worthy of that honour. it would be useful to know bavin well and the formal president's dinner would not give him much chance. smith-aitken, too, had been civil lately; he really wasn't such a bad chap. so chard accepted with alacrity and martin watched them being driven away. nixon, a friend of smith-aitken's, went with them. he wanted a lift to the station. that was at half-past two. at a quarter to seven lawrence rushed into martin's rooms. "have you heard the latest?" he shouted. "our chard has been kidnapped. it's all over the place. smith-aitken got him in his car and god knows where they've taken him." martin saw it all in a flash. "but how did it leak out?" he asked. "one of smith-aitken's push let on. couldn't contain himself for glee. someone on the bullingdon suggested it. they all hate chard, and now they think they've fairly got him. no cheers and epigrams to-night." "are you dead certain about it?" "well, chard isn't in his rooms. neither he nor smith-aitken have been seen, and bavin arrived from town by the . ." martin was silent. "it's damned funny," said lawrence. "it would be a damned sight funnier if he could get back." "but he won't. they'll see to that." "we might get him," said martin suddenly. "i've got an idea. this morning i heard the man holland ask smith-aitken to dine with him to-night at vincent's. smith-a. said he wouldn't be in oxford. 'town?' said holland. 'no, abingdon, king's arms.' holland said something about a woman in the case and smith-a. said: 'not this time. don't you know?' it was a mere fluke that i heard him. but i fancy we may as well make use of the chance. i'm pretty sure chard will be a guest at a little dinner in abingdon." "yes, but it's only a possibility. besides, what can we do?" "we can look them up, just to emphasise the necessity of keeping secrets." "it's nearly seven now." "we can bag rendell's motor bike and side-car." "yes; but what can we do when we're there?" "wait for an inspiration." they went. the journey took some time, for the motor bicycle behaved abominably on hinksey hill. not till a quarter to eight did they reach abingdon. martin dismounted in the square and left lawrence with the machine. he walked up to the king's arms and glanced through the windows of the dining-room, which looked directly upon the street. he had been right in his surmise. chard was dining with nixon and smith-aitken. apparently he was making the best of it: they seemed to be a happy party and passed bottles with conviction. martin brought the news to lawrence: "we simply must get hold of him," he said. "it would be the deed of a lifetime." "that's all very well," said lawrence. "but what the devil can we do? we can't just go in and knock out our bullingdon friends. we'd have the manager and the police nosing round and we'd never get away in time." "we can't do that," martin agreed. "and we can't afford to wait. it's nearly eight and we must be back by nine. what do people do in cinema dramas?" "i know," lawrence almost shouted. "don't you remember 'lust or love?' and how they rescued the white slave. the drama has its uses." martin remembered. "we might try," he said. they entered the hotel and looked into the smoking-room. it was dark and empty. they collected all the old newspapers, took the wood from the unlit fire, and in the grate they heaped a monstrous pile. after blocking up the chimney they lit their bonfire. smoke belched out into the room in dense, curling waves. when they could endure it no longer they opened the door and let the smoke into the passage. then they opened the door of the dining-room and shouted from concealment: "fire! help! fire!" smith-aitken looked round, sniffed, and listened. there was an ominous crackling and an unspeakable smell. "so there is," he said. "i wonder if it started in the garage. my god." he fled without dignity to his car. nixon and chard went into the passage. the manager, the housekeeper, the waiter, and three maids were gasping and fussing and talking about water. there didn't seem to be any. suddenly nixon found himself pushed into the reeking smoking-room and chard was hauled swiftly into the square. the turmoil was terrific. a policeman came and a crowd began to collect. "you," said chard, when he saw martin and lawrence. there was no time for talking. martin pushed chard into the side-car, told lawrence to follow by train, and let the bike do its best. when they were clear of abingdon he explained things to the mystified chard. it was all so simple, so incredible. "i never dreamed smith-a. would try on that game," said chard. "it was rather a dirty trick, but he was charming all the time. we seem to have toured half england during the afternoon. and it was a capital dinner. he brought the wine with him, the red wine of burgundy, my boy. and i was looking forward to some of that very special liqueur brandy. he never travels without that. and now you've robbed me of it." the cold, fresh air coming on top of the red wine of burgundy made chard more talkative than usual. at five minutes past eight the debating hall of the union society was not merely full: it was crammed with an unparalleled audience. normally a large crowd would have come to hear chard: a dense crowd would have come to hear bavin. but bavin versus chard! it was unique. and chard was so reliable! he never failed on such occasions: he had his impromptus ready and his answers well rehearsed. but to the charms of oratory had been added this evening the fascination of mystery. rumour has swift wings in such a community as a university, and already it was on everyone's lips that a colossal 'rag' had taken place, that chard wouldn't be there for the occasion of his life, that he had been kidnapped. so those who didn't want to hear either chard or bavin had come to see if chard was going to turn up. all along the benches sat serried multitudes of members, whispering, chattering, perspiring. along all those rows of faces, black and brown, yellow and white, spectacled and pimpled, ugly and less ugly, there gleamed expectancy. and by the doorway and up the gangways there jostled and pushed an ever-growing crowd of curious young men. perhaps they wanted to see bavin: certainly they yearned, they most definitely yearned, to know the truth about chard. at last the officers filed in amid applause. one almost forgot to look at bavin, such was the eagerness to see if chard had really vanished. there was a loud murmur of surprise. he certainly was not there. man said to man: "i told you so. they've nabbed him." "in the absence of the junior librarian," said the president, "i call upon the junior treasurer to bring forward the weekly list of books." that was all: no hint as to indisposition, no suggestion of chard's adventure. there were the usual jokes. of course people asked about chard. the president said that he knew nothing of the junior librarian. he trusted he would appear in time for his speech. and when he read out the motion before the house and the list of speakers he included chard's name. at twenty minutes past eight the first speaker began. he finished at a quarter to nine and two others carried on the debate till half-past. the second of them had reached his peroration. the audience paid little heed to his anxiety about the ship of state. where the devil was chard? that was all that mattered. was chard really lying gagged and throttled in a ditch? the speaker sat down and the expectant audience forgot to applaud. there was a pause, followed by much pushing and heaving among the crowd at the door. suddenly chard was shot on to the floor of the house. he wore a rough grey suit and was liberally splashed with mud. but he walked quietly to his throne and took his seat by the immaculate president. "the junior librarian," announced the president without the slightest sign of emotion. it is not for presidents to be human, and marshall knew his business. there was a great roar of joy as chard, foul with mire, advanced to the despatch-box. "i must apologise, sir," he began, "for my late and unkempt appearance. i have been with friends. (_cheers._) with very dear friends who would not hear of my going. that is the worst of friends. they are sometimes so pressing. (_uproar._) but i would have been earlier and in a more cleanly state had not another friend, in his eagerness to save me from my first friends, been over-hasty. perhaps he meant it as a compliment to our honourable and gallant visitor when he compelled me to lie, providentially not to die, in the last ditch." (_prolonged applause._) bavin's 'last ditch' speech had been his most notable success. then chard proceeded to welcome bavin, as was his duty, and to trample on him, as was his pleasure. not even the wet bed of a hinksey ditch could damp chard's democratic fervour or blunt the brilliancy of his wit. he had not forgotten his impromptus: in the ditch he had even devised a new one. for half-an-hour he scored point after point. he surpassed himself, he was unique. possibly, if he had always taken the red wine of burgundy for his dinner, he would always have spoken like this. martin, himself foul with mud, stood in the crowd. he thrilled with the sense of triumph. he remembered the night on which he had fought for gideon and the lord. it was adventure once again, terrifying and superb. and again he had been on the winning side. bavin, k.c., m.p., came as an anti-climax. he addressed a dwindling house and failed to rouse it. he lost his motion and concluded that the undergraduate was not only a traitor to the cause of the right, but an uncivil jackanapes. what business had they to ask him down and then to take notice only of this chard fellow? a few days later chard was elected to the presidency by a record majority. he had surpassed even the majority of walmersly, the churchmen's champion, who had had an election agent in every college, who had whipped up an army of country parsons and other dilapidated senior members with a silent promise of increased vacational facilities, who had entertained over three hundred junior members in two terms. chard received a polite note of congratulation from smith-aitken and sent, in return, a vote of thanks. nothing was ever heard about the king's arms, abingdon: certainly no damage could have been done. "good for you," martin said to him. "it's been a great business. at least one of the push is a made man." "it has been fun," chard admitted. he was intensely happy. "all the same it was just as well we had that little smash. by jove, we had some luck. no damage done and just enough mud to be convincing. and then that carrier's cart to get us in absolutely up to time." "certainly i owe a good many votes to your enterprise in fetching me and to the terrific blend of eagerness and incompetence which put me in the ditch." "i can't help a skid," said martin. "whose bike?" asked chard. it was the first time he had thought of it. "we made it look pretty silly." "rendell's," answered martin. "we'd better pay the damage. i'd forgotten." "that's my affair," said chard, who felt like generosity. "comes under reasonable election expenses surely." also he gave a dinner to his "workers." king's had not had a president of the union for several years. that distinction and the fame gained by the kidnapping incident made chard into a notable. freshers stared at him in the high and pointed him out to the ignorant. as a president he shone with incomparable lustre, and he acquired a fine presence and manner for his official duties. the push in general and martin in particular felt the reflection of that brilliant light. it seemed good that chard's taper should be so radiant. life for the push, during that third year, was free of care and free of idleness, fruitful of activity and enterprise, restless and fascinating. vi from a long vacation spent with the historians and philosophers and from the clash and challenge of autumnal moors martin came back to rooms in holywell and the school of literæ humaniores. from clean winds and open skies he came back to a gentle greyness or to smudgy days when the rain settled upon the river valley with cruel insistence and on parting left floods and vapours and steamy streets. from working at his ease he came back to work with distaste. to begin with, he was afraid. the future was big with exams. in eight months his oxford finals would be upon him, in ten months he would be attempting to satisfy the civil service commissioners. the torture of it! it was all very well for lawrence, whom a wealthy uncle would make into a chartered accountant, for rendell, who was to be an amateur barrister and a professional lib-lab-soc, for chard, with his assured career and front-bench-in-a-year-or-two prospects; well enough too for davenant, who had money enough to maintain an adequate, even a graceful, existence while he wrote about the things of art. but for martin there was only the midnight oil and the wondering about marks. and he felt helpless. he didn't want to be a civil servant, even at home. and as for india or the straits! he wanted to be in london with the rest of them, keeping up the old ideas and intimacies and enthusiasms. if he had only felt that such a life was absolutely impossible, he would have taken his fate more graciously. but it seemed that with an effort, with daring, he might get out of it all and find a job that would keep him in london without starvation: but he hadn't the pluck to look for the job, and he was content to drift on the wave of chance. circumstance was moulding his life, whereas he ought to be moulding circumstance. why couldn't he be strong and do things? he despised his puny helplessness and cowardly drifting: the more he gazed into himself the less did he see to admire. naturally this did not improve his work. he lived with rendell and lawrence and chard in a good house in holywell: davenant had gone down. chard shared a sitting-room with rendell, and they both worked with vigour, being men of sense and ambition. upstairs in a great low-raftered room martin dwelled with lawrence. he began by labouring with a fond frenzy, but he soon fell into his companion's easier ways and sat by the window watching the passers-by. holywell is a sound and regular street. you either belong to it or you don't. and if you do belong to it everybody knows that you belong to it and has a notion of your habits and your time-table. martin and lawrence soon found out about everyone, and their chief topic of conversation was the late appearance of this man or the frequent journeys of another, the new hat of the girl opposite or the names and nature of the young women who came hustling out of st cross road. they despised chard and rendell for their ignorance and wilful neglect of the street and its population. it was a soothing occupation to watch folk come and go. soothing, too, was the soft glory of the street itself as it curved away to the broad with its sombre harmony of pink and grey. behind the sweeping splendour of the way itself might rise a sunset sky of winter, blue with the lustre of steel, a tower of strong darkness above the fading glow. and then lamps would twinkle and windows pour golden floods into the road and a man would think about having tea. all good men live in holywell when they "go out." but it was not always thus. often everything was ugly, and martin had indigestion after lunch and thought once more of may williams. he hadn't seen her at all: perhaps she had escaped from botley. really he didn't care: astonishing how unattractive was the memory of that affair! no, may had not been good enough, but there was a girl who walked up and down the street: she too had roses in her hat, but the colour was not the same. and she was different, remote and inaccessible. martin said nothing and did nothing, but he always looked out when she passed on her way to and from shops: it gave him more pain than pleasure to watch her pass by, and yet he kept on looking. and then there was mr cuggy. cuggy was martin's tutor in philosophy and had the reputation of being the most muddled thinker in oxford: his claims were based on a certain article in _mind_ which had broken all records (already high in english philosophy) for the amazing technicalities of its jargon and the vile barbarity of its writing. but of course he was a dear old man. in his youth a torrent of hegelianism had passed over him and he remained always a limp victim of the drenching he had then received. he clung, this mariner shipwrecked in german waters, to the rock of the absolute and dared not relax his grip because he saw no other prominence amid the devouring waves. and everywhere, should he slip off, were the pragmatic sharks lurking for the prey. to this rock he dragged his pupils quite irrespective of their capacity to understand the process and to cling coherently: as a result they clung only in their essays and dropped off in private thinking. time's ironies are pleasant and mr cuggy made many a "prag." martin learned all the proper words and delighted his tutor with some cant about the higher synthesis and the disappearance of all antinomies in the absolute. in private discussion he differed. "i say. what shall we do about this philosophy?" he asked rendell. even rendell had been sickened by cuggy. "of course it's all drivel," he admitted. "just systematised drivel." "my dear ass," put in lawrence, "has that only just struck you? i remember being rebuked for my early scoffing. the main object of these blighters is just to wrap up in a perfectly unintelligible and ungrammatical jargon what everybody else can see without bothering about it. they've got to do something to justify their screw and their measly existence, so, like the politicians, they keep up a nice series of sham fights which never end." "the main point for us," said martin, "or at any rate for unhappy me, is to find out how to score marks at the game. i can stand fair nonsense, but old man hegel is a bit thick. on the other hand, pragmatism is just as silly and, what's worse, hated by the gods that be. no marks in that, i'm afraid. we've got to find a middle path." "there's the cambridge stuff. russell and moore, business-like and quite unattractive." "oh, we can't be tabs," said lawrence. "well what can we be?" "why not bag a bit of james ward, a bit of bergson, a bit of croce, and be pampsychistic pluralistic realistic modern young men?" "it'll take some doing," said martin dubiously. "it's no good being sloppy. the youths who think they'll get firsts because they know all about beauty never get very far. what we need is philosophy on a business basis. six questions in three hours. answers to all the problems of the universe guaranteed all correct in thirty minutes." "let's draw up a scheme," said lawrence, "and diddle this damned philosophy." so they settled down and arranged a system: they made out a plan of what they were going to think about all the possible questions. that is the best of philosophy: examiners may weave words but they have only about a dozen real questions from which to choose. by the end of the term they had settled the business of wisdom. the schedule was complete and they had a short way of dealing with every problem from the universality of nature to the value of the negative and hypothetical judgment. of course to achieve a "position" they had to sacrifice their consciences at times. it was all quite shameless and quite successful. "after this," suggested chard, "you might get made railway managers." "unless," said rendell, "we get on to the staff of a certain penny weekly." in december martin went down once more to devonshire. to his surprise he found freda there. almost two years had elapsed since he had seen her and he had almost forgotten her existence. but now he remembered vividly and was glad. she had not altered and he rediscovered her perfect insignificance. how ridiculous it seemed that, while margaret berrisford with her health and strength need only work when she chose and as she chose, this wisp of a woman should have been caught up in the machinery of industry: ridiculous that one so fragile should be self-maintenant. he had little chance to talk to her that evening, but on the following afternoon he went with her to the village and along the tavistock road. he asked her about herself. "they soon got rid of me," she answered. "the trades union people, i mean. they were naturally sick of my coming late and getting ill and being a general nuisance. then i got in with some suffrage women and they gave me work. one of the new peace-and-goodwill societies. they want to link up the movement and then agitate according to lor-an-order. they're so peaceful and orderly that, not being engaged in fighting other people like tigers, they just quarrel among themselves like cats. oh, i do get sick of it." "what do you do for them? speak?" "oh no. just the office work. they worked me quite hard and paid me very little, and, when i murmured, they hinted that if i was only loyal to my sex i'd do the whole show for nothing. never work for lovers of humanity: their love has a background of dividends and west end drawing-rooms. it's none the worse for that, but they expect your love to take the form of more work for less pay. it's not good enough. i'd rather be a genuine wage-slave, thanks very much." "city office, regular hours, and no nonsense?" "that's it." "have you been ill this winter?" "yes. i was rotten for a bit; margaret has been awfully good to me. when she heard of it she fished me out of my lodgings and made me come here. i was in bed a fortnight and must have been a beastly nuisance. they are splendid, all of them." martin agreed. "and what about you?" she asked. he explained his hopes and fears. "you've no business to mope," she told him. "don't you understand that you're an extremely lucky person? i wish i had your chances." "i suppose i'm lucky," he said without conviction, trying to feel ashamed of his despair. "of course you are. anyhow it's silly to get despondent. besides, you're bound to do well." "am i? why?" "because i tell you to. do get firsts and things." it pleased him to be ordered. he stopped in the muddy lane between two stark hedges that stood naked against the grey december sky. "do you care?" he asked. "of course i care." "why? i mean----" he paused awkwardly. "don't ask silly questions," she answered. "it's too cold to stand about." they walked on. "it must be pretty sickening for you," he said, "having to go on with this drudgery." "it is rather rotten. but it can't be helped." "can't you get some intelligent kind of work, writing or something?" "i'm not good enough. don't make foolish interruptions. it's quite true. and remember i chucked up a teaching post." "but routine must be worse for a person like you." "it isn't nice. really i think the most miserable people of all are those who are just too good for dull work and not good enough for real, original, creative work." "that's painfully true," he answered. and there, gloomily, they left it. that night martin reflected on the events of the day. what surprised him most was the depth and intensity of his feelings about freda. it wasn't love, it wasn't mere sympathy: was it just sentimentality? it is a habit of the younger generation in these days to turn their sexual emotions into channels of political reasoning: the result is called feminism. instead of defending hapless women with strong right arm they are eager to defend underpaid women by strike or act of parliament. there is little difference, for the reason that nature cannot be cheated. the pitchfork of modernity will not keep it out, and chivalry, loathed in name, comes bravely back in disguise. in matters of personal relation feminism is dangerous just because it is insidious. martin had already formed his picture of freda, overworked and underpaid, homeless and driven from pillar to post. the image was painful, but it pleased him so to suffer. on saturday there was to be shooting, the last of the season. people were coming down for the week-end and, doubtless, neighbours would be there. in the home coverts cock pheasants still trumpeted in peace, but their time had come. martin had no gun of his own, but sometimes he used a spare weapon of his uncle's. if he had been more efficient he would have liked the actual shooting: he could see the point of it and appreciate the thrill of waiting and achieving. but he had neither the long experience nor the swift eye and he was glad when the gun was needed by someone else. freda would not see his lack of skill, for robert had brought a friend from town for whom the gun would be required. neither margaret nor freda went out in the morning, and martin also stayed in to work. the guns came back to lunch at half-past twelve, as they had begun to shoot early, for that made a better division of the short daylight. when they went out again margaret accompanied robert's friend and martin took freda to watch the first drive. the air was soft: otherwise freda, being still convalescent, would not have been allowed to stand about. but it was considered warm enough for her if she wore a thick motoring coat of margaret's. here and there films of mist hung thinly over fields, but in the woods it was clear: the wind spoke gently in the trees or passed in silence down the rides and open glades. underfoot rustled the drifting, many-tinted leaves and the flight of a startled song-bird made the still air reverberate. the fragrance of distant pines was mingled with the scent of the leaf-mould and sometimes the glint of the birch's silver broke the splendid monotony of giant trunks. the mystery of ham and eggs flashed across martin's mind. the cult must not exclude woods. "aren't these trees wonderful," he said simply. "i think they're awful, in the proper sense of the word. they make me excited and terrified and happy." "awful is the right word. why did men spoil it?" "we've managed to spoil most things." "will they begin shooting soon?" asked freda after a pause. "the beaters will be coming up soon." "why do people do it? it seems so unnecessary, so savage, somehow." "so it is savage. that's just the point. it answers a need, i suppose. you wait till you hear an old cock pheasant come crashing down. there's something very satisfactory about the noise he makes." "it's too horrible." "wait and perhaps you'll find that you have a few primitive instincts left in you. you may be free of them; some people are. it isn't only the passion to kill, though. it's the passion to get over obstacles and do something immensely difficult. that's why walking-up birds is better than driving. when i've got a gun i want to hit an object which is incidentally a bird. it isn't the killing that matters." "but why don't you shoot at targets or clay pigeons?" "there you have me. i suppose at that point the savagery comes in. it isn't the same to shoot at disappearing targets, and that's all one can say. hullo, they're starting, we'd better stop talking." far away at the back of the covert arose the noise of cracking twigs and trampled leaves: closer and closer it came until the sounds were distinguishable, now the tapping of a stick on a tree, the beating of a bush, the long-drawn cries of "mark" and "forward," the swift whir of wings, and at last the sharp crack of guns. the woods, once awful with still silence, were all sound and movement. the gun, behind whom martin and freda were standing, had only one chance and took it--a beautiful right and left. the second bird fell close to them, crashing through branches to a soft bed of leaves. freda gasped and jumped forward. the drive was over. "you wanted it to fall?" said martin, taking up the warm, motionless body. "i think i did," she confessed. "but only for a moment." "it seemed right, didn't it?" "i suppose so. but i couldn't touch it." she paused. "yes, i was glad when he hit them both," she added. "the strain of waiting and looking and listening seemed to make it all different. and he was so quick. i can't think how he could have got round to the second. it was all wonderful in a horrible, alluring kind of way." "i was right," said martin. "there is something in it, you see." he was glad that she understood: it gave them another point in common. the next beat would take them some way from home, out to the bleaker side of the woods. martin proposed that they should wait until the guns returned and freda was willing. they went to the pines where the ground was clean and firm and there on a bank they waited. and there too martin became more than ever aware of freda. she was digging her toes in the soil and at the same time leaning strongly back upon the dry bank. thus her body was strung and braced tightly so that she seemed to him to be one strong curve against the ground. and yet she was not strained uneasily and her limbs were all fine sweep and rhythm. he drank in the exquisite grace of her fragility. everything about her was brown, her hair, her eyes, her borrowed coat, her long boots vanishing beneath brown tweed, even the feather in her adorable hat. against the brown couch of the bank the various tints joined in a sombre harmony. "you mustn't stare," she said suddenly. "it's rude." "how can i help it?" he answered. "easily. i'm not a country girl and i'm not at all attractive in this get-up. i hate it. great, clumsy boots!" "you mustn't say that. you're just perfect like this. it seems so rotten that you should be dragged away from it all and made to do the world's drudgery and not see these places. you do fit into them, whatever you may say." she turned and looked right into his eyes. "dear boy," she said, "you mustn't take me too seriously. i'm quite happy. you mustn't worry about me." "i can't help it," he broke out. "it's in me to feel for you, to hate the waste of you, to want you happier and stronger and getting more out of things and more out of the things you do get." he told her of his hopes and fears and how she had affected them and drawn him out of them. she had taught him not to grumble about an excellent fortune. and he began to tell her of her own perfection, but she stopped him. "it's very, very nice of you to care about what becomes of me," she said. "i think you exaggerate my wasted capacities: in fact i know you do. but whether or not you're right about me, i know i'm right about you." "and what about me?" "that you aren't in love with me at all. you're rather lonely and afraid of the future and perhaps, well, sentimental. it's nothing to be ashamed of. it shows that you're generous, because you're trying to get rid of your own despair by trying to share mine, which doesn't exist as a matter of fact. you're a little in love with love and very young and very nice. and now i'm getting cold so please take me home and be quite honest with yourself." as he walked back with her he said very little. against his conscience he was angry, angry at what he knew was his own humiliation. she had been so damnably maternal and--worse still--so damnably right. on monday she went back to town; she had forbidden him to renew the subject and they had talked as they originally talked, with argument, like undergraduates. but for martin such conversation had lost its charm and he knew such relations could not last. still he wanted her to be a martyr dragged to the altar of commercialism and she had refused to think of martyrdom. her happiness galled him, as he confessed to himself with shame. yet less than ever was he able to forget her. so freda went. and martin remained to work feebly and to write long letters and to sit fidgeting until the second post had come in and he knew that to-day at any rate she hadn't answered. but sometimes she did answer, shortly indeed but kindly; and he was happy then. in january he went back to oxford and the further settling of philosophy on a business basis. amid all the energies and diversions of terms the memory of freda did not vanish nor even fade. hitherto the postman had been neglected in martin's survey of the passers-by, but now he was more important than any one even of the other sex. martin had never before noticed how many posts there were in a day, but now he knew all about it. vii on an evening of early june martin, rendell and lawrence punted up a backwater of the thames. it was cool on the water's surface and a lingering remnant of breeze stole across the silent meadows and played gently with the willows. they had escaped from oxford and the gas-works, from gramophones and the university boathouse. it was a special haunt of their own to which they had come, one of hinksey's unpathed waters, very narrow and remote. at length they made fast to a stump of wood and smoked in peace. it was all over. they had lived through a week of sweltering agony, of darting to the schools in cap and gown and stuffy clothes, of darting out again to see how many words they had got wrong in their translation. such is the dignity of greats. abiding by their plans, they had worked their philosophy according to schedule and answered their questions on grimly practical lines. they hadn't made bold to know about beauty. "well," said rendell, "that's the end of that." "what?" yawned martin. he was tired alike by his exertions and recent celebration of the end. "of everything." "edified?" "i think so. it's been rather majestic somehow. to have to know about everything and keep a theory about every branch of thought and action. one doesn't do it, but it's rather good to think one is supposed to do it." "depressing enough before the event," martin remembered nights of wild battling with insoluble problems and days when he had gazed in despair at papers recently set and realised his complete incapacity to inform the examiners about modality or the legal aspects of the cæsar-pompey quarrel. "you used to get jolly black?" said lawrence, remembering silences and outbursts or the lonely walks that martin sometimes took. "it's all very well for you," retorted martin. "you may have to look forward to dull sort of work, but you're secure enough. i'm just beginning this business of getting a job and it's poor fun. i suppose it means india." "you'll get a decent screw," said rendell by way of comfort. "and come back without a liver or an idea." "except about curry and cigars." "i can't imagine our gloomy martin as a sun-dried bureaucrat," lawrence remarked. "but i suppose he'll have punkahs and khitmutgars and syces and be the devil of a chap. i daresay it's all right when you're there." "there are few people who loathe the british empire more cordially than i do," said martin. "but there seems to be no way of keeping clear of it. anyway i've quite settled not to starve as a journalist. sooner the white man's burden than that." "anyhow," said rendell, still eager to comfort, "we don't know anything about the burden, do we? there may be something in it." "well, one thing is quite plain," asserted martin, "there's no charity going as far as i am concerned. if i have to go and live in a dirty hot hole i go there because i can't get a decent living otherwise. i go on the make and i'll resign as soon as i can get the thousand that they're always chattering about. none of your burden for me." "to gather from what one sees," said lawrence, "the burden doesn't weigh very heavily on the shoulders of the big pots. they seem to do themselves pretty well." "of course they do. that's what they go for. how many varsity men would go abroad if they could live in comfort and get the same wage at home? not ten per cent. and who can blame them? india pays, and it pays for hard, dangerous, useful work. i don't mind men going for the pay, but i do mind journalists blithering about their self-devotion in taking up the noble load." "all the same," said rendell cheerily, "you've quite a good chance for the home." "i wish the deuce i had," sighed martin. "if i'd worked all the time i might have done it. but it's too late now. i don't really know anything and will be lucky to get india. come on, let's move a bit." during the next few days martin managed to forget the looming menace of the east. the heat remained and they lived on the river, bathing and sleeping and feeding in turn. and then here were a couple of farewell dinners. the champagne flowed and holywell was full of rushing people and strange noises. the passing of lawrence was worthy of his whole career and on his last night a stalwart cortège bore him like a warrior to his rest. after the end of term martin stayed up to work. july was a month of lonely misery, of dust and bad tennis and the cramming of english literature. at last the time for his greats viva came and he walked down to the schools with lawrence, there to be asked by a nervous little man whether he thought things or thought thoughts. he at once informed the nervous little man that this was an idiotic question and that descartes ... his knowledge of descartes was overwhelming. lawrence was dealt with by a truculent, red-faced man who asked him minute questions about the wanderings of the phocæans. lawrence just smiled wisely and was sent away. rendell's turn came later. he was asked about the foundations of morality and maintained that while kant was very wise and venerable he was also very wrong. but he remained respectful of kant. one can only be offensive to j. s. mill in oxford nowadays, but about him one can say anything. once more rendell took a first, martin a second, and lawrence a third. it was the history that kept them apart. their philosophy had been uniformly good; mr cuggy was filled with pride and wrote to congratulate them all: whereat they wondered what would have happened if they had continued to cling to that philosophic rock, the absolute. yet it was nice of him to write. that was the worst of cuggy: you couldn't dislike him. from an oxford of glaring streets and searching, irresistible dust martin went up to london to seek his fortune at burlington house. later he remembered that august as a month of blazing heat and tired hands and aching head. he remembered a gloomy place shaped like a theatre where morose men asked him if he had a buff book and tore his papers from under his pen when time was up. there were days of solid labour and nights of anxiety spent with the text-books for to-morrow's exams: and there were unforgettable crowds of candidates sitting upon the steps before each paper and going over their notes for a last time with feverish futility. he remembered hating the people from wren's as he had hated the grammar school boys in his scholarship exams, jealously loathing and dreading their preparedness and notes and iron methods. he remembered the filthy temper he was in and his contempt for the scrubby little man who sat next to him and muttered to himself incessantly. martin had crammed blankney's notes on the attic constitution because he had heard a rumour that blankney was examining, and he remembered a ceaseless effort to display knowledge which he did not possess and to scrape up marks, marks, marks.... but the exams brought him also to freda. he found her pale and tired and more fragile than ever: he found her working from ten to six and idling despondently in the evenings. quite obviously she was not the woman he had known in devonshire. then she was strong and at her ease, full of mysterious confidence, rejoicing in life and her ability to cope with it. he had been to her merely an undergraduate, nicely foolish, he had amused her and she had read his letters, even answered them. he had chattered of affection and she had laughed him gently to scorn. now he came to her as a man in a world where men were scarce and men were needed. but it was freda who had changed, not martin. the transformation of the boy into the man was due to the heat of summer and the click of typewriters. to one deafened with the city's roar martin brought memories of perfect woods and lonely pines that stood out against emptiness, starkly black. they used to go out together in the evenings, to richmond, to putney heath, to hampstead. they went where the others went because they were as the others, hard-worked, tired-out, desperately needing one another. there was no glory of passion in their evenings. street lamps did not flame as flowers of the east, trees did not tower like giants luring them with soft voices, water was still water. earth and sky had not altered for them: it had not altered for the others who wandered in the same places. one monday at half-past five martin hurried out of burlington house after his second paper in english literature. never in his life had he written more in six hours: he had drained his soul of platitude and pretence, discreetly praising and blaming men whom he had never read, never, thank god, would read, all the remoter 'c's,' cowley, cowper, crabbe. his nerves were all frayed. he hated the statues of liebnitz and locke and plato ... what had platonism to do with that sordid spot? he hated the burlington arcade with its lingering odour of stale scent: a woman smiled at him horribly and he hated her. he hated piccadilly because it was dusty and deserted, and he hated the tea he drank because it was too hot and there were flies on the table. he hated himself for not remembering a quotation. how plain it all seemed now, and yet he had missed it. he met freda at half-past six at waterloo and they went down to thames ditton. the river was crowded with punts and canoes and boats of every kind, but they joined the press. as darkness fell lights began to glitter like jewels across the water. here and there a chinese lantern swung on a prow, the glowing end of a cigarette flickered and was gone. ripples of laughter floated from a nook where people supped, the popping of a cork, the tinkling of distant music. but if there was not solitude or silence, there was at least a breeze that shook the parched leaves and whispered in bough and rush. martin found a vacant berth deeply curtained with bushes and low-hanging trees and there they made fast the punt and lingered. they talked a little of his exam and of his prospects. and then they talked of her prospects. "you're too fine for it," he said suddenly. it was what he had said so often before, but now she was no longer maternal or cheerily scornful of his protests. she yielded alike to his thought and to his touch. never had she so yielded before. for martin the world became a great, black silence: the only thing he knew was the closeness of her. that she trusted him, and wanted him was joy: that she was there, beside him, his, was magic. because she for the first time yielded, he for the first time forgot. never before had he quite escaped from himself, from considering the impression that he was likely to be making, from worrying fears and self-conscious timidity. now he was free. he was aware only of the intangible fragrance of her hair, the warmth and movement of her body, the curve and rhythm of her limbs, the instant claim of her fragility. everything became different. at the end of the month freda had a fortnight's holiday and went to an aunt in yorkshire. martin had arranged to meet lawrence and rendell at seatoller in the lakes. he went in a bitter mood, hungry for freda, physically stale, and hopeless. but the traditional rain never came and soon they knew every crag of honister and grey knotts, of glaramara, of the gables and the scawfells, of the langdale pikes. the challenge of wind and weather on the hills and the flaming splendour of borrowdale in autumn drove apprehension and despair from his soul. he learned that in some places a man cannot be morbid. on an evening of late september they were playing three-handed auction. a telegram arrived from devonshire. the commissioners had sent the result to his home address, it seemed. martin put down his hand and tore open the envelope. he had passed fifty-first on the list. "looks like india," he said quietly. neither rendell nor lawrence knew what to say. he had wanted the home service, they knew, and fifty-first would not get that for him. they muttered congratulations self-consciously. martin took up his hand once more. it was solidly black. "five hearts?" he said. "five royals." the opposition collapsed and he made his tricks. they played late, thinking only of the cards. martin's career was settled, his life mapped out, his whole future determined by that message, and they talked of rubbers and pence. if he had miraculously passed in first or failed altogether they would have discussed it, but, because he had achieved the expected mediocrity, by tacit convention they were silent. the cards were really more important. viii as martin lay in bed that night it occurred to him with all the violence of a real discovery that he was, under certain conditions, the destined ruler and administrator of a nation far vaster and more ancient than his own, a nation of whose religion, ideals and practical needs he knew nothing whatever. he was equally ignorant of its population, products and methods of life, though of course he had a year in which to learn about these things. incredible that he, martin, twenty-two, boyish and superficial, should be a guardian of this people, a pro-consul in the making! and perhaps more strange was his apathy. in addition to his complete ignorance about india he cared nothing for the place, for how can a man, temperamentally inclined to nationalism rather than to imperialism, care for a nation which he only knows by a red blob on the map or by finding its stamps in collections restricted to the british empire. india meant nothing to martin. he had read kipling, and certainly no tales of his had, despite the magic of their narrative, made him responsive to the call of the east. he still took it for granted that british rulers there would be as british rulers elsewhere, bigoted, snobbish, and unexpectedly effectual: corrupt, perhaps, fooling the poor and honouring the rich, bungling and lying and making money. that, he felt, was the attitude of the men he met, exaggerated, no doubt, but based on fact. but as he lay gazing at the cracks in the old ceiling above him his thoughts went back to the sheer bulk and beauty of the gable, to holywell at dusk, to the woods around the steading and the cult of his uncle's deity. about the oriental world he neither knew nor cared. he couldn't believe in it, so remote and unimportant it still seemed. at oxford during his indian year he found that the future civilians took little interest in the place to which they were going. they wanted the pay and perhaps, though not admittedly, the possibility of a knighthood and a row of letters after their names. certainly no one was concerned about the white man's burden. naturally he did not blame these people: like himself, they were only seeking for a reasonable livelihood. but he was sickened by the cant he discovered in speeches and papers, the froth about self-sacrifice and noble callings: the work might, he acknowledged, be good and useful, it might promote the welfare of mankind and bring the peace of cæsar to a troubled world, but no one was giving anything away in going to do it. and he was lonely now. he had rooms in narrow ship street, and there he spent solitary days and nights craving the society of the push: sometimes one of them would come down for a week-end, but otherwise there was scarcely anyone to whom he could talk. the winter crept on dismally, and martin studied bengali or rode on horseback over shotover and port meadow. but there was something wrong about oxford: he felt old and alien and the college, when he entered it, seemed to be bubbling over with freshmen, all amazingly young and innocent and happy. he was vaguely jealous of them, uncharitably hostile. were they not talking as he had talked, idling as he had idled? one friend he had, a poet in his third year, discreet and practical. from time to time martin dined with him and forgot about india. most of all freda mattered. now that he was alone and despondent, he relied on her letters and his memories and thoughts of her to make life easier, even more tolerable. he retraced the whole course of their friendship, trying to reshape their relations. he remembered her first as an arguer, a friend to whom he had talked and talked: and then as a martyr, the sufferer for whom he had felt with a genuine, unstinting pity. and at last ... well, at last as a woman, as a person who had the power of making life different, of turning london into an enchanted fairyland and india into a vision of cool beauty, a person of infinite tenderness and understanding, a person whose presence and sympathy could stop things hurting. what rendered him most happy was his ability to meet her on equal terms. hitherto she had been self-supporting, he a pampered undergraduate. he had had prospects but no certainty, and he had shrunk, even on that summer night upon the river, from saying things that he wanted to say, because he felt that it wasn't fair. one couldn't honourably say these things until one was 'a made man': one couldn't decently make women expect things unless you had some reasonable basis for hopes. with girls like may williams it didn't matter what one said, because he had been just a 'fellow,' she just a 'girl.' such affairs had their agreeable conventions. but with freda it had been different, because there was no such tacit agreement: she might, she would expect him to take her out of her toil and weariness. and now he was free to say and do as it pleased him. he was 'made' and had position, for only by great folly and stupidity could he lose his opportunity. at the end of term he went up to london. he told the berrisfords that he had to go to a riding test at woolwich and wanted to see the varsity rugger match. it is odd that a young man should be instinctively ashamed of love: he will tell his companions of his bodily desires gladly and even proudly, but he will hesitate before he confesses a craving for sympathy. he did ride, it is true, and he went to queen's club, where he caught an occasional glimpse of cambridge three-quarters running abominably fast. it was one of the 'slump' years in oxford football, the reaction after the reign of the immortals at iffley road, when the whole city and university trooped down to watch six elusive internationals playing with the opposition's defence. now cambridge was doing the same and avenging those past defeats. humiliating to watch those tabs waving hats and yelling and ultimately carrying their captain from the field of glory! comforting to reflect that when oxford won they won soberly and with restraint, as though victory were for them the normal and accustomed thing! only tabs would behave like that. with such thoughts he tried to soothe his anger and disgust. in the evening, because freda had a headache, martin dined with lawrence and became expensively drunk: later he had memories of a crowded music hall, of distant singers and dancers flitting incessantly before white scenery: they worried him and he shouted at them to go away, but seemingly they refused. there were recollections of drinks with an old elfreyan and the toasting of the school, of an elaborate conversation in french with a woman who only spoke cockney, of a speech to the indian nation begun on the crowded promenade and ended magnificently from the fountain at piccadilly circus. probably there was supper somewhere and more noise and then he must have walked miles, for suddenly he became sober and found himself far down the fulham road. he picked up a taxi, and managed to get into bed more or less successfully about half-past three. freda, too, had spent a dull autumn. she had spoken the truth when she said that she was just too good for dull toil and not good enough for real work. the system was gradually devouring her and she had long ago reached the stage at which the one thing in life that matters is six o'clock, the hour of release from the drudgery and sordid gloom of the office. she lived for her leisure and on her leisure she had nothing to spend. there were friends whom she saw at intervals, but their intimacy had limitations and was only close enough to drive home the need for real companionship. in one matter she had been fortunate. she had found a cheap room at the top of an old house in bloomsbury and was thus spared the necessity of going to one of those gloomy mansions for working women. it was a small room, high up and chilly: but it was hers, and even the gas-fire could not rob it of real comfort. martin had not meant to linger in london as he had work to do. but he soon realised the impossibility of going away. not only did he need freda, but she too needed him. there was no advantage in denying the mutual emptiness and mutual satisfaction. so he stayed, and in the mornings and afternoons he read his indian law and history, or wandered about london, loitering in picture galleries or threading the ways of bloomsbury with many a passing glance at the house where freda slept. squarely and simply it stood, with no flaunting brick-work or victorian embellishment: its colour was the nameless colour that a london house should have, the sombre blending of grey and red and deepest brown. on one side was a mean street, one of those sad thoroughfares which chance has brought to destitution: the houses were good and strong, but each contained a score of people and belched out numberless squalid children to play and quarrel in the teeming gutters. on the other side a wide street ran straight up to a square garden and the two lines of houses converged and faded away in a haze of smoke and branches. in the afternoons, when martin walked there, sunset would stain the gentle greyness with pink or, in angrier mood, would stab dark clouds and leave great rifts of red. it was all so strong and quiet and dignified, seeming actually to exhale the finest quality of london. the street, at any rate, was worthy of her. when the long day's wait was over he would have freda to himself. then london became beautiful in every line and form and colour. the lamps were flaming jewels and the rain-soaked, glittering streets were bands of silver: the murkiest lane threw off its squalor, and the night, with its great glooms and shadows, its sudden bursts of iridescence and its mystery of swiftly moving figures, made him think of eastern jungles, splashed with fierce colours, cavernous with infinite shade. then a woman, rouged and powdered and swathed in tawny fur, would sweep majestically past: she was the tiger who burned brightly. formerly he hated these women, because they charmed him, challenged and held his gaze, hated them too because they brought home to him the fact that he had not the courage of his desires. but now he need not care. that was the great joy of it. so in this enchanted forest of london they walked and drove, feasted and saw the play: not one play, but all the plays. and after the play they feasted again and were contented. it was a forest that tended to swallow gold rather than yield it, and martin had to borrow on the security of his position as a probationer in the indian civil service. but there was pleasure in the signing of the bond. sometimes they would sit in martin's hotel, which had a large, deserted lounge with sensible corners and crannies for conversation. sometimes he would go back with freda to her room in bloomsbury and wait until she turned him out. "i won't have you here after eleven," she told him and quoted from _the great adventure_ on reputations, the coddling and neglect of them. "but if you have me at all----" he protested. "i'm english and i believe in compromise," she answered. so he stayed till eleven. it was a neat place and orderly with naked walls: he loved it as he loved its owner. when the washstand and bed had been hidden behind their curtain, the stray shoes kicked beneath the wardrobe, and the arm-chair drawn up to the gas-fire, there seemed to be nothing mean or sordid in the room despite the lack of space and the roof corner that jutted rudely in. what did it matter now if the window looked on to a back yard and a world of chimneys? "why are you so wonderfully tidy?" martin asked. "don't you associate tidiness with me?" "no, you're too wild. tidinesss is a petty virtue." "well i confess it hasn't anything to do with my general character. i hope i'm not petty anyhow. it's sternly practical tidiness. i used to be lazy and find my stockings muddled up with the spoons, but it soon sickened me and now i have come to prefer the fag of clearing up to the discomfort of a muddle. besides, if i'm going to have you here it oughtn't to be a beddy 'bed-sit,' but a sitty 'bed-sit.'" "your precious reputation," he laughed. on another night she asked him what the berrisfords thought about his absence from home. "i don't know and i don't think i care!" he answered. "why? they must be interested in you, and you're very fond of them." "i dare say, but i can't think of them now." he drew her to him. "freda, i'm too happy to care about them. i just can't imagine that the world has any other place but london, or any other people but you and me. nothing else is real; nothing counts, not india or oxford or anything." she yielded herself to him, but suddenly drew back. "you mustn't go and muddle things," she said conscientiously. "supposing you fail next september, what would i feel like?" "i won't fail next september," he answered defiantly. "i'm glad you said that. you must be confident, much, much more confident. i'm sure you would have been happier if you had never been afraid of things." ecstasy to know her gladness, to see her quick smile of confidence because he was confident! how could he have feared and doubted? he could not let her draw away: his arms must have her. "i'm never going to be afraid again," he said. "i know what was wrong now." "well?" "i didn't care about anything. i didn't know what i wanted, while everything lay in front of me. i didn't feel, though i had all the world to feel about. i didn't love, though i had all the world to love. i just drifted. now i have what i want." she was silent. across the tumult of his soul stole things of the senses, the pulsing of her blood, the scent of that brown witchery of hair, the touch of her tired hand, the vision of a glistening bow of silk on a poised foot: above all, the divine sense of his own grasping possession, her clinging weakness. "i know now what i want," he went on rapidly. "i want the same thing to go on that has just begun, the thing that has brushed all the hardness and ugliness out of the world and made the future easy. you've done all that. i want you." he crushed her to him roughly, almost hurting her: and he knew by her stillness that it pleased her so to be hurt. "you're not going back now," he whispered fiercely. "you're not going to knock to pieces the thing you've built. india is a cool heaven now; don't make it a fiery hell. work is all doing and creating. don't make it all drudgery. oh, i'm selfish. you're so perfect, and i can only talk of my own work, my own troubles. freda, i'm sorry. i----" still she was silent. "oh, say something," he begged. "forgive me for being selfish." "there's nothing to forgive." "then say--you've said you cared for me--say you love me." in a moment he had forgotten his remorse and again was claiming, insisting. and she, knowing that love can be, even must be, selfish and imperious, was glad that he should claim her and obeyed his command. of course martin stayed in london over christmas and into the new year, living with a fullness he had never known, seeing the purpose and fineness of things which he had despised and neglected. how strange it was that all the world should be changed by that one weak figure, seemingly so ineffectual! how strange that one mortal should carry for another the keys of heaven! how trivial seemed all his philosophy with its objectivity of this and that when he discovered how subjective all his outlook was, how the presence or the absence of a loved one could make or mar the colour-medley of a sunset or the beauty of a tree against the sky. one thing was certain: he gloried in possession. all his loneliness was forgotten now and, as he paced the streets, he could look upon the other couples without the pang of jealousy that once had stung him. there would be no more glances thrown furtively at passing women, no turning of an eager eye for bygone faces, no more emptiness and yearning. deep magic lay in the thought that freda, with her smile, and her quick mind, and her infinite grace of movement, was his to possess, to own. he was not ashamed to glory in these proprietary relations nor was she ashamed to accept them. she even welcomed them, yielding to martin with an utter abandonment of self. she wanted only to be his, to be his loved possession, to help him and to share humbly in his triumphs and successes. one night indeed he repented, not of his love, but of his manner of love. he felt the indignity of ownership. they had gone, in a fit of intellectual enthusiasm, to see a play called _drift_. at a small outlying theatre two young men of ideas were completing the noble task of self-imposed bankruptcy by giving the british public a season of "good drama." and the public naturally helped on the work by the easy method of staying away. the house was barely half full when, after the hammerings customary in these circles, the curtain went up. _drift_, a play in four acts by villiers wentworth, turned out to be a fair specimen of that now antiquated genre, the new drama. it had the monosyllabic title, the insistent realism, the contempt for form and dramatic convention, the arid conversation with lapses of brilliance, the admirable acting, and, above all, the great gloom. it was naturally a play with a point, showing, justly and forcibly, the hopeless inadequacy of modern life to provide the average man and woman with anything like a unity of interest. the characters drifted from home which they dreaded to work which they loathed and in the evening they made the return journey. nothing held their lives together, nothing remained as a permanent, unifying interest. there was love, but, as mr villiers wentworth pointed out, the young man is barred socially and economically from indulging in anything but hole-and-corner affairs just when he most needs real sympathy. "not a good play," said martin as they walked out into the flaring streets and joined the joyous welter of confusion at piccadilly. "the man's got no sense of humour and he thinks that everyone is miserable who hasn't got two hundred a year. the poor are just as happy as the rich. of course they oughtn't to be, but they are." "but there was a point," said freda, "about unity of interest. it may be obvious, but it's true. didn't you drift? haven't i drifted?" they turned into a restaurant. as they supped they forgot about the play. but later martin's mind returned to the subject. "come back," said freda suddenly. "penny." "hand over," he answered, smiling as he started. "well, what is it?" "you, of course." "i'm sorry for that. you looked so sad." "i'm feeling ashamed," he confessed. "what of?" "of the way i've thought of you. i've been so selfish. i only cared for my own escape from drifting. it's been my work, my life, my love. i have been thinking of you as the person who would make my life perfect. it's been all me, me, me. when we first met i thought of you and your work. now it's only me and my work." "that's as it should be." "no, no, it isn't. a year ago i should have hated myself for thinking like this." "perhaps you have learned as well as lived." "i've been a brute and there's an end of it." he was deriving a secret pleasure from his self-depreciation. there was bliss in humiliating himself before her, in grovelling at the feet of her whom he adored. if he could not get the conventional thrill from the confession of past affairs and failings, he would achieve the ecstasy of self-torture by laying bare a loftier mistake. but she laughed at him. "silly billy," she said. "pay the waiter and i'll tell you." she told him as they drove back together in their taxi. "after all," she began, "compare my work with yours. mine is drudgery. yours is big and important. it doesn't matter what becomes of mine, but it matters a lot what becomes of yours, i hate mine and i love yours. i want to give myself up to yours, to make it easier and better. can't you see, martin dear, that isn't selfishness or unselfishness. those words don't count in such a case. if we love, then i'm you and you're me, and one person can't give to himself or take away from himself surely." "it sounds so specious," he said. "and yet i still feel greedy, as though i were denying your right to be yourself." "i don't want to be myself. i want to be different. i'm as greedy as you are and more so, only differently. as it is, the word isn't real. we're both giving and both taking and there's an end of it." he was silent for a moment. "it's no use my trying to say how perfect you are," he said at last. "dear, delightful, serious, conscience-stricken gloomkins," she laughed at him. "what does all this matter ... how we share things, i mean? the only real thing is enthusiasm, wanting and feeling and loving. you were at a loose end until you began to feel; you couldn't work, you couldn't do anything. nor could i. and now work is all changed and seems better and easier. the office is a palace for me, india a pleasure garden for you. do stop worrying and be sensible." "i'm sorry," he said. "i'll try and be good. you're always right. this taxi goes far too fast. we're in your street." "bother," she said. "let's tell him to drive on somewhere else and come back in another one." "no. you've spent far too much and we've done that often enough. i'm going to be a good girl to-night." "tyrant." "wastrel." "he's stopping. one more kiss." through streets that more than ever resembled enchanted pathways in a forest of shadow and silver, martin went back exulting to his hotel. ix it was the second week in january when martin went down to the steading: he merely stayed to collect books and clothes and returned at once to london. while he was there he told his uncle and aunt that he was engaged to be married. that night john berrisford discussed the matter with his wife. "well," he began, "what about our young martin?" "i suppose it's all right," said mrs berrisford quietly. "he's very young, but that seems to be the fashion nowadays." "yes, that doesn't matter. long engagements are tragic, unhealthy things, but they'll be apart and he ought to be able to marry almost at once. quite a lot of civilians do." "and she's quite a nice girl." john berrisford gave the slight wriggle of the shoulders for which we have only the excessive word "shrug." "don't you approve?" added his wife. "yes and no. on the whole, no." he kicked at the fire testily. "she's quite a nice girl and clever and reasonable beyond the average. if martin were going to hang about in town, well and good. but really is she the wife of an indian civilian?" "but, john, surely! you with your ideas about freedom! you don't believe in the marriage of convenience, i know. isn't martin to have his choice?" "of course he shall have every choice. i'm not one to bluster or give orders or interfere. he's going to marry the girl, not i. i know that. but i'd like him to think a little first. do consider the facts. freda is clever and quick. perhaps she really cares for martin, perhaps she's only sick to death of the hellish existence decreed by modern civilisation for penniless orphans of the female sex. but she has lived in a groove, she has never met people--not the kind of people she'd run up against in india. she doesn't like games or society. she likes talking and arguing and lying in bed. she'd hate the anglo-indian just as she hates any kind of pomp and circumstance. she hasn't the vaguest notion as to what they'll expect of her. worse still, she hasn't even health. she would be invalided home in a year and martin with a salary of three or perhaps four hundred a year would have to support a wife whom he only saw on leave. you've got to consider his career and his general happiness. there is no reason why he shouldn't find a woman who understands the kind of life and behaviour, a woman who could fit in, and yet has brains and charm enough for an intelligent person." "mary brodrick?" suggested mrs berrisford. "the kind of girl who sings about her caravan resting after dinner?" "we needn't go as far as that. something between the two." "you're a heartless old schemer, john. we must respect his choice." "absolutely. but i'm fairly confident about the result. anyhow there is plenty of time and it's martin's first affair." "are you sure?" "i have watched the signs of times. this is the first time he has taken a month to see the varsity match." "but he is stubborn when he has once settled on a thing. he doesn't decide quickly, i know, but when he has he is firm." "we'll see. as it is, i suppose you must have her down for easter. i got her her present job and i know her employers well. i can easily get them to allow her a holiday then. and when we've got them, we must leave them very much alone." "but surely----" "my dear, it's the only hope. keep them apart, hint at the unsuitability of marriage, and they'll elope on nothing in a fortnight's time. that's quite certain. my idea is to bang them together fairly hard. i don't want it to hurt, but i do want them to have a clear idea as to what they are both made of." "do you think it's quite fair?" "isn't it what they would want themselves? it's the only possible thing we can do. and also," he added quietly, "it will give a certain interest to next easter." but there was no need to beg a holiday for freda. in february, when the winds came driving up the channel and brought to england a month-long burden of rain and sleet, her health gave way again and she was warned that she was not strong enough for the wear and tear of an office life. for most people it is true that colds are not liable to the laws of cause and effect: they happen or they don't and to be soaked to the skin is no more fatal than to bask in the sun. but for freda to arrive at the office with feet wet and cold meant certain visitation. and by six o'clock she was always worn out. now she would have to rely on an uncle and aunt. the uncle had money and had offered already to release freda from the misery of work, but she had refused, so intolerable had seemed his great victorian mansion on sheffield's edge. she had wanted, in her youthful courage, to work and to be free. but now there was no use in fighting and she yielded partly from a consideration of hard fact, partly because her uncle had retired from his business and was coming to london. idleness in town with an allowance! by privation she had been taught the meaning and the value of both. so it was as a woman of moderate means and unlimited leisure that freda came to the steading for easter. martin came from oxford jaded and tired out. he had had to work hard in order to make up for a vacation of complete indolence. the wet february had brought floods and stinted exercise and despondency: it had been tedious work, toiling over a new language in those lonely ship street rooms. his soul hungered for sympathy, his body for the infinite swell and splendour of the moor and for the cold sting of the winds that whirled across it like the thongs of a lash. for a week he stayed about the house and strolled in the near woods with freda, whose recent illness had left her far too weak for real walking. she hadn't the strength nor could she risk a strain or chill. so martin lingered with her all day, while they built fantastic castles of hopes and visions. then the inactivity grew intolerable to his body, tore at his nerves, and made him ravenous for the moor and the golf-links. freda despised golf and could not understand how any sane person could be bothered with it. they squabbled about it gently, never suspecting that it might come to matter. fate fought against freda. martin, whenever during these days he handled a club, found that he could do nothing wrong: he was "on his game." and the cartmells came down for the easter recess. godfrey had captured the seat two years ago and had settled down comfortably on a back bench from which his wife intended to oust him. but the back-bencher may live strenuous nights and days: he too was tired and wanted air and exercise. and so in the afternoons martin was called upon as much by civility as by the craving of his heart to motor with them to the golf-course and join in a foursome. desperate warfare took place in which martin was viola's, godfrey margaret berrisford's ally. and martin was wonderful. his drives flew far and low, straight for the flag or the direction post: no ugly jarring told him of the topped iron-shot: his short putts ran straight into the middle of the hole. he dug his partner's foozled drives out of heather and hedge and laid her wild approaches dead with a niblick. up on that lonely course with only the wind and the white clouds for neighbours, with no one to keep them back or hurry them on, with turf so springy that a foot could never tire, so spongy-soft that a brassie might be lightly taken and effectively wielded, with the exquisite strain of even conflict, with matches taken to the last green and won, perhaps by martin's inimitable 'run-up'--yes, it was golf. the joy of it was almost insupportable. martin began to live for those afternoons; yet, if he had been off his game, had sliced with his driver and topped with his irons, as was indeed his wont, the golf-club would have lost its appeal: there is little pleasure in playing golf badly, but there is all the world in playing above your form. once freda came up to watch them and walk as far as she could. but she was plainly bored, pleaded fatigue, and went back to the little club-house where she sat reading. to martin, in his present mood of triumphant exultation, it seemed incredible that anyone could fail to see the point of it. he tried to convince her. "perhaps you can't imagine the thrill that conies from a really true hit: really it's one of the few good things in the world. the ball goes off clean and sweet and leaves you with a faint tingling that lets you know you've done the trick. and then you climb a ridge and there's the ball white and glistening on the green. that means you've done exactly what you set out to do and that you've got a long putt to beat bogey. and if you ram it in!" "baby!" she said, laughing. "did 'ums like 'ums bouncey ball." at first he laughed too and told himself that naturally they couldn't share all the same tastes. in the morning and evening he stayed with her, neglecting his work. but gradually he came to feel that there was something more than jocosity in her denunciation of the bouncey ball. soon after easter one of freda's colds kept her in bed for breakfast. it was the cartmells' last day but one and everything pointed to a final test of strength. they went over in the morning and stayed to lunch at the club-house. there were two great matches, of which each side gained one. martin had not yet lost his skill: he had dreaded the day of torture when he would go "right off." "let's have another nine holes," said viola cartmell as they took an early tea. "we aren't keeping martin from his duty. and it's our last chance and such an evening." they agreed to play and nerved themselves for faultless execution. an hour later martin lay upon the steep bank at the edge of the ninth green. now he had grasped most certainly, what freda would never grasp, the mystery of ham and eggs. in the fine light of sunset the moor seemed to tower inimitably above them, crowned with its eternal tors, clear-cut as by a razor's edge against the vast blue emptiness behind. the april breeze was whispering in the grass and timid larks soared and plunged and hung singing in the void. before him was the smooth-shaven green, true as a billiard cloth but humped with testing undulations. and there were the three other players awaiting with tense anxiety the future of the match. godfrey was kneeling to take the line of his putt: the ball would end its journey along the side of a veritable mountain, a glorious stroke to achieve! farther back were margaret and viola. suddenly the breeze caught them, snatched at a stray wisp of hair, played with their skirts, and gave a last caress to cheeks already kissed to flame. there were grace and strength knit perfectly: to martin they seemed, after the slight form of freda, tremendous. yet why shouldn't women be strong? he wanted them to be strong, to walk with him, to fear neither wind nor weather. and freda... his thoughts returned swiftly to the match. godfrey was on the point of playing: he had this, a ten footer, to halve the hole and the match. there was silence and then the gentle tap of the club on a rubber-cored ball. one gazed, one shouted. the ball had lipped the hole and swung out to the left. in the car they fought the whole match over again. "if only i hadn't given you the sixteenth this morning----" "no, it was my fault. if i miss two-foot putts, you can't be expected----" and thus during the whole journey superb concentration on an end to be won, superb oblivion to work and wealth and weariness. martin found freda yawning in the porch. "i thought you were staying upstairs all day," he began. "who said so?" "the maid, i think." "well, i never said anything about it. you don't seem very glad to see me." "of course i am. only i meant that i would have come back earlier if i had known." "i wouldn't keep you from your golf." he sat beside her, but she did not welcome him. she was hurt. "if i'd only known, i wouldn't----" "day after day," she whispered. "i know you like to be out and about. i don't claim you always, do i? but sometimes, surely." "i didn't know," he repeated remorsefully. "i didn't know." "yesterday you went and to-morrow you'll go." "no, i won't. freda, i'm a brute. i've been rotten to you. i've nothing to say for myself." "you've got to go to-morrow." "i won't. you don't want me to go." "you must go. i'm not going to keep you, if you don't stay of your own accord. the ball is much more amusing than i am." he pleaded, he fought against her, but she insisted on his going. the punishment was effective. he went in anguish and played with no zest for the game. he sliced, he topped, he missed short putts. the match fizzled out on the fourteenth green, a fiasco. the cartmells hurried back to london and martin remained to make peace with freda. he had been unspeakably pained by the sordidness and waste of energy and peace that quarrelling had entailed. he hated the suspicions and embarrassments that must linger on: he was passionately desirous of restoring the old intimacy and yet ... somehow or other the wound remained. he couldn't forget that evening on the ninth green. why wouldn't freda see the point of these things? why wouldn't she walk? she was strong enough now for a mile or two. almost he was angry with her for having been ill, for it is an odd feature of humanity that we sometimes dislike people for their sufferings, hate them for a cough or sniff. and now martin was on the point of blaming freda for the weakness he had once adored. why wasn't she strong like margaret or viola? why didn't she understand about the moor and wind-swept spaces and the miracle of hitting a golf-ball? while he was bearing the olive branch these questions, dreaded and strongly combated, kept forcing themselves into the narrow passes of his mind as the persian host flooded into thermopylae. it was futile to feign deafness: in time they would force a hearing. and there were other less easily worded doubts and apprehensions. perhaps the summer-time came as a release. more than he would have cared to admit, martin wanted to be alone, to see freda dispassionately, from a distance. and so to oxford. freda, while undergoing all unconsciously this dispassionate appreciation, retired to london. but within a few weeks' time she had received another invitation to devonshire, and tired not so much of town as of her relations she gladly accepted. at the steading were a mr and mrs brodrick with their daughter. arthur brodrick had been contemporary with john berrisford at oxford and had passed high into the indian civil service. just before his time for a pension was due he had been invalided home and had missed the full reward of his service. the brodricks lived at sutton in a remote mediocrity of wealth more galling than actual poverty. was it chance again, the chance that had brought a perfect easter and put martin on his game, that now seemed to keep the conversation on oriental diseases and the rigours of imperial service? certainly freda heard more of fever in distant stations than of health and company at simla. but the brodricks had not been divorced from patriotism by the hardness of their lot: they still believed in the flag, in the pomp and state of the british raj, in stately dinners at government house where the couples went down to the feast in order of social precedence, and they recounted squabbles, petty but bitter antagonisms, of rival ladies who considered themselves insulted by their positions in the troop of diners. freda listened silently and learned. so this was the life for which she had bargained. eternal fever--so they implied--eternal society of the brodricks and their kind! for martin with his work to love and his career to think about such things might be well enough! but for her! how could she blend with this unknown, this unparalleled society? then the berrisfords suggested that they should all go to oxford for eights week. mr and mrs berrisford had to be in town: would mary brodrick come? and, naturally, freda? both the girls accepted eagerly. it was soon settled and rooms were engaged at the mitre. on reading the letter announcing their plans martin groaned in the spirit. it wasn't, of course it wasn't, that he did not want to see freda. did he not write to her as eagerly as ever? did she not answer? but eights week of all times! martin was sufficiently a lover of oxford, summery oxford of the still water-ways, to loathe and despise eights week, that whitsuntide holiday of the wealthy, when the city is invaded by a host of rich trippers, whose tripping has not even the justification of beer-bottles and hearty bestiality. he did not wish to eat salmon mayonnaise, to drink champagne cup, to propel, in faultless flannels, a punt among a solid mass of punts, to go for picnics where all london was revelling. his choice would have been to launch a vessel on the upper river, to find some tranquil backwater past eynsham, with a canopy of willow and the scene of flowering meadows; or else to make use of deserted tennis courts and to enjoy things properly. now they were going to break in upon him: and indeed another idle vacation had left him work enough to do. they had not come when he was a fresher and such things were allowable, and the berrisfords knew oxford well. presumably they desired to show freda the city and its ways. but why, oh why, in eights week? it wasn't like the berrisfords. they arrived duly and lived in state at the mitre: they mingled with the crowds, tramped the colleges, and demanded to have things pointed out to them. mary brodrick said all the right things. martin shuddered as the phrases came out in turn: "can we see the kitchens?" (at christ church). "where are the prince's rooms?" (at magdalen). "isn't this the clever college?" (at balliol). it was a gloomy ceremony. there was freda. and she ... well, he had to admit that she didn't harmonise with this world of fine raiment and expensive bean-feasts. the freda who glittered in the punt, the freda clothed sumptuously at her uncle's expense was undeniably different from the insignificant wisp of a girl in plain blue coat and skirt who had hurried out of the office at six and come to martin for rest and comfort. to have explained his feelings accurately would have been an impossible task for martin, but he could not put aside a vague sensation that freda was wrongly placed in this world, that she was pre-eminently a martyr and a rebel, not a woman of leisure. she did not even know what to say. there is a particular kind of speech appropriate to these occasions: it is neither flirtation nor conversation in the proper sense, but a discreet blend, a mixture as insipid as it is inevitable. it does not demand brains or wit, but a certain quality, a training. mary brodrick, with all her limitations, knew the game; she was jolly and made things go. freda hung back or, when she came forward, made mistakes. odd that martin should have been angry with freda for her inability to play a game which he himself despised. yet it did pain him that she didn't "fit in." as a strange word whose meaning has recently been discovered seems to the reader to occur on every page he reads, so freda suddenly revealed to martin in a hundred ways her incapacity for "fitting in." and it was to the society of countless brodricks that martin would have to take her. on the wednesday evening, when the river was rendered invisible by the press of vessels and fair women, when the supporters of the victorious college swam across the river and dived from barge and boathouse, when supper-parties began to disappear up the cherwell and gramophones to tinkle in shady recesses, mary brodrick caught her train to town, mr and mrs berrisford went to see the irish players, and martin took freda on the river. to avoid the crowd they were going to the cherwell above the rollers. she kept him waiting in the taxi that was to take them to tims'. at tims' she found the punt dirty, said the cushions were filthy, and would ruin her dress. "eights week," said martin. "we've got to be thankful to get any kind of a punt." still she grumbled. martin ran into a projecting bush and, before she knew what had occurred, her hat had been pushed over her eyes, her hair disarranged, and her face scratched. she said nothing at all. worse than any expostulation! it grew cold and a chilly breeze sprang up. inevitably they quarrelled. there was no particular cause for the outburst. a long week of strain, of mutual revelation and discovery, of mingled pleasure and annoyance, was bound to tell. they had at least the satisfaction of making things clear. "you only cared for me as a martyr," she ended. "i didn't, you know i didn't," he protested on the spur of the moment. but both knew that it was more than half the truth. their letters of renunciation crossed. chance and john berrisford had been powerful allies. x on a still october afternoon martin lay where the first slopes of grey knotts go sweeping up to the great mountain mass of the gables and the scawfells. he looked down upon seatoller, diminutive below him, and on the curving beauty of borrowdale, burnished with late bracken, aflame with autumnal trees. behind him he knew, he felt, were the mountains that he loved, stretching crag upon crag to the desolate screes of wast water and the glimpse of the shimmering sea. borrowdale ... there flashed suddenly upon his mind the verse of the elfreyan poet and he quoted it now to the winds and rocks and a curious stone-finch: "'the flaming bracken fires the breast of bosky borrowdale, down swoops the sun in a riot of red behind scawfell to a watery bed, and the moon hath clomb o'er skiddaw's head, so perfect and so pale." with that pathetic verse came other memories, flowing torrentially through the opened flood-gates of his mind. for five years he had forgotten elfrey and berney's and all his schoolday toils and triumphs. only one week-end had he spent there and that in his 'fresher' year. he had forgotten because oxford had been so generous and had given him so much to think and feel and say. but now his recollections seemed strangely vivid despite their long storage in the lumber-room of his mind. foskett had made another step on the pathway of prosperity, but berney was still at work: vickers had moved to higher things, but barmy walters lingered on, for he had reached the dotage in which years add nothing to decay. the same old jokes would be played, the crashing of the instrument-boxes, the passing of fruit-bags and biscuit tins, and the pollution of his water with ink. and somehow, against the promptings of conscience, martin felt that it was right for these things to go on. poor barmy! but with his uncle he believed in institutions. then the amazing disappearance of people broke in upon his mind. spots, for instance. his career had flickered out at cambridge, where they had despised his athletics. drink, perhaps. cullen and neave, surely they must be in the motor trade. gregson had vanished utterly. everything demanded that he should be writing for the rationalist press, but where was he? anstey was at the bar, rayner a subaltern in india. 'granny' had recently been head of berney's, granny whom martin had loathed and swiped. it seemed unreal and impossible. but now, as he looked back over that gap of five years, he realised that elfrey with all its troubles and its narrowness had been kind. the avenging of gideon and the night of pitchers, the bowling of "googlies," the friendship of finney ... astonishing that things so good should have slipped away. lazily chewing the long sweet stems of grass, he refought a hundred skirmishes. more recent memories came floating down upon the stream. galer and his 'deemagogues,' the push, chard and his career: very soon he would be paying a long farewell to all this world of evanescence. for such a world it was, good but transitory. it was not real as life's work would be real. true that chard had taken his union career as seriously as death itself, true that the push had been serious about their discussions, those night-long tussles about god and woman and the universe: and anything taken seriously has value of a kind. but had their value been greater than that of an amusing prologue or a curtain-raiser which it would have been unfortunate to miss? it was good that these things should have been: it was not good that they should be for ever. and freda? world of evanescence again! she had passed so utterly away that martin could scarcely believe in the events and emotions of the winter. he had no regrets, and he believed that she had none: of late his plans and prospects had moved at such a pace that wounds could not linger and were easily forgotten. they had rendered each other mutual service and mutual relief. once he had thought that he loved, but now he knew of his mistake: freda had spoken the obvious truth when she said: "you aren't really in love with me, you're in love with love." he had wanted sympathy and in his quest had idealised the first woman who gave it him. only a fortnight ago his uncle had said: "remember you're still only twenty-three. you haven't found out everything about life--or love." he had said it kindly and he had been right. now indeed he had fiercely reacted against his search for sympathy. surely a man should be able to face his work and go through with it, even if it was agony to do so, without running to a woman's arms for comfort. he was ashamed of his cowardice of the winter. upon the hillside with the exhilaration of autumn in his blood it seemed so easy to face things and be resolute. this love! it was like religion, just funk. then he paused, angry with himself. he was erring as much on the one side as he had lately erred on the other. he could understand passionate desire: he could understand sentimentality, for he had not forgotten lawrence's defence of the little grey home. but this love--of which one heard and read--what was it? perhaps some day... he surrendered to his visions ... and he would come back with her to a good house in devon, very square and grey, with smooth lawns and paddocks and covert-clad hills behind. there would he become an initiate in the avuncular mystery of ham and eggs. that religion at least he had it in him to respect. rendell and lawrence were coming up the hill; they had been together for a week at seatoller, renewing last year's successful holiday, and to-morrow they were to separate. it was the last reunion, for martin was to sail next month. the other two had stayed in after lunch to answer letters: martin was to await them on the hill and then they would walk. as he watched them plodding up to him his mind wandered to the future. when they reached him they were out of breath and demanded a moment's rest before they moved on. they lay in silence, basking in the strong october sun. "i've been thinking," exclaimed martin suddenly. "good," said rendell. "let's have it." "it's about this india business. i think i'm glad on the whole." "well, i've had a year of the city," muttered lawrence, "and i don't recommend it." "after all, it's doing something," martin went on. "good or bad, it's action, administration, government of a sort. if i stayed in london, i would find it jolly hard to work: i'd probably do as the rest, just loaf." "thank you," said rendell. "i wasn't alluding to you. you haven't the talent for loafing, and i think i have, in a mild kind of way. it won't be bad for me to desert the world of conversations and ideas." the other two remained silent, gazing at the wonderful valley below. martin wished they would speak. he did not know whether he really believed in what he was saying or whether he was trying to believe in it because there was comfort in such faith. if only one of them would confirm his opinions! "don't you ever feel that it's all petty and limited?" martin continued. "living in london, i mean, and never seeing the world and how it's run and the different tastes of men and the tendencies and forces? i want to get into the middle of it and, if i've got to do government work, then i don't mind doing that. it isn't merely negative, like most of a barrister's work." eternal honesty and reliability of man with man! a woman would have caught his anxious tones and given him sympathy and confirmation at the expense of belying her convictions. rendell merely said what he felt and later martin was glad of it. "if that is the case," rendell answered quietly, "you're plainly the man for the job. it isn't often that the empire gets an intelligent person who cares about his work." "i believe i'll like it when i'm there," martin added. "of course i know there will be gaps and times of despair. but i feel that i have had my seven fat years and it's up to me to face seven lean ones. then fatness ought to come again." "which, being interpreted," said lawrence, "means seven years or so in the wilderness and then better jobs and a big screw and no end of a career." "i won't be as detailed as that. but as i've got to eat the pie i shall dig about for the plums. what do you think, rendell, k.c., m.p.?" "i agree." "and you, lord mayor?" "i have every intention of making at least five thousand a year. my god, yes. if i go into that city i'll damned well fetch something out." "anyhow," said martin after a pause, "we have had years of plenty. it was all good, the push and digs and everything." rendell agreed. "it couldn't have been managed much better," he said. "we had some capital times." lawrence yawned vastly. "you emotional lads," he said, "will soon be calling the old school ithaca and talking about 'stern nurses of men' and 'dreaming spires.' i can't allow it. let's walk." they rose and went up silently into the hills like men who understand about walking. the end the riverside press limited, edinburgh sinister street _by compton mackenzie_ _in two volumes. crown vo containing_ _in all pages. price six shillings each_ contents of volume one _book one: the prison house_ i. the new world ii. bittersweet iii. fears and fantasies iv. unending childhood v. the first fairy princess vi. the enchanted palace vii. randell house viii. siamese stamps ix. holidays in france _book two: classic education_ i. the jacobean ii. the quadruple intrigue iii. pastoral iv. boyhood's glory v. incense vi. pax vii. cloven hoofmarks viii. mirrors ix. the yellow age x. stella xi. action and reaction xii. alan xiii. sentiment xiv. arabesque xv. grey eyes xvi. blue eyes xvii. lily xviii. eighteen years ago xix. parents xx. music pages contents of volume two _book three: dreaming spires_ i. the first day ii. the first week iii. the first term iv. cheyne walk v. youth's domination vi. grey and blue vii. venner's viii. the oxford looking-glass ix. the lesson of spain x. stella in oxford xi. sympathy xii. high xiii. plashers mead xiv. st. giles xv. the last term xvi. the last week xvii. the last day _book four: romantic education_ i. ostia ditis ii. neptune crescent iii. the cafÉ d'orange iv. leppard street v. the innermost circle vi. tinderbox lane vii. the gate of ivory viii. seeds of pomegranate ix. the gate of horn x. the old world pages books by the same author the passionate elopement carnival guy and pauline (_in preparation_) kensington rhymes _note_ _mr. campion mackenzie's books are published by martin secker: number five john street: adelphi: london_ martin secker's complete catalogue of books published by him at number five john street adelphi london autumn mcmxiv _the books in this list should be obtainable from all booksellers and libraries, and if any difficulty is experienced the publisher will be glad to be informed of the fact. he will also be glad if those interested in receiving from time to time announcement lists, prospectuses, &c., of new and forthcoming books from number five john street, will send their names and addresses to him for this purpose. any book in this list may be obtained on approval through the booksellers, or direct from the publisher, on remitting him the published price, plus the postage._ _telephone city_ _telegraphic address:_ _psophidian london_ _martin secker's catalogue of books published at number five john street adelphi_ part i index of authors abercrombie, lascelles speculative dialogues. wide crown vo. s. net. thomas hardy: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. the epic (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. aflalo, f. g. behind the ranges. wide demy vo. s. d. net. regilding the crescent. demy vo. s. d. net. birds in the calendar. crown vo. s. d. net. allshorn, lionel stupor mundi. medium octavo. s. net. apperson, g. l. the social history of smoking. post vo. s. net. armstrong, donald the marriage of quixote. crown vo. s. barrington, michael grahame of claverhouse. imperial vo. s. net. edition de luxe s. net. bennett, arnold those united states. post vo. s. net. black, clementina the linleys of bath. medium vo. s. net. the cumberland letters. medium vo. s. net. boulger, d. c. the battle of the boyne. med. vo. s. net. the irish exiles at st. germains. med. vo. s. net. bottome, phyllis the common chord. crown vo. s. burrow, c. kennett carmina varia. f'cap vo. s. d. net. calderon, george (with st. john hankin) thompson: a comedy. sq. cr. vo. s. net. cannan, gilbert round the corner. crown vo. s. old mole. crown vo. s. samuel butler: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. satire (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. chesterton, g. k. magic: a fantastic comedy. sq. cr. vo. s. net. clayton, joseph the underman. crown vo. s. leaders of the people. demy vo. s. d. net. robert kett and the norfolk rising. demy vo. s. d. net. coke, desmond the art of silhouette. demy vo. s. d. net. craven, a. scott the fool's tragedy. f'cap vo. s. de selincourt, basil walt whitman: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. drinkwater, john william morris: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. d. g. rossetti: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. the lyric (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. douglas, norman fountains in the sand. wide demy vo. s. d. net. old calabria. demy vo. s. d. net. douglas, theo white webs. crown vo. s. fea, allan old english houses. demy vo. s. d. net. nooks and corners of old england. small crown vo. s. net. the real captain cleveland. demy vo. s. d. net. francis, rene egyptian Æsthetics. wide demy vo. s. d. net. freeman, a. m. thomas love peacock: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. gretton, r. h. history (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. hankin, st. john the dramatic works, with an introduction by john drinkwater. small to. definitive limited edition in three volumes. s. net. the return of the prodigal. sq. cr. vo. s. net. the cassilis engagement. sq. cr. vo. s. net. the charity that began at home. sq. cr. vo. s. net. the constant lover, etc. sq. cr. vo. s. net. hauptmann, gerhart the complete dramatic works. vols. crown vo. s. net per volume. hewlett, william telling the truth. crown vo. s. uncle's advice: a novel in letters. cr. vo. s. horsnell, horace the bankrupt. crown vo. s. howe, p.p. the repertory theatre. cr. vo. s. d. net. dramatic portraits. crown vo. s. net. bernard shaw: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. j. m. synge: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. criticism (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. hueffer, ford madox henry james: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. ibsen, henrik peer gynt. a new translation by r. ellis roberts. wide crown vo. s. net. jacob, harold perfumes of araby. wide demy vo. s. d. net. lamont, l. m. a coronal: an anthology. f'cap vo. s. d. net. thomas armstrong, c.b.: a memoir. demy vo. s. d. net. lluellyn, richard the imperfect branch. crown vo. s. low, ivy the questing beast. crown vo. s. machen, arthur hieroglyphics: a note upon ecstasy in literature. f'cap vo. s. d. net. mackenzie, compton carnival. crown vo. s. and s. net. sinister street. i. crown vo. s. sinister street. ii. crown vo. s. the passionate elopement. crown vo. s. and s. net. poems. crown vo. s. net. kensington rhymes. crown to. s. net. makower, s. v. the outward appearance. crown vo. s. mavrogordato, john letters from greece. f'cap vo. s. net. melville, lewis some eccentrics and a woman. demy vo. s. d. net. methley, violet camille desmoulins: a biography. demy vo. s. net. meynell, viola lot barrow. crown vo. s. modern lovers. crown vo. s. niven, frederick a wilderness of monkeys. crown vo. s. above your heads. crown vo. s. dead men's bells. crown vo. s. the porcelain lady. crown vo. s. hands up! crown vo. s. north, laurence impatient griselda. crown vo. s. the golightlys: father and son. cr. vo. s. onions, oliver widdershins. crown vo. s. in accordance with the evidence. cr. vo. s. the debit account. crown vo. s. the story of louie. crown vo. s. pain, barry one kind and another. crown vo. s. the short story (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. palmer, john comedy (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. perugini, mark the art of ballet. demy vo. s. d. net. preston, anna the record of a silent life. cr. vo. s. roberts, r. ellis henrik ibsen: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. peer gynt: a new translation. wide crown vo. s. net. sand, maurice the history of the harlequinade. two volumes. med. vo. s. net. scott-james, r. a. personality in literature. demy vo. s. d. net. sidgwick, frank the ballad (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. stone, christopher the burnt house. crown vo. s. parody (the art and craft of letters). f'cap vo. s. net. straus, ralph carriages and coaches. med. vo. s. net. street, g. s. people and questions. wide cr. vo. s. net. swinnerton, frank george gissing: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. r. l. stevenson: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. taylor, g. r. stirling mary wollstonecraft: a study in economics and romance. demy vo. s. d. net. taylor, una maurice maeterlinck: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. thomas, edward feminine influence on the poets. demy vo. s. d. net. a. c. swinburne: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. walter pater: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. the tenth muse. f'cap vo. s. d. net. vaughan, h. m. an australasian wander-year. demy vo. s. d. net. walpole, hugh fortitude. crown vo. s. the duchess of wrexe. crown vo. s. watt, l. m. the house of sands. crown vo. s. williams, orlo vie de bohÈme. demy vo. s. net. george meredith: a critical study. vo. s. d. net. the essay (the art and craft of letters). vo. s. net. young, filson new leaves. wide crown vo. s. net. a christmas card. demy mo. s. net. punctuation (_the art and craft of letters_). f'cap vo. s. net. young, francis brett deep sea. crown vo. s. young, f. & e. brett undergrowth. crown vo. s. robert bridges: a critical study. demy vo. s. d. net. part ii index of titles _general literature_ armstrong, thomas, c.b. a memoir. reminiscences of du maurier and whistler. edited by l. m. lamont. art of ballet, the. by mark perugini. art of silhouette, the. by desmond coke. australasian wander-year, an. by h. m. vaughan. ballad, the. by frank sidgwick. battle of the boyne, the. by d. c. boulger. behind the ranges. by f. g. aflalo. birds in the calendar. by f. g. aflalo. bridges: a critical study. by f. e. brett young. butler: a critical study. by gilbert cannan. camille desmoulins. by violet methley. carmina varia. by c. kennett burrow. carriages and coaches: their history and their evolution. by ralph straus. christmas card, a. by filson young. comedy. by john palmer. coronal, a. a new anthology. by l. m. lamont. criticism. by p. p. howe. cumberland letters, the. by clementina black. d'eon de beaumont. translated by alfred rieu. dramatic portraits. by p. p. howe. dramatic works of gerhart hauptmann. vols. dramatic works of st. john hankin. introduction by john drinkwater. vols. egyptian Æsthetics. by rené francis. epic, the. by lascelles abercrombie. essay, the. by orlo williams. feminine influence on the poets. by edward thomas. fountains in the sand. by norman douglas. gissing: a critical study. by frank swinnerton. grahame of claverhouse. by michael barrington. hardy: a critical study. by lascelles abercrombie. hieroglyphics. by arthur machen. history. by r. h. gretton. history of the harlequinade, the. by maurice sand. ibsen: a critical study. by r. ellis roberts. irish exiles at st. germains, the. by d. c. boulger. james: a critical study. by f. m. hueffer. kensington rhymes. by compton mackenzie. leaders of the people. by joseph clayton. letters from greece. by john mavrogordato. linleys of bath, the. by clementina black. lyric, the. by john drinkwater. maeterlinck: a critical study. by una taylor. magic. by g. k. chesterton. mary wollstonecraft. by g. r. stirling taylor. meredith: a critical study. by orlo williams. morris: a critical study. by john drinkwater. new leaves. by filson young. nooks and corners of old england. by allan fea. old calabria. by norman douglas. old english houses. by allan fea. parody. by christopher stone. pater: a critical study. by edward thomas. peacock: a critical study. by a. martin freeman. peer gynt. translated by r. ellis roberts. people and questions. by g. s. street. perfumes of araby. by harold jacob. personality in literature. by r. a. scott-james. poems. by compton mackenzie. punctuation. by filson young. real captain cleveland, the. by allan fea. regilding the crescent. by f. g. aflalo. repertory theatre, the. by p. p. howe. robert kett and the norfolk rising. by joseph clayton. rossetti: a critical study. by john drinkwater. satire. by gilbert cannan. shaw: a critical study. by p. p. howe. short story, the. by barry pain. social history of smoking, the. by g. l. apperson. some eccentrics and a woman. by lewis melville. speculative dialogues. by lascelles abercrombie. stevenson: a critical study. by frank swinnerton. stupor mundi. by lionel allshorn. swinburne: a critical study. by edward thomas. synge: a critical study. by p. p. howe. tenth muse, the. by edward thomas. those united states. by arnold bennett. thompson. by st. john hankin and g. calderon. vie de bohÈme. by orlo williams. whitman: a critical study. by basil de selincourt. _fiction_ above your heads. by frederick niven. bankrupt, the. by horace horsnell. burnt house, the. by christopher stone. carnival. by compton mackenzie. common chord, the. by phyllis bottome. dead men's bells. by frederick niven. debit account, the. by oliver onions. deep sea. by f. brett young. duchess of wrexe, the. by hugh walpole. fool's tragedy, the. by a. scott craven. fortitude. by hugh walpole. golightlys, the. by laurence north. hands up! by frederick niven. house of sands, the. by l. m. watt. impatient griselda. by laurence north. imperfect branch, the. by richard lluellyn. in accordance with the evidence. by oliver onions. lot barrow. by viola meynell. marriage of quixote, the. by donald armstrong. modern lovers. by viola meynell. old mole. by gilbert cannan. one kind and another. by barry pain. outward appearance, the. by stanley v. makower. passionate elopement, the. by compton mackenzie. porcelain lady, the. by frederick niven. questing beast, the. by ivy low. record of a silent life, the. by anna preston. round the corner. by gilbert cannan. sinister street. i. by compton mackenzie. sinister street. ii. by compton mackenzie. story of louie, the. by oliver onions. telling the truth. by william hewlett. uncle's advice. by william hewlett. undergrowth. by f. & e. brett young. underman, the. by joseph clayton. white webs. by theo douglas. widdershins. by oliver onions. wilderness of monkeys, a. by frederick niven. martin secker's complete catalogue of books published by him at number five john street adelphi london autumn mcmxiv ballantyne press london generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) shelley at oxford shelley at oxford by thomas jefferson hogg with an introduction by r. a. streatfeild methuen & co. essex street w.c. london introduction thomas jefferson hogg's account of shelley's career at oxford first appeared in the form of a series of articles contributed to the _new monthly magazine_ in and . it was afterwards incorporated into his _life of shelley_, which was published in . it is by common consent the most life-like portrait of the poet left by any of his contemporaries. "hogg," said trelawny, "has painted shelley exactly as i knew him," and mary shelley, referring to hogg's articles in her edition of shelley's poems, bore witness to the fidelity with which her husband's character had been delineated. in later times everyone who has written about shelley has drawn upon hogg more or less freely, for he is practically the only authority upon shelley's six months at oxford. yet, save in the extracts that appear in various biographies of the poet, this remarkable work is little known. hogg's fragmentary _life of shelley_ was discredited by the plainly-expressed disapproval of the shelley family and has never been reprinted. but the inaccuracies, to call them by no harsher term, that disfigure hogg's later production do not affect the value of his earlier narrative, the substantial truth of which has never been impugned. in the _new monthly magazine_ was edited by the first lord lytton (at that time edward lytton bulwer), to whom hogg was introduced by mrs shelley. hogg complained bitterly of the way in which his manuscript was treated. "to write articles in a magazine or a review," he observed in the preface to his _life of shelley_, "is to walk in leading-strings. however, i submitted to the requirements and restraints of bibliopolar discipline, being content to speak of my young fellow-collegian, not exactly as i would, but as i might. i struggled at first, and feebly, for full liberty of speech, for a larger license of commendation and admiration, for entire freedom of the press without censorship." bulwer, however, was inexorable, and it is owing, no doubt, to his salutary influence that the style of hogg's account of shelley's oxford days is so far superior to that of his later compilation. hogg, in fact, tacitly admitted the value of bulwer's emendations by reprinting the articles in question in his biography of shelley word for word as they appeared in the _new monthly magazine_, not in the form in which they originally left his pen. hogg himself was unquestionably a man of remarkable powers, though his present fame depends almost entirely upon his connection with shelley. he was born in , being the eldest son of john hogg, a gentleman of old family and strong tory opinions, who lived at norton in the county of durham. he was educated at durham grammar school, and entered university college, oxford, in january , a short time before shelley. the account of his meeting with shelley and of their intimacy down to the day of their expulsion is told in these pages. on the strength of a remark of trelawny's it has often been repeated that hogg was a hard-headed man of the world who despised literature, "he thought it all nonsense and barely tolerated shakespeare." such is not the impression that a reader of these pages will retain, nor, i think, will he be inclined to echo the opinion pronounced by another critic that hogg regarded shelley with a kind of amused disdain. on the contrary, it is plain that hogg entertained for shelley a sincere regard and admiration, and although himself a man of temperament directly opposed to that usually described as poetical, he was fully capable of appreciating the transcendent qualities of his friend's genius. there is little to add to the tale of hogg's and shelley's oxford life as told in the following narrative, but further details as to their expulsion and the causes that led to it may be read in professor dowden's biography of the poet. after leaving oxford, hogg established himself at york, where he was articled to a conveyancer. there he was visited by shelley and his young wife, harriet westbrook, in the course of their wanderings. for the latter hogg conceived a violent passion, and during a brief absence of shelley's assailed her with the most unworthy proposals, which she communicated to her husband on his return. after a painful interview shelley forgave his friend, but left york with his wife abruptly for keswick. letters passed between hogg and shelley, hogg at first demanding harriet's forgiveness under a threat of suicide and subsequently challenging shelley to a duel. one of shelley's replies, characteristically noble in sentiment, was printed by hogg with cynical effrontery in his biography of the poet many years later as a "fragment of a novel." after these incidents there was no intercourse between the two until, in october , the shelleys arrived in london, whither hogg had moved. from that time until shelley's final departure from england in his connection with hogg was resumed with much of its old intimacy. in the year hogg produced a work of fiction, _the memoirs of prince alexy haimatoff_, said to be translated from the original latin mss. under the immediate inspection of the prince, by john brown, esq. the tale, which is for the most part told in stilted and extravagant language, can hardly be called amusing, but the discussions upon liberty which are a feature of it appear to be an echo of shelley's conversation, and the hero himself may possibly be intended as a portrait of the poet. certainly there are points in the prince's description of himself which seem to be borrowed from shelley's physiognomy. "my complexion was a clear brown, rather inclining to yellow; my hair a deep and bright black; my eyes dark and strongly expressive of pride and anger,... my hands very small, and my head remarkable for its roundness and diminutive size." it would be interesting to trace in the other characters the portraits of various members of hogg's circle. mr garnett identifies gothon as dr lind, the eton tutor whose sympathy and encouragement did much to alleviate the misery of shelley's school-days. the fair rosalie ought to be harriet, and certain features of her character recall that unhappy damsel, but rosalie disliked reading and thought aristotle an "egregious trifler," whereas harriet's taste in literature was of an extreme seriousness, and her partiality for reading works of a moral tendency to her companions in season and out of season was one of the least engaging features of her character. shelley reviewed _the memoirs of prince alexy haimatoff_ in the _critical review_ of december , discussing the talents of the author in terms of glowing eulogy, though he found fault with his views on the subject of sexual relations. soon after his york experiences hogg had entered at the middle temple and he was called to the bar in . he was not successful as a barrister, lacking the quickness and ready eloquence that command success. in or about the year hogg married jane, the widow of edward ellerker williams, who had shared shelley's fate three years previously. it is said that mrs williams insisted upon hogg's preparing himself for the union, or perhaps we should rather say, proving his devotion, by a course of foreign travel. hogg undertook the ordeal, voluntarily depriving himself of three things, each of which, to use his own words, "daily habit had taught me to consider a prime necessary of life--law, greek, and an english newspaper." in he published the record of his tour in two volumes, entitled _two hundred and nine days; or, the journal of a traveller on the continent_, which, so far from illustrating the anguish of hope deferred, is a storehouse of shrewd and cynical observation. in hogg was appointed one of the municipal corporation commissioners for england and wales, and for many years he acted as revising barrister for northumberland, berwick and the northern boroughs. about he was commissioned by the shelley family to write the poet's biography and was furnished with the necessary papers. in he produced the two extant volumes, which proved so little satisfactory to shelley's representatives that the materials for the continuation of his task were withdrawn and the work interrupted, never to be resumed. hogg died in . he was a man of varied culture; in knowledge of greek few scholars of his time surpassed him, and he was well read in german, french, italian and spanish. he was a fair botanist, and rejoiced to think that he was born upon the anniversary of the birth of linnæus, for whose concise and simple style he professed a great admiration. nevertheless it is chiefly as the friend and biographer of shelley that he interests the present generation, and the re-publication of his account of the poet's oxford experiences can scarcely fail to win him new admirers. r. a. streatfeild shelley at oxford chapter i what is the greatest disappointment in life? the question has often been asked. in a perfect life--that is to say, in a long course of various disappointments, when the collector has completed the entire set and series, which should he pronounce to be the greatest? what is the greatest disappointment of all? the question has often been asked, and it has received very different answers. some have said matrimony; others, the accession of an inheritance that had long been anxiously anticipated; others, the attainment of honours; others, the deliverance from an ancient and intolerable nuisance, since a new and more grievous one speedily succeeded to the old. many solutions have been proposed, and each has been ingeniously supported. at a very early age i had formed a splendid picture of the glories of our two universities. my father took pleasure in describing his academical career. i listened to him with great delight, and many circumstances gave additional force to these first impressions. the clergy--and in the country they make one's principal guests--always spoke of these establishments with deep reverence, and of their academical days as the happiest of their lives. when i went to school, my prejudices were strengthened; for the master noticed all deficiencies in learning as being unfit, and every remarkable proficiency as being fit, for the university. such expressions marked the utmost limits of blame and of praise. whenever any of the elder boys were translated to college--and several went thither from our school every year--the transmission was accompanied with a certain awe. i had always contemplated my own removal with the like feeling, and as the period approached, i anticipated it with a reverent impatience. the appointed day at last arrived, and i set out with a schoolfellow, about to enter the same career, and his father. the latter was a dutiful and a most grateful son of _alma mater_; and the conversation of this estimable man, during our long journey, fanned the flame of my young ardour. such, indeed, had been the effect of his discourse for many years; and as he possessed a complete collection of the oxford almanacks, and it had been a great and frequent gratification to contemplate the engravings at the top of the annual sheets when i visited his quiet vicarage, i was already familiar with the aspect of the noble buildings that adorn that famous city. after travelling for several days we reached the last stage, and soon afterwards approached the point whence, i was told, we might discern the first glimpse of the metropolis of learning. i strained my eyes to catch a view of that land of promise, for which i had so eagerly longed. the summits of towers and spires and domes appeared afar and faintly; then the prospect was obstructed. by degrees it opened upon us again, and we saw the tall trees that shaded the colleges. at three o'clock on a fine autumnal afternoon we entered the streets of oxford. although the weather was cold we had let down all the windows of our post-chaise, and i sat forward, devouring every object with greedy eyes. members of the university, of different ages and ranks, were gliding through the quiet streets of the venerable city in academic costume. we devoted two or three days to the careful examination of the various objects of interest that oxford contains. the eye was gratified, for the external appearance of the university even surpassed the bright picture which my youthful imagination had painted. the outside was always admirable; it was far otherwise with the inside. it is essential to the greatness of a disappointment that the previous expectation should have been great. nothing could exceed my young anticipations--nothing could be more complete than their overthrow. it would be impossible to describe my feelings without speaking harshly and irreverently of the venerable university. on this subject, then, i will only confess my disappointment, and discreetly be silent as to its causes. whatever those causes, i grew, at least, and i own it cheerfully, soon pleased with oxford, on the whole; pleased with the beauty of the city and its gentle river, and the pleasantness of the surrounding country. although no great facilities were afforded to the student, there were the same opportunities of _solitary_ study as in other places. all the irksome restraints of school were removed, and those of the university are few and trifling. our fare was good, although not so good, perhaps, as it ought to have been, in return for the enormous cost; and i liked the few companions with whom i most commonly mixed. i continued to lead a life of tranquil and studious and somewhat melancholy contentment until the long vacation, which i spent with my family; and, when it expired, i returned to the university. at the commencement of michaelmas term--that is, at the end of october, in the year , i happened one day to sit next to a freshman at dinner. it was his first appearance in hall. his figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table, where all were very young. he seemed thoughtful and absent. he ate little, and had no acquaintance with anyone. i know not how it was that we fell into conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not possibly be occasion for any. we have often endeavoured in vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and especially by what transition it passed to a subject sufficiently remote from all the associations we were able to trace. the stranger had expressed an enthusiastic admiration for poetical and imaginative works of the german school; i dissented from his criticisms. he upheld the originality of the german writings; i asserted their want of nature. "what modern literature," said he, "will you compare to theirs?" i named the italian. this roused all his impetuosity; and few, as i soon discovered, were more impetuous in argumentative conversation. so eager was our dispute that, when the servants came in to clear the tables, we were not aware that we had been left alone. i remarked that it was time to quit the hall, and i invited the stranger to finish the discussion at my rooms. he eagerly assented. he lost the thread of his discourse in the transit, and the whole of his enthusiasm in the cause of germany; for, as soon as he arrived at my rooms, and whilst i was lighting the candles, he said calmly, and to my great surprise, that he was not qualified to maintain such a discussion, for he was alike ignorant of italian and german, and had only read the works of the germans, in translations, and but little of italian poetry, even at second hand. for my part, i confessed, with an equal ingenuousness, that i knew nothing of german, and but little of italian; that i had spoken only through others, and, like him, had hitherto seen by the glimmering light of translations. it is upon such scanty data that young men reason; upon such slender materials do they build up their opinions. it may be urged, however, that if they did not discourse freely with each other upon insufficient information--for such alone can be acquired in the pleasant morning of life, and until they educate themselves--they would be constrained to observe a perpetual silence, and to forego the numerous advantages that flow from frequent and liberal discussion. i inquired of the vivacious stranger, as we sat over our wine and dessert, how long he had been at oxford, and how he liked it? he answered my questions with a certain impatience, and, resuming the subject of our discussion, he remarked that, "whether the literature of germany or of italy be the more original, or in a purer and more accurate taste, is of little importance, for polite letters are but vain trifling; the study of languages, not only of the modern tongues, but of latin and greek also, is merely the study of words and phrases, of the names of things; it matters not how they are called. it is surely far better to investigate things themselves." i inquired, a little bewildered, how this was to be effected? he answered, "through the physical sciences, and especially through chemistry;" and, raising his voice, his face flushing as he spoke, he discoursed with a degree of animation, that far outshone his zeal in defence of the germans, of chemistry and chemical analysis. concerning that science, then so popular, i had merely a scanty and vulgar knowledge, gathered from elementary books, and the ordinary experiments of popular lecturers. i listened, therefore, in silence to his eloquent disquisition, interposing a few brief questions only, and at long intervals, as to the extent of his own studies and manipulations. as i felt, in truth, but a slight interest in the subject of his conversation, i had leisure to examine, and, i may add, to admire, the appearance of my very extraordinary guest. it was a sum of many contradictions. his figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong. he was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of a low stature. his clothes were expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day, but they were tumbled, rumpled, unbrushed. his gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. his complexion was delicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. his features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small; yet the last _appeared_ of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies (if i may use the word) of anxious thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough. in times when it was the mode to imitate stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity was very striking. his features were not symmetrical (the mouth, perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole extremely powerful. they breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, that i never met with in any other countenance. nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual; for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound religious veneration that characterises the best works, and chiefly the frescoes (and into these they infused their whole souls) of the great masters of florence and of rome. i recognised the very peculiar expression in these wonderful productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose countenance i had first observed it. i admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science and his thirst for knowledge. i seemed to have found in him all those intellectual qualities which i had vainly expected to meet with in a university. but there was one physical blemish that threatened to neutralise all his excellence. "this is a fine, clever fellow!" i said to myself, "but i can never bear his society; i shall never be able to endure his voice; it would kill me. what a pity it is!" i am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of painful sounds, and the voice of the stranger was excruciating. it was intolerably shrill, harsh and discordant; of the most cruel intension. it was perpetual, and without any remission; it excoriated the ears. he continued to discourse on chemistry, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing before the fire, and sometimes pacing about the room; and when one of the innumerable clocks, that speak in various notes during the day and the night at oxford, proclaimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go to a lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that he expected to derive much pleasure and instruction from it. i am ashamed to own that the cruel voice made me hesitate for a moment; but it was impossible to omit so indispensable a civility--i invited him to return to tea. he gladly assented, promised that he would not be absent long, snatched his hat, hurried out of the room, and i heard his footsteps, as he ran through the silent quadrangle and afterwards along high street. an hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared and the tea was made, and i again heard the footsteps of one running quickly. my guest suddenly burst into the room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been disappointed in the lecture. few persons attended; it was dull and languid, and he was resolved never to go to another. "i went away, indeed," he added, with an arch look, and in a shrill whisper, coming close to me as he spoke--"i went away, indeed, before the lecture was finished. i stole away, for it was so stupid, and i was so cold that my teeth chattered. the professor saw me, and appeared to be displeased. i thought i could have got out without being observed, but i struck my knee against a bench and made a noise, and he looked at me. i am determined that he shall never see me again." "what did the man talk about?" "about stones! about stones!" he answered, with a downcast look and in a melancholy tone, as if about to say something excessively profound. "about stones! stones, stones, stones!--nothing but stones!--and so drily. it was wonderfully tiresome, and stones are not interesting things in themselves!" we took tea, and soon afterwards had supper, as was usual. he discoursed after supper with as much warmth as before of the wonders of chemistry; of the encouragement that napoleon afforded to that most important science; of the french chemists and their glorious discoveries, and of the happiness of visiting paris and sharing in their fame and their experiments. the voice, however, seemed to me more cruel than ever. he spoke, likewise, of his own labours and of his apparatus, and starting up suddenly after supper, he proposed that i should go instantly with him to see the galvanic trough. i looked at my watch, and observed that it was too late; that the fire would be out, and the night was cold. he resumed his seat, saying that i might come on the morrow early, to breakfast, immediately after chapel. he continued to declaim in his rapturous strain, asserting that chemistry was, in truth, the only science that deserved to be studied. i suggested doubts. i ventured to question the pre-eminence of the science, and even to hesitate in admitting its utility. he described in glowing language some discoveries that had lately been made; but the enthusiastic chemist candidly allowed that they were rather brilliant than useful, asserting, however, that they would soon be applied to purposes of solid advantage. "is not the time of by far the larger proportion of the human species," he inquired, with his fervid manner and in his piercing tones, "wholly consumed in severe labour? and is not this devotion of our race--of the whole of our race, i may say (for those who, like ourselves, are indulged with an exemption from the hard lot are so few in comparison with the rest, that they scarcely deserve to be taken into account)--absolutely necessary to procure subsistence, so that men have no leisure for recreation or the high improvement of the mind? yet this incessant toil is still inadequate to procure an abundant supply of the common necessaries of life. some are doomed actually to want them, and many are compelled to be content with an insufficient provision. we know little of the peculiar nature of those substances which are proper for the nourishment of animals; we are ignorant of the qualities that make them fit for this end. analysis has advanced so rapidly of late that we may confidently anticipate that we shall soon discover wherein their aptitude really consists; having ascertained the cause, we shall next be able to command it, and to produce at our pleasure the desired effects. it is easy, even in our present state of ignorance, to reduce our ordinary food to carbon, or to lime; a moderate advancement in chemical science will speedily enable us, we may hope, to create, with equal facility, food from substances that appear at present to be as ill adapted to sustain us. what is the cause of the remarkable fertility of some lands, and of the hopeless sterility of others? a spadeful of the most productive soil does not to the eye differ much from the same quantity taken from the most barren. the real difference is probably very slight; by chemical agency the philosopher may work a total change, and may transmute an unfruitful region into a land of exuberant plenty. water, like the atmospheric air, is compounded of certain gases; in the progress of scientific discovery a simple and sure method of manufacturing the useful fluid, in every situation and in any quantity, may be detected. the arid deserts of africa may then be refreshed by a copious supply and may be transformed at once into rich meadows and vast fields of maize and rice. the generation of heat is a mystery, but enough of the theory of caloric has already been developed to induce us to acquiesce in the notion that it will hereafter, and perhaps at no very distant period, be possible to produce heat at will, and to warm the most ungenial climates as readily as we now raise the temperature of our apartments to whatever degree we may deem agreeable or salutary. if, however, it be too much to anticipate that we shall ever become sufficiently skilful to command such a prodigious supply of heat, we may expect, without the fear of disappointment, soon to understand its nature and the causes of combustion, so far at least, as to provide ourselves cheaply with a fund of heat that will supersede our costly and inconvenient fuel, and will suffice to warm our habitations, for culinary purposes and for the various demands of the mechanical arts. we could not determine without actual experiment whether an unknown substance were combustible; when we shall have thoroughly investigated the properties of fire, it may be that we shall be qualified to communicate to clay, to stones, and to water itself, a chemical recomposition that will render them as inflammable as wood, coals and oil; for the difference of structure is minute and invisible, and the power of feeding flame may, perhaps, be easily added to any substance, or taken away from it. what a comfort would it be to the poor at all times, and especially at this season, if we were capable of solving this problem alone, if we could furnish them with a competent supply of heat! these speculations may appear wild, and it may seem improbable that they will ever be realised to persons who have not extended their views of what is practicable by closely watching science in its course onward; but there are many mysterious powers, many irresistible agents with the existence and with some of the phenomena of which all are acquainted. what a mighty instrument would electricity be in the hands of him who knew how to wield it, in what manner to direct its omnipotent energies, and we may command an indefinite quantity of the fluid. by means of electrical kites we may draw down the lightning from heaven! what a terrible organ would the supernal shock prove, if we were able to guide it; how many of the secrets of nature would such a stupendous force unlock. the galvanic battery is a new engine; it has been used hitherto to an insignificant extent, yet has it wrought wonders already; what will not an extraordinary combination of troughs, of colossal magnitude, a well-arranged system of hundreds of metallic plates, effect? the balloon has not yet received the perfection of which it is surely capable; the art of navigating the air is in its first and most helpless infancy; the aërial mariner still swims on bladders, and has not mounted even the rude raft; if we weigh this invention, curious as it is, with some of the subjects i have mentioned, it will seem trifling, no doubt--a mere toy, a feather in comparison with the splendid anticipations of the philosophical chemist; yet it ought not altogether to be contemned. it promises prodigious facilities for locomotion, and will enable us to traverse vast tracts with ease and rapidity, and to explore unknown countries without difficulty. why are we still so ignorant of the interior of africa?--why do we not despatch intrepid aëronauts to cross it in every direction, and to survey the whole peninsula in a few weeks? the shadow of the first balloon, which a vertical sun would project precisely underneath it, as it glided silently over that hitherto unhappy country, would virtually emancipate every slave, and would annihilate slavery for ever." with such fervour did the slender, beardless stranger speculate concerning the march of physical science; his speculations were as wild as the experience of twenty-one years has shown them to be; but the zealous earnestness for the augmentation of knowledge, and the glowing philanthropy and boundless benevolence that marked them, and beamed forth in the whole deportment of that extraordinary boy, are not less astonishing than they would have been if the whole of his glorious anticipations had been prophetic; for these high qualities at least i have never found a parallel. when he had ceased to predict the coming honours of chemistry, and to promise the rich harvest of benefits it was soon to yield, i suggested that, although its results were splendid, yet for those who could not hope to make discoveries themselves, it did not afford so valuable a course of mental discipline as the moral sciences; moreover, that, if chemists asserted that their science alone deserved to be cultivated, the mathematicians made the same assertion, and with equal confidence, respecting their studies; but that i was not sufficiently advanced myself in mathematics to be able to judge how far it was well founded. he declared that he knew nothing of mathematics, and treated the notion of their paramount importance with contempt. "what do you say of metaphysics?" i continued; "is that science, too, the study of words only?" "ay, metaphysics," he said, in a solemn tone, and with a mysterious air, "that is a noble study indeed! if it were possible to make any discoveries there, they would be more valuable than anything the chemists have done, or could do; they would disclose the analysis of mind, and not of mere matter!" then, rising from his chair, he paced slowly about the room, with prodigious strides, and discoursed of souls with still greater animation and vehemence than he had displayed in treating of gases--of a future state--and especially of a former state--of pre-existence, obscured for a time through the suspension of consciousness--of personal identity, and also of ethical philosophy, in a deep and earnest tone of elevated morality, until he suddenly remarked that the fire was nearly out, and the candles were glimmering in their sockets, when he hastily apologised for remaining so long. i promised to visit the chemist in his laboratory, the alchemist in his study, the wizard in his cave, not at breakfast on that day, for it was already one, but in twelve hours--one hour after noon--and to hear some of the secrets of nature; and for that purpose he told me his name, and described the situation of his rooms. i lighted him downstairs as well as i could with the stump of a candle which had dissolved itself into a lump, and i soon heard him running through the quiet quadrangle in the still night. that sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear, that i still seem to hear shelley's hasty steps. chapter ii i trust, or i should perhaps rather say i hope, that i was as much struck by the conversation, the aspect, and the deportment of my new acquaintance, as entirely convinced of the value of the acquisition i had just made, and as deeply impressed with surprise and admiration as became a young student not insensible of excellence, to whom a character so extraordinary, and indeed almost preternatural, had been suddenly unfolded. during his animated and eloquent discourses i felt a due reverence for his zeal and talent, but the human mind is capable of a certain amount of attention only. i had listened and discussed for seven or eight hours, and my spirits were totally exhausted. i went to bed as soon as shelley had quitted my rooms, and fell instantly into a profound sleep; and i shook off with a painful effort, at the accustomed signal, the complete oblivion which then appeared to have been but momentary. many of the wholesome usages of antiquity had ceased at oxford; that of early rising, however, still lingered. as soon as i got up, i applied myself sedulously to my academical duties and my accustomed studies. the power of habitual occupation is great and engrossing, and it is possible that my mind had not yet fully recovered from the agreeable fatigue of the preceding evening, for i had entirely forgotten my engagement, nor did the thought of my young guest once cross my fancy. it was strange that a person so remarkable and attractive should have thus disappeared for several hours from my memory; but such in truth was the fact, although i am unable to account for it in a satisfactory manner. at one o'clock i put away my books and papers, and prepared myself for my daily walk; the weather was frosty, with fog, and whilst i lingered over the fire with that reluctance to venture forth into the cold air common to those who have chilled themselves by protracted sedentary pursuits, the recollection of the scenes of yesterday flashed suddenly and vividly across my mind, and i quickly repaired to a spot that i may perhaps venture to predict many of our posterity will hereafter reverently visit--to the rooms in the corner next the hall of the principal quadrangle of university college. they are on the first floor, and on the right of the entrance, but by reason of the turn in the stairs, when you reach them they will be upon your left hand. i remember the direction given at parting, and i soon found the door. it stood ajar. i tapped gently, and the discordant voice cried shrilly,-- "come in!" it was now nearly two. i began to apologise for my delay, but i was interrupted by a loud exclamation of surprise. "what! is it one? i had no notion it was so late. i thought it was about ten or eleven." "it is on the stroke of two, sir," said the scout, who was engaged in the vain attempt of setting the apartment in order. "of two!" shelley cried with increased wonder, and presently the clock struck, and the servant noticed it, retired and shut the door. i perceived at once that the young chemist took no note of time. he measured duration, not by minutes and hours, like watchmakers and their customers, but by the successive trains of ideas and sensations; consequently, if there was a virtue of which he was utterly incapable, it was that homely but pleasing and useful one--punctuality. he could not tear himself from his incessant abstractions to observe at intervals the growth and decline of the day; nor was he ever able to set apart even a small portion of his mental powers for a duty so simple as that of watching the course of the pointers on the dial. i found him cowering over the fire, his chair planted in the middle of the rug, and his feet resting upon the fender; his whole appearance was dejected. his astonishment at the unexpected lapse of time roused him. as soon as the hour of the day was ascertained he welcomed me, and seizing one of my arms with both his hands, he shook it with some force, and very cordially expressed his satisfaction at my visit. then, resuming his seat and his former posture, he gazed fixedly at the fire, and his limbs trembled and his teeth chattered with cold. i cleared the fireplace with the poker and stirred the fire, and when it blazed up, he drew back, and, looking askance towards the door, he exclaimed with a deep sigh,-- "thank god, that fellow is gone at last!" the assiduity of the scout had annoyed him, and he presently added,-- "if you had not come, he would have stayed until he had put everything in my rooms into some place where i should never have found it again!" he then complained of his health, and said that he was very unwell; but he did not appear to be affected by any disorder more serious than a slight aguish cold. i remarked the same contradiction in his rooms which i had already observed in his person and dress. they had just been papered and painted; the carpet, curtains, and furniture were quite new, and had not passed through several academical generations, after the established custom of transferring the whole of the movables to the successor on payments of thirds, that is, of two-thirds of the price last given. the general air of freshness was greatly obscured, however, by the indescribable confusion in which the various objects were mixed. notwithstanding the unwelcome exertions of the officious scout, scarcely a single article was in its proper position. books, boots, papers, shoes, philosophical instruments, clothes, pistols, linen, crockery, ammunition and phials innumerable, with money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags and boxes were scattered on the floor and in every place, as if the young chemist, in order to analyse the mystery of creation, had endeavoured first to re-construct the primeval chaos. the tables, and especially the carpet, were already stained with large spots of various hues, which frequently proclaimed the agency of fire. an electrical machine, an air-pump, the galvanic trough, a solar microscope and large glass jars and receivers, were conspicuous amidst the mass of matter. upon the table by his side were some books lying open, several letters, a bundle of new pens and a bottle of japan ink that served as an inkstand; a piece of deal, lately part of the lid of a box, with many chips, and a handsome razor that had been used as a knife. there were bottles of soda water, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces of an effervescent beverage. two piles of books supported the tongs, and these upheld a small glass retort above an argand lamp. i had not been seated many minutes before the liquor in the vessel boiled over, adding fresh stains to the table, and rising in fumes with a most disagreeable odour. shelley snatched the glass quickly, and dashing it in pieces among the ashes under the grate, increased the unpleasant and penetrating effluvium. he then proceeded with much eagerness and enthusiasm to show me the various instruments, especially the electrical apparatus, turning round the handle very rapidly, so that the fierce, crackling sparks flew forth; and presently, standing upon the stool with glass feet, he begged me to work the machine until he was filled with the fluid, so that his long wild locks bristled and stood on end. afterwards he charged a powerful battery of several large jars; labouring with vast energy, and discoursing with increasing vehemence of the marvellous powers of electricity, of thunder and lightning; describing an electrical kite that he had made at home, and projecting another and an enormous one, or rather a combination of many kites, that would draw down from the sky an immense volume of electricity, the whole ammunition of a mighty thunderstorm; and this being directed to some point would there produce the most stupendous results. in these exhibitions and in such conversation the time passed away rapidly, and the hour of dinner approached. having pricked _æger_ that day, or, in other words, having caused his name to be entered as an invalid, he was not required or permitted to dine in hall, or to appear in public within the college or without the walls, until a night's rest should have restored the sick man to health. he requested me to spend the evening at his rooms; i consented, nor did i fail to attend immediately after dinner. we conversed until a late hour on miscellaneous topics. i remember that he spoke frequently of poetry, and that there was the same animation, the same glowing zeal, which had characterised his former discourses, and was so opposite to the listless languor, the monstrous indifference, if not the absolute antipathy to learning, that so strangely darkened the collegiate atmosphere. it would seem, indeed, to one who rightly considered the final cause of the institution of a university, that all the rewards, all the honours the most opulent foundation could accumulate, would be inadequate to remunerate an individual, whose thirst for knowledge was so intense, and his activity in the pursuit of it so wonderful and so unwearied. i participated in his enthusiasm, and soon forgot the shrill and unmusical voice that had at first seemed intolerable to my ear. he was, indeed, a whole university in himself to me, in respect of the stimulus and incitement which his example afforded to my love of study, and he amply atoned for the disappointment i had felt on my arrival at oxford. in one respect alone could i pretend to resemble him--in an ardent desire to gain knowledge, and, as our tastes were the same in many particulars, we immediately became, through sympathy, most intimate and altogether inseparable companions. we almost invariably passed the afternoon and evening together; at first, alternately at our respective rooms, through a certain punctiliousness, but afterwards, when we became more familiar, most frequently by far at his. sometimes one or two good and harmless men of our acquaintance were present, but we were usually alone. his rooms were preferred to mine, because there his philosophical apparatus was at hand; and at that period he was not perfectly satisfied with the condition and circumstances of his existence, unless he was able to start from his seat at any moment, and seizing the air-pump, some magnets, the electrical machine, or the bottles containing those noxious and nauseous fluids wherewith he incessantly besmeared and disfigured himself and his goods, to ascertain by actual experiment the value of some new idea that rushed into his brain. he spent much time in working by fits and starts and in an irregular manner with his instruments, and especially consumed his hours and his money in the assiduous cultivation of chemistry. we have heard that one of the most distinguished of modern discoverers was abrupt, hasty, and to appearance disorderly, in the conduct of his manipulations. the variety of the habits of great men is indeed infinite. it is impossible, therefore, to decide peremptorily as to the capabilities of individuals from their course of proceeding, yet it certainly seemed highly improbable that shelley was qualified to succeed in a science wherein a scrupulous minuteness and a mechanical accuracy are indispensable. his chemical operations seemed to an unskilful observer to promise nothing but disasters. his hands, his clothes, his books and his furniture were stained and corroded by mineral acids. more than one hole in the carpet could elucidate the ultimate phenomenon of combustion; especially a formidable aperture in the middle of the room, where the floor also had been burnt by the spontaneous ignition, caused by mixing ether with some other fluid in a crucible; and the honourable wound was speedily enlarged by rents, for the philosopher, as he hastily crossed the room in pursuit of truth, was frequently caught in it by the foot. many times a day, but always in vain, would the sedulous scout say, pointing to the scorched boards with a significant look,-- "would it not be better, sir, for us to get this place mended?" it seemed but too probable that in the rash ardour of experiment he would some day set the college on fire, or that he would blind, maim or kill himself by the explosion of combustibles. it was still more likely, indeed, that he would poison himself, for plates and glasses and every part of his tea equipage were used indiscriminately with crucibles, retorts, and recipients, to contain the most deleterious ingredients. to his infinite diversion i used always to examine every drinking vessel narrowly, and often to rinse it carefully, after that evening when we were taking tea by firelight, and my attention being attracted by the sound of something in the cup into which i was about to pour tea, i was induced to look into it. i found a seven-shilling piece partly dissolved by the _aqua regia_ in which it was immersed. although he laughed at my caution, he used to speak with horror of the consequences of having inadvertently swallowed, through a similar accident, some mineral poison--i think arsenic--at eton, which he declared had not only seriously injured his health, but that he feared he should never entirely recover from the shock it had inflicted on his constitution. it seemed improbable, notwithstanding his positive assertions, that his lively fancy exaggerated the recollection of the unpleasant and permanent taste, of the sickness and disorder of the stomach, which might arise from taking a minute portion of some poisonous substance by the like chance, for there was no vestige of a more serious and lasting injury in his youthful and healthy, although somewhat delicate aspect. i knew little of the physical sciences, and i felt, therefore, but a slight degree of interest in them. i looked upon his philosophical apparatus merely as toys and playthings, like a chess-board or a billiard table. through lack of sympathy, his zeal, which was at first so ardent, gradually cooled; and he applied himself to these pursuits, after a short time, less frequently and with less earnestness. the true value of them was often the subject of animated discussion; and i remember one evening at my own rooms, when we had sought refuge against the intense cold in the little inner apartment, or study, i referred, in the course of our debate, to a passage in xenophon's _memorabilia_, where socrates speaks in disparagement of physics. he read it several times very attentively, and more than once aloud, slowly and with emphasis, and it appeared to make a strong impression on him. notwithstanding our difference of opinion as to the importance of chemistry and on some other questions, our intimacy rapidly increased, and we soon formed the habit of passing the greater part of our time together; nor did this constant intercourse interfere with my usual studies. i never visited his rooms until one o'clock, by which hour, as i rose very early, i had not only attended the college lectures, but had read in private for several hours. i was enabled, moreover, to continue my studies afterwards in the evening, in consequence of a very remarkable peculiarity. my young and energetic friend was then overcome by extreme drowsiness, which speedily and completely vanquished him; he would sleep from two to four hours, often so soundly that his slumbers resembled a deep lethargy; he lay occasionally upon the sofa, but more commonly stretched upon the rug before a large fire, like a cat; and his little round head was exposed to such a fierce heat, that i used to wonder how he was able to bear it. sometimes i have interposed some shelter, but rarely with any permanent effect; for the sleeper usually contrived to turn himself and to roll again into the spot where the fire glowed the brightest. his torpor was generally profound, but he would sometimes discourse incoherently for a long while in his sleep. at six he would suddenly compose himself, even in the midst of a most animated narrative or of earnest discussion; and he would lie buried in entire forgetfulness, in a sweet and mighty oblivion, until ten, when he would suddenly start up, and rubbing his eyes with great violence, and passing his fingers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at once into a vehement argument, or begin to recite verses, either of his own composition or from the works of others, with a rapidity and an energy that were often quite painful. during the period of his occultation i took tea, and read or wrote without interruption. he would sometimes sleep for a shorter time, for about two hours, postponing for the like period the commencement of his retreat to the rug, and rising with tolerable punctuality at ten; and sometimes, although rarely, he was able entirely to forego the accustomed refreshment. we did not consume the whole of our time, when he was awake, in conversation; we often read apart, and more frequently together. our joint studies were occasionally interrupted by long discussions--nevertheless, i could enumerate many works, and several of them are extensive and important, which we perused completely and very carefully in this manner. at ten, when he awoke, he was always ready for his supper, which he took with a peculiar relish. after that social meal his mind was clear and penetrating, and his discourse eminently brilliant. he was unwilling to separate, but when the college clock struck two, i used to rise and retire to my room. our conversations were sometimes considerably prolonged, but they seldom terminated before that chilly hour of the early morning; nor did i feel any inconvenience from thus reducing the period of rest to scarcely five hours. a disquisition on some difficult question in the open air was not less agreeable to him than by the fireside; if the weather was fine, or rather not altogether intolerable, we used to sally forth, when we met at one. i have already pointed out several contradictions in his appearance and character. his ordinary preparation for a rural walk formed a very remarkable contrast with his mild aspect and pacific habits. he furnished himself with a pair of duelling pistols and a good store of powder and ball, and when he came to a solitary spot, he pinned a card, or fixed some other mark upon a tree or a bank, and amused himself by firing at it: he was a pretty good shot, and was much delighted at his success. he often urged me to try my hand and eye, assuring me that i was not aware of the pleasure of a good hit. one day, when he was peculiarly pressing, i took up a pistol and asked him what i should aim at? and observing a slab of wood, about as big as a hearthrug, standing against a wall, i named it as being a proper object. he said that it was much too far off; it was better to wait until we came nearer. but i answered--"i may as well fire here as anywhere," and instantly discharged my pistol. to my infinite surprise the ball struck the elm target most accurately in the very centre. shelley was delighted. he ran to the board, placed his chin close to it, gazed at the hole where the bullet was lodged, examined it attentively on all sides many times, and more than once measured the distance to the spot where i had stood. i never knew anyone so prone to admire as he was, in whom the principle of veneration was so strong. he extolled my skill, urged me repeatedly to display it again, and begged that i would give him instructions in an art in which i so much excelled. i suffered him to enjoy his wonder for a few days, and then i told him, and with difficulty persuaded him, that my success was purely accidental; for i had seldom fired a pistol before, and never with ball, but with shot only, as a schoolboy, in clandestine and bloodless expeditions against blackbirds and yellowhammers. the duelling pistols were a most discordant interruption of the repose of a quiet country walk; besides, he handled them with such inconceivable carelessness, that i had perpetually reason to apprehend that, as a trifling episode in the grand and heroic work of drilling a hole through the back of a card or the front of one of his father's franks, he would shoot himself, or me, or both of us. how often have i lamented that nature, which so rarely bestows upon the world a creature endowed with such marvellous talents, ungraciously rendered the gift less precious by implanting a fatal taste for perilous recreations, and a thoughtlessness in the pursuit of them, that often caused his existence from one day to another to seem in itself miraculous. i opposed the practice of walking armed, and i at last succeeded in inducing him to leave the pistols at home, and to forbear the use of them. i prevailed, i believe, not so much by argument or persuasion, as by secretly abstracting, when he equipped himself for the field, and it was not difficult with him, the powder-flask, the flints or some other indispensable article. one day, i remember, he was grievously discomposed and seriously offended to find, on producing his pistols, after descending rapidly into a quarry, where he proposed to take a few shots, that not only had the flints been removed, but the screws and the bits of steel at the top of the cocks which hold the flints were also wanting. he determined to return to college for them--i accompanied him. i tempted him, however, by the way, to try to define anger, and to discuss the nature of that affection of the mind, to which, as the discussion waxed warm, he grew exceedingly hostile in theory, and could not be brought to admit that it could possibly be excusable in any case. in the course of conversation, moreover, he suffered himself to be insensibly turned away from his original path and purpose. i have heard that, some years after he left oxford, he resumed the practice of pistol-shooting, and attained to a very unusual degree of skill in an accomplishment so entirely incongruous with his nature. of rural excursions he was at all times fond. he loved to walk in the woods, to stroll on the banks of the thames, but especially to wander about shotover hill. there was a pond at the foot of the hill, before ascending it and on the left of the road; it was formed by the water which had filled an old quarry. whenever he was permitted to shape his course as he would, he proceeded to the edge of this pool, although the scene had no other attractions than a certain wildness and barrenness. here he would linger until dusk, gazing in silence on the water, repeating verses aloud, or earnestly discussing themes that had no connection with surrounding objects. sometimes he would raise a stone as large as he could lift, deliberately throw it into the water as far as his strength enabled him, then he would loudly exult at the splash, and would quietly watch the decreasing agitation, until the last faint ring and almost imperceptible ripple disappeared on the still surface. "such are the effects of an impulse on the air," he would say; and he complained of our ignorance of the theory of sound--that the subject was obscure and mysterious, and many of the phenomena were contradictory and inexplicable. he asserted that the science of acoustics ought to be cultivated, and that by well-devised experiments valuable discoveries would undoubtedly be made, and he related many remarkable stories connected with the subject that he had heard or read. sometimes he would busy himself in splitting slaty stones, in selecting thin and flat pieces and in giving them a round form, and when he had collected a sufficient number, he would gravely make ducks and drakes with them, counting, with the utmost glee, the number of bounds as they flew along, skimming the surface of the pond. he was a devoted worshipper of the water-nymphs, for, whenever he found a pool, or even a small puddle, he would loiter near it, and it was no easy task to get him to quit it. he had not yet learned that art from which he afterwards derived so much pleasure--the construction of paper boats. he twisted a morsel of paper into a form that a lively fancy might consider a likeness of a boat, and, committing it to the water, he anxiously watched the fortunes of the frail bark, which, if it was not soon swamped by the faint winds and miniature waves, gradually imbibed water through its porous sides, and sank. sometimes, however, the fairy vessel performed its little voyage, and reached the opposite shore of the puny ocean in safety. it is astonishing with what keen delight he engaged in this singular pursuit. it was not easy for an uninitiated spectator to bear with tolerable patience the vast delay on the brink of a wretched pond upon a bleak common and in the face of a cutting north-east wind, on returning to dinner from a long walk at sunset on a cold winter's day; nor was it easy to be so harsh as to interfere with a harmless gratification that was evidently exquisite. it was not easy, at least, to induce the shipbuilder to desist from launching his tiny fleets, so long as any timber remained in the dock-yard. i prevailed once and once only. it was one of those bitter sundays that commonly receive the new year; the sun had set, and it had almost begun to snow. i had exhorted him long in vain, with the eloquence of a frozen and famished man, to proceed. at last i said in despair--alluding to his never-ending creations, for a paper navy that was to be set afloat simultaneously lay at his feet, and he was busily constructing more, with blue and swollen hands--"shelley, there is no use in talking to you; you are the demiurgus of plato!" he instantly caught up the whole flotilla, and, bounding homeward with mighty strides, laughed aloud--laughed like a giant as he used to say. so long as his paper lasted, he remained riveted to the spot, fascinated by this peculiar amusement. all waste paper was rapidly consumed, then the covers of letters; next, letters of little value; the most precious contributions of the most esteemed correspondent, although eyed wistfully many times and often returned to the pocket, were sure to be sent at last in pursuit of the former squadrons. of the portable volumes which were the companions of his rambles, and he seldom went out without a book, the fly-leaves were commonly wanting--he had applied them as our ancestor noah applied gopher wood. but learning was so sacred in his eyes, that he never trespassed farther upon the integrity of the copy; the work itself was always respected. it has been said that he once found himself on the north bank of the serpentine river without the materials for indulging those inclinations which the sight of water invariably inspired, for he had exhausted his supplies on the round pond in kensington gardens. not a single scrap of paper could be found, save only a bank-post bill for fifty pounds. he hesitated long, but yielded at last. he twisted it into a boat with the extreme refinement of his skill, and committed it with the utmost dexterity to fortune, watching its progress, if possible, with a still more intense anxiety than usual. fortune often favours those who frankly and fully trust her; the north-east wind gently wafted the costly skiff to the south bank, where, during the latter part of the voyage, the venturous owner had waited its arrival with patient solicitude. the story, of course, is a mythic fable, but it aptly pourtrays the dominion of a singular and most unaccountable passion over the mind of an enthusiast. but to return to oxford. shelley disliked exceedingly all college meetings, and especially one which was the most popular with others--the public dinner in the hall. he used often to absent himself, and he was greatly delighted whenever i agreed to partake with him in a slight luncheon at one, to take a long walk into the country and to return after dark to tea and supper in his rooms. on one of these expeditions we wandered farther than usual without regarding the distance or the lapse of time; but we had no difficulty in finding our way home, for the night was clear and frosty, and the moon at the full; and most glorious was the spectacle as we approached the city of colleges, and passed through the silent streets. it was near ten when we entered our college; not only was it too late for tea, but supper was ready, the cloth laid, and the table spread. a large dish of scalloped oysters had been set within the fender to be kept hot for the famished wanderers. among the innumerable contradictions in the character and deportment of the youthful poet was a strange mixture of singular grace, which manifested itself in his actions and gestures, with an occasional awkwardness almost as remarkable. as soon as we entered the room, he placed his chair as usual directly in front of the fire, and eagerly pressed forward to warm himself, for the frost was severe and he was very sensible of cold. whilst cowering over the fire and rubbing his hands, he abruptly set both his feet at once upon the edge of the fender; it immediately flew up, threw under the grate the dish, which was broken into two pieces, and the whole of the delicious mess was mingled with the cinders and ashes, that had accumulated for several hours. it was impossible that a hungry and frozen pedestrian should restrain a strong expression of indignation, or that he should forbear, notwithstanding the exasperation of cold and hunger, from smiling and forgiving the accident at seeing the whimsical air and aspect of the offender, as he held up with the shovel the long-anticipated food, deformed by ashes, coals and cinders, with a ludicrous expression of exaggerated surprise, disappointment, and contrition. it would be easy to fill many volumes with reminiscences characteristic of my young friend, and of these the most trifling would perhaps best illustrate his innumerable peculiarities. with the discerning, trifles, although they are accounted such, have their value. a familiarity with the daily habits of shelley, and the knowledge of his demeanour in private, will greatly facilitate, and they are perhaps even essential to, the full comprehension of his views and opinions. traits that unfold an infantine simplicity--the genuine simplicity of true genius--will be slighted by those who are ignorant of the qualities that constitute greatness of soul. the philosophical observer knows well that, to have shown a mind to be original and perfectly natural, is no inconsiderable step in demonstrating that it is also great. our supper had disappeared under the grate, but we were able to silence the importunity of hunger. as the supply of cheese was scanty, shelley pretended, in order to atone for his carelessness, that he never ate it; but i refused to take more than my share, and, notwithstanding his reiterated declarations that it was offensive to his palate and hurtful to his stomach, as i was inexorable, he devoured the remainder, greedily swallowing, not merely the cheese, but the rind also, after scraping it cursorily, and with a certain tenderness. a tankard of the stout brown ale of our college aided us greatly in removing the sense of cold, and in supplying the deficiency of food, so that we turned our chairs towards the fire, and began to brew our negus as cheerfully as if the bounty of the hospitable gods had not been intercepted. we reposed ourselves after the fatigue of an unusually long walk, and silence was broken by short remarks only, and at considerable intervals, respecting the beauty of moonlight scenes, and especially of that we had just enjoyed. the serenity and clearness of the night exceeded any we had before witnessed; the light was so strong it would have been easy to read or write. "how strange was it that light, proceeding from the sun, which was at such a prodigious distance, and at that time entirely out of sight, should be reflected from the moon, and that was no trifling journey, and sent back to the earth in such abundance, and with so great force!" languid expressions of admiration dropped from our lips as we stretched our stiff and wearied limbs towards the genial warmth of a blazing fire. on a sudden shelley started from his seat, seized one of the candles, and began to walk about the room on tiptoe in profound silence, often stooping low, and evidently engaged in some mysterious search. i asked him what he wanted, but he returned no answer, and continued his whimsical and secret inquisition, which he prosecuted in the same extraordinary manner in the bedroom and the little study. it had occurred to him that a dessert had possibly been sent to his rooms whilst we were absent, and had been put away. he found the object of his pursuit at last, and produced some small dishes from the study--apples, oranges, almonds and raisins and a little cake. these he set close together at my side of the table, without speaking, but with a triumphant look, yet with the air of a penitent making restitution and reparation, and then resumed his seat. the unexpected succour was very seasonable; this light fare, a few glasses of negus, warmth, and especially rest, restored our lost vigour and our spirits. we spoke of our happy life, of universities, of what they might be, of what they were. how powerfully they might stimulate the student, how much valuable instruction they might impart. we agreed that, although the least possible benefit was conferred upon us in this respect at oxford, we were deeply indebted, nevertheless, to the great and good men of former days, who founded those glorious institutions, for devising a scheme of life, which, however deflected from its original direction, still tended to study, and especially for creating establishments that called young men together from all parts of the empire, and for endowing them with a celebrity that was able to induce so many to congregate. without such an opportunity of meeting we should never have been acquainted with each other. in so large a body there must doubtless be many at that time who were equally thankful for the occasion of the like intimacy, and in former generations how many friendships, that had endured through all the various trials of a long and eventful life, had arisen here from accidental communion, as in our case. if there was little positive encouragement, there were various negative inducements to acquire learning; there were no interruptions, no secular cares; our wants were well supplied without the slightest exertion on our part, and the exact regularity of academical existence cut off that dissipation of the hours and the thoughts which so often prevails where the daily course is not pre-arranged. the necessity of early rising was beneficial. like the pythagoreans of old, we began with the gods; the salutary attendance in chapel every morning not only compelled us to quit our bed betimes, but imposed additional duties conducive to habits of industry. it was requisite not merely to rise, but to leave our rooms, to appear in public and to remain long enough to destroy the disposition to indolence which might still linger if we were permitted to remain by the fireside. to pass some minutes in society, yet in solemn silence, is like the pythagorean initiation, and we auspicate the day happily by commencing with sacred things. i scarcely ever visited shelley before one o'clock; when i met him in the morning at chapel, he used studiously to avoid all communication, and, as soon as the doors were opened, to effect a ludicrously precipitate retreat to his rooms. "the country near oxford," he continued, as we reposed after our meagre supper, "has no pretensions to peculiar beauty, but it is quiet, and pleasant, and rural, and purely agricultural after the good old fashion. it is not only unpolluted by manufactures and commerce, but it is exempt from the desecration of the modern husbandry, of a system which accounts the farmer a manufacturer of hay and corn. i delight to wander over it." he enlarged upon the pleasure of our pedestrian excursions, and added, "i can imagine few things that would annoy me more severely than to be disturbed in our tranquil course. it would be a cruel calamity to be interrupted by some untoward accident, to be compelled to quit our calm and agreeable retreat. not only would it be a sad mortification, but a real misfortune, for if i remain here i shall study more closely and with greater advantage than i could in any other situation that i can conceive. are you not of the same opinion?" "entirely." "i regret only that the period of our residence is limited to four years. i wish they would revive, for our sake, the old term of six or seven years. if we consider how much there is for us to learn," here he paused and sighed deeply through that despondency which sometimes comes over the unwearied and zealous student, "we shall allow that the longer period would still be far too short!" i assented, and we discoursed concerning the abridgement of the ancient term of residence, and the diminution of the academical year by frequent, protracted, and most inconvenient vacations. "to quit oxford," he said, "would be still more unpleasant to you than to myself, for you aim at objects that i do not seek to compass, and you cannot fail, since you are resolved to place your success beyond the reach of chance." he enumerated with extreme rapidity, and in his enthusiastic strain, some of the benefits and comforts of a college life. "then the _oak_ is such a blessing," he exclaimed, with peculiar fervour, clasping his hands, and repeating often, "the oak is such a blessing!" slowly and in a solemn tone. "the oak alone goes far towards making this place a paradise. in what other spot in the world, surely in none that i have hitherto visited, can you say confidently, it is perfectly impossible, physically impossible, that i should be disturbed? whether a man desire solitary study, or to enjoy the society of a friend or two, he is secure against interruption. it is not so in a house, not by any means; there is not the same protection in a house, even in the best-contrived house. the servant is bound to answer the door; he must appear and give some excuse; he may betray by hesitation and confusion that he utters a falsehood; he must expose himself to be questioned; he must open the door and violate your privacy in some degree; besides, there are other doors, there are windows, at least, through which a prying eye can detect some indication that betrays the mystery. how different is it here! the bore arrives; the outer door is shut; it is black and solemn, and perfectly impenetrable, as is your secret; the doors are all alike; he can distinguish mine from yours by the geographical position only. he may knock; he may call; he may kick, if he will; he may inquire of a neighbour, but he can inform him of nothing; he can only say, the door is shut, and this he knows already. he may leave his card, that you may rejoice over it, and at your escape; he may write upon it the hour when he proposes to call again, to put you upon your guard, and that he may be quite sure of seeing the back of your door once more. when the bore meets you and says, i called at your house at such a time, you are required to explain your absence, to prove an _alibi_, in short, and perhaps to undergo a rigid cross-examination; but if he tells you, 'i called at your rooms yesterday at three, and the door was shut,' you have only to say, 'did you? was it?' and there the matter ends." "were you not charmed with your oak? did it not instantly captivate you?" "my introduction to it was somewhat unpleasant and unpropitious. the morning after my arrival i was sitting at breakfast; my scout, the arimaspian, apprehending that the singleness of his eye may impeach his character for officiousness, in order to escape the reproach of seeing half as much only as other men, is always striving to prove that he sees at least twice as far as the most sharp-sighted. after many demonstrations of superabundant activity, he inquired if i wanted anything more; i answered in the negative. he had already opened the door: 'shall i sport, sir?' he asked briskly, as he stood upon the threshold. he seemed so unlike a sporting character that i was curious to learn in what sport he proposed to indulge. i answered, 'yes, by all means,' and anxiously watched him, but, to my surprise and disappointment he instantly vanished. as soon as i had finished my breakfast, i sallied forth to survey oxford. i opened one door quickly and, not suspecting that there was a second, i struck my head against it with some violence. the blow taught me to observe that every set of rooms has two doors, and i soon learned that the outer door, which is thick and solid, is called the oak, and to shut it is termed, to sport. i derived so much benefit from my oak that i soon pardoned this slight inconvenience. it is surely the tree of knowledge." "who invented the oak?" "the inventors of the science of living in rooms or chambers--the monks." "ah! they were sly fellows. none but men who were reputed to devote themselves for many hours to prayers, to religious meditations and holy abstractions, would ever have been permitted quietly to place at pleasure such a barrier between themselves and the world. we now reap the advantage of their reputation for sanctity. i shall revere my oak more than ever, since its origin is so sacred." chapter iii the sympathies of shelley were instantaneous and powerful with those who evinced in any degree the qualities, for which he was himself so remarkable--simplicity of character, unaffected manners, genuine modesty and an honest willingness to acquire knowledge, and he sprang to meet their advances with an ingenuous eagerness which was peculiar to him; but he was suddenly and violently repelled, like the needle from the negative pole of the magnet, by any indication of pedantry, presumption or affectation. so much was he disposed to take offence at such defects, and so acutely was he sensible of them, that he was sometimes unjust, through an excessive sensitiveness, in his estimate of those who had shocked him by sins, of which he was himself utterly incapable. whatever might be the attainments, and however solid the merits of the persons filling at that time the important office of instructors in the university, they were entirely destitute of the attractions of manner; their address was sometimes repulsive, and the formal, priggish tutor was too often intent upon the ordinary academical course alone to the entire exclusion of every other department of knowledge: his thoughts were wholly engrossed by it, and so narrow were his views, that he overlooked the claims of all merit, however exalted, except success in the public examinations. "they are very dull people here," shelley said to me one evening, soon after his arrival, with a long-drawn sigh, after musing a while. "a little man sent for me this morning and told me in an almost inaudible whisper that i must read. 'you must read,' he said many times in his small voice. i answered that i had no objection. he persisted; so, to satisfy him, for he did not appear to believe me, i told him i had some books in my pocket, and i began to take them out. he stared at me and said that was not exactly what he meant. 'you must read _prometheus vinctus_, and demosthenes _de corona_ and euclid.' 'must i read euclid?' i asked sorrowfully. 'yes, certainly; and when you have read the greek i have mentioned, you must begin aristotle's _ethics_, and then you may go on his other treatises. it is of the utmost importance to be well acquainted with aristotle.' this he repeated so often that i was quite tired, and at last i said, 'must i care about aristotle? what if i do not mind aristotle?' i then left him, for he seemed to be in great perplexity." notwithstanding the slight he had thus cast upon the great master of the science that has so long been the staple of oxford, he was not blind to the value of the science itself. he took the scholastic logic very kindly, seized its distinctions with his accustomed quickness, felt a keen interest in the study and patiently endured the exposition of those minute discriminations, which the tyro is apt to contemn as vain and trifling. it should seem that the ancient method of communicating the art of syllogising has been preserved, in part at least, by tradition in this university. i have sometimes met with learned foreigners, who understood the end and object of the scholastic logic, having received the traditional instruction in some of the old universities on the continent; but i never found even one of my countrymen, except oxonians, who rightly comprehended the nature of the science. i may, perhaps, add that, in proportion as the self-taught logicians had laboured in the pursuit, they had gone far astray. it is possible, nevertheless, that those who have drunk at the fountain head and have read the _organon_ of aristotle in the original, may have attained to a just comprehension by their unassisted energies; but in this age and in this country, i apprehend the number of such adventurous readers is very considerable. shelley frequently exercised his ingenuity in long discussions respecting various questions in logic, and more frequently indulged in metaphysical inquiries. we read several metaphysical works together, in whole or in part, for the first time, or after a previous perusal by one or by both of us. the examination of a chapter of locke's _essay concerning human understanding_ would induce him, at any moment, to quit every other pursuit. we read together hume's _essays_, and some productions of scotch metaphysicians of inferior ability--all with assiduous and friendly altercations, and the latter writers, at least, with small profit, unless some sparks of knowledge were struck out in the collision of debate. we read also certain popular french works that treat of man for the most part in a mixed method, metaphysically, morally and politically. hume's _essays_ were a favourite book with shelley, and he was always ready to put forward in argument the doctrines they uphold. it may seem strange that he should ever have accepted the sceptical philosophy, a system so uncongenial with a fervid and imaginative genius, which can allure the cool, cautious, abstinent reasoner alone, and would deter the enthusiastic, the fanciful and the speculative. we must bear in mind, however, that he was an eager, bold, unwearied disputant; and although the position, in which the sceptic and the materialist love to entrench themselves, offers no picturesque attractions to the eye of the poet, it is well adapted for defensive warfare, and it is not easy for an ordinary enemy to dislodge him, who occupies a post that derives strength from the weakness of the assailant. it has been insinuated that, whenever a man of real talent and generous feelings condescends to fight under these colours, he is guilty of a dissimulation, which he deems harmless, perhaps even praiseworthy, for the sake of victory in argument. it was not a little curious to observe one, whose sanguine temper led him to believe implicitly every assertion, so that it was improbable and incredible, exulting in the success of his philosophical doubts, when, like the calmest and most suspicious of analysts, he refused to admit, without strict proof, propositions that many, who are not deficient in metaphysical prudence, account obvious and self-evident. the sceptical philosophy had another charm; it partook of the new and the wonderful, inasmuch as it called into doubt, and seemed to place in jeopardy during the joyous hours of disputation, many important practical conclusions. to a soul loving excitement and change, destruction, so that it be on a grand scale, may sometimes prove hardly less inspiring than creation. the feat of the magician, who, by the touch of his wand, could cause the great pyramid to dissolve into the air and to vanish from the sight, would be as surprising as the achievement of him, who, by the same rod, could instantly raise a similar mass in any chosen spot. if the destruction of the eternal monument was only apparent, the ocular sophism would be at once harmless and ingenuous: so was it with the logomachy of the young and strenuous logician, and his intellectual activity merited praise and reward. there was another reason, moreover, why the sceptical philosophy should be welcome to shelley at that time: he was young, and it is generally acceptable to youth. it is adopted as the abiding rule of reason throughout life, by those only who are distinguished by a sterility of soul, a barrenness of invention, a total dearth of fancy and a scanty stock of learning. such, in truth, although the warmth of juvenile blood, the light burthen of few years and the precipitation of inexperience may sometimes seem to contradict the assertion, is the state of the mind at the commencement of manhood, when the vessel has as yet received only a small portion of the cargo of the accumulated wisdom of past ages, when the amount of mental operations that have actually been performed is small, and the materials upon which the imagination can work are insignificant; consequently, the inventions of the young are crude and frigid. hence the most fertile mind exactly resembles in early youth the hopeless barrenness of those who have grown old in vain as to its actual condition, and it differs only in the unseen capacity for future production. the philosopher who declares that he knows nothing, and that nothing can be known, will readily find followers among the young, for they are sensible that they possess the requisite qualifications for entering his school, and are as far advanced in the science of ignorance as their master. a stranger who should have chanced to have been present at some of shelley's disputes, or who knew him only from having read some of the short argumentative essays which he composed as voluntary exercises, would have said, "surely the soul of hume passed by transmigration into the body of that eloquent young man; or, rather, he represents one of the enthusiastic and animated materialists of the french schools, whom revolutionary violence lately intercepted at an early age in his philosophical career." there were times, however, when a visitor, who had listened to glowing discourses delivered with a more intense ardour, would have hailed a young platonist, breathing forth the ideal philosophy, and in his pursuit of the intellectual world entirely overlooking the material or noticing it only to contemn it. the tall boy, who is permitted for the first season to scare the partridges with his new fowling-piece, scorns to handle the top or the hoop of his younger brother; thus the man, whose years and studies are mature, slights the first feeble aspirations after the higher departments of knowledge, that were deemed so important during his residence at college. it seems laughable, but it is true, that our knowledge of plato was derived solely from dacier's translation of a few of the dialogues, and from an english version of the french translation: we had never attempted a single sentence in the greek. since that time, however, i believe, few of our countrymen have read the golden works of that majestic philosopher in the original language more frequently and more carefully than ourselves; and few, if any, with more profit than shelley. although the source, whence flowed our earliest taste of the divine philosophy, was scanty and turbid, the draught was not the less grateful to our lips: our zeal in some measure atoned for our poverty. shelley was never weary of reading, or of listening to me whilst i read, passages from the dialogues contained in this collection, and especially from the _phædo_; and he was vehemently excited by the striking doctrines which socrates unfolds, especially by that which teaches that all our knowledge consists of reminiscences of what we had learned in a former existence. he often rose, paced slowly about the room, shook his long, wild locks and discoursed in a solemn tone and with a mysterious air, speculating concerning our previous condition, and the nature of our life and occupations in that world, where, according to plato, we had attained to erudition, and had advanced ourselves in knowledge so far that the most studious and the most inventive, or, in other words, those who have the best memory, are able to call back a part only, and with much pain and extreme difficulty, of what was formerly familiar to us. it is hazardous, however, to speak of his earliest efforts as a platonist, lest they should be confounded with his subsequent advancement; it is not easy to describe his first introduction to the exalted wisdom of antiquity without borrowing inadvertently from the knowledge which he afterwards acquired. the cold, ungenial, foggy atmosphere of northern metaphysics was less suited to the ardent temperament of his soul than the warm, bright, vivifying climate of southern and eastern philosophy. his genius expanded under the benign influence of the latter, and he derived copious instruction from a luminous system, that is only dark through excess of brightness, and seems obscure to vulgar vision through its extreme radiance. nevertheless, in argument--and to argue on all questions was his dominant passion--he usually adopted the scheme of the sceptics, partly, perhaps, because it was more popular and is more generally understood. the disputant, who would use plato as his text-book in this age, would reduce his opponents to a small number indeed. the study of that highest department of ethics, which includes all the inferior branches and is directed towards the noblest and most important ends of jurisprudence, was always next my heart; at an early age it attracted my attention. when i first endeavoured to turn the regards of shelley towards this engaging pursuit, he strongly expressed a very decided aversion to such inquiries, deeming them worthless and illiberal. the beautiful theory of the art of right, and the honourable office of administering distributive justice, have been brought into general discredit, unhappily for the best interests of humanity, and to the vast detriment of the state, into unmerited disgrace in the modern world by the errors of practitioners. an ingenuous mind instinctively shrinks from the contemplation of legal topics, because the word law is associated with, and inevitably calls up the idea of the low chicanery of a pettifogging attorney, of the vulgar oppression and gross insolence of a bailiff, or at best, of the wearisome and unmeaning tautology that distends an act of parliament, and the dull dropsical compositions of the special pleader, the conveyancer or other draughtsman. in no country is this unhappy debasement of a most illustrious science more remarkable than in our own; no other nation is so prone to, or so patient of, abuses; in no other land are posts, in themselves honourable, so accessible to the meanest. the spirit of trade favours the degradation, and every commercial town is a well-spring of vulgarity, which sends forth hosts of practitioners devoid of the solid and elegant attainments which could sustain the credit of the science, but so strong in the artifices that insure success, as not only to monopolise the rewards due to merit, but sometimes even to climb the judgment-seat. it is not wonderful, therefore, that generous minds, until they have been taught to discriminate, and to distinguish a noble science from ignoble practices, should usually confound them together, hastily condemning the former with the latter. shelley listened with much attention to questions of natural law, and with the warm interest that he felt in all metaphysical disquisitions, after he had conquered his first prejudice against practical jurisprudence. the science of right, like other profound and extensive sciences, can only be acquired completely when the foundations have been laid at an early age. had the energies of shelley's vigorous mind taken this direction at that time, it is impossible to doubt that he would have become a distinguished jurist. besides that fondness for such inquiries which is necessary to success in any liberal pursuit, he displayed the most acute sensitiveness of injustice, however slight, and a vivid perception of inconvenience. as soon as a wrong, arising from a proposed enactment or a supposed decision, was suggested, he instantly rushed into the opposite extreme; and when a greater evil was shown to result from the contrary course which he had so hastily adopted, his intellect was roused, and he endeavoured most earnestly to ascertain the true mean that would secure the just by avoiding the unjust extremes. i have observed in young men that the propensity to plunge headlong into a net of difficulty, on being startled at an apparent want of equity in any rule that was propounded, although at first it might seem to imply a lack of caution and foresight--which are eminently the virtues of legislators and of judges--was an unerring prognostic of a natural aptitude for pursuits, wherein eminence is inconsistent with an inertness of the moral sense, and a recklessness of the violation of rights, however remote and trifling. various instances of such aptitude in shelley might be furnished, but these studies are interesting to a limited number of persons only. as the mind of shelley was apt to acquire many of the most valuable branches of liberal knowledge, so there were other portions comprised within the circle of science, for the reception of which, however active and acute, it was entirely unfit. he rejected with marvellous impatience every mathematical discipline that was offered; no problem could awaken the slightest curiosity, nor could he be made sensible of the beauty of any theorem. the method of demonstration had no charm for him. he complained of the insufferable prolixity and the vast tautology of euclid and the other ancient geometricians; and when the discoveries or modern analysts were presented, he was immediately distracted, and fell into endless musings. with respect to the oriental tongues, he coldly observed that the appearance of the characters was curious. although he perused with more than ordinary eagerness the relations of travellers in the east and the translations of the marvellous tales of oriental fancy, he was not attracted by the desire to penetrate the languages which veil these treasures. he would never deign to lend an ear or an eye for a moment to my hebrew studies, in which i had made at that time some small progress; nor could he be tempted to inquire into the value of the singular lore of the rabbins. he was able, like the many, to distinguish a violet from a sunflower and a cauliflower from a peony, but his botanical knowledge was more limited than that of the least skilful of common observers, for he was neglectful of flowers. he was incapable of apprehending the delicate distinctions of structure which form the basis of the beautiful classification of modern botanists. i was never able to impart even a glimpse of the merits of ray or linnæus, or to encourage a hope that he would ever be competent to see the visible analogies that constitute the marked, yet mutually approaching _genera_, into which the productions of nature, and especially vegetables, are divided. it may seem invidious to notice imperfections in a mind of the highest order, but the exercise of a due candour, however unwelcome, is required to satisfy those who were not acquainted with shelley, that the admiration excited by his marvellous talents and manifold virtues in all who were so fortunate as to enjoy the opportunity of examining his merits by frequent intercourse, was not the result of the blind partiality that amiable and innocent dispositions, attractive manners and a noble and generous bearing sometimes create. shelley was always unwilling to visit the remarkable specimens of architecture, the objects of art, and the various antiquities that adorn oxford; although, if he encountered them by accident, and they were pointed out to him, he admired them more sincerely and heartily than the generality of strangers, who, through compliance with fashion, ostentatiously sought them out. his favourite recreation, as i have already stated, was a free, unrestrained ramble into the country. after quitting the city and its environs by walking briskly along the highway for several miles, it was his delight to strike boldly into the fields, to cross the country daringly on foot, as is usual with sportsmen when shooting; to perform, as it were, a pedestrian steeplechase. he was strong, light and active, and in all respects well suited for such exploits, and we used frequently to traverse a considerable tract in this manner, especially when the frost had dried the land, had given complete solidity to the most treacherous paths, and had thrown a natural bridge over spots that in open weather during the winter would have been nearly impassable. by resolutely piercing through a district in this manner we often stumbled upon objects in our humble travels that created a certain surprise and interest; some of them are still fresh in my recollection. my susceptible companion was occasionally much delighted and strongly excited by incidents that would, perhaps, have seemed unimportant trifles to others. one day we had penetrated somewhat farther than usual, for the ground was in excellent order, and as the day was intensely cold, although bright and sunny, we had pushed on with uncommon speed. i do not remember the direction we took; nor can i even determine on which side of the thames our course lay. we had crossed roads and lanes, and had traversed open fields and inclosures; some tall and ancient trees were on our right hand; we skirted a little wood, and presently came to a small copse. it was guarded by an old hedge, or thicket; we were deflected, therefore, from our onward course towards the left, and we were winding round it, when the quick eye of my companion perceived a gap. he instantly dashed in with as much alacrity as if he had suddenly caught a glimpse of a pheasant that he had lately wounded in a district where such game was scarce, and he disappeared in a moment. i followed him, but with less ardour, and, passing through a narrow belt of wood and thicket, i presently found him standing motionless in one of his picturesque attitudes, riveted to the earth in speechless astonishment. he had thrown himself thus precipitately into a trim flower-garden of small dimensions, encompassed by a narrow, but close girdle of trees and underwood; it was apparently remote from all habitations, and it contrasted strongly with the bleak and bare country through which we had recently passed. had the secluded scene been bright with the gay flowers of spring, with hyacinths and tulips; had it been powdered with mealy auriculas or conspicuous for a gaudy show of all anemones and of every ranuculus; had it been profusely decorated by the innumerable roses of summer, it would be easy to understand why it was so cheerful. but we were now in the very heart of winter, and after much frost scarcely a single wretched brumal flower lingered and languished. there was no foliage save the dark leaves of evergreens, and of them there were many, especially around and on the edges of the magic circle, on which account, possibly, but chiefly perhaps through the symmetry of the numerous small _parterres_, the scrupulous neatness of the corresponding walks, the just ordonnance and disposition of certain benches, the integrity and freshness of the green trellises, and of the skeletons of some arbours, and through every leafless excellence which the dried anatomy of a flower-garden can exhibit, its past and its future wealth seemed to shine forth in its present poverty, and its potential glories adorned its actual disgrace. the sudden transition from the rugged fields to this garnished and decorated retreat was striking, and held my imagination captive a few moments. the impression, however, would probably have soon faded from my memory, had it not been fixed there by the recollection of the beings who gave animation and a permanent interest to the polished nook. we admired the trim and retired garden for some minutes in silence, and afterwards each answered in monosyllables the other's brief expressions of wonder. neither of us had advanced a single step beyond the edge of the thicket which we had entered; but i was about to precede, and to walk round the magic circle, in order fully to survey the place, when shelley startled me by turning with astonishing rapidity, and dashing through the bushes and the gap in the fence with the mysterious and whimsical agility of a kangaroo. had he caught a glimpse of a tiger crouching behind the laurels, and preparing to spring upon him, he could not have vanished more promptly or more silently. i was habituated to his abrupt movements, nevertheless his alacrity surprised me, and i tried in vain to discover what object had scared him away. i retired, therefore, to the gap, and when i reached it, i saw him already at some distance, proceeding with gigantic strides nearly in the same route by which we came. i ran after him, and when i rejoined him, he had halted upon a turnpike-road and was hesitating as to the course he ought to pursue. it was our custom to advance across the country as far as the utmost limits of our time would permit, and to go back to oxford by the first public road we found, after attaining the extreme distance to which we could venture to wander. having ascertained the route homeward, we pursued it quickly, as we were wont, but less rapidly than shelley had commenced his hasty retreat. he had perceived that the garden was attached to a gentleman's house, and he had consequently quitted it thus precipitately. i had already observed on the right a winding path that led through a plantation to certain offices, which showed that a house was about a quarter of a mile from the spot where i then stood. had i been aware that the garden was connected with a residence, i certainly should not have trespassed upon it; but, having entered unconsciously, and since the owner was too far removed to be annoyed by observing the intrusion, i was tempted to remain a short time to examine a spot which, during my brief visit, seemed so singular. the superior and highly sensitive delicacy of my companion instantly took the alarm on discovering indications of a neighbouring mansion; hence his marvellous precipitancy in withdrawing himself from the garnished retirement he had unwittingly penetrated, and we advanced some distance along the road before he had entirely overcome his modest confusion. shelley had looked on the ornate inclosure with a poet's eye, and as we hastily pursued our course towards oxford by the frozen and sounding way, whilst the day rapidly declined, he discoursed of it fancifully, and with a more glowing animation than ordinary, like one agitated by a divine fury, and by the impulse of inspiring deity. he continued, indeed, so long to enlarge upon the marvels of the enchanted grove, that i hinted the enchantress might possibly be at hand, and since he was so eloquent concerning the nest, what would have been his astonishment had he been permitted to see the bird herself. he sometimes described, with a curious fastidiousness, the qualities which a female must possess to kindle the fire of love in his bosom. the imaginative youth supposed that he was to be moved by the most absolute perfection alone. it is equally impossible to doubt the exquisite refinement of his taste, or the boundless power of the most mighty of divinities; to refuse to believe that he was a just and skilful critic of feminine beauty and grace, and of whatever is attractive, or that he was never practically as blind, at the least, as men of ordinary talent. how sadly should we disparage the triumphs of love were we to maintain that he is able to lead astray the senses of the vulgar alone! in the theory of love, however, a poet will rarely err. shelley's lively fancy had painted a goodly portraiture of the mistress of the fair garden, nor were apt words wanting to convey to me a faithful copy of the bright original. it would be a cruel injustice to an orator should a plain man attempt, after a silence of more than twenty years, to revive his glowing harangue from faded recollections. i will not seek, therefore, to pourtray the likeness of the ideal nymph of the flower-garden. "since your fairy gardener," i said, "has so completely taken possession of your imagination," and he was wonderfully excited by the unexpected scene and his own splendid decorations, "it is a pity we did not notice the situation, for i am quite sure i should not be able to return thither, to recover your eden and the eve, whom you created to till it, and i doubt whether you could guide me." he acknowledged that he was as incapable of finding it again as of leading me to that paradise to which i had compared it. "you may laugh at my enthusiasm," he continued, "but you must allow that you were not less struck by the singularity of that mysterious corner of the earth than myself. you are equally entitled, therefore, to dwell there, at least, in fancy, and to find a partner whose character will harmonise with the genius of the place." he then declared, that thenceforth it should be deemed the possession of two tutelary nymphs, not of one; and he proceeded with unabated fervour to delineate the second patroness, and to distinguish her from the first. "no!" he exclaimed, pausing in the rapid career of words, and for a while he was somewhat troubled, "the seclusion is too sweet, too holy, to be the theatre of ordinary love; the love of the sexes, however pure, still retains some taint of earthly grossness; we must not admit it within the sanctuary." he was silent for several minutes, and his anxiety visibly increased. "the love of a mother for a child is more refined; it is more disinterested, more spiritual; but," he added, after some reflection, "the very existence of the child still connects it with the passion which we have discarded," and he relapsed into his former musings. "the love a sister bears towards a sister," he exclaimed abruptly, and with an air of triumph, "is unexceptionable." this idea pleased him, and as he strode along he assigned the trim garden to two sisters, affirming, with the confidence of an inventor, that it owed its neatness to the assiduous culture of their neat hands; that it was their constant haunt; the care of it their favourite pastime, and its prosperity, next after the welfare of each other, the chief wish of both. he described their appearance, their habits, their feelings, and drew a lovely picture of their amiable and innocent attachment; of the meek and dutiful regard of the younger, which partook, in some degree, of filial reverence, but was more facile and familiar; and of the protecting, instructing, hoping fondness of the elder, that resembled maternal tenderness, but had less of reserve and more of sympathy. in no other relation could the intimacy be equally perfect; not even between brothers, for their life is less domestic: there is a separation in their pursuits, and an independence in the masculine character. the occupations of all females of the same age and rank are the same, and by night sisters cherish each other in the same quiet nest. their union wears not only the grace of delicacy, but of fragility also; for it is always liable to be suddenly destroyed by the marriage of either party, or, at least, to be interrupted and suspended for an indefinite period. he depicted so eloquently the excellence of sisterly affection, and he drew so distinctly and so minutely the image of two sisters, to whom he chose to ascribe the unusual comeliness of the spot into which we had unintentionally intruded, that the trifling incident has been impressed upon my memory, and has been intimately associated in my mind, through his creations, with his poetic character. chapter iv the prince of roman eloquence affirms that the good man alone can be a perfect orator, and truly; for without the weight of a spotless reputation it is certain that the most artful and elaborate discourse must want authority--the main ingredient in persuasion. the position is, at least, equally true of the poet, whose grand strength always lies in the ethical force of his compositions, and these are great in proportion to the efficient greatness of their moral purpose. if, therefore, we would criticise poetry correctly, and from the foundation, it behoves us to examine the morality of the bard. in no individual, perhaps, was the moral sense ever more completely developed than in shelley; in no being was the perception of right and of wrong more acute. the biographer who takes upon himself the pleasing and instructive, but difficult and delicate task of composing a faithful history of his whole life, will frequently be compelled to discuss the important questions, whether his conduct, at certain periods, was altogether such as ought to be proposed for imitation; whether he was ever misled by an ardent imagination, a glowing temperament, something of hastiness in choice and a certain constitutional impatience; whether, like less gifted mortals, he ever shared in the common portion of mortality--repentance, and to what extent? such inquiries, however, do not fall within the compass of a brief narrative of his career at the university. the unmatured mind of a boy is capable of good intentions only and of generous and kindly feelings, and these were pre-eminent in him. it will be proper to unfold the excellence of his dispositions, not for the sake of vain and empty praise, but simply to show his aptitude to receive the sweet fury of the muses. his inextinguishable thirst for knowledge, his boundless philanthropy, his fearless, it may be his almost imprudent pursuit of truth have been already exhibited. if mercy to beasts be a criterion of a good man, numerous instances of extreme tenderness would demonstrate his worth. i will mention one only. we were walking one afternoon in bagley wood; on turning a corner we suddenly came upon a boy who was driving an ass. it was very young and very weak, and was staggering beneath a most disproportionate load of faggots, and he was belabouring its lean ribs angrily and violently with a short, thick, heavy cudgel. at the sight of cruelty shelley was instantly transported far beyond the usual measure of excitement. he sprang forward and was about to interpose with energetic and indignant vehemence. i caught him by the arm and to his present annoyance held him back, and with much difficulty persuaded him to allow me to be the advocate of the dumb animal. his cheeks glowed with displeasure and his lips murmured his impatience during my brief dialogue with the young tyrant. "that is a sorry little ass, boy," i said; "it seems to have scarcely any strength." "none at all; it is good for nothing." "it cannot get on; it can hardly stand. if anybody could make it go, you would; you have taken great pains with it." "yes, i have; but it is to no purpose!" "it is of little use striking it, i think." "it is not worth beating. the stupid beast has got more wood now than it can carry; it can hardly stand, you see!" "i suppose it put it upon its back itself?" the boy was silent; i repeated the question. "no; it has not sense enough for that," he replied, with an incredulous leer. by dint of repeated blows he had split his cudgel, and the sound caused by the divided portion had alarmed shelley's humanity. i pointed to it and said, "you have split your stick; it is not good for much now." he turned it, and held the divided end in his hand. "the other end is whole, i see, but i suppose you could split that too on the ass's back, if you chose; it is not so thick." "it is not so thick, but it is full of knots. it would take a great deal of trouble to split it, and the beast is not worth that; it would do no good!" "it would do no good, certainly; and if anybody saw you, he might say that you were a savage young ruffian and that you ought to be served in the same manner yourself." the fellow looked at me in some surprise, and sank into sullen silence. he presently threw his cudgel into the wood as far as he was able, and began to amuse himself by pelting the birds with pebbles, leaving my long-eared client to proceed at its own pace, having made up his mind, perhaps, to be beaten himself, when he reached home, by a tyrant still more unreasonable than himself, on account of the inevitable default of his ass. shelley was satisfied with the result of our conversation, and i repeated to him the history of the injudicious and unfortunate interference of don quixote between the peasant, john haldudo, and his servant, andrew. although he reluctantly admitted that the acrimony of humanity might often aggravate the sufferings of the oppressed by provoking the oppressor, i always observed that the impulse of generous indignation, on witnessing the infliction of pain, was too vivid to allow him to pause and consider the probable consequences of the abrupt interposition of the knight-errantry, which would at once redress all grievances. such exquisite sensibility and a sympathy with suffering so acute and so uncontrolled may possibly be inconsistent with the calmness and forethought of the philosopher, but they accord well with the high temperature of a poet's blood. as his port had the meekness of a maiden, so the heart of the young virgin who had never crossed her father's threshold to encounter the rude world, could not be more susceptible of all the sweet domestic charities than his: in this respect shelley's disposition would happily illustrate the innocence and virginity of the muses. in most men, and especially in very young men, an excessive addiction to study tends to chill the heart and to blunt the feelings, by engrossing the attention. notwithstanding his extreme devotion to literature, and amidst his various and ardent speculations, he retained a most affectionate regard for his relations, and particularly for the females of his family; it was not without manifest joy that he received a letter from his mother or his sisters. a child of genius is seldom duly appreciated by the world during his life, least of all by his own kindred. the parents of a man of talent may claim the honour of having given him birth, yet they commonly enjoy but little of his society. whilst we hang with delight over the immortal pages, we are apt to suppose that the gifted author was fondly cherished; that a possession so uncommon and so precious was highly prized; that his contemporaries anxiously watched his going out and eagerly looked for his coming in; for we should ourselves have borne him tenderly in our hands, that he might not dash his foot against a stone. surely such an one was given in charge to angels, we cry. on the contrary, nature appears most unaccountably to slight a gift that she gave grudgingly, as if it were of small value, and easily replaced. an unusual number of books, greek or latin classics, each inscribed with the name of the donor, which had been presented to him, according to custom, on quitting eton, attested that shelley had been popular among his schoolfellows. many of them were then at oxford, and they frequently called at his rooms. although he spoke of them with regard, he generally avoided their society, for it interfered with his beloved study, and interrupted the pursuits to which he ardently and entirely devoted himself. in the nine centuries that elapsed from the time of our great founder, alfred, to our days, there never was a student who more richly merited the favour and assistance of a learned body, or whose fruitful mind would have repaid with a larger harvest the labour of careful and judicious cultivation. and such cultivation he was well entitled to receive. nor did his scholar-like virtues merit neglect, still less to be betrayed, like the young nobles of falisci, by a traitorous schoolmaster to an enemy less generous than camillus. no student ever read more assiduously. he was to be found book in hand at all hours, reading in season and out of season, at table, in bed and especially during a walk; not only in the quiet country and in retired paths; not only at oxford in the public walks and high street, but in the most crowded thoroughfares of london. nor was he less absorbed by the volume that was open before him in cheapside, in cranbourne alley or in bond street, than in a lonely lane, or a secluded library. sometimes a vulgar fellow would attempt to insult or annoy the eccentric student in passing. shelley always avoided the malignant interruption by stepping aside with his vast and quiet agility. sometimes i have observed, as an agreeable contrast to these wretched men, that persons of the humblest station have paused and gazed with respectful wonder as he advanced, almost unconscious of the throng, stooping low, with bent knees and outstretched neck, poring earnestly over the volume, which he extended before him; for they knew this, although the simple people knew but little, that an ardent scholar is worthy of deference, and that the man of learning is necessarily the friend of humanity, and especially of the many. i never beheld eyes that devoured the pages more voraciously than his. i am convinced that two-thirds of the period of the day and night were often employed in reading. it is no exaggeration to affirm, that out of the twenty-four hours he frequently read sixteen. at oxford his diligence in this respect was exemplary, but it greatly increased afterwards, and i sometimes thought that he carried it to a pernicious excess. i am sure, at least, that i was unable to keep pace with him. on the evening of a wet day, when we had read with scarcely any intermission from an early hour in the morning, i have urged him to lay aside his book. it required some extravagance to rouse him to join heartily in conversation; to tempt him to avoid the chimney-piece on which commonly he had laid the open volume. "if i were to read as long as you read, shelley, my hair and my teeth would be strewed about on the floor, and my eyes would slip down my cheeks into my waistcoat pockets, or, at least, i should become so weary and nervous that i should not know whether it were so or not." he began to scrape the carpet with his feet, as if teeth were actually lying upon it, and he looked fixedly at my face, and his lively fancy represented the empty sockets. his imagination was excited, and the spell that bound him to his books was broken, and, creeping close to the fire, and, as it were, under the fireplace, he commenced a most animated discourse. few were aware of the extent, and still fewer, i apprehend, of the profundity of his reading. in his short life and without ostentation he had in truth read more greek than many an aged pedant, who with pompous parade prides himself upon this study alone. although he had not entered critically into the minute niceties of the noblest of languages, he was thoroughly conversant with the valuable matter it contains. a pocket edition of plato, of plutarch, of euripides, without interpretation or notes, or of the septuagint, was his ordinary companion; and he read the text straightforward for hours, if not as readily as an english author, at least with as much facility as french, italian or spanish. "upon my soul, shelley, your style of going through a greek book is something quite beautiful!" was the wondering exclamation of one who was himself no mean student. as his love of intellectual pursuits was vehement, and the vigour of his genius almost celestial, so were the purity and sanctity of his life most conspicuous. his food was plain and simple as that of a hermit, with a certain anticipation, even at this time, of a vegetable diet, respecting which he afterwards became an enthusiast in theory, and in practice an irregular votary. with his usual fondness for moving the abstruse and difficult questions of the highest theology, he loved to inquire whether man can justify, on the ground of reason alone, the practice of taking the life of the inferior animals, except in the necessary defence of his life and of his means of life, the fruits of that field which he has tilled, from violence and spoliation. "not only have considerable sects," he would say, "denied the right altogether, but those among the tender-hearted and imaginative people of antiquity, who accounted it lawful to kill and eat, appear to have doubted whether they might take away life merely for the use of man alone. they slew their cattle, not simply for human guests, like the less scrupulous butchers of modern times, but only as a sacrifice, for the honour and in the name of the deity; or, rather, of those subordinate divinities, to whom, as they believed, the supreme being had assigned the creation and conservation of the visible material world. as an incident to these pious offerings, they partook of the residue of the victims, of which, without such sanction and sanctification, they would not have presumed to taste. so reverent was the caution of humane and prudent antiquity!" bread became his chief sustenance when his regimen attained to that austerity which afterwards distinguished it. he could have lived on bread alone without repining. when he was walking in london with an acquaintance, he would suddenly run into a baker's shop, purchase a supply, and breaking a loaf he would offer half of it to his companion. "do you know," he said to me one day, with much surprise, "that such an one does not like bread? did you ever know a person who disliked bread?" and he told me that a friend had refused such an offer. i explained to him that the individual in question probably had no objection to bread in a moderate quantity at a proper time and with the usual adjuncts, and was only unwilling to devour two or three pounds of dry bread in the streets, and at an early hour. shelley had no such scruple; his pockets were generally well-stored with bread. a circle upon the carpet, clearly defined by an ample verge of crumbs, often marked the place where he had long sat at his studies, his face nearly in contact with his book, greedily devouring bread at intervals amidst his profound abstractions. for the most part he took no condiments; sometimes, however, he ate with his bread the common raisins which are used in making puddings, and these he would buy at little mean shops. he was walking one day in london with a respectable solicitor who occasionally transacted business for him. with his accustomed precipitation he suddenly vanished and as suddenly reappeared: he had entered the shop of a little grocer in an obscure quarter, and had returned with some plums, which he held close under the attorney's nose, and the man of fact was as much astonished at the offer as his client, the man of fancy, at the refusal. the common fruit of stalls, and oranges and apples were always welcome to shelley; he would crunch the latter as heartily as a schoolboy. vegetables, and especially salads, and pies and puddings were acceptable. his beverage consisted of copious and frequent draughts of cold water, but tea was ever grateful, cup after cup, and coffee. wine was taken with singular moderation, commonly diluted largely with water, and for a long period he would abstain from it altogether. he avoided the use of spirits almost invariably, and even in the most minute portions. like all persons of simple tastes, he retained his sweet tooth. he would greedily eat cakes, gingerbread and sugar; honey, preserved or stewed fruit with bread, were his favourite delicacies. these he thankfully and joyfully received from others, but he rarely sought for them or provided them for himself. the restraint and protracted duration of a convivial meal were intolerable; he was seldom able to keep his seat during the brief period assigned to an ordinary family dinner. these particulars may seem trifling, if indeed anything can be little that has reference to a character truly great; but they prove how much he was ashamed that his soul was in body, and illustrate the virgin abstinence of a mind equally favoured by the muses, the graces and philosophy. it is true, however, that his application at oxford, although exemplary, was not so unremitting as it afterwards became; nor was his diet, although singularly temperate, so meagre. however, his mode of living already offered a foretaste of the studious seclusion and absolute renunciation of every luxurious indulgence which ennobled him a few years later. had a parent desired that his children should be exactly trained to an ascetic life and should be taught by an eminent example to scorn delights and to live laborious days, that they should behold a pattern of native innocence and genuine simplicity of manners, he would have consigned them to his house as to a temple or to some primitive and still unsophisticated monastery. it is an invidious thing to compose a perpetual panegyric, yet it is difficult to speak of shelley, and impossible to speak justly, without often praising him. it is difficult also to divest myself of later recollections; to forget for a while what he became in days subsequent, and to remember only what he then was, when we were fellow-collegians. it is difficult, moreover, to view him with the mind which i then bore--with a young mind, to lay aside the seriousness of old age; for twenty years of assiduous study have induced, if not in the body, at least within, something of premature old age. it now seems an incredible thing, and altogether inconceivable, when i consider the gravity of shelley and his invincible repugnance to the comic, that the monkey tricks of the schoolboy could have still lingered, but it is certain that some slight vestiges still remained. the metaphysician of eighteen actually attempted once or twice to electrify the son of his scout, a boy like a sheep, by name james, who roared aloud with ludicrous and stupid terror, whenever shelley affected to bring by stealth any part of his philosophical apparatus near to him. as shelley's health and strength were visibly augmented, if by accident he was obliged to accept a more generous diet than ordinary, and as his mind sometimes appeared to be exhausted by never-ending toil, i often blamed his abstinence and his perpetual application. it is the office of a university, of a public institution for education, not only to apply the spur to the sluggish, but also to rein in the young steed, that, being too mettlesome, hastens with undue speed towards the goal. "it is a very odd thing, but every woman can live with my lord and do just what she pleases with him, except my lady!" such was the shrewd remark, which a long familiarity taught an old and attached servant to utter respecting his master, a noble poet. we may wonder in like manner, and deeply lament, that the most docile, the most facile, the most pliant, the most confident creature that ever was led through any of the various paths on earth, that a tractable youth, who was conducted at pleasure by anybody that approached him--it might be occasionally by persons delegated by no legitimate authority--was never guided for a moment by those upon whom, fully and without reservation, that most solemn and sacred obligation had been imposed, strengthened, morever, by every public and private, official and personal, moral, political and religious tie, which the civil polity of a long succession of ages could accumulate. had the university been in fact, as in name, a kind nursing-mother to the most gifted of her sons, to one, who seemed, to those that knew him best,-- heaven's exile straying from the orb of light; had that most awful responsibility, the right institution of those, to whom are to be consigned the government of the country and the conservation of whatever good human society has elaborated and excogitated, duly weighed upon the consciences of his instructors, they would have gained his entire confidence by frank kindness, they would have repressed his too eager impatience to master the sum of knowledge, they would have mitigated the rigorous austerity of his course of living, and they would have remitted the extreme tension of his soul by reconciling him to liberal mirth; convincing him that, if life be not wholly a jest, there are at least many comic scenes occasionally interspersed in the great drama. nor is the last benefit of trifling importance, for, as an unseemly and excessive gravity is usually the sign of a dull fellow, so is the prevalence of this defect the characteristic of an unlearned and illiberal age. shelley was actually offended, and indeed more indignant than would appear to be consistent with the singular mildness of his nature, at a coarse and awkward jest, especially if it were immodest or uncleanly; in the latter case his anger was unbounded, and his uneasiness pre-eminent. he was, however, sometimes vehemently delighted by exquisite and delicate sallies, particularly with a fanciful, and perhaps somewhat fantastical facetiousness--possibly the more because he was himself utterly incapable of pleasantry. in every free state, in all countries that enjoy republican institutions, the view which each citizen takes of politics is an essential ingredient in the estimate of his ethical character. the wisdom of a very young man is but foolishness. nevertheless, if we would rightly comprehend the moral and intellectual constitution of the youthful poet, it will be expedient to take into account the manner in which he was affected towards the grand political questions, at a period when the whole of the civilised world was agitated by a fierce storm of excitement, that, happily for the peace and well-being of society, is of rare occurrence. chapter v "above all things, liberty!" the political creed of shelley may be comprised in a few words; it was, in truth, that of most men, and in a peculiar manner of young men, during the freshness and early springs of revolutions. he held that not only is the greatest possible amount of civil liberty to be preferred to all other blessings, but that this advantage is all-sufficient, and comprehends within itself every other desirable object. the former position is as unquestionably true as the latter is undoubtedly false. it is no small praise, however, to a very young man, to say that on a subject so remote from the comprehension of youth his opinions were at least half right. twenty years ago the young men at our universities were satisfied with upholding the political doctrines of which they approved by private discussions. they did not venture to form clubs of brothers and to move resolutions, except a small number of enthusiasts of doubtful sanity, who alone sought to usurp by crude and premature efforts the offices of a matured understanding and of manly experience. although our fellow-collegians were willing to learn before they took upon themselves the heavy and thankless charge of instructing others, there was no lack of beardless politicians amongst us. of these, some were more strenuous supporters of the popular cause in our little circles than others; but all were abundantly liberal. a brutus or a gracchus would have found many to surpass him, and few, indeed, to fall short in theoretical devotion to the interests of equal freedom. i can scarcely recollect a single exception amongst my numerous acquaintances. all, i think were worthy of the best ages of greece or of rome; all were true, loyal citizens, brave and free. how, indeed, could it be otherwise? liberty is the morning-star of youth; and those who enjoy the inappreciable blessing of a classical education, are taught betimes to lisp its praises. they are nurtured in the writings of its votaries, and they even learn their native tongue, as it were, at secondhand, and reflected in the glorious pages of the authors, who in the ancient languages and in strains of a noble eloquence, that will never fail to astonish succeeding generations, proclaim unceasingly, with every variety of powerful and energetic phrase, "above all things, liberty!" the praises of liberty were the favourite topic of our earliest verses, whether they flowed with natural ease, or were elaborated painfully out of the resources of art; and the tyrant was set up as an object of scorn, to be pelted with the first ink of our themes. how, then, can an educated youth be other than free? shelley was entirely devoted to the lovely theory of freedom; but he was also eminently averse at that time from engaging in the far less beautiful practices, wherein are found the actual and operative energies of liberty. i was maintaining against him one day at my rooms the superiority of the ethical sciences over the physical. in the course of the debate he cried with shrill vehemence--for as his aspect presented to the eye much of the elegance of the peacock, so, in like manner, he cruelly lacerated the ear with its discordant tones--"you talk of the pre-eminence of moral philosophy? do you comprehend politics under that name? and will you tell me, as others do, and as plato, i believe, teaches, that of this philosophy the political department is the highest and the most important?" without expecting an answer, he continued: "a certain nobleman" (and he named him) "advised me to turn my thoughts towards politics immediately. 'you cannot direct your attention that way too early in this country,' said the duke. 'they are the proper career for a young man of ability and of your station in life. that course is the most advantageous, because it is a monopoly. a little success in that line goes far, since the number of competitors is limited; and of those who are admitted to the contest, the greater part are altogether devoid of talent or too indolent to exert themselves. so many are excluded, that, of the few who are permitted to enter, it is difficult to find any that are not utterly unfit for the ordinary service of the state. it is not so in the church, it is not so at the bar; there all may offer themselves. the number of rivals in those professions is far greater, and they are, besides, of a more formidable kind. in letters, your chance of success is still worse. there, none can win gold and all may try to gain reputation; it is a struggle for glory--the competition is infinite, there are no bounds--that is a spacious field indeed, a sea without shores!' the duke talked thus to me many times and strongly urged me to give myself up to politics without delay, but he did not persuade me. with how unconquerable an aversion do i shrink from political articles in newspapers and reviews? i have heard people talk politics by the hour, and how i hated it and them! i went with my father several times to the house of commons, and what creatures did i see there! what faces! what an expression of countenance! what wretched beings!" here he clasped his hands, and raised his voice to a painful pitch, with fervid dislike. "good god! what men did we meet about the house, in the lobbies and passages; and my father was so civil to all of them, to animals that i regarded with unmitigated disgust! a friend of mine, an eton man, told me that his father once invited some corporation to dine at his house, and that he was present. when dinner was over, and the gentlemen nearly drunk, they started up, he said, and swore they would all kiss his sisters. his father laughed and did not forbid them, and the wretches would have done it; but his sisters heard of the infamous proposal, and ran upstairs, and locked themselves in their bedrooms. i asked him if he would not have knocked them down if they had attempted such an outrage in his presence. it seems to me that a man of spirit ought to have killed them if they had effected their purpose." the sceptical philosopher sat for several minutes in silence, his cheeks glowing with intense indignation. "never did a more finished gentleman than shelley step across a drawing-room!" lord byron exclaimed; and on reading the remark in mr moore's _memoirs_ i was struck forcibly by its justice, and wondered for a moment that, since it was so obvious, it had never been made before. perhaps this excellence was blended so intimately with his entire nature, and it seemed to constitute a part of his identity, and being essential and necessary was therefore never noticed. i observed his eminence in this respect before i had sat beside him many minutes at our first meeting in the hall of university college. since that day i have had the happiness to associate with some of the best specimens of gentlemen; but with all due deference for those admirable persons (may my candour and my preference be pardoned), i can affirm that shelley was almost the only example i have yet found that was never wanting, even in the most minute particular, of the infinite and various observances of pure, entire and perfect gentility. trifling, indeed, and unimportant, were the aberrations of some whom i could name; but in him, during a long and most unusual familiarity, i discovered no flaw, no tarnish; the metal was sterling, and the polish absolute. i have also seen him, although rarely, "stepping across a drawing-room," and then his deportment, as lord byron testifies, was unexceptionable. such attendances, however, were pain and grief to him, and his inward discomfort was not hard to be discerned. an acute observer, whose experience of life was infinite, and who had been long and largely conversant with the best society in each of the principal capitals of europe, had met shelley, of whom he was a sincere admirer, several times in public. he remarked one evening, at a large party where shelley was present, his extreme discomfort, and added, "it is but too plain that there is something radically wrong in the constitution of our assemblies, since such a man finds not pleasure, nor even ease, in them." his speculations concerning the cause were ingenious, and would possibly be not altogether devoid of interest; but they are wholly unconnected with the object of these scanty reminiscences. whilst shelley was still a boy, clubs were few in number, of small dimensions, and generally confined to some specific class of persons. the universal and populous clubs of the present day were almost unknown. his reputation has increased so much of late, that the honour of including his name in the list of members, were such a distinction happily attainable, would now perhaps be sought by many of these societies; but it is not less certain, that, for a period of nearly twenty years, he would have been black-balled by almost every club in london. nor would such a fate be peculiar to him. when a great man has attained to a certain eminence, his patronage is courted by those who were wont carefully to shun him, whilst he was quietly and steadily pursuing the path that would inevitably lead to advancement. it would be easy to multiply instances, if proofs were needed, and this remarkable peculiarity of our social existence is an additional and irrefragable argument that the constitution of refined society is radically vicious, since it flatters timid, insipid mediocrity, and is opposed to the bold, fearless originality, and to that novelty which invariably characterise true genius. the first dawnings of talent are instantly hailed and warmly welcomed, as soon as some singularity unequivocally attests its existence amongst nations where hypocrisy and intolerance are less absolute. if all men were required to name the greatest disappointment they had respectively experienced, the catalogue would be very various; accordingly as the expectations of each had been elevated respecting the pleasure that would attend the gratification of some favourite wish, would the reality in almost every case have fallen short of the anticipation. the variety would be infinite as to the nature of the first disappointment; but if the same irresistible authority could command that another and another should be added to the list, it is probable that there would be less dissimilarity in the returns of the disappointments which were deemed second and the next in the importance to the greatest, and perhaps, in numerous instances, the third would coincide. many individuals, having exhausted their principal private and peculiar grievances in the first and second examples, would assign the third place to some public and general matter. the youth who has formed his conceptions of the power, effects and aspect of eloquence from the specimens furnished by the orators of greece and rome, receives as rude a shock on his first visit to the house of commons as can possibly be inflicted on his juvenile expectations, where the subject is entirely unconnected with the interests of the individual. a prodigious number of persons would, doubtless, inscribe nearly at the top of the list of disappointments the deplorable and inconceivable inferiority of the actual to the imaginary debate. it is not wonderful, therefore, that the sensitive, the susceptible, the fastidious shelley, whose lively fancy was easily wound up to a degree of excitement incomprehensible to calmer and more phlegmatic temperaments, felt keenly a mortification that can wound even the most obtuse intellects, and expressed with contemptuous acrimony his dissatisfaction at the cheat which his warm imagination had put upon him. had he resolved to enter the career of politics, it is possible that habit would have reconciled him to many things which at first seemed to be repugnant to his nature. it is possible that his unwearied industry, his remarkable talents and vast energy would have led him to renown in that line as well as in another; but it is most probable that his parliamentary success would have been but moderate. opportunities of advancement were offered to him, and he rejected them, in the opinion of some of his friends unwisely and improperly; but, perhaps, he only refused gifts that were unfit for him: he struck out a path for himself, and, by boldly following his own course, greatly as it deviated from that prescribed to him, he became incomparably more illustrious than he would have been had he steadily pursued the beaten track. his memory will be green when the herd of everyday politicians are forgotten. ordinary rules may guide ordinary men, but the orbit of the child of genius is essentially eccentric. although the mind of shelley had certainly a strong bias towards democracy, and he embraced with an ardent and youthful fondness the theory of political equality, his feelings and behaviour were in many respects highly aristocratical. the ideal republic, wherein his fancy loved to expatiate, was adorned by all the graces which plato, xenophon and cicero have thrown around the memory of ancient liberty; the unbleached web of transatlantic freedom, and the inconsiderate vehemence of such of our domestic patriots as would demonstrate their devotion to the good cause, by treating with irreverence whatever is most venerable, were equally repugnant to his sensitive and reverential spirit. as a politician shelley was in theory wholly a republican, but in practice, so far only as it is possible to be one with due regard for the sacred rights of a scholar and a gentleman; and these being in his eyes always more inviolable than any scheme of polity or civil institution, although he was upon paper and in discourse a sturdy commonwealth-man, the living, moving, acting individual had much of the senatorial and conservative, and was in the main eminently patrician. the rare assiduity of the young poet in the acquisition of general knowledge has been already described; he had, moreover, diligently studied the mechanism of his art before he came to oxford. he composed latin verses with singular facility. on visiting him soon after his arrival at the accustomed hour of one, we were writing the usual exercise, which we presented, i believe, once a week--a latin translation of a paper in the _spectator_. he soon finished it, and as he held it before the fire to dry, i offered to take it from him. he said it was not worth looking at; but as i persisted, through a certain scholastic curiosity to examine the latinity of my new acquaintance, he gave it to me. the latin was sufficiently correct, but the version was paraphrastic, which i observed. he assented, and said that it would pass muster, and he felt no interest in such efforts and no desire to excel in them. i also noticed many portions of heroic verses, and even several entire verses, and these i pointed out as defects in a prose composition. he smiled archly, and asked, in his piercing whisper, "do you think they will observe them? i inserted them intentionally to try their ears! i once showed up a theme at eton to old keate, in which there were a great many verses; but he observed them, scanned them, and asked why i had introduced them? i answered that i did not know they were there. this was partly true and partly false; but he believed me, and immediately applied to me the line in which ovid says of himself-- 'et quod tentabam dicere, versus erat.'" shelley then spoke of the facility with which he could compose latin verses; and, taking the paper out of my hand, he began to put the entire translation into verse. he would sometimes open at hazard a prose writer, as livy or sallust, and, by changing the position of the words and occasionally substituting others, he would translate several sentences from prose to verse--to heroic, or more commonly elegiac, verse, for he was peculiarly charmed with the graceful and easy flow of the latter--with surprising rapidity and readiness. he was fond of displaying this accomplishment during his residence at oxford, but he forgot to bring it away with him when he quitted the university; or perhaps he left it behind him designedly, as being suitable to academic groves only and to the banks of the isis. in ovid the facility of versification in his native tongue was possibly in some measure innate, although the extensive and various learning of that poet demonstrate that the power of application was not wanting in him; but such a command over a dead language can only be acquired through severe study. there is much in the poetry of shelley that seems to encourage the belief, that the inspiration of the muses was seldom duly hailed by the pious diligence of the recipient. it is true that his compositions were too often unfinished, but his example cannot encourage indolence in the youthful writer, for his carelessness is usually apparent only. he had really applied himself as strenuously to conquer all the other difficulties of his art, as he patiently laboured to penetrate the mysteries of metre in the state wherein it exists entire and can alone be attained--in one of the classical languages. the poet takes his name from the highest effort of his art--creation; and, being himself a maker, he must, of necessity, feel a strong sympathy with the exercise of the creative energies. shelley was exceedingly deficient in mechanical ingenuity; and he was also wanting in spontaneous curiosity respecting the operations of artificers. the wonderful dexterity of well-practised hands, the long tradition of innumerable ages, and the vast accumulation of technical wisdom that are manifested in the various handicrafts, have always been interesting to me, and i have ever loved to watch the artist at his work. i have often induced shelley to take part in such observations, and although he never threw himself in the way of professors of the manual erudition of the workshop, his vivid delight in witnessing the marvels of the plastic hand, whenever they were brought before his eyes, was very striking; and the rude workman was often gratified to find that his merit in one narrow field was, at once and intuitively, so fully appreciated by the young scholar. the instances are innumerable that would attest an unusual sympathy with the arts of construction even in their most simple stages. i led him one summer's evening into a brickfield. it had never occurred to him to ask himself how a brick is formed; the secret was revealed in a moment. he was charmed with the simple contrivance, and astonished at the rapidity, facility and exactness with which it was put in use by so many busy hands. an ordinary observer would have smiled and passed on, but the son of fancy confessed his delight with an energy which roused the attention even of the ragged throng, that seemed to exist only that they might pass successive lumps of clay through a wooden frame. i was surprised at the contrast between the general indifference of shelley for the mechanical arts and his intense admiration of a particular application of one of them the first time i noticed the latter peculiarity. during our residence at oxford i repaired to his rooms one morning at the accustomed hour, and i found a tailor with him. he had expected to receive a new coat on the preceding evening; it was not sent home and he was mortified. i know not why, for he was commonly altogether indifferent about dress, and scarcely appeared to distinguish one coat from another. he was now standing erect in the middle of the room in his new blue coat, with all its glittering buttons, and, to atone for the delay, the tailor was loudly extolling the beauty of the cloth and the felicity of the fit; his eloquence had not been thrown away upon his customer, for never was man more easily persuaded than the master of persuasion. the man of thimbles applied to me to vouch his eulogies. i briefly assented to them. he withdrew, after some bows, and shelley, snatching his hat, cried with shrill impatience,-- "let us go!" "do you mean to walk in the fields in your new coat?" i asked. "yes, certainly," he answered, and we sallied forth. we sauntered for a moderate space through lanes and by-ways, until we reached a spot near to a farmhouse, where the frequent trampling of much cattle had rendered the road almost impassable, and deep with black mud; but by crossing the corner of a stack-yard, from one gate to another, we could tread upon clean straw, and could wholly avoid the impure and impracticable slough. we had nearly effected the brief and commodious transit--i was stretching forth my hand to open the gate that led us back into the lane--when a lean, brindled and most ill-favoured mastiff, that had stolen upon us softly over the straw unheard and without barking, seized shelley suddenly by the skirts. i instantly kicked the animal in the ribs with so much force that i felt for some days after the influence of his gaunt bones on my toe. the blow caused him to flinch towards the left, and shelley, turning round quickly, planted a kick in his throat, which sent him sprawling, and made him retire hastily among the stacks, and we then entered the lane. the fury of the mastiff, and the rapid turn, had torn the skirts of the new blue coat across the back, just about that part of the human loins which our tailors, for some wise but inscrutable purpose, are wont to adorn with two buttons. they were entirely severed from the body, except a narrow strip of cloth on the left side, and this shelley presently rent asunder. i never saw him so angry either before or since. he vowed that he would bring his pistols and shoot the dog, and that he would proceed at law against the owner. the fidelity of the dog towards his master is very beautiful in theory, and there is much to admire and to revere in this ancient and venerable alliance; but, in practice, the most unexceptionable dog is a nuisance to all mankind, except his master, at all times, and very often to him also, and a fierce surly dog is the enemy of the whole human race. the farmyards in many parts of england are happily free from a pest that is formidable to everybody but thieves by profession; in other districts savage dogs abound, and in none so much, according to my experience, as in the vicinity of oxford. the neighbourhood of a still more famous city--of rome--is likewise infested by dogs, more lowering, more ferocious and incomparably more powerful. shelley was proceeding home with rapid strides, bearing the skirts of his new coat on his left arm, to procure his pistols that he might wreak his vengeance upon the offending dog. i disliked the race, but i did not desire to take an ignoble revenge upon the miserable individual. "let us try to fancy, shelley," i said to him, as he was posting away in indignant silence, "that we have been at oxford, and have come back again, and that you have just laid the beast low--and what then?" he was silent for some time, but i soon perceived, from the relaxation of his pace, that his anger had relaxed also. at last he stopped short, and taking the skirts from his arm, spread them upon the hedge, stood gazing at them with a mournful aspect, sighed deeply and, after a few moments, continued his march. "would it not be better to take the skirts with us?" i inquired. "no," he answered despondingly; "let them remain as a spectacle for men and gods!" we returned to oxford, and made our way by back streets to our college. as we entered the gates the officious scout remarked with astonishment shelley's strange spencer, and asked for the skirts, that he might instantly carry the wreck to the tailor. shelley answered, with his peculiarly pensive air, "they are upon the hedge." the scout looked up at the clock, at shelley and through the gate into the street, as it were at the same moment and with one eager glance, and would have run blindly in quest of them, but i drew the skirts from my pocket and unfolded them, and he followed us to shelley's rooms. we were sitting there in the evening at tea, when the tailor, who had praised the coat so warmly in the morning, brought it back as fresh as ever, and apparently uninjured. it had been fine-drawn. he showed how skilfully the wound had been healed, and he commended at some length the artist who had effected the cure. shelley was astonished and delighted. had the tailor consumed the new blue coat in one of his crucibles, and suddenly raised it, by magical incantation, a fresh and purple phoenix from the ashes, his admiration could hardly have been more vivid. it might be, in this instance, that his joy at the unexpected restoration of a coat, for which, although he was utterly indifferent to dress, he had, through some unaccountable caprice, conceived a fondness, gave force to his sympathy with art; but i have remarked in innumerable cases, where no personal motive could exist, that he was animated by all the ardour of a maker in witnessing the display of the creative energies. nor was the young poet less interested by imitation, especially the imitation of action, than by the creative arts. our theatrical representations have long been degraded by a most pernicious monopoly, by vast abuses and enormous corruptions, and by the prevalence of bad taste. far from feeling a desire to visit the theatres, shelley would have esteemed it a cruel infliction to have been compelled to witness performances that less fastidious critics have deemed intolerable. he found delight, however, in reading the best of our english dramas, particularly the masterpieces of shakespeare, and he was never weary of studying the more perfect compositions of the attic tragedians. the lineaments of individual character may frequently be traced more certainly and more distinctly in trifles than in more important affairs; for in the former the deportment, even of the boldest and more ingenuous, is more entirely emancipated from every restraint. i recollect many minute traits that display the inborn sympathy of a brother practitioner in the mimetic arts. one silly tale, because, in truth, it is the most trivial of all, will best illustrate the conformation of his mind; its childishness, therefore, will be pardoned. a young man of studious habits and of considerable talent occasionally derived a whimsical amusement, during his residence at cambridge, from entering the public-houses in the neighbouring villages, whilst the fen-farmers and other rustics were smoking and drinking, and from repeating a short passage of a play, or a portion of an oration, which described the death of a distinguished person, the fatal result of a mighty battle, or other important events, in a forcible manner. he selected a passage of which the language was nearly on a level with vulgar comprehension, or he adapted one by somewhat mitigating its elevation; and, although his appearance did not bespeak histrionic gifts, he was able to utter it impressively and, what was most effective, not theatrically, but simply and with the air of a man who was in earnest; and if he were interrupted or questioned, he could slightly modify the discourse, without materially changing the sense, to give it a further appearance of reality; and so staid and sober was the gravity of his demeanour as to render it impossible for the clowns to solve the wonder by supposing that he was mad. during his declamation the orator feasted inwardly on the stupid astonishment of his petrified audience, and he further regaled himself afterwards by imagining the strange conjectures that would commence at his departure. shelley was much interested by the account i gave him of this curious fact, from the relation of two persons, who had witnessed the performance. he asked innumerable questions, which i was in general quite unable to answer; and he spoke of it as something altogether miraculous, that anyone should be able to recite extraordinary events in such a manner as to gain credence. as he insisted much upon the difficulty of the exploit, i told him that i thought he greatly over-estimated it, i was disposed to believe that it was in truth easy; that faith and a certain gravity were alone needed. i had been struck by the story, when i first heard it; and i had often thought of the practicability of imitating the deception, and although i had never proceeded so far myself, i had once or twice found it convenient to attempt something similar. at these words shelley drew his chair close to mine, and listened with profound silence and intense curiosity. i was walking one afternoon in the summer on the western side of that short street leading from long acre to covent garden, wherein the passenger is earnestly invited, as a personal favour to the demandant, to proceed straightway to highgate or to kentish town, and which is called, i think, james street. i was about to enter covent garden, when an irish labourer, whom i met, bearing an empty hod, accosted me somewhat roughly, and asked why i had run against him. i told him briefly that he was mistaken. whether somebody had actually pushed the man, or he sought only to quarrel--and although he doubtless attended a weekly row regularly, and the week was already drawing to a close, he was unable to wait until sunday for a broken head--i know not; but he discoursed for some time with the vehemence of a man who considers himself injured or insulted, and he concluded, being emboldened by my long silence, with a cordial invitation just to push him again. several persons, not very unlike in costume, had gathered round him, and appeared to regard him with sympathy. when he paused, i addressed to him slowly and quietly, and it should seem with great gravity, these words, as nearly as i can recollect them:-- "i have put my hand into the hamper; i have looked upon the sacred barley; i have eaten out of the drum! i have drunk and was well pleased! i have said _konx ompax_, and it is finished!" "have you, sir?" inquired the astonished irishman, and his ragged friends instantly pressed round him with "where is the hamper, paddy?" "what barley?" and the like. and ladies from his own country--that is to say, the basket-women, suddenly began to interrogate him, "now, i say, pat, where have you been drinking? what have you had?" i turned therefore to the right, leaving the astounded neophyte, whom i had thus planted, to expound the mystic words of initiation as he could to his inquisitive companions. as i walked slowly under the piazzas, and through the streets and courts, towards the west, i marvelled at the ingenuity of orpheus--if he were indeed the inventor of the eleusinian mysteries--that he was able to devise words that, imperfectly as i had repeated them, and in the tattered fragment that has reached us, were able to soothe people so savage and barbarous as those to whom i had addressed them, and which, as the apologists for those venerable rites affirm, were manifestly well adapted to incite persons, who hear them for the first time, however rude they may be, to ask questions. words, that can awaken curiosity, even in the sluggish intellect of a wild man, and can thus open the inlet of knowledge! * * * * * "_konx ompax_, and it is finished!" exclaimed shelley, crowing with enthusiastic delight at my whimsical adventure. a thousand times, as he strode about the house, and in his rambles out of doors, would he stop and repeat aloud the mystic words of initiation, but always with an energy of manner, and a vehemence of tone and of gesture that would have prevented the ready acceptance, which a calm, passionless delivery had once procured for them. how often would he throw down his book, clasp his hands, and starting from his seat, cry suddenly, with a thrilling voice, "i have said _konx ompax_, and it is finished!" chapter vi as our attention is most commonly attracted by those departments of knowledge which are striking and remarkable, rather than by those which are really useful, so, in estimating the character of an individual, we are prone to admire extraordinary intellectual powers and uncommon energies of thought, and to overlook that excellence which is, in truth, the most precious--his moral value. was the subject of biography distinguished by a vast erudition? was he conspicuous for an original genius? for a warm and fruitful fancy? such are the implied questions which we seek to resolve by consulting the memoirs of his life. we may sometimes desire to be informed whether he was a man of nice honour and conspicuous integrity; but how rarely do we feel any curiosity with respect to that quality which is, perhaps, the most important to his fellows--how seldom do we desire to measure his benevolence! it would be impossible faithfully to describe the course of a single day in the ordinary life of shelley without showing incidentally and unintentionally, that his nature was eminently benevolent--and many minute traits, pregnant with proof, have been already scattered by the way; but it would be an injustice to his memory to forbear to illustrate expressly, but briefly, in leave-taking, the ardent, devoted, and unwearied love he bore his kind. a personal intercourse could alone enable the observer to discern in him a soul ready winged for flight and scarcely detained by the fetters of body: that happiness was, if possible, still more indispensable to open the view of the unbounded expanse of cloudless philanthropy--pure, disinterested, and unvaried--the aspect of which often filled with mute wonder the minds of simple people, unable to estimate a penetrating genius, a docile sagacity, a tenacious memory, or, indeed, any of the various ornaments of the soul. whenever the intimate friends of shelley speak of him in general terms, they speedily and unconsciously fall into the language of panegyric--a style of discourse that is barren of instruction, wholly devoid of interest, and justly suspected by the prudent stranger. it becomes them, therefore, on discovering the error they have committed, humbly to entreat the forgiveness of the charitable for human infirmity, oppressed and weighed down by the fulness of the subject--carefully to abstain in future from every vague expression of commendation, and faithfully to relate a plain, honest tale of unadorned facts. a regard for children, singular and touching, is an unerring and most engaging indication of a benevolent mind. that this characteristic was not wanting in shelley might be demonstrated by numerous examples which crowd upon the recollection, each of them bearing the strongly impressed stamp of individuality; for genius renders every surrounding circumstance significant and important. in one of our rambles we were traversing the bare, squalid, ugly, corn-yielding country, that lies, if i remember rightly, to the south-west of oxford. the hollow road ascended a hill, and near the summit shelley observed a female child leaning against the bank on the right; it was of a mean, dull and unattractive aspect, and older than its stunted growth denoted. the morning, as well as the preceding night, had been rainy; it had cleared up at noon with a certain ungenial sunshine, and the afternoon was distinguished by that intense cold which sometimes, in the winter season, terminates such days. the little girl was oppressed by cold, by hunger and by a vague feeling of abandonment. it was not easy to draw from her blue lips an intelligible history of her condition. love, however, is at once credulous and apprehensive; and shelley immediately decided that she had been deserted, and with his wonted precipitation (for in the career of humanity his active spirit knew no pause), he proposed different schemes for the permanent relief of the poor foundling, and he hastily inquired which of them was the most expedient. i answered that it was desirable, in the first place, to try to procure some food, for of this the want was manifestly the most urgent. i then climbed the hill to reconnoitre, and observed a cottage close at hand, on the left of the road. with considerable difficulty--with a gentle violence indeed--shelley induced the child to accompany him thither. after much delay, we procured from the people of the place, who resembled the dull, uncouth and perhaps sullen rustics of that district, some warm milk. it was a strange spectacle to watch the young poet, whilst, with the enthusiastic and intensely earnest manner that characterises the legitimate brethren of the celestial art--the heaven-born and fiercely inspired sons of genuine poesy--holding the wooden bowl in one hand and the wooden spoon in the other, and kneeling on his left knee, that he might more certainly attain to her mouth. he urged and encouraged the torpid and timid child to eat. the hot milk was agreeable to the girl, and its effects were salutary; but she was obviously uneasy at the detention. her uneasiness increased, and ultimately prevailed. we returned with her to the place where we had found her, shelley bearing the bowl of milk in his hand. here we saw some people anxiously looking for the child--a man and, i think, four women, strangers of the poorest class, of a mean but not disreputable appearance. as soon as the girl perceived them she was content, and taking the bowl from shelley, she finished the milk without his help. meanwhile, one of the women explained the apparent desertion with a multitude of rapid words. they had come from a distance, and to spare the weary child the fatigue of walking farther, the day being at that time sunny, they left her to await their return. those unforeseen delays, which harass all, and especially the poor, in transacting business, had detained them much longer than they had anticipated. such, in a few words, is the story which was related in many, and which the little girl, who, it was said, was somewhat deficient in understanding as well as in stature, was unable to explain. so humble was the condition of these poor wayfaring folks that they did not presume to offer thanks in words; but they often turned back, and with mute wonder gazed at shelley who, totally unconscious that he had done anything to excite surprise, returned with huge strides to the cottage to restore the bowl and to pay for the milk. as the needy travellers pursued their toilsome and possibly fruitless journey, they had at least the satisfaction to reflect that all above them were not desolated by a dreary apathy, but that some hearts were warm with that angelic benevolence towards inferiors in which still higher natures, as we are taught, largely participate. shelley would often pause, halting suddenly in his swift course, to admire the children of the country people; and after gazing on a sweet and intelligent countenance, he would exhibit, in the language and with an aspect of acute anguish, his intense feeling of the future sorrows and sufferings--of all the manifold evils of life which too often distort, by a mean and most disagreeable expression, the innocent, happy and engaging lineaments of youth. he sometimes stopped to observe the softness and simplicity that the face and gestures of a gentle girl displayed, and he would surpass her gentleness by his own. we were strolling once in the neighbourhood of oxford when shelley was attracted by a little girl. he turned aside, and stood and observed her in silence. she was about six years of age, small and slight, bare-headed, bare-legged, and her apparel variegated and tattered. she was busily employed in collecting empty snail-shells, so much occupied, indeed, that some moments elapsed before she turned her face towards us. when she did so, we perceived that she was evidently a young gipsy; and shelley was forcibly struck by the vivid intelligence of her wild and swarthy countenance, and especially by the sharp glance of her fierce black eyes. "how much intellect is here!" he exclaimed; "in how humble a vessel, and what an unworthy occupation for a person who once knew perfectly the whole circle of the sciences; who has forgotten them all, it is true, but who could certainly recollect them, although most probably she will never do so, will never recall a single principle of all of them!" as he spoke he turned aside a bramble with his foot and discovered a large shell which the alert child instantly caught up and added to her store. at the same moment a small stone was thrown from the other side of the road; it fell in the hedge near us. we turned round and saw on the top of a high bank a boy, some three years older than the girl, and in as rude a guise. he was looking at us over a low hedge, with a smile, but plainly not without suspicion. we might be two kidnappers, he seemed to think; he was in charge of his little sister, and did not choose to have her stolen before his face. he gave the signal, therefore, and she obeyed it, and had almost joined him before we missed her from our side. they both disappeared, and we continued our walk. shelley was charmed with the intelligence of the two children of nature, and with their marvellous wildness. he talked much about them, and compared them to birds and to the two wild leverets, which that wild mother, the hare, produces. we sauntered about, and, half an hour afterwards, on turning a corner, we suddenly met the two children again full in the face. the meeting was unlooked for, and the air of the boy showed that it was unpleasant to him. he had a large bundle of dry sticks under his arm; these he gently dropped and stood motionless with an apprehensive smile--a deprecatory smile. we were perhaps the lords of the soil, and his patience was prepared, for patience was his lot--an inalienable inheritance long entailed upon his line--to hear a severe reproof with heavy threats, possibly even to receive blows with a stick gathered by himself not altogether unwittingly for his own back, or to find mercy and forbearance. shelley's demeanour soon convinced him that he had nothing to fear. he laid a hand on the round, matted, knotted, bare and black head of each, viewed their moving, mercurial countenances with renewed pleasure and admiration, and, shaking his long locks, suddenly strode away. "that little ragged fellow knows as much as the wisest philosopher," he presently cried, clapping the wings of his soul and crowing aloud with shrill triumph at the felicitous union of the true with the ridiculous, "but he will not communicate any portion of his knowledge. it is not from churlishness, however, for of that his nature is plainly incapable; but the sophisticated urchin will persist in thinking he has forgotten all that he knows so well. i was about to ask him myself to communicate some of the doctrines plato unfolds in his _dialogues_; but i felt that it would do no good; the rogue would have laughed at me, and so would his little sister. i wonder you did not propose to them some mathematical questions: just a few interrogations in your geometry; for that being so plain and certain, if it be once thoroughly understood, can never be forgotten!" a day or two afterwards (or it might be on the morrow), as we were rambling in the favourite region at the foot of shotover hill, a gipsy's tent by the roadside caught shelley's eye. men and women were seated on the ground in front of it, watching a pot suspended over a smoky fire of sticks. he cast a passing glance at the ragged group, but immediately stopped on recognising the children, who remembered us and ran laughing into the tent. shelley laughed also and waved his hand, and the little girl returned the salutation. there were many striking contrasts in the character and behaviour of shelley, and one of the most remarkable was a mixture or alternation of awkwardness with agility, of the clumsy with the graceful. he would stumble in stepping across the floor of a drawing-room; he would trip himself up on a smooth-shaven grass-plot, and he would tumble in the most inconceivable manner in ascending the commodious, facile, and well-carpeted staircase of an elegant mansion, so as to bruise his nose or his lip on the upper steps, or to tread upon his hands, and even occasionally to disturb the composure of a well-bred footman; on the contrary, he would often glide without collision through a crowded assembly, thread with unerring dexterity a most intricate path, or securely and rapidly tread the most arduous and uncertain ways. as soon as he saw the children enter the tent he darted after them with his peculiar agility, followed them into their low, narrow and fragile tenement, penetrated to the bottom of the tent without removing his hat or striking against the woven edifice. he placed a hand on each round, rough head, spoke a few kind words to the skulking children, and then returned not less precipitously, and with as much ease and accuracy as if he had been a dweller in tents from the hour when he first drew air and milk to that day, as if he had been the descendant, not of a gentle house, but of a long line of gipsies. his visit roused the jealousy of a stunted, feeble dog, which followed him, and barked with helpless fury; he did not heed it nor, perhaps, hear it. the company of gipsies were astonished at the first visit that had ever been made by a member of either university to their humble dwelling; but, as its object was evidently benevolent, they did not stir or interfere, but greeted him on his return with a silent and unobserved salutation. he seized my arm, and we prosecuted our speculations as we walked briskly to our college. the marvellous gentleness of his demeanour could conciliate the least sociable natures, and it had secretly touched the wild things which he had thus briefly noticed. we were wandering through the roads and lanes at a short distance from the tent soon afterwards, and were pursuing our way in silence. i turned round at a sudden sound--the young gipsy had stolen upon us unperceived, and with a long bramble had struck shelley across the skirts of his coat. he had dropped his rod, and was returning softly to the hedge. certain misguided persons, who, unhappily for themselves, were incapable of understanding the true character of shelley, have published many false and injurious calumnies respecting him--some for hire, others drawing largely out of the inborn vulgarity of their own minds, or from the necessary malignity of ignorance--but no one ever ventured to say that he was not a good judge of an orange. at this time, in his nineteenth year, although temperate, he was less abstemious in his diet than he afterwards became, and he was frequently provided with some fine samples. as soon as he understood the rude but friendly welcome to the heaths and lanes, he drew an orange from his pocket and rolled it after the retreating gipsy along the grass by the side of the wide road. the boy started with surprise as the golden fruit passed him, quickly caught it up and joyfully bore it away, bending reverently over it and carrying it with both his hands, as if, together with almost the size, it had also the weight of a cannon-ball. his passionate fondness of the platonic philosophy seemed to sharpen his natural affection for children, and his sympathy with their innocence. every true platonist, he used to say, must be a lover of children, for they are our masters and instructors in philosophy. the mind of a new-born infant, so far from being, as locke affirms, a sheet of blank paper, is a pocket edition containing every dialogue, a complete elzevir plato, if we can fancy such a pleasant volume, and moreover a perfect encyclopedia, comprehending not only the newest discoveries, but all those still more valuable and wonderful inventions that will hereafter be made. one sunday we had been reading plato together so diligently that the usual hour of exercise passed away unperceived. we sallied forth hastily to take the air for half an hour before dinner. in the middle of magdalen bridge we met a woman with a child in her arms. shelley was more attentive at that instant to our conduct in a life that was past or to come than to a decorous regulation of the present, according to the established usages of society in that fleeting moment of eternal duration styled the nineteenth century. with abrupt dexterity he caught hold of the child. the mother, who might well fear that it was about to be thrown over the parapet of the bridge into the sedgy waters below, held it fast by its long train. "will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence, madam?" he asked, in a piercing voice and with a wistful look. the mother made no answer, but, perceiving that shelley's object was not murderous but altogether harmless, she dismissed her apprehension and relaxed her hold. "will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence, madam?" he repeated, with unabated earnestness. "he cannot speak, sir," said the mother, seriously. "worse and worse," cried shelley, with an air of deep disappointment, shaking his long hair most pathetically about his young face; "but surely the babe can speak if he will, for he is only a few weeks old. he may fancy, perhaps, that he cannot, but it is only a silly whim. he cannot have forgotten entirely the use of speech in so short a time. the thing is absolutely impossible!" "it is not for me to dispute with you, gentlemen," the woman meekly replied, her eye glancing at our academical garb, "but i can safely declare that i never heard him speak, nor any child, indeed, of his age." it was a fine, placid boy: so far from being disturbed by the interruption, he looked up and smiled. shelley pressed his fat cheeks with his fingers; we commended his healthy appearance and his equanimity, and the mother was permitted to proceed, probably to her satisfaction, for she would doubtless prefer a less speculative nurse. shelley sighed deeply as we walked on. "how provokingly close are those new-born babes!" he ejaculated; "but it is not the less certain, notwithstanding the cunning attempts to conceal the truth, that all knowledge is reminiscence. the doctrine is far more ancient than the times of plato, and as old as the venerable allegory that the muses are the daughters of memory; not one of the nine was ever said to be the child of invention!" in consequence of this theory, upon which his active imagination loved to dwell, and which he was delighted to maintain in argument with the few persons qualified to dispute with him on the higher metaphysics, his fondness for children--a fondness innate in generous minds--was augmented and elevated, and the gentle instinct expanded into a profound and philosophical sentiment. the platonists have been illustrious in all ages on account of the strength and permanence of their attachments. in shelley the parental affections were developed at an early period to an unusual extent. it was manifest, therefore, that his heart was formed by nature and by cultivation to derive the most exquisite gratification from the society of his own progeny, or the most poignant anguish from a natural or unnatural bereavement. to strike him here was the cruel admonition which a cursory glance would at once convey to him who might seek where to wound him most severely with a single blow, should he ever provoke the vengeance of an enemy to the active and fearless spirit of liberal investigation and to all solid learning--of a foe to the human race. with respect to the theory of the pre-existence of the soul, it is not wonderful that an ardent votary of the intellectual should love to uphold it in strenuous and protracted disputation, as it places the immortality of the soul in an impregnable castle, and not only secures it an existence independent of the body, as it were, by usage and prescription, but moreover, raising it out of the dirt on tall stilts, elevates it far above the mud of matter. it is not wonderful that a subtle sophist, who esteemed above all riches and terrene honours victory in well-fought debate, should be willing to maintain a dogma that is not only of difficult eversion by those who, struggling as mere metaphysicians, use no other weapon than unassisted reason, but which one of the most illustrious fathers of the church--a man of amazing powers and stupendous erudition, armed with the prodigious resources of the christian theology, the renowned origen--was unable to dismiss; retaining it as not dissonant from his informed reason, and as affording a larger scope for justice in the moral government of the universe. in addition to his extreme fondness for children, another and a not less unequivocal characteristic of a truly philanthropic mind was eminently and still more remarkably conspicuous in shelley--his admiration of men of learning and genius. in truth the devotion, the reverence, the religion with which he was kindled towards all the masters of intellect, cannot be described, and must be utterly inconceivable to minds less deeply enamoured with the love of wisdom. the irreverent many cannot comprehend the awe, the careless apathetic worldling cannot imagine the enthusiasm, nor can the tongue that attempts only to speak of things visible to the bodily eye, express the mighty motion that inwardly agitated him when he approached, for the first time, a volume which he believed to be replete with the recondite and mystic philosophy of antiquity; his cheeks glowed, his eyes became bright, his whole frame trembled, and his entire attention was immediately swallowed up in the depths of contemplation. the rapid and vigorous conversion of his soul to intellect can only be compared with the instantaneous ignition and combustion which dazzle the sight, when a bundle of dry reeds or other inflammable substance is thrown upon a fire already rich with accumulated heat. the company of persons of merit was delightful to him, and he often spoke with a peculiar warmth of the satisfaction he hoped to derive from the society of the most distinguished literary and scientific characters of the day in england, and the other countries of europe, when his own attainments would justify him in seeking their acquaintance. he was never weary of recounting the rewards and favours that authors had formerly received; and he would detail in pathetic language, and with a touching earnestness, the instances of that poverty and neglect which an iron age assigned as the fitting portion of solid erudition and undoubted talents. he would contrast the niggard praise and the paltry payments that the cold and wealthy moderns reluctantly dole out, with the ample and heartfelt commendation and the noble remuneration which were freely offered by the more generous but less opulent ancients. he spoke with an animation of gesture and an elevation of voice of him who undertook a long journey, that he might once see the historian livy; and he recounted the rich legacies which were bequeathed to cicero and pliny the younger by testators venerating their abilities and attainments--his zeal, enthusiastic in the cause of letters, giving an interest and a novelty to the most trite and familiar instances. his disposition being wholly munificent, gentle and friendly, how generous a patron would he have proved had he ever been in the actual possession of even moderate wealth! out of a scanty and somewhat precarious income, inadequate to allow the indulgence of the most ordinary superfluities, and diminished by various casual but unavoidable incumbrances, he was able, by restricting himself to a diet more simple than the fare of the most austere anchorite, and by refusing himself horses and the other gratifications that appear properly to belong to his station, and of which he was in truth very fond, to bestow upon men of letters, whose merits were of too high an order to be rightly estimated by their own generation, donations large indeed, if we consider from how narrow a source they flowed. but to speak of this, his signal and truly admirable bounty, save only in the most distant manner and the most general terms, would be a flagrant violation of that unequalled delicacy with which it was extended to undeserved indigence, accompanied by well-founded and most commendable pride. to allude to any particular instance, however obscurely and indistinctly, would be unpardonable; but it would be scarcely less blameable to dismiss the consideration of the character of the benevolent young poet without some imperfect testimony of this rare excellence. that he gave freely, when the needy scholar asked or in silent, hopeless poverty seemed to ask his aid, will be demonstrated most clearly by relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the applicant had no pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever, except perhaps honest penury. it is delightful to attempt to delineate from various points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty, but one instance must suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such tales, but one may be selected because it contains a large admixture of that ingredient which is essential to the conversion of almsgiving into the genuine virtue of charity--self-denial. on returning to town after the long vacation at the end of october, i found shelley at one of the hotels in covent garden. having some business in hand he was passing a few days there alone. we had taken some mutton chops hastily at a dark place in one of the minute courts of the city at an early hour, and we went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and especially in the evening, was his supreme delight. the aspect of the fields to the north of somers town, between that beggarly suburb and kentish town, has been totally changed of late. although this district could never be accounted pretty, nor deserving a high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet the air, or often the wind, seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging from the smoke of london. there were certain old elms, much very green grass, quiet cattle feeding and groups of noisy children playing with something of the freedom of the village green. there was, oh blessed thing! an entire absence of carriages and of blood-horses; of the dust and dress and affectation and fashion of the parks; there were, moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which gave character to the scene. whenever shelley was imprisoned in london--for to a poet a close and crowded city must be a dreary gaol--his steps would take that direction, unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by one who chose to guide his walk. on this occasion i was led thither, as indeed i had anticipated. the weather was fine, but the autumn was already advanced; we had not sauntered long in these fields when the dusky evening closed in, and the darkness gradually thickened. "how black those trees are," said shelley, stopping short and pointing to a row of elms. "it is so dark the trees might well be houses and the turf pavement--the eye would sustain no loss. it is useless, therefore, to remain here; let us return." he proposed tea at his hotel, i assented; and hastily buttoning his coat he seized my arm and set off at his great pace, striding with bent knees over the fields and through the narrow streets. we were crossing the new road, when he said shortly, "i must call for a moment, but it will not be out of the way at all," and then dragged me suddenly towards the left. i inquired whither we were bound, and, i believe, i suggested the postponement of the intended call till the morrow. he answered, it was not at all out of our way. i was hurried along rapidly towards the left. we soon fell into an animated discussion respecting the nature of the virtue of the romans, which in some measure beguiled the weary way. whilst he was talking with much vehemence and a total disregard of the people who thronged the streets, he suddenly wheeled about and pushed me through a narrow door; to my infinite surprise i found myself in a pawnbroker's shop. it was in the neighbourhood of newgate street, for he had no idea whatever, in practice, either of time or space, nor did he in any degree regard method in the conduct of business. there were several women in the shop in brown and grey cloaks, with squalling children. some of them were attempting to persuade the children to be quiet, or at least to scream with moderation; the others were enlarging upon and pointing out the beauties of certain coarse and dirty sheets that lay before them to a man on the other side of the counter. i bore this substitute for our proposed tea some minutes with tolerable patience, but as the call did not promise to terminate speedily, i said to shelley, in a whisper, "is not this almost as bad as the roman virtue?" upon this he approached the pawnbroker; it was long before he could obtain a hearing, and he did not find civility. the man was unwilling to part with a valuable pledge so soon, or perhaps he hoped to retain it eventually; or it might be that the obliquity of his nature disqualified him for respectful behaviour. a pawnbroker is frequently an important witness in criminal proceedings. it has happened to me, therefore, afterwards to see many specimens of this kind of banker. they sometimes appeared not less respectable than other tradesmen, and sometimes i have been forcibly reminded of the first i ever met with, by an equally ill-conditioned fellow. i was so little pleased with the introduction that i stood aloof in the shop, and did not hear what passed between him and shelley. on our way to covent garden i expressed my surprise and dissatisfaction at our strange visit, and i learned that when he came to london before, in the course of the summer, some old man had related to him a tale of distress--of a calamity which could only be alleviated by the timely application of ten pounds; five of them he drew at once from his pocket, and to raise the other five he had pawned his beautiful solar microscope! he related this act of beneficence simply and briefly, as if it were a matter of course, and such indeed it was to him. i was ashamed at my impatience, and we strode along in silence. it was past ten when we reached the hotel. some excellent tea and a liberal supply of hot muffins in the coffee-room, now quiet and solitary, were the more grateful after the wearisome delay and vast deviation. shelley often turned his head and cast eager glances towards the door, and whenever the waiter replenished our tea-pot or approached our box he was interrogated whether anyone had yet called. at last the desired summons was brought. shelley drew forth some banknotes, hurried to the bar, and returned as hastily, bearing in triumph under his arm a mahogany box, followed by the officious waiter, with whose assistance he placed it upon the bench by his side. he viewed it often with evident satisfaction, and sometimes patted it affectionately in the course of calm conversation. the solar microscope was always a favourite plaything or instrument of scientific inquiry. whenever he entered a house his first care was to choose some window of a southern aspect, and, if permission could be obtained by prayer or by purchase, straightway to cut a hole through the shutter to receive it. his regard for his solar microscope was as lasting as it was strong; for he retained it several years after this adventure, and long after he had parted with all the rest of his philosophical apparatus. such is the story of the microscope, and no rightly judging person who hears it will require the further accumulation of proofs of a benevolent heart; nor can i, perhaps, better close this sketch than with that impression of the pure and genial beauty of shelley's nature which this simple anecdote will bequeath. chapter vii the theory of civil liberty has ever seemed lovely to the eyes of a young man enamoured of moral and intellectual beauty. shelley's devotion to freedom, therefore, was ardent and sincere. he would have submitted with cheerful alacrity to the greatest sacrifices, had they been demanded of him, to advance the sacred cause of liberty; and he would have gallantly encountered every peril in the fearless resistance to active oppression. nevertheless, in ordinary times, although a generous and unhesitating patriot, he was little inclined to consume the pleasant season of youth amidst the intrigues and clamours of elections, and in the dull and selfish cabals of parties. his fancy viewed from a lofty eminence the grand scheme of an ideal republic; and he could not descend to the humble task of setting out the boundaries of neighbouring rights, and to the uninviting duties of actual administration. he was still less disposed to interest himself in the politics of the day because he observed the pernicious effects of party zeal in a field where it ought not to enter. it is no slight evil, but a heavy price paid for popular institutions, that society should be divided into hostile clans to serve the selfish purposes of a few political adventurers; and surely to introduce politics within the calm precincts of a university ought to be deemed a capital offence--a felony without benefit of clergy. the undue admission (to borrow the language of universities for a moment) is not less fatal to its existence as an institution designed for the advancement of learning, than the reception of the wooden horse within the walls of troy was to the safety of that renowned city. what does it import the interpreters of pindar and thucydides, the expositors of plato and aristotle, if a few interested persons, for the sake of some lucrative posts, affect to believe that it is a matter of vital importance to the state to concede certain privileges to the roman catholics; whilst others, for the same reason, pretend with tears in their eyes that the concessions would be dangerous and indeed destructive, and shudder with feigned horror at the harmless proposal? such pretexts may be advantageous and perhaps even honourable to the ingenious persons who use them for the purposes of immediate advancement; but of what concernment are they to apollo and the muses? how could the catholic question augment the calamities of priam, or diminish the misfortunes of the ill-fated house of labdacus? or which of the doubts of the ancient philosophers would the most satisfactory solution of it remove? why must the modest student come forth and dance upon the tightrope, with the mountebanks, since he is to receive no part of the reward, and would not emulate the glory of those meritorious artists? yet did this most inapplicable question mainly contribute to poison the harmless and studious felicity which we enjoyed at oxford. during the whole period of our residence there the university was cruelly disfigured by bitter feuds, arising out of the late election of its chancellor; in an especial manner was our own most venerable college deformed by them, and by angry and senseless disappointment. lord grenville had just been chosen. there could be no more comparison between his scholarship and his various qualifications for the honourable and useless office, and the claims of his unsuccessful opponent, than between the attainments of the best man of the year and those of the huge porter, who with a stern and solemn civility kept the gates of university college--the arts of mulled-wine and egg-hot being, in the latter case, alone excepted. the vanquished competitor, however, most unfortunately for its honour and character, was a member of our college; and in proportion as the intrinsic merits of our rulers were small, had the vehemence and violence of electioneering been great, that, through the abuse of the patronage of the church, they might attain to those dignities as the rewards of the activity of partisans, which they could never hope to reach through the legitimate road of superior learning and talents. their vexation at failing was the more sharp and abiding, because the only objection that vulgar bigotry could urge against the victor was his disposition to make concessions to the roman catholics; and every dull lampoon about popes and cardinals and the scarlet lady had accordingly been worn threadbare in vain. since the learned and liberal had conquered, learning and liberality were peculiarly odious with us at that epoch. the studious scholar, particularly if he were of an inquiring disposition, and of a bold and free temper, was suspected and disliked; he was one of the enemy's troops. the inert and the subservient were the loyal soldiers of the legitimate army of the faith. the despised and scattered nation of scholars is commonly unfortunate; but a more severe calamity has seldom befallen the remnant of true israelites than to be led captive by such a generation! youth is happy, because it is blithe and healthful and exempt from care; but it is doubly and trebly happy, since it is honest and fearless, honourable and disinterested. in the whole body of undergraduates, scarcely one was friendly to the holder of the loaves and the promiser of the fishes--lord eldon. all were eager--all, one and all--in behalf of the scholar and the liberal statesman; and plain and loud was the avowal of their sentiments. a sullen demeanour towards the young rebels displayed the annoyance arising from the want of success and from our lack of sympathy, and it would have demonstrated to the least observant that, where the muses dwell, the quarrels and intrigues of political parties ought not to come. by his family and his connections, as well as by disposition, shelley was attached to the successful side; and although it was manifest that he was a youth of an admirable temper, of rare talents and unwearied industry, and likely, therefore, to shed a lustre upon his college and the university itself, yet, as he was eminently delighted at that wherewith his superiors were offended, he was regarded from the beginning with a jealous eye. a young man of spirit will despise the mean spite of sordid minds; nevertheless the persecution which a generous soul can contemn, through frequent repetition too often becomes a severe annoyance in the long course of life, and shelley frequently and most pathetically lamented the political divisions which then harassed the university, and were a more fertile source of manifold ills in the wider field of active life. for this reason did he appear to cling more closely to our sweet, studious seclusion; and from this cause, perhaps, principally arose his disinclination--i may say, indeed, his intense antipathy--for the political career that had been proposed to him. a lurking suspicion would sometimes betray itself that he was to be forced into that path, and impressed into the civil service of the state, to become, as it were, a conscript legislator. a newspaper never found its way to his rooms the whole period of his residence at oxford; but when waiting in a bookseller's shop or at an inn he would sometimes, although rarely, permit his eye to be attracted by a murder or a storm. having perused the tale of wonder or of horror, if it chanced to stray to a political article, after reading a few lines he invariably threw it aside to a great distance; and he started from his seat his face flushing, and strode about muttering broken sentences, the purport of which was always the same: his extreme dissatisfaction at the want of candour and fairness, and the monstrous disingenuousness which politicians manifest in speaking of the characters and measures of their rivals. strangers, who caught imperfectly the sense of his indistinct murmurs, were often astonished at the vehemence of his mysterious displeasure. once i remember a bookseller, the master of a very small shop in a little country town, but apparently a sufficiently intelligent man, could not refrain from expressing his surprise that anyone should be offended with proceedings that seemed to him as much in the ordinary course of trade, and as necessary to its due exercise, as the red ligature of the bundle of quills, or the thin and pale brown wrapper which enclosed the quire of letter paper we had just purchased of him. a man of talents and learning, who refused to enlist under the banners of any party and did not deign to inform himself of the politics of the day, or to take the least part or interest in them, would be a noble and a novel spectacle; but so many persons hope to profit by dissensions, that the merits of such a steady lover of peace would not be duly appreciated, either by the little provincial bookseller or the other inhabitants of our turbulent country. the ordinary lectures in our college were of much shorter duration, and decidedly less difficult and less instructive than the lessons we had received in the higher classes of a public school; nor were our written exercises more stimulating than the oral. certain compositions were required at stated periods; but, however excellent they might be, they were never commended; however deficient, they were never censured; and, being altogether unnoticed, there was no reason to suppose that they were ever read. the university at large was not less remiss than each college in particular; the only incitement proposed was an examination at the end of four years. the young collegian might study in private, as diligently as he would, at oxford as in every other place; and if he chose to submit his pretensions to the examiners, his name was set down in the first, the second or the third class--if i mistake not, there were three divisions--according to his advancement. this list was printed precisely at the moment when he quitted the university for ever; a new generation of strangers might read the names of the unknown proficients, if they would. it was notorious, moreover, that, merely to obtain the academical degrees, every new-comer, who had passed through a tolerable grammar-school, brought with him a stock of learning, of which the residuum that had not evaporated during four years of dissipation and idleness, would be more than sufficient. the languid course of chartered laziness was ill suited to the ardent activity and glowing zeal of shelley. since those persons, who were hired at an enormous charge by his own family and by the state to find due and beneficial employment for him, thought fit to neglect this, their most sacred duty, he began forthwith to set himself to work. he read diligently--i should rather say he devoured greedily, with the voracious appetite of a famished man--the authors that roused his curiosity; he discoursed and discussed with energy; he wrote, he began to print and he designed soon to publish various works. he begins betimes who begins to instruct mankind at eighteen. the judicious will probably be of opinion that in eighteen years man can scarcely learn how to learn; and that for eighteen more years he ought to be content to learn; and if, at the end of the second period, he still thinks that he can impart anything worthy of attention, it is, at least, early enough to begin to teach. the fault, however, if it were a fault, was to be imputed to the times, and not to the individual, as the numerous precocious effusions of the day attest. shelley was quick to conceive, and not less quick to execute. when i called one morning at one, i found him busily occupied with some proofs, which he continued to correct and re-correct with anxious care. as he was wholly absorbed in this occupation, i selected a book from the floor, where there was always a good store, and read in silence for at least an hour. my thoughts being as completely abstracted as those of my companion, he startled me by suddenly throwing a paper with some force on the middle of the table, and saying, in a penetrating whisper, as he sprang eagerly from his chair, "i am going to publish some poems." in answer to my inquiries, he put the proofs into my hands. i read them twice attentively, for the poems were very short; and i told him there were some good lines, some bright thoughts, but there were likewise many irregularities and incongruities. i added that correctness was important in all compositions, but it constituted the essence of short ones; and that it surely would be imprudent to bring his little book out so hastily; and then i pointed out the errors and defects. he listened in silence with much attention, and did not dispute what i said, except that he remarked faintly that it would not be known that he was the author, and therefore the publication could not do him any harm. i answered that, although it might not be disadvantageous to be the unknown author of an unread work, it certainly could not be beneficial. he made no reply; and we immediately went out, and strolled about the public walks. we dined and returned to his rooms, where we conversed on different subjects. he did not mention his poems, but they occupied his thoughts; for he did not fall asleep as usual. whilst we were at tea, he said abruptly, "i think you disparage my poems. tell me what you dislike in them, for i have forgotten." i took the proofs from the place where i had left them, and looking over them, repeated the former objections, and suggested others. he acquiesced; and, after a pause, asked, might they be altered? i assented. "i will alter them." "it will be better to re-write them; a short poem should be of the first impression." some time afterwards he anxiously inquired, "but in their present form you do not think they ought to be published?" i had been looking over the proofs again, and i answered, "only as burlesque poetry;" and i read a part, changing it a little here and there. he laughed at the parody, and begged i would repeat it. i took a pen and altered it; and he then read it aloud several times in a ridiculous tone, and was amused by it. his mirth consoled him for the condemnation of his verses, and the intention of publishing them was abandoned. the proofs lay in his rooms for some days, and we occasionally amused ourselves during an idle moment by making them more and more ridiculous; by striking out the more sober passages; by inserting whimsical conceits, and especially by giving them what we called a dithyrambic character, which was effected by cutting some lines out, and joining the different parts together that would agree in construction, but were the most discordant in sense. although shelley was of a grave disposition, he had a certain sly relish for a practical joke, so that it were ingenuous and abstruse and of a literary nature. he would often exult in the successful forgeries of chatterton and ireland; and he was especially delighted with a trick that had lately been played at oxford by a certain noble viceroy, at that time an undergraduate, respecting the fairness of which the university was divided in opinion, all the undergraduates accounting it most just, and all the graduates, and especially the bachelors, extremely iniquitous, and indeed popish and jesuitical. a reward is offered annually for the best english essay on a subject proposed: the competitors send their anonymous essays, each being distinguished by a motto; when the grave arbitrators have selected the most worthy, they burn the vanquished essays, and open the sealed paper endorsed with a corresponding motto, and containing the name of the victor. on the late famous contention, all the ceremonies had been duly performed, but the sealed paper presented the name of an undergraduate, who was not qualified to be a candidate, and all the less meritorious discourses of the bachelors had been burnt, together with their sealed papers--so there was to be no bachelor's prize that year. when we had conferred a competent absurdity upon the proofs, we amused ourselves by proposing, but without the intention of executing our project, divers ludicrous titles for the work. sometimes we thought of publishing it in the name of some one of the chief living poets, or possibly of one of the graver authorities of the day; and we regaled ourselves by describing his wrathful renunciations, and his astonishment at finding himself immortalised, without his knowledge and against his will: the inability to die could not be more disagreeable even to tithonus himself; but how were we to handcuff our ungrateful favourite, that he might not tear off the unfading laurel which we were to place upon his brow? i hit upon a title at last, to which the pre-eminence was given, and we inscribed it upon the cover. a mad washerwoman, named peg nicholson, had attempted to stab the king, george the third, with a carving-knife; the story has long been forgotten, but it was then fresh in the recollection of every one; it was proposed that we should ascribe the poems to her. the poor woman was still living, and in green vigour within the walls of bedlam; but since her existence must be uncomfortable, there could be no harm in putting her to death, and in creating a nephew and administrator to be the editor of his aunt's poetical works. the idea gave an object and purpose to our burlesque--to ridicule the strange mixture of sentimentality with the murderous fury of the revolutionists, that was so prevalent in the compositions of the day; and the proofs were altered again to adapt them to this new scheme, but still without any notion of publication. when the bookseller called to ask for the proof, shelley told him that he had changed his mind, and showed them to him. the man was so much pleased with the whimsical conceit that he asked to be permitted to publish the book on his own account; promising inviolable secrecy, and as many copies _gratis_ as might be required: after some hesitation, permission was granted, upon the plighted honour of the trade. in a few days, or rather in a few hours, a noble quarto appeared; it consisted of a small number of pages, it is true, but they were of the largest size, of the thickest, the whitest and the smoothest drawing paper; a large, clear and handsome type had impressed a few lines with ink of a rich, glossy black, amidst ample margins. the poor maniac laundress was gravely styled "the late mrs margaret nicholson, widow;" and the sonorous name of fitzvictor had been culled for her inconsolable nephew and administrator. to add to his dignity, the waggish printer had picked up some huge text types of so unusual a form that even an antiquary could not spell the words at the first glance. the effect was certainly striking; shelley had torn open the large square bundle before the printer's boy quitted the room, and holding out a copy with both his hands, he ran about in an ecstasy of delight, gazing at the superb title-page. the first poem was a long one, condemning war in the lump--puling trash, that might have been written by a quaker, and could only have been published in sober sadness by a society instituted for the diffusion of that kind of knowledge which they deemed useful--useful for some end which they have not been pleased to reveal, and which unassisted reason is wholly unable to discover. the ms. had been confided to shelley by some rhymester of the day, and it was put forth in this shape to astonish a weak mind; but principally to captivate the admirers of philosophical poetry by the manifest incongruity of disallowing all war, even the most just, and then turning sharp round, and recommending the dagger of the assassin as the best cure for all evils, and the sure passport to a lady's favour. our book of useful knowledge--the philosopher's own book--contained sundry odes and other pieces, professing an ardent attachment to freedom, and proposing to stab all who were less enthusiastic than the supposed authoress. the work, however, was altered a little, i believe, before the final impression; but i never read it afterwards, for, when an author once sees his book in print, his task is ended, and he may fairly leave the perusal of it to posterity. i have one copy, if not more, somewhere or other, but not at hand. there were some verses, i remember, with a good deal about sucking in them; to these i objected, as unsuitable to the gravity of a university, but shelley declared they would be the most impressive of all. there was a poem concerning a young woman, one charlotte somebody, who attempted to assassinate robespierre, or some such person; and there was to have been a rapturous monologue to the dagger of brutus. the composition of such a piece was no mean effort of the muse. it was completed at last, but not in time; as the dagger itself has probably fallen a prey to rust, so the more pointed and polished monologue, it is to be feared, has also perished through a more culpable neglect. a few copies were sent, as a special favour, to trusty and sagacious friends at a distance, whose gravity would not permit them to suspect a hoax. they read and admired, being charmed with the wild notes of liberty. some, indeed, presumed to censure mildly certain passages as having been thrown off in too bold a vein. nor was a certain success wanting--the remaining copies were rapidly sold in oxford at the aristocratical price of half-a-crown for half-a-dozen pages. we used to meet gownsmen in high street reading the goodly volume as they walked--pensive, with a grave and sage delight--some of them, perhaps, more pensive because it seemed to portend the instant overthrow of all royalty from a king to a court card. what a strange delusion to admire our stuff--the concentrated essence of nonsense! it was indeed a kind of fashion to be seen reading it in public, as a mark of a nice discernment, of a delicate and fastidious taste in poetry, and the very criterion of a choice spirit. nobody suspected, or could suspect, who was the author. the thing passed off as the genuine production of the would-be regicide. it is marvellous, in truth, how little talent of any kind there was in our famous university in those days; there was no great encouragement, however, to display intellectual gifts. the acceptance, as a serious poem, of a work so evidently designed for a burlesque upon the prevailing notion of the day, that revolutionary ruffians were the most fit recipients of the gentlest passions, was a foretaste of the prodigious success that, a few years later, attended a still more whimsical paradox. poets had sung already that human ties put love at once to flight; that at the sight of civil obligations he spreads his light wings in a moment and makes default. the position was soon greatly extended, and we were taught by a noble poet that even the slightest recognition of the law of nations was fatal to the tender passion. the very captain of a privateer was pronounced incapable of a pure and ardent attachment; the feeble control of letters of marque could effectually check the course of affection; a complete union of souls could only be accomplished under the black flag. your true lover must necessarily be an enemy of the whole human race--a mere and absolute pirate. it is true that the tales of the love-sick buccaneers were adorned with no ordinary talent, but the theory is not less extraordinary on that account. the operation of peg nicholson was bland and innoxious. the next work that shelley printed was highly deleterious, and was destined to shed a baneful influence over his future progress. in itself it was more harmless than the former, but it was turned to a deadly poison by the unprovoked malice of fortune. we had read together attentively several of the metaphysical works that were most in vogue at that time, as locke _concerning human understanding_, and hume's _essays_, particularly the latter, of which we had made a very careful analysis, as was customary with those who read the _ethics_ and the other treatises of aristotle for their degree. shelley had the custody of these papers, which were chiefly in his handwriting, although they were the joint production of both in our common daily studies. from these, and from a small part of them only, he made up a little book, and had it printed, i believe, in the country, certainly not at oxford. his motive was this. he not only read greedily all the controversial writings on subjects interesting to him which he could procure, and disputed vehemently in conversation with his friends, but he had several correspondents with whom he kept up the ball of doubt in letters; of these he received many, so that the arrival of the postman was always an anxious moment with him. this practice he had learned of a physician, from whom he had taken instructions in chemistry, and of whose character and talents he often spoke with profound veneration. it was, indeed, the usual course with men of learning formerly, as their biographies and many volumes of such epistles testify. the physician was an old man, and a man of the old school. he confined his epistolary discussions to matters of science, and so did his disciple for some time; but when metaphysics usurped the place in his affections that chemistry had before held, the latter gradually fell into discepations, respecting existences still more subtle than gases and the electric fluid. the transition, however, from physics to metaphysics was gradual. is the electric fluid material? he would ask his correspondent; is light--is the vital principle in vegetables--in brutes--is the human soul? his individual character had proved an obstacle to his inquiries, even whilst they were strictly physical. a refuted or irritated chemist had suddenly concluded a long correspondence by telling his youthful opponent that he would write to his master, and have him well flogged. the discipline of a public school, however salutary in other respects, was not favourable to free and fair discussions, and shelley began to address inquiries anonymously, or rather, that he might receive an answer, as philalethes, and the like; but, even at eton, the postmen do not ordinarily speak greek. to prevent miscarriages, therefore it was necessary to adopt a more familiar name, as john short or thomas long. when he came to oxford, he retained and extended his former practice without quitting the convenient disguise of an assumed name. his object in printing the short abstract of some of the doctrines of hume was to facilitate his epistolary disquisitions. it was a small pill, but it worked powerfully. the mode of operation was this: he enclosed a copy in a letter and sent it by the post, stating, with modesty and simplicity, that he had met accidentally with that little tract, which appeared unhappily to be quite unanswerable. unless the fish was too sluggish to take the bait, an answer of refutation was forwarded to an appointed address in london, and then, in a vigorous reply, he would fall upon the unwary disputant and break his bones. the strenuous attack sometimes provoked a rejoinder more carefully prepared, and an animated and protracted debate ensued. the party cited, having put in his answer, was fairly in court, and he might get out of it as he could. the chief difficulty seemed to be to induce the person addressed to acknowledge the jurisdiction, and to plead; and this, shelley supposed, would be removed by sending, in the first instance, a printed syllabus instead of written arguments. an accident greatly facilitated his object. we had been talking some time before about geometrical demonstration; he was repeating its praises, which he had lately read in some mathematical work, and speaking of its absolute certainty and perfect truth. i said that this superiority partly arose from the confidence of mathematicians, who were naturally a confident race, and were seldom acquainted with any other science than their own; that they always put a good face upon the matter, detailing their arguments dogmatically and doggedly, as if there was no room for doubt, and concluded, when weary of talking in their positive strain, with q.e.d.: in which three letters there was so powerful a charm, that there was no instance of anyone having ever disputed any argument or proposition to which they were subscribed. he was diverted by this remark, and often repeated it, saying, if you ask a friend to dinner, and only put q.e.d. at the end of the invitation, he cannot refuse to come; and he sometimes wrote these letters at the end of a common note, in order, as he said, to attain to a mathematical certainty. the potent characters were not forgotten when he printed his little syllabus; and their efficacy in rousing his antagonists was quite astonishing. it is certain that the three obnoxious letters had a fertilising effect, and raised crops of controversy; but it would be unjust to deny that an honest zeal stimulated divers worthy men to assert the truth against an unknown assailant. the praise of good intention must be conceded; but it is impossible to accord that of powerful execution also to his antagonists; this curious correspondence fully testified the deplorable condition of education at that time. a youth of eighteen was able to confute men who had numbered thrice as many years; to vanquish them on their own ground, although he gallantly fought at a disadvantage by taking the wrong side. his little pamphlet was never offered for sale; it was not addressed to an ordinary reader, but to the metaphysician alone, and it was so short, that it was only designed to point out the line of argument. it was, in truth, a general issue, a compendious denial of every allegation, in order to put the whole case in proof; it was a formal mode of saying you affirm so and so, then prove it, and thus was it understood by his more candid and intelligent correspondents. as it was shorter, so was it plainer, and, perhaps in order to provoke discussion, a little bolder, than hume's _essays_--a book which occupies a conspicuous place in the library of every student. the doctrine, if it deserves the name, was precisely similar; the necessary and inevitable consequence of locke's philosophy, and of the theory that all knowledge is from without. i will not admit your conclusions, his opponent might answer; then you must deny those of hume; i deny them; but you must deny those of locke also, and we will go back together to plato. such was the usual course of argument. sometimes, however, he rested on mere denial, holding his adversary to strict proof, and deriving strength from his weakness. the young platonist argued thus negatively through the love of argument, and because he found a noble joy in the fierce shocks of contending minds. he loved truth, and sought it everywhere and at all hazards frankly and boldly, like a man who deserved to find it; but he also loved dearly victory in debate, and warm debate for its own sake. never was there a more unexceptionable disputant; he was eager beyond the most ardent, but never angry and never personal; he was the only arguer i ever knew who drew every argument from the nature of the thing, and who could never be provoked to descend to personal contentions. he was fully inspired, indeed, with the whole spirit of the true logician; the more obvious and indisputable the proposition which his opponent undertook to maintain, the more complete was the triumph of his art if he could refute and prevent him. to one who was acquainted with the history of our university, with its ancient reputation as the most famous school of logic, it seemed that the genius of the place, after an absence of several generations, had deigned to return at last; the visit, however, as it soon appeared, was ill-timed. the schoolman of old, who occasionally laboured with technical subtleties to prevent the admission of the first principles of belief, could not have been justly charged with the intention of promoting scepticism; his was the age of minute and astute disceptation, it is true, but it was also the epoch of the most firm, resolute and extensive faith. i have seen a dexterous fencing-master, after warning his pupil to hold his weapon fast, by a few turns of his wrist throw it suddenly on the ground and under his feet; but it cannot be pretended that he neglected to teach the art of self-defence, because he apparently deprived his scholar of that which is essential to the end proposed. to be disarmed is a step in the science of arms, and whoever has undergone it has already put his foot within the threshold; so it is likewise with refutation. in describing briefly the nature of shelley's epistolary contention, the recollection of his youth, his zeal, his activity, and particularly of many individual peculiarities, may have tempted me to speak sometimes with a certain levity, notwithstanding the solemn importance of the topics respecting which they were frequently maintained. the impression that they were conducted on his part, or considered by him, with frivolity or any unseemly lightness, would, however, be most erroneous; his whole frame of mind was grave, earnest and anxious, and his deportment was reverential, with an edification reaching beyond the age--an age wanting in reverence, an unlearned age, a young age, for the young lack learning. hume permits no object of respect to remain; locke approaches the most awful speculations with the same indifference as if he were about to handle the properties of triangles; the small deference rendered to the most holy things by the able theologian paley is not the least remarkable of his characteristics. wiser and better men displayed anciently, together with a more profound erudition, a superior and touching solemnity; the meek seriousness of shelley was redolent of those good old times before mankind had been despoiled of a main ingredient in the composition of happiness--a well-directed veneration. whether such disputations were decorous or profitable may be perhaps doubtful; there can be no doubt, however, since the sweet gentleness of shelley was easily and instantly swayed by the mild influences of friendly admonition, that, had even the least dignified of his elders suggested the propriety of pursuing his metaphysical inquiries with less ardour, his obedience would have been prompt and perfect. not only had all salutary studies been long neglected in oxford at that time, and all wholesome discipline was decayed, but the splendid endowments of the university were grossly abused. the resident authorities of the college were too often men of the lowest origin, of mean and sordid souls, destitute of every literary attainment, except that brief and narrow course of reading by which the first degree was attained: the vulgar sons of vulgar fathers, without liberality, and wanting the manners and the sympathies of gentlemen. a total neglect of all learning, an unseemly turbulence, the most monstrous irregularities, open and habitual drunkenness, vice and violence, were tolerated or encouraged with the basest sycophancy, that the prospect of perpetual licentiousness might fill the colleges with young men of fortune; whenever the rarely exercised power of coercion was extorted, it demonstrated the utter incapacity of our unworthy rulers by coarseness, ignorance and injustice. if a few gentlemen were admitted to fellowships, they were always absent; they were not persons of literary pretensions, or distinguished by scholarship, and they had no more share in the government of the college than the overgrown guardsmen, who, in long white gaiters, bravely protect the precious life of the sovereign against such assailants as the tenth muse, our good friend mrs nicholson. as the term was drawing to a close, and a great part of the books we were reading together still remained unfinished, we had agreed to increase our exertions, and to meet at an early hour. it was a fine spring morning on lady day, in the year , when i went to shelley's rooms; he was absent, but before i had collected our books he rushed in. he was terribly agitated. i anxiously inquired what had happened. "i am expelled," he said, as soon as he had recovered himself a little. "i am expelled! i was sent for suddenly a few minutes ago; i went to the common room, where i found our master and two or three of the fellows. the master produced a copy of the little syllabus, and asked me if i were the author of it. he spoke in a rude, abrupt and insolent tone. i begged to be informed for what purpose he put the question. no answer was given; but the master loudly and angrily repeated, 'are you the author of this book?' 'if i can judge from your manner,' i said, 'you are resolved to punish me if i should acknowledge that it is my work. if you can prove that it is, produce your evidence; it is neither just nor lawful to interrogate me in such a case and for such a purpose. such proceedings would become a court of inquisitors, but not free men in a free country.' 'do you choose to deny that this is your composition?' the master reiterated in the same rude and angry voice." shelley complained much of his violent and ungentlemanlike deportment, saying, "i have experienced tyranny and injustice before, and i well know what vulgar violence is; but i never met with such unworthy treatment. i told him calmly and firmly, that i was determined not to answer any questions respecting the publication on the table. he immediately repeated his demand. i persisted in my refusal, and he said furiously, 'then you are expelled, and i desire you will quit the college early to-morrow morning at the latest.' one of the fellows took up two papers and handed one of them to me; here it is." he produced a regular sentence of expulsion, drawn up in due form, under the seal of the college. shelley was full of spirit and courage, frank and fearless; but he was likewise shy, unpresuming and eminently sensitive. i have been with him in many trying situations of his after-life, but i never saw him so deeply shocked and so cruelly agitated as on this occasion. a nice sense of honour shrinks from the most distant touch of disgrace, even from the insults of those men whose contumely can bring no shame. he sat on the sofa, repeating with convulsive vehemence the words "expelled, expelled!" his head shaking with emotion, and his whole frame quivering. the atrocious injustice and its cruel consequences roused the indignation and moved the compassion of a friend who then stood by shelley. he has given the following account of his interference:-- "so monstrous and so illegal did the outrage seem, that i held it to be impossible that any man, or any body of men, would dare to adhere to it; but, whatever the issue might be, it was a duty to endeavour to the utmost to assist him. i at once stepped forward, therefore, as the advocate of shelley: such an advocate, perhaps, with respect to judgment, as might be expected at the age of eighteen, but certainly not inferior to the most practised defenders in good will and devotion. i wrote a short note to the masters and fellows, in which, as far as i can remember a very hasty composition after a long interval, i briefly expressed my sorrow at the treatment my friend had experienced, and my hope that they would reconsider their sentence since, by the same course of proceeding, myself, or any other person, might be subjected to the same penalty, and to the imputation of equal guilt. the note was despatched; the conclave was still sitting, and in an instant the porter came to summon me to attend, bearing in his countenance a promise of the reception which i was about to find. the angry and troubled air of men assembled to commit injustice according to established forms was then new to me, but a native instinct told me, as soon as i had entered the room, that it was an affair of party; that whatever could conciliate the favour of patrons was to be done without scruple, and whatever could tend to impede preferment was to be brushed away without remorse. the glowing master produced my poor note. i acknowledged it, and he forthwith put into my hand, not less abruptly, the little syllabus. 'did you write this?' he asked, as fiercely as if i alone stood between him and the rich see of durham. i attempted, submissively, to point out to him the extreme unfairness of the question, the injustice of punishing shelley for refusing to answer it; that if it were urged upon me i must offer the like refusal, as i had no doubt every man in college would, every gentleman, indeed, in the university, which, if such a course were adopted with all, and there could not be any reason why it should be used with one and not with the rest, would thus be stripped of every member. i soon perceived that arguments were thrown away upon a man possessing no more intellect or erudition, and far less renown, than that famous ram, since translated to the stars, through grasping whose tail less firmly than was expedient, the sister of phryxus formerly found a watery grave, and gave her name to the broad hellespont. "the other persons present took no part in the conversation; they presumed not to speak, scarcely to breathe, but looked mute subserviency. the few resident fellows, indeed, were but so many incarnations of the spirit of the master, whatever that spirit might be. when i was silent, the master told me to retire, and to consider whether i was resolved to persist in my refusal. the proposal was fair enough. the next day or the next week, i might have given my final answer--a deliberate answer; having in the meantime consulted with older and more experienced persons, as to what course was best for myself and for others. i had scarcely passed the door, however, when i was recalled. the master again showed me the book, and hastily demanded whether i admitted or denied that i was the author of it. i answered that i was fully sensible of the many and great inconveniences of being dismissed with disgrace from the university, and i specified some of them, and expressed a humble hope that they would not impose such a mark of discredit upon me without any cause. i lamented that it was impossible either to admit or to deny the publication--no man of spirit could submit to do so--and that a sense of duty compelled me respectfully to refuse to answer the question which had been proposed. 'then you are expelled,' said the master, angrily, in a loud, great voice. a formal sentence, duly signed and sealed, was instantly put into my hand: in what interval the instrument had been drawn up i cannot imagine. the alleged offence was contumacious refusal to disavow the imputed publication. my eye glanced over it, and observing the word _contumaciously_, i said calmly that i did not think that term was justified by my behaviour. before i had concluded the remark, the master, lifting up the little syllabus, and then dashing it on the table and looking sternly at me, said, 'am i to understand, sir, that you adopt the principles contained in this work?' or some such words; for like one red with the suffusion of college port and college ale, the intense heat of anger seemed to deprive him of the power of articulation, by reason of a rude provincial dialect and thickness of utterance, his speech being at all times indistinct. 'the last question is still more improper than the former,' i replied, for i felt that the imputation was an insult; 'and since, by your own act, you have renounced all authority over me, our communication is at an end.' 'i command you to quit my college to-morrow at an early hour.' i bowed and withdrew. i thank god i have never seen that man since; he is gone to his bed, and there let him sleep. whilst he lived, he ate freely of the scholar's bread and drank from his cup, and he was sustained, throughout the whole term of his existence, wholly and most nobly, by those sacred funds that were consecrated by our pious forefathers to the advancement of learning. if the vengeance of the all-patient and long-contemned gods can ever be roused, it will surely be by some such sacrilege! the favour which he showed to scholars and his gratitude have been made manifest. if he were still alive, he would doubtless be as little desirous that his zeal should now be remembered as those bigots who had been most active in burning archbishop cranmer could have been to publish their officiousness during the reign of elizabeth." busy rumour has ascribed, on what foundation i know not, since an active and searching inquiry has not hitherto been made, the infamy of having denounced shelley to the pert, meddling tutor of a college of inferior note, a man of an insalubrious and inauspicious aspect. any paltry fellow can whisper a secret accusation; but a certain courage, as well as malignity, is required by him who undertakes to give evidence openly against another; to provoke thereby the displeasure of the accused, of his family and friends, and to submit his own veracity and his motives to public scrutiny. hence the illegal and inquisitorial mode of proceeding by interrogation, instead of the lawful and recognised course by the production of witnesses. the disposal of ecclesiastical preferment has long been so reprehensible, the practice of desecrating institutions that every good man desires to esteem most holy is so inveterate, that it is needless to add that the secret accuser was rapidly enriched with the most splendid benefices, and finally became a dignitary of the church. the modest prelate did not seek publicity in the charitable and dignified act of deserving; it is not probable, therefore, that he is anxious at present to invite an examination of the precise nature of his deserts. the next morning at eight o'clock shelley and his friend set out together for london on the top of a coach; and with his final departure from the university these reminiscences of his life at oxford terminate. the narrative of the injurious effects of this cruel, precipitate, unjust and illegal expulsion upon the entire course of his subsequent life would not be wanting in interest or instruction, when the scene was changed from the quiet seclusion of academic groves and gardens, and the calm valley of our silvery isis, to the stormy ocean of that vast and shoreless world, to the utmost violence of which he was, at an early age, suddenly and unnaturally abandoned. the end edinburgh colston and coy, limited printers transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the following misprints have been corrected: "surrrounding" corrected to "surrounding" (page ) "gometricians" corrected to "geometricians" (page ) [illustration] the oxford degree ceremony by j. wells fellow of wadham college oxford at the clarendon press henry frowde, m.a. publisher to the university of oxford london, edinburgh new york and toronto preface the object of this little book is to attempt to set forth the meaning of our forms and ceremonies, and to show how much of university history is involved in them. it naturally makes no pretensions to independent research; i have simply tried to make popular the results arrived at in dr. rashdall's great book on the _universities of the middle ages_, and in the rev. andrew clark's invaluable _register of the university of oxford_ (published by the oxford historical society). my obligations to these two books will be patent to all who know them; it has not, however, seemed necessary to give definite references either to these or to anstey's _munimenta academica_ (rolls series), which also has been constantly used. i have tried as far as possible to introduce the language of the statutes, whether past or present; the forms actually used in the degree ceremony itself are given in latin and translated; in other cases a rendering has usually been given, but sometimes the original has been retained, when the words were either technical or such as would be easily understood by all. the illustrations, with which the clarendon press has furnished the book, are its most valuable part. every oxford man, who cares for the history of his university, will be glad to have the reproduction of the portrait of the fourteenth-century chancellor and of the university seal. i have to thank dr. rashdall and the rev. andrew clark for most kindly reading through my chapters, and for several suggestions, and professor oman for special help in the appendix on 'the university staves'. j.w. contents chapter i page the degree ceremony chapter ii the meaning of the degree ceremony chapter iii the preliminaries of the degree ceremony chapter iv the officers of the university chapter v university dress chapter vi the places of the degree ceremony appendix i the public assemblies of the university of oxford appendix ii the university staves index list of illustrations the original sheldonian _frontispiece_ the university seal _to face p._ (the seal dates from the fourteenth century and is kept by the proctors.) the chancellor receiving a charter from edward iii _to face p._ (from the chancellor's book, circ. .) master and scholar _to face p._ (from the title-page of burley's _tractatus de natura et forma_.) the bedel of divinity's staff _to face p._ proctor and scholars of the restoration period _to face p._ (from _habitus academicorum_, attributed to d. loggan, .) the interior of the divinity school _to face p._ [illustration] chapter i the degree ceremony the streets of oxford are seldom dull in term time, but a stranger who chances to pass through them between the hours of nine and ten on the morning of a degree day, will be struck and perhaps perplexed by their unwonted animation. he will find the quads of the great block of university buildings, which lie between the 'broad' and the radcliffe square, alive with all sorts and conditions of oxford men, arrayed in every variety of academic dress. groups of undergraduates stand waiting, some in the short commoner's gown, others in the more dignified gown of the scholar, all wearing the dark coats and white ties usually associated with the 'schools' and examinations, but with their faces free from the look of anxiety incident to those occasions. here and there are knots of bachelors of arts, in their ampler gowns with fur-lined hoods, some only removed by a brief three years from their undergraduate days, others who have evidently allowed a much longer period to pass before returning to bring their academic career to its full and complete end. from every college comes the dean in his master's gown and hood, or if he be a doctor, in the scarlet and grey of one of the new doctorates, in the dignified scarlet and black of divinity, or in the bold blending of scarlet and crimson which marks medicine and law. college servants, with their arms full of gowns and hoods, will be seen in the background, waiting to assist in the academic robing of their former masters, and to pocket the 'tips' which time-honoured custom prescribes. presently, when the hour of ten has struck, the procession of academic dignity may be seen approaching across the quad, the vice-chancellor preceded by his staves as the symbol of authority, the proctors in their velvet sleeves and miniver hoods, and the registrar (or secretary) of the university. already most of those concerned are waiting in the room where degrees are to be given: others still lingering outside follow the vice-chancellor and the proctors, and the ceremony of conferring degrees begins. should our imaginary spectator wish to see the ceremony, he will have no difficulty in gaining admittance to the sheldonian, even if he have delayed outside till the proceedings have commenced; but if the degrees are conferred in one of the smaller buildings, it is well to secure a seat beforehand, which can be done through any master of arts. the ceremony will well repay a visit, for it is picturesque, it should be dignified, it is sometimes amusing. but it is more than this; in the conferment of university degrees are preserved formulae as old as the university itself, and a ritual which, if understood, is full of meaning as to the oldest university history. the formulae, it is true, are veiled in the obscurity of a learned language, and the ritual is often a mere survival, which at first sight may seem trivial and useless; but those who care for oxford will wish that every syllable and every form that has come down to us from our ancient past should be retained and understood. it is to explain what is said and what is done on these occasions that this little book is written. [sidenote: notice of degree ceremony.] degrees at oxford are conferred on days appointed by the vice-chancellor, of which notice is now given at the beginning of every term, in the _university gazette_; the old form of giving notice, however, is still retained, in the tolling of the bell of st. mary's for the hour preceding the ceremony ( to a.m.)[ ]. the assembly at which degrees are conferred is the ancient house of congregation (p. ). the old arrangement of the laudian statutes is still maintained, by which the proceedings commence with the entrance of the vice-chancellor and proctors, while one of the bedels 'proclaims in a quiet tone', 'intretis in congregationem, magistri, intretis.' the vice-chancellor, when he has formally taken his seat, declares the 'cause of this congregation'. it will be noticed that both the vice-chancellor and the two proctors, as representing the elements of authority in the university (as will be explained later), wear their caps all through the ceremony. [sidenote: other business beside degree giving.] degree giving, however, is sometimes preceded and delayed by the confirmation of the lists of examiners who have been 'duly nominated' by the committees appointed for this purpose; it is of course natural that the same body which gives the degree should appoint the examiners, on whose verdicts the degree now mainly depends. a less reasonable cause of delay is the fact that the 'congregation' is sometimes preceded by a 'convocation' for the dispatch of general business, as a rule (but not always) of a formal character; the two bodies, convocation and congregation, are usually made up of the same persons, and are the same in all but name; the change from one to the other is marked by the vice-chancellor's descending from his higher seat, with the words 'dissolvimus hanc convocationem; fiat congregatio'. [sidenote: the registrar's declaration.] the degree ceremony itself begins with the declaration on the part of the registrar that the candidates for the degrees have duly received permissions (_gratiae_) from their colleges to present themselves, and that their names have been approved by him[ ]; he has already certified himself from the university register that all necessary examinations have been passed, and has been informed officially that all fees have been paid. the names have been already posted outside the door of the house; it is said that this is done to enable a tradesman to find out when any of his young debtors is about to leave oxford, so that he may protest, if he wish, against the degree. the posting, however, is natural for many reasons, and no such tradesman's protest has been known for years; nor is it easy to see how it could be made by any one not himself a member of the university. [sidenote: the college grace.] the form of the college 'grace' states that the candidate has performed all the university requirements; that for the b.a. may be given as a specimen:-- 'i, _a.b._, dean of the college _c.d._, bear witness that _e.f._ of the college _c.d._, whom i know to have kept bed and board continuously within the university for the whole period required by the statutes for the degree of b.a., according as the statutes require, since he has undergone a public examination and performed all the other requirements of the statutes, except so far as he has been dispensed, has received from his college the grace for the degree of b.a. under my pledged word to this university. _a.b._, dean of the college _c.d._' the words as to residence, that 'bed and board have been kept continuously' are derived immediately from the laudian statute, but are in fact much older: the other clauses have of course been changed. [sidenote: order of degrees.] the various degrees are then taken in the following order:-- doctor of divinity. doctor of civil law or of medicine. bachelor of divinity. master of surgery. bachelor of civil law or of medicine (and of surgery). doctor of letters or of science.[ ] master of arts. bachelor of letters or of science. bachelor of arts. musical degrees. it sometimes happens, however, that a candidate is taking two degrees at once (i.e. b.a. and m.a.); this 'unusual distinction', as local newspapers admiringly call it, is generally due to the unkindness of examiners who have prolonged the ordinary b.a. course by repeated 'ploughs'. in these cases the lower degree is conferred out of order before the higher. the same forms are observed in granting all degrees; they are fourfold, and are repeated for each separate degree or set of degrees. here they are only described once, while minor peculiarities in the granting of each degree are noticed in their place; but it is important to remember that the essentials recur in each admission; this explains the apparently meaningless repetition of the same ceremonies. this repetition was once a much more prominent feature; within living memory it was necessary for each 'grace' to be taken separately, and the proctors 'walked' for each candidate. degree ceremonies in those days went on to an interminable length, although the number graduating was only half what it is now. [sidenote: ( ) the _supplicat_.] the first form is the appeal to the house for the degree. one of the proctors reads out the _supplicat_, i.e. the petition of the candidate or candidates to be allowed to graduate; this is the duty of the senior proctor in the case of the m.a.s, of the junior proctor in the case of the b.a.s; for the higher degrees, e.g. the doctorate, either proctor may 'supplicate'. the form of the _supplicat_ is the same, with necessary variations, in all cases; that for the m.a. may be given as a specimen:-- 'supplicat venerabili congregationi doctorum et magistrorum regentium _e.f._ baccalaureus facultatis artium e collegio _c._ qui complevit omnia quae per statuta requiruntur, (nisi quatenus cum eo dispensatum fuerit) ut haec sufficiant quo admittatur ad incipiendum in eadem facultate.' ('_e.f._ of _c._ college, bachelor of arts, who has completed all the requirements of the statutes (except so far as he has been excused), asks of the venerable congregation of doctors and regent masters that these things may suffice for his admission to incept in the same faculty.') this form is at least as old as the sixteenth century, and probably much older; but in its original form it set forth more precisely what the candidate had done for his degree (cf. cap. ii). after each _supplicat_ has been read by the proctor, he with his colleague walks half-way down the house; this is in theory a formal taking of the votes of the m.a.s present. when the proctors have returned to their seats, the one of them who has read the _supplicat_, lifting his cap (his colleague imitating him in this), declares 'the graces (or grace) to have been granted' ('hae gratiae concessae sunt et sic pronuntiamus concessas'). the proctors' walk is the most curious feature of the degree ceremony; it always excites surprise and sometimes laughter. it should, however, be maintained with the utmost respect; for it is the clear and visible assertion of the democratic character of the university; it implies that every qualified m.a. has a right to be consulted as to the admission of others to the position which he himself has attained. but popular imagination has invented a meaning for it, which certainly was not contemplated in its institution; it is currently believed that the proctors walk in order to give any oxford tradesman the opportunity of 'plucking' their gown and protesting against the degree of a defaulting candidate. 'verdant green'[ ] was told that this was the origin of the ominous 'pluck', which for centuries was a word of terror in oxford; in the last half-century, it has been superseded by the more familiar 'plough'. there is a tradition that such a protest has actually been made within living memory and certainly it was threatened quite recently; a well-known oxford coach (now dead) informed the proctors that he intended in this way to prevent the degree of a pupil who had passed his examinations, but had not paid his coach's fee. the defaulter, in this case, failed to present himself for the degree, and so the 'plucking' did not take place. [sidenote: ( ) the presentation.] the second part of the ceremony is the presentation of the candidates to the vice-chancellor and proctors; this is done in the case of the higher degrees, divinity, medicine, &c., by the professor at the head of the faculty[ ], in the case of the m.a.s and b.a.s by the representative of the college. the candidates are placed on the right hand of the presenter, who with 'a proper bow' ('debita reverentia') to the vice-chancellor and the proctors, presents them with the form appropriate to the degree they are seeking; that for the m.a. is as follows:-- 'insignissime vice-cancellarie, vosque egregii procuratores, praesento vobis hunc baccalaureum in facultate artium, ut admittatur ad incipiendum in eadem facultate.' ('most eminent vice-chancellor, and excellent proctors, i present this b.a. to you for admission to incept in the faculty of arts.') the old custom was that the presenter should grasp the hand of each candidate and present him separately; some senior members of the university still hold the hand of one of their candidates, though the custom of separate presentation has been abolished; there was an intermediate stage fifty years ago, when the number of those who could be presented at once was limited to five; each of them held a finger or a thumb of the presenter's right hand. [sidenote: ( ) the proctorial charge.] the third part of the ceremony is the charge which is delivered, usually by the junior proctor, to the candidates for the degree. each receives a copy of the new testament from the bedel, on which to take his oath. the charge to all candidates for a doctorate or for the m.a. is:-- 'vos dabitis fidem ad observandum statuta, privilegia, consuetudines et libertates istius universitatis. item quod quum admissi fueritis in domum congregationis et in domum convocationis, in iisdem bene et fideliter, ad honorem et profectum universitatis, vos geretis. et specialiter quod in negotiis quae ad gratias et gradus spectant non impedietis dignos, nec indignos promovebitis. item quod in electionibus habendis unum tantum semel et non amplius in singulis scrutiniis scribetis et nominabitis; et quod neminem nominabitis nisi quem habilem et idoneum certo sciveritis vel firmiter credideritis.' ('you will swear to observe the statutes, privileges, customs and liberties of your university. also when you have been admitted to congregation and to convocation, you will behave in them loyally and faithfully to the honour and profit of the university. and especially in matters concerning graces and degrees, you will not oppose those who are fit or support the unfit. also in elections you will write down and nominate one only and no more at each vote; and you will nominate no one but a man whom you know for certain or surely believe to be fit and proper.') to this the candidates answer 'do fidem'. the charge to candidates for the b.a. or other lower degrees is much simpler:-- 'vos tenemini ad observandum omnia statuta, privilegia, consuetudines, et libertates istius universitatis, quatenus ad vos spectent' (as far as they concern you). this charge, which is of course the first part of the charge to m.a.s, goes back to the very beginnings of university ceremonial; the latter part of the charge to m.a.s is modern, and takes the place of the more elaborate oaths of the laudian and of still earlier statutes. by these a candidate bound himself not to recognize any other place in england except cambridge as a 'university', and especially that he 'would not give or listen to lectures in stamford as in a university'.[ ] there was also a special direction that each candidate should within a fortnight obtain the dress proper for his degree, in order that 'he might be able by it to do honour to our mother the university, in processions and in all other university business'. it is a great pity that this latter part of the old statutes was ever omitted. the candidates for a degree in divinity, whether bachelors or doctors, are charged by the senior proctor; the senior of them makes the following declaration, taken from the thirty-sixth canon of the church of england (as revised and confirmed in ): 'i, _a.b._, do solemnly make the following declaration. i assent to the thirty-nine articles of religion and to the book of common prayer and of the ordering of bishops, priests, and deacons, and i believe the doctrine of the united church of england and ireland, as therein set forth, to be agreeable to the word of god.' the senior proctor then says to the other candidates:-- 'eandem declarationem quam praestitit _a.b._ in persona sua, vos praestabitis in personis vestris, et quilibet vestrum in persona sua.' ('the declaration which _a.b._ has made on his part, you will make on your part, together and severally.') [sidenote: ( ) the admission by the vice-chancellor.] when the candidates have duly taken the oath, the last and most important part of the ceremony is performed. the candidates for any doctorate, except the new 'research' ones, or for the m.a., kneel before the vice-chancellor; the doctors are taken separately according to their faculties, then the m.a.s in successive groups of four each; the vice-chancellor, as he admits them, touches them each on the head with the new testament, while he repeats the following form:-- 'ad honorem domini nostri jesu christi, et ad profectum sacrosanctae matris ecclesiae et studii, ego auctoritate mea et totius universitatis do tibi (_vel_ vobis) licentiam incipiendi in facultate artium (_vel_ facultate chirurgiae, medicinae, juris, s. theologiae) legendi, disputandi, et caetera omnia faciendi quae ad statum doctoris (_vel_ magistri) in eadem facultate pertinent, cum ea completa sint quae per statuta requiruntur; in nomine domini, patris, filii, et spiritus sancti.' ('for the honour of our lord jesus christ, and for the profit of our holy mother, the church, and of learning, i, in virtue of my own authority and that of the whole university, give you permission to incept in the faculty of arts (or of surgery, &c.), of reading, disputing, and performing all the other duties which belong to the position of a doctor (or master) in that same faculty, when the requirements of the statutes have been complied with, in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost.') this venerable form goes back (p. ) to the beginning of the fifteenth century, and is probably much older; the only change in it is the omission at the beginning of 'et beatae mariae virginis'. modern toleration has provided a modified form for use in cases of candidates for whom the full form is theologically inappropriate, but this is rarely used. [sidenote: change of gowns.] the ceremony of the licence is now complete; but before the b.a.s are admitted, the doctors first, and then the masters in their turn, retire outside, and don 'their appropriate gowns and hoods'. they receive these from those who were once their college servants, and the right of thus bringing gown and hood is strictly claimed; nor is this surprising, as unwritten custom prescribes that the gratuity must be of gold. the newly created doctors or masters then come back, with the bedel leading the procession, and 'make a bow' to the vice-chancellor, who usually shakes hands with the new doctors; they are then conducted to a place in the raised seats behind and around his chair, from which they can watch the rest of the proceedings. the m.a.s either leave the house or join their friends among the spectators. the ceremony of admitting b.a.s is much simpler. as in the case of the masters, they are presented by their college dean; the form of presentation is: 'insignissime vice-cancellarie, vosque egregii procuratores, praesento vobis hunc meum scholarem (_vel_ hos meos scholares) in facultate artium, ut admittatur (_vel_ admittantur) ad gradum baccalaurei in artibus.' the charge is then given by the junior proctor (see pp. and ). after this the candidates are, without kneeling, admitted by the vice-chancellor, in the following words: 'domine (_vel_ domini), ego admitto te (_vel_ vos) ad gradum baccalaurei in artibus; insuper auctoritate mea et totius universitatis, do tibi (_vel_ vobis) potestatem legendi, et reliqua omnia faciendi quae ad eundem gradum spectant.' this form also is old, but has been cut down from its former fullness; e.g. in the laudian statutes the candidate was admitted, among other things, to 'read a certain book of the logic of aristotle'. the b.a.s, when admitted, are allowed to disperse as they please, and the ceremony is over. it is unfortunate that the form of admission to the degree which is most frequently taken, and which (speaking generally) is the most real degree given, should be such an unsatisfactory and bare fragment of the old ceremonial. [sidenote: degrees in absence and incorporations.] it may be noticed that degrees 'in absence' are announced by the vice-chancellor after each set of degrees has been conferred, e.g. an 'absent' m.a. is announced after the m.a.s have made their bow. the university only allows this privilege to those who are actually out of the country, and to them only on stringent conditions; an extra payment of £ is required. the proceedings terminate sometimes with the admission to 'ad eundem' rank at oxford, of graduates of cambridge or of dublin; this privilege is now rarely granted, though it was once freely given. when all is over, the vice-chancellor rises, announces 'dissolvimus hanc congregationem', and solemnly leaves the building in the same pomp and state with which he entered. [illustration] footnotes: [footnote : in a b.a. candidate from gloucester hall (now worcester college), who failed to present himself for his 'grace', was excused 'because he had not been able to hear the bell owing to the remoteness of the region and the wind being against him'.] [footnote : till recently the whole list of candidates for all degrees was read by the registrar, as well as by the proctors afterwards when 'supplicating' for the graces of the various sets of candidates. time is now economized by having the names read once only.] [footnote : if the doctor be not an m.a., then his admission to the doctorate follows the admission of the m.a.s.] [footnote : _verdant green_ was published in , and this is the oldest literary evidence for the connexion of 'plucking' and the proctorial walk. the earliest mention of 'plucking' at oxford is hearne's bitter entry (may, ) about his enemy, the then vice-chancellor, dr. lancaster of queen's--'dr. lancaster, when bachelor of arts, was plucked for his declamation.' but it is most unlikely that so good a tory as hearne would have used a slang phrase, unless it had become well established by long usage. 'pluck', in the sense of causing to fail, is not unfrequently found in english eighteenth century literature, without any relation to a university; the metaphor from 'plucking' a bird is an obvious one, and may be compared to the german use of 'rupfen'.] [footnote : the old principle is that no one should be presented except by a member of the university who has a degree as high or higher than that sought; this is unfortunately neglected in our own days, when an ordinary m.a., merely because he is a professor, is appointed by statute to present for the degree of d.litt. or d.sc.] [footnote : this delightful piece of english conservatism was only removed from the statutes in . it refers to the foundation of a university at stamford in by the northern scholars who conceived themselves to have been ill-treated at oxford; the attempt was crushed at once, but only by the exercise of royal authority.] chapter ii the meaning of the degree ceremony [sidenote: the oath of the m.a.] for the last years certainly, for nearly longer probably, the candidate presented for 'inception' in the faculty of arts (i.e. for the m.a. degree) has sworn that he will observe the 'statutes, privileges, customs and liberties' of his university.[ ] it is difficult to know what the average man now means when he hurriedly says 'do fidem' after the junior proctor's charge; but there is no doubt that when the form of words was first used, it meant much. the candidate was being admitted into a society which was maintaining a constant struggle against encroachments, religious or secular, from without, and against unruly tendencies within. and this struggle gave to the university a vivid consciousness of its unity, which in these days of peace and quiet can hardly be conceived. [sidenote: what is a university?] the essential idea of a university is a distinctly mediaeval one; the middle ages were above all things gifted with a genius for organization, and men were regarded, and regarded themselves, rather as members of a community than as individuals. the student in classical times had been free to hear what lectures he pleased, where he pleased, and on what subjects he pleased, and he had no fixed and definite relations with his fellow students. there is little or no trace of regular courses of study, still less of self-governing bodies of students, in the 'universities' of alexandria or athens. but with the revival of interest in learning in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the real formation of universities begins. the students formed themselves into organized bodies, with definite laws and courses of study, both because they needed each other's help and protection, and because they could not conceive themselves as existing in any other way. these organized bodies were called 'universitates'[ ], i.e. guilds or associations; the name at first had no special application to bodies of students, but is applied e.g. to a community of citizens; it was only gradually that it acquired its later and narrower meaning; it finally became specialized for a learned corporation, just as 'convent' has been set apart for a religious body, and 'corps' for a military one. [sidenote: the origin of oxford university.] when these organized bodies were first formed is a question which it is impossible to discuss at length here, nor could a definite answer be given. the university of oxford is, in this respect, as in so many others, characteristically english; it grew rather than was made, like most of our institutions, and it can point to no definite year of foundation, and to no individual as founder. here it must suffice to say that references to students and teachers at oxford are found with growing frequency all through the twelfth century; but it is only in the last quarter of that century that either of those features which differentiate a university from a mere chance body of students can be clearly traced. these two features are organized study and the right of self-government. the first mention of organized study is about , when giraldus cambrensis, having written his _topographia hibernica_ and 'desiring not to hide his candle under a bushel,' came to oxford to read it to the students there; for three days he 'entertained' his audience as well as read to them, and the poor scholars were feasted on a separate day from the 'doctors of the different faculties'. here we have definite evidence of organized study. much more important is the record of (the year before magna carta[ ]), when the famous award was given by the papal legate, which is the oldest charter of the university of oxford. in this the 'chancellor' is mentioned, and we have in this office the beginnings of that self-government which, coupled with organized study, may justify us in saying that the real university was now in existence. it is quite probable that the first doctor of divinity whom we find 'incepting' in oxford, is the learned and saintly edmund rich, afterwards archbishop of canterbury; he seems to have taken this degree in the reign of john, but he had been already teaching secular subjects in the preceding reign (richard i's). it is significant of mediaeval oxford's position as a pillar of the church and a champion of liberty, that her first traceable graduate should be the last archbishop of canterbury who was canonized, and one of the defenders of english liberties against the misgovernment of henry iii. [sidenote: the university a guild of m.a.s.] the 'university' of oxford, like the great sister (or might we say mother?) school of paris, was an association of masters of arts, and they alone were its proper members. in our own days, when not more than half of those who enter the university proceed to the m.a. degree, and when only about ten per cent. of them reside for any time after the b.a. course is ended, this state of things seems inconceivable; but it has left its trace, even in popular knowledge, in the well-known fact that m.a.s are exempt from proctorial jurisdiction; and our degree terminology is still based upon it. it is the m.a. who is admitted by the vice-chancellor to 'begin', i.e. to teach (_ad incipiendum_), when he is presented to him, and at cambridge and in american universities the ceremonies at the end of the academic year are called 'commencement'. what seems an irish bull is really a survival of the oldest university arrangements. [sidenote: the meaning of the 'degree'.] as then the university is a guild of masters, the degree is the 'step' by which the distinction of becoming a full member of it is attained. gibbon wrote a century ago that 'the use of academical degrees is visibly borrowed from the mechanic corporations, in which an apprentice, after serving his time, obtains a testimonial of his skill, and his licence to practise his trade or mystery'. this statement, though accurate in the main, is misleading; the truth is that the learned body has not so much borrowed from the 'mechanic' one, as that both have based their arrangements independently on the same idea. [sidenote: a bachelor of arts.] this connexion may be illustrated from the other degree title, 'bachelor.' if the etymology at present best supported may be accepted, that honourable term was originally used for a man who worked on a 'cow-strip' of land, i.e. who was assistant of a small cultivator; whether this be true or not, it at any rate soon came to denote the apprentice as opposed to the master-workman; in fact the 'bachelor' in the university corresponded to the 'pupil-teacher' of more humble associations in our own days. in this sense of the word, as dr. murray quaintly says, a woman student can become a 'bachelor' of arts. [sidenote: two elements in the degree ceremony: ( ) consent of existing m.a.'s.] it was natural that the existing members of the 'university' or guild should be consulted as to the admission of new members; their consent was one element in the degree giving. the means by which the fitness of applicants for the degree was tested will be spoken of later, and also the methods by which the existing masters expressed their willingness to admit the new-comer among them. [sidenote: ( ) outside authority, that of the church.] but there is quite a different element in the degree from that which has so far been mentioned. that was democratic, the consent of the community; this is autocratic, the authority conferred by a head, superior to, and outside of the community. the vice-chancellor of oxford represents this second principle; he gives the degree in virtue of 'his own authority' as well as of that 'of the university'. this authority is originally that of the church, to which, in england at any rate, all mediaeval students _ipso facto_ belonged; the new student was admitted into the 'bosom' (_matricula_) of the university by receiving some form of tonsure, and for the first two centuries of university existence, no other ceremony was needed. matriculation examinations at any rate were in those happy days unknown. hence the authority which the cathedral chancellor, representing the bishop, had exercised over the schools and teachers of the diocese, was extended as a matter of course to the teachers of the newly-risen universities. the fitness of the applicant for a degree was tested by those who had it already, but the ecclesiastical authority gave the 'licence' to teach. this ecclesiastical origin of the m.a. degree is well shown in the formula of admission (pp. , ). the new master is admitted 'in honorem domini nostri jesu christi' and 'in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost'. [sidenote: the pope and the universities.] the close connexion of the church and higher education is further illustrated by the view of the fourteenth-century jurists that a bull from the pope or from the holy roman emperor was needed to make a teaching body a 'studium generale', and to give its doctors the _jus ubique docendi_[ ]. a curious survival of the same idea still remains in the power of the archbishop of canterbury, as english metropolitan, to recommend the crown to grant 'lambeth degrees' to deserving clergy; this is probably a survival of the old rights of the archbishop as 'legatus natus' in england of the holy see. [sidenote: survivals in the modern degree ceremony.] there were then two elements in the conferring of a mediaeval degree, the formal approval of the candidate by the already existing masters and the granting of the 'licence' by the chancellor. of these the 'licence' is fully retained in our present ceremony; the new m.a. receives permission (_licentia_) from the vice-chancellor to 'do all that belongs to the status of a master', when 'the requirements of the statutes have been fulfilled'. this condition is now meaningless, for he has already fulfilled all 'the requirements'; but in mediaeval times it referred to the second (and what was really the most important) part of his qualifications, his appearance at the solemn 'act' or ceremony which was the chief event of the university year. at it masters and doctors formally showed that they were able to perform the functions of their new rank, and were then 'admitted' to it by investiture with the 'cap' of authority, with the 'ring', and with the 'kiss' of peace; the kiss was given by the senior proctor; the ring was the symbol of the inceptor's mystical marriage to his science. the 'act' in our day only survives as giving a name to one of our two summer terms, which still have a place in the university calendar, and in the requirements of 'twelve terms of residence', although only nine real terms are kept. its disappearance was gradual; already in , when john evelyn attended the 'act' at st. mary's, he expresses surprise at 'those ancient ceremonies and institution (_sic_) being as yet not wholly abolished'; but the 'act' survived into another century, although becoming more and more of a form; it is last mentioned in . with the ceremony disappeared the formal exhibition of the candidate's fitness for the degree he is seeking. [sidenote: the master in grammar.] but in the mediaeval university it had been far otherwise. the idea that a degree was formally taken by the applicant showing himself competent for it, may be well illustrated from the quaint ceremony of admitting a master in grammar at cambridge, as described by the elizabethan esquire bedel, mr. stokys: 'the bedel in arts shall bring the master in grammar to the vice-chancellor, delivering him a palmer with a rod, which the vice-chancellor shall give to the said master in grammar, and so create him master. then shall the bedel purvey for every master in grammar a shrewd boy, whom the master in grammar shall beat openly in the schools, and he shall give the boy a groat for his labour, and another groat to him that provideth the rod and the palmer. and thus endeth the act in that faculty.' it may be added that the vice-chancellor and each of the proctors received a 'bonnet', but only one, however many 'masters' might be incepting. in oxford likewise the 'master in grammar' was created '_ferula_ (i.e. palmer) _et virgis_'. [sidenote: the disputations at the act.] the oxford m.a. had to show his qualifications in a way less painful, though as practical, by publicly attacking or defending theses solemnly approved for discussion by congregation. these theses were themselves by no means always solemn, e.g. one of those appointed in was 'an uxor perversa humanitate potius quam asperitate sanetur?' ('whether a shrew is better cured by kindness or by severity'). this question, obviously suggested by shakespeare's _taming of the shrew_, which was written soon after , was answered by the incepting m.a.s in the opposite sense to the dramatist. it need hardly be said that all the disputations were in latin. the doctors too of the different faculties were created at the 'act' after disputations on subjects connected with their faculty. something resembling these disputations still survives in a shadowy form at oxford, in the requirements for the degrees of b.d. and d.d. a candidate for the b.d. has to read in the divinity school two theses on some theological subject approved by the regius professor, a candidate for the d.d. has to read and expound three passages of holy scripture; in both cases notice has to be given beforehand of the subject, a custom which survives from the time when the candidate might expect to have his theses disputed; but now the regius professor and the candidate generally have the divinity school to themselves. all the ceremonies of the 'act' have passed away from oxford completely.[ ] they are only referred to here as serving to illustrate the idea that a new master was not admitted till he had performed a 'masterpiece', i.e. done a piece of work such as a master might be expected to do. there was till quite recently one last trace of them in our degree arrangements; a new m.a. was not admitted to the privileges of his office till the end of the term in which he had been 'licensed to incept'; although the university, having given up the 'act', allowed no opportunity of 'incepting', an interval was left in which the ceremony might have taken place. now, however, for purposes of practical convenience, even this form is dropped, and a new m.a. enters on his privileges, e.g. voting in convocation, &c., as soon as he has been licensed by the vice-chancellor. strictly speaking an oxford man never takes his m.a., for there is no ceremony of institution; he is 'licensed' to take part in a ceremony which has ceased to exist. [sidenote: the encaenia.] and yet in another form the 'act' survives in our familiar commemoration; the relation of this to the 'act' seems to be somewhat as follows. the sheldonian theatre was opened, as will be described later (p. ), with a great literary and musical performance, a 'sort of dedication of the theatre'; this was called 'encaenia'.[ ] so pleased was the university with the performance that the chancellor next year ( ) ordered that it should be repeated annually, on the friday before the 'act'. from the very first there was a tendency to confuse the two ceremonies; even the accurate antiquarian, antony wood, speaks of music as part of 'the act', which was really performed at the preliminary gathering, the encaenia. the new function gradually grew in importance, and additions were made to it; the munificent lord crewe, prince-bishop of durham, who enjoys an unenviable immortality in the pages of macaulay, and a more fragrant if less lasting memory in besant's charming romance _dorothy forster_, left some of his great wealth for the creweian oration, in which annual honour is done to the university benefactors at the commemoration. hence, while the customs of the 'act' became more and more meaningless and neglected, the encaenia became more and more popular, until finally the older ceremony was merged in the newer one. in our commemoration degree-giving still takes place, along with recitation of prize poems and the paying of honour to benefactors. the degrees are all honorary, but they are submitted to the house in the same way as ordinary degrees; the vice-chancellor puts the question to the convocation, just as the proctor submits the 'grace' to congregation, and in theory a vote is taken on the creation of the new d.c.l.s, just as in theory the proctors take the votes as to the admission of new m.a.s. commemoration may be, as john richard green said, 'oxford in masquerade'; there may be 'grand incongruities, abyssinian heroes robed in literary scarlet, degrees conferred by the suffrages of virgins in pink bonnets and blue, a great academical ceremony drowned in an atmosphere of aristophanean (_sic_) chaff'. but the chaff is the legitimate successor of the burlesque performance of the terrae filius at the old 'act', and the degrees are submitted to the house with the old formula; even the presence of ladies would have been no surprise to our predecessors of years ago, however much they would have astonished our mediaeval founders and benefactors; in the sheldonian from the first the gallery under the organ was always set apart for 'ladies and gentlewomen'. 'oxford', to quote j.r. green once again, 'is simply young', but when he goes on to say 'she is neither historic nor theological nor academical', he exaggerates; the charm of oxford lies in the fact that her youth is at home among survivals historic, theological, and academical; and the old survives while the new flourishes. footnotes: [footnote : the form is found in the two 'proctors' books', of which the oldest, that of the junior proctor, was drawn up (in ) by richard fleming, afterwards bishop of lincoln and founder of lincoln college; but it was then already an established form, and probably goes back to the thirteenth century, i.e. to the reign of henry iii.] [footnote : it is perhaps still necessary to emphasize the fact that the name 'university' had nothing to do with the range of subjects taught, or with the fact that instruction was offered to all students; the latter point is expressed in the earlier name 'studium generale' borne by universities, which is not completely superseded by 'universitas' till the fifteenth century.] [footnote : the coincidence is not accidental. magna carta was wrested from a king humiliated by his submission to the pope, and the university charter was given to redress an act of violence on the part of the oxford citizens, who had been stimulated in their attack on the 'clerks' of oxford by john's quarrel with the pope.] [footnote : oxford never received this papal ratification; but as its claim to be a 'studium generale' was indisputable, it, like padua, was recognized as a 'general seat of study' 'by custom'. the university of paris, however, at one time refused to admit oxford graduates to teach without re-examination, and oxford retorted (the papal bull in favour of paris notwithstanding) by refusing to recognize the rights of the paris doctors to teach in her schools.] [footnote : in the scotch universities doctors are still created by '_birettatio_', the laying on of the cap, and i believe this is still done at many 'commencements' in america.] [footnote : compare st. john x. , [greek: enkainia] = 'the feast of the dedication'.] chapter iii the preliminaries of the degree ceremony [sidenote: the preliminaries of the degree ceremony.] it is needless to describe the requirements of our modern examination system, for those who present themselves for degrees, and their friends, know them only too well. and to describe completely the requirements of the mediaeval or the laudian university would be to enter into details which, however interesting, would yet belong to antiquarian history, and which have no relation to our modern arrangements. but there are certain broad principles which are common to the present system and to its predecessors, and which well deserve attention. [illustration] [sidenote: ( ) residence.] the first and most important of these is that oxford has always required from those seeking a degree, as she requires now, 'residence' in the university for a given time. it is declared in the proctors' books (mediaeval statutes used picturesque language), that 'whereas those who seek to mount to the highest places by a short cut, neglecting the steps (_gradibus_) thereto, seem to court a fall, no m.a. should present a candidate (for the b.a.) unless the person to be presented swear that he has studied the liberal arts in the schools, for at least four years at some proper university'. there was of course a further three years required of those taking the m.a. degree, and a still longer period for the higher faculties. residence, it may be added, was required to be continuous; the modern arrangement which makes it possible to put in a term, whenever convenient to the candidate, would have seemed a scandal to our predecessors. it will be noticed that much more than our modern 'pernoctation' was then required for residence, and that migration from other universities was more freely permitted than is now the case. this freedom to study at more than one university is still the rule in germany, and oxford is returning to it in the new statute on colonial and foreign universities, which excuses members of other bodies who have complied with certain conditions, from one year of residence, and from part of our examinations. [sidenote: relaxations of residence.] the university in old days, however, was more prepared to relax this requirement than it is in modern times; the sons of knights and the eldest sons of esquires[ ] were permitted to take a degree after three years, and 'graces' might be granted conferring still further exemptions; e.g. a certain g. more was let off with two years only, in , because being 'well born and the only son of his father', he is afraid that he 'may be called away before he has completed the appointed time', and so may 'be unable to take his degree conveniently'. the university is less indulgent now. [sidenote: ( ) lectures.] the old statute quoted above also implies that there were special lectures to be heard during the four years of residence; some of them had to be attended twice over. the old oxford records give careful directions how the lectures were to be given; the text was to be closely adhered to and explained, and digressions were forbidden. there are, however, none of those strict rules as to the punctuality of the lecturer, the pace at which he was to lecture, &c., which make some of the mediaeval statutes of other universities so amusing[ ]. the list of subjects for a mediaeval degree is too long to be given here; it may be mentioned, however, that aristotle, then as always, held a prominent place in oxford's schools.[ ] this was common to other universities, but the weight given to mathematics and to music was a special feature of the oxford course. the lectures were of course university and not college lectures; the latter hardly existed before the sixteenth century, and were as a rule confined to members of the college. as there were no 'professors' in our sense, the instruction was given by the ordinary masters of arts, among whom those who were of less than two years' standing were compelled to lecture, and were styled 'necessary regents' (i.e. they 'governed the schools'). they were paid by the fees of their pupils (_collecta_, a word familiar in a different sense in our 'collections'). there was keen competition in early days to attract the largest possible audience, but later on the university enacted that all fees should be pooled and equally divided among the teachers. for this (and for other reasons) the lectures became more and more a mere form, and no real part of a student's education. [sidenote: cutting lectures.] there had been from time immemorial a fixed tariff for 'cutting'[ ] lectures, and there was a further fine of the same amount for failing to take notes. but the university from time to time tried actually to enforce attendance. a curious instance of this occurs toward the close of the reign of elizabeth; a number of students were solemnly warned that 'by cutting' lectures, they were incurring the guilt of perjury, because they had sworn to obey the statutes which required attendance at lectures. they explained they had thought their 'neglect' to hear lectures only involved them in the fine and not in 'perjury', and after this apology they seem to have proceeded to their degrees without further difficulty. [sidenote: graces.] in fact there was a growing separation after the fifteenth century, between the formal requirements for the degree, and the actual university system; sometimes irreconcilable difficulties arose, e.g. when two students were (in ) summoned to explain why they had not attended one of the lectures required for the degree, and they presented the unanswerable excuse that the teacher in question had not lectured, having himself been excused by the university from the duty of giving the lecture. in fact the whole system would have been unworkable but for the power of granting 'graces' or dispensations, which has already been referred to: how necessary and almost universal these were, may be seen from the fact that even so conscientious a disciplinarian as archbishop laud, stern alike to himself and to others, was dispensed from observing all the statutes when he took his d.d. ( ) 'because he was called away suddenly on necessary business'. we can well believe that laud then, as always, was busy, but there were other students who got their 'graces' with much less excuse. modern students may well envy the good fortune of the brothers carey from exeter college, who (in ) were dispensed because 'being shortly about to depart from the university, they desired to take with them the b.a. degree as a benediction from their alma mater, the university'. [sidenote: the new college privilege.] one curious development of the old system of 'graces' survived in one of the most prominent of oxford colleges almost till within living memory.[ ] william of wykeham had ordained that his students should perform the whole of the university requirements, and not avail themselves of dispensations. when the granting of these became so frequent that they were looked upon as the essential part of the system, the idea grew up that new college men were to be exempt from the ordinary tests of the university. hence a wykehamist took his degree with no examination but that of his own college, both under the laudian statute and after the great statute of , which set up the modern system of examinations. what the founder had intended as an encouragement for industry was made by his degenerate disciples an excuse for idleness. [sidenote: ( ) examinations.] so far only the qualifications of residence and attendance on lectures have been spoken of. the great test of our own times, the examination, has not even been referred to. and it must certainly be admitted that the terrors of the modern written examinations were unknown in the old universities; such testing as took place was always viva voce. that the tests were serious, in theory at any rate, may be fairly inferred from the frequent statutes at paris against bribing examiners, and from the provision at bologna that at this 'rigorous and tremendous examination', the examiner should treat the examinee 'as his own son'. robert de sorbonne, the founder of the famous college at paris, has even left a sermon in which an elaborate comparison is drawn between university examinations and the last judgement; it need hardly be said that the moral of the sermon is the greater severity of the heavenly test as compared with the earthly; if a man neglects his prescribed book, he will be rejected once, but if he neglect 'the book of conscience, he will be rejected for ever'. such a comparison was not likely to have been made, had not the earthly ordeal possessed terrors at least as great as those that mark its modern successors. [sidenote: responsions.] it may be added at once, however, that we hear very little about examinations in old oxford; but still there were some. then as now the first examination was responsions, a name which has survived for at least years, whatever changes there have been in its meaning. the university also still retains the time-honoured name of the 'masters of the schools' for those who conduct this examination (though there are now six and not four, as in the thirteenth century), and candidates who pass are still said as of old to have 'responded in parviso'.[ ] in the fifteenth century a man had to be up at least a year before he entered for this examination, in the sixteenth century he could not do so before his ninth term, i.e. only a little more than a year before he took his b.a. the examination is now generally taken before coming into residence, and the most patriotic oxford man would hardly apply to it the enthusiastic praises of the seventeenth-century vice-chancellor ( ) who called it 'gloriosum illud et laudabile in parviso certamen, quo antiquitus inclaruit nostra academia'. [sidenote: other examinations.] at the end of four years, as has been said, a man 'determined', i.e. performed the disputations and other requirements for the degree of b.a., and after this ceremony there were more 'lectures and disputings' to be performed in the additional three years' residence required for a master's degree. nothing, however, is said of definite examinations as to the intellectual fitness of candidates for the m.a. hearne (early in the eighteenth century) quotes from an old book, that the candidate 'must submit himself privately to the examination of everyone of that degree, whereunto he desireth to be admitted'. but the terror of such a multiplied test was no doubt greatly softened by the fact that what is everybody's business is nobody's business. [sidenote: ( ) character.] the stress laid on the course followed rather than on the final examination brings out the great idea underlying the old degree; it sought its qualifications on all sides of a man's life, and not simply in his power to get up and reproduce knowledge. hence it is provided that m.a.s should admit to 'determination' (i.e. to the b.a.) only those who are 'fit in knowledge and character'; 'if any question arises on other points, e.g. as to age, stature, or other outward qualifications (_corporum circumstantiis_)', it is reserved for the majority of the regents. how minute was the inquiry into character can be seen in the case of a certain robert smith (of magdalen) in , who was refused his b.a., because he had brought scandalous charges against the fellows of his college, had called an m.a. 'to his face "arrant knave", had been at a disputation in the divinity school' in the open assembly of doctors and masters 'with his hat on his head', and had 'taken the wall of m.a.s without any moving of his hat'. all such minute inquiries as these are now left to the colleges, who are required by statute to see to it that candidates for the degree are 'of good character' (_probis moribus_). [sidenote: ( ) _circuitus_.] when a candidate's 'grace' had been obtained there was still another precaution before the degree, whether b.a. or m.a., was actually conferred. he had to go bare-headed, in his academical dress, round the 'schools', preceded by the bedel of his faculty, and to call on the vice-chancellor and two proctors before sunset; this gave more opportunity to the authorities or to any m.a. to see whether he was fit. of this old ceremony a bare fragment still remains in the custom that a candidate's name has to be entered in a book at the vice-chancellor's house before noon on the day preceding the degree-giving; but this formality now is usually performed for a man by his college dean, or even by a college servant. [sidenote: ( ) _de positio._] when the day of the ceremony arrived, solemn testimony was given to the proctor of the candidate's fitness by those who 'deposed' for him. in the case of the b.a., nine bachelors were required to testify to fitness; in the case of the m.a., nine masters had to swear this from 'sure knowledge', and five more 'to the best of their belief' (_de credulitate_). these depositions were whispered into the ears of the proctor by the witnesses kneeling before him. the information was given on oath, and as it were under the seal of confession; for neither they nor the proctors were allowed to reveal it. of all this picturesque ceremony nothing is left but the number 'nine'; so many m.a.s at least must be present, in order that the degree may be rightly given. it is not infrequent, towards the close of a degree ceremony, for a dean who is about to leave, having presented his own men, to be asked to remain until the proceedings are over, in order to 'make a house'. the preliminaries, formal or otherwise, to the conferment of degrees have now been described. two other points must be here mentioned, in one of which the university still retains its old custom, in the other it has departed from it. [sidenote: degrees in arts required for entrance to the higher faculties.] the first is the requirement which has always been maintained in oxford, that a candidate for one of the higher degrees, e.g. the d.d. or the d.m., should have first passed through the arts course, and taken the ordinary b.a. degree. this principle, that a general education should precede a special study, is most important now; it has also a venerable history. it was established by the university as long ago as the beginning of the fourteenth century, and was the result of a long struggle against the mendicant friars. this struggle was part of that jealousy between the regular and the secular clergy, which is so important in the history of the english church in mediaeval times. the university, as identified with the ordinary clergy, steadfastly resisted the claim of the great preaching orders, the franciscans and the dominicans, to proceed to a degree in theology without first taking the arts course. the case was carried to rome more than once, and was decided both for and against the university; but royal favour and popular feeling were for the oxford authorities against the friars, and the principle was maintained then, and, as has been said, has been maintained always. [sidenote: the m.a. becomes a form.] in the other point there has been a great departure from old usage. the original degree course involved seven years' residence for those who wished to become masters. even before the reformation, the number of those who took the degree was comparatively small, although the candidate at entrance was often only thirteen years old or even younger; and with the improvement of the schools of the country in the sixteenth century, the need of such prolonged residence became less, as candidates were better prepared before they came up. since the old arrangements were clearly unworkable, different universities have modified them in various ways; in scotland the baccalaureate has disappeared altogether, and the undergraduate passes straight to his m.a.; in france the degree of _bachelier_ is the lowest of university qualifications, and more nearly resembles our matriculation than anything else; in germany the doctorate is the reward of undergraduate studies, although it need hardly be said that those studies are on different lines from those of our own undergraduates. in england the old names have both been maintained (the english, like the romans, are essentially conservative), but their meaning has been entirely altered. we can trace in the elizabethan and the stuart periods the gradual modification of the old requirements for the residence of m.a.s, by means of dispensations. this was done in two ways. sometimes the actual time required was shortened, because a man was poor, because he could get clerical promotion if he were an m.a., or even by a general 'grace' in order to increase the number of those taking the degree. if only a small number incepted it was thought a reflection on oxford, and there were always cambridge spectators at hand to note it. and as the proctors were largely paid by the degree fees, they had an obvious interest in increasing the number of m.a.s. but it was more frequent to retain the length of time, but to dispense with actual residence; special reasons for this, e.g. clerical duties, travel, lawsuits, are at first given, but it gradually became the normal procedure, and residence ceased to be required after the b.a. degree had been taken. the master's term was retained _pro forma_ till within the recollection of graduates still living (it will be remembered that mr. hughes makes 'tom brown' return to keep it, a sadder and a wiser man); but even that form has now disappeared, and the oxford m.a. qualifies for his degree only by continuing to live and by paying fees. it may be added at once that the maintenance of the form is essential to the finance of the university; the m.a. fees alone, apart from the dues paid in the interval between taking the b.a. and the m.a., amount to some £ , a year, and considering how little the ordinary man pays as an undergraduate to the university, the payment of the m.a. is one that is fully due; it should be regarded by all oxford men as an expression of the gratitude to their alma mater, which they are in duty bound to show. the future of oxford finance would be brighter if some reformer could devise means by which the relation of the m.a. to his university might become more of a reality, so that he might realize his obligations to her. the doctrine of walter de merton that a foundation should benefit by the 'happy fortune' (_uberiore fortuna_) of its sons in subsequent life, is one that sadly needs emphasizing in oxford. footnotes: [footnote : this custom has left its trace in our matriculation arrangements. candidates are still required to state the rank of their father, and their position in the family, though birth and primogeniture no longer carry any privileges with them at oxford.] [footnote : the university authorities at paris and elsewhere had a great objection to dictating lectures; on the other hand the mediaeval undergraduate, like his modern successor, loved to 'get something down', and was wont to protest forcibly against a lecturer who went too fast, by hissing, shouting, or even organized stone-throwing.] [footnote : it is amusing to notice that the irreducible minimum of the _ethics_ at paris in the fourteenth century consists of the same first four books that are still almost universally taken up at oxford for the pass degree (i.e. in the familiar 'group a. i').] [footnote : it was only _ d._, a sum which has been immortalized by samuel johnson's famous retort on his tutor: 'sir, you have sconced me _ d._ for non-attendance at a lecture not worth a penny.'] [footnote : it was resigned voluntarily by new college in ; but the distinction is still observed (or should be) that a fellow of the college needs no grace for his degree, or if one is asked, 'demands' it as a right (_postulat_ is used instead of the usual _supplicat_). i have adopted dr. rashdall's explanation of the origin of this strange privilege. it is curious to add that king's college, cambridge, copied it, along with other and better features, from its great predecessor and model, new college.] [footnote : i.e. in the parvis or porch of st. mary's, where the disputations on logic and grammar, which formed the examination, took place: this was probably a room over the actual entrance, such as was common in mediaeval churches; there is a small example of one still to be seen in oxford, over the south porch of st. mary magdalen church.] chapter iv the officers of the university [sidenote: the origin of the chancellor's authority.] the beginning of the organized authority of the university, as has been already said (p. ), is the mention of the chancellor in the charter of . in the earliest period this officer was the centre of the constitutional life of oxford. although the bishop's representative, and as such endowed with an authority external to the university, he was, perhaps from the first, elected by the doctors and masters there. hence by a truly english anomaly, the representative of outside authority becomes identified with the representative of the democratic principle, and the oxford chancellor combined in himself the position of the elected rector of a foreign university, and that of the chancellor appointed by an external power. the reason for this anomaly is partly the remote position of the episcopal see; lincoln, the bishop's seat, was more than miles from the university town, which lay on the very borders of his great diocese. the combination too was surely made easy by the influence of the great scholar-saint, bishop grosseteste, who had himself filled the position of chancellor (though he may not have borne the title) before he passed to the see of lincoln, which he held for eighteen years ( - ) during the critical period of the growth of the academic constitution. [illustration] [illustration] during the first two centuries of the university's existence, the chancellor was a resident official; but in the fifteenth century it became customary to elect some great ecclesiastic, who was able by his influence and wealth to promote the interests of oxford and oxford scholars; such an one was george neville, the brother of the king-maker earl of warwick, who became chancellor in at the age of twenty. he no doubt owed his early elevation to the magnificence with which he had entertained the whole of oxford when he had proceeded to his m.a. from balliol college in the preceding year. [sidenote: the vice-chancellor.] from the fifteenth century onwards the vice-chancellor takes the place of the chancellor as the centre of university life; as the chancellor's representative, he is nominated every year by letters from him, though the appointment is in theory approved by the vote of convocation. the nomination of a vice-chancellor is for a year, but renomination is allowed; as a matter of fact, the chancellor's choice is limited by custom in two ways; no vice-chancellor is reappointed more than three times, i.e. the tenure of the office is limited to four years, and the nomination is always offered to the senior head of a house who has not held the position already; if any head has declined the office when offered to him on a previous occasion, he is treated as if he had actually held it. the vice-chancellor has all the powers and duties of the chancellor in the latter's absence; but in the rare cases when the chancellor visits oxford, his deputy sinks for the time into the position of an ordinary head of a college. [sidenote: the control of examinations.] the only duties of the vice-chancellor that need be here mentioned are his authority and control over examinations and over degrees, duties which are of course connected. any departure from the ordinary course of proceeding needs his approval: e.g. (to take a constantly recurring case) he alone can give permission to examine an undergraduate out of his turn, when any one has failed to present himself at the right time for viva voce. now that all oxford arrangements for examinations have developed into a cast-iron system, the appeal, except in matters of detail, to the vice-chancellor is rare; but it was not always so; his control was at one time a very real and important matter. in the case of the famous dr. fell, dean of christ church, antony wood notes 'that he did frequent examinations for degrees, hold the examiners up to it, and if they would or could not do their duty, he would do it himself, to the pulling down of many'. it is no wonder that men said of him:-- i do not like thee, dr. fell, the reason why i cannot tell. he was equally careful of the decencies and proprieties of the degree ceremony; 'his first care (as vice-chancellor) was to make all degrees go in caps, and in public assemblies to appear in hoods. he also reduced the caps and gowns worn by all degrees to their former size and make, and ordered all cap-makers and tailors to make them so.' it was necessary for him to be strict; some of the puritans, although they were not on the whole neglectful of the dignity and the studies of the university, had carried their dislike of all ceremonies and forms so far as to attempt to abolish academical dress. 'the new-comers from cambridge and other parts (in ) observed nothing according to statutes.' it was only the stubborn opposition of the proctor, walter pope (in ), which had prevented the formal abolition of caps and gowns; and one of fell's predecessors as vice-chancellor, the famous puritan divine, john owen, also dean of christ church, had caused great scandal to the 'old stock remaining' by wearing his hat (instead of a college cap) in congregation and convocation; 'he had as much powder in his hair as would discharge eight cannons' (but this was a cambridge scandal, and may be looked on with suspicion), and wore for the most part 'velvet jacket, his breeches set round at knee with ribbons pointed, spanish leather boots with cambric tops'. but in spite of this somewhat pronounced opposition to a 'prelatical cut', owen had been in his way a disciplinarian. he had arrested with his own hands, pulling him down from the rostrum and committing him to bocardo prison, an undergraduate who had carried too far the wit of the 'terrae filius', the licensed jester of the solemn act. [sidenote: the bedels.] fortunately the vice-chancellor in these more orderly days has not to carry out discipline with his own hands in this summary fashion. he has his attendants, the bedels, for this purpose, who, as the statutes order, 'wearing the usual gowns and round caps, walk before him in the customary way with their staves, three gold and one silver.' the office of bedel is one of the oldest in oxford, and is common to all universities; dr. rashdall goes so far as to say that 'an allusion to a bidellus is in general (though not invariably) a sufficiently trustworthy indication that a school is really a university or studium generale'. the higher rank of 'esquire bedel' has been abolished, and the old office has sadly shrunk in dignity; it is hard now to conceive the state of things in the reign of henry vii, when the university was distracted by the counter-claims of the candidates for the post of divinity bedel, when one of them had the support of the prince of wales, and another that of the king's mother, the lady margaret, and when the electors were hard put to it to decide between candidates so royally backed; it was a contest between gratitude in the sense of a lively expectation of favours to come, and gratitude for benefits already received (i.e. the lady margaret professorship of divinity, the first endowment of university teaching in oxford). even the puritans had attached the greatest importance to the office, and a humorous side is given to the sad account of the parliamentary visitation in and the following years, by the distress of the visitors at the disappearance of the old symbols of authority. the bedels, being good royalists, had gone off with their official staves, and refused to surrender them to the usurping intruders. resolution after resolution was passed to remedy the defect; the visitors were reduced to ordering that the stipends of suppressed lectureships should be applied to the purchase of staves, and were finally compelled to appeal to the colleges for contributions towards the replacing of these signs of authority. the present staves date from the eighteenth century, while the old ones[ ] rest in honourable retirement at the university galleries. though the office of bedel has ceased to be in our own days a matter of high university politics, it would be difficult to exaggerate the importance of the part played by the bedel of the faculty of arts in the degree ceremony. it is he who marshals the candidates for presentation, distributes the testaments on which they have to take their oath, and superintends the retirement of the doctors and the m.a.s into the apodyterium, whence they return under his guidance in their new robes, to make their bow to the vice-chancellor and proctors.[ ] if the truth must be added, he is often relied on by these officers to tell them what they have to do and to say. [sidenote: the proctors.] if the vice-chancellor is responsible for order in the congregation, and actually admits to the degree, the proctors, as representatives of the faculty of arts, play an equally important part in the ceremony. these officials are to the undergraduate without doubt the most prominent figures in the university; they form the centre of a large part of oxford mythology; it may be said (it is to be hoped the comparison is not irreverent) that they play much the same part in oxford stories as the evil one does in mediaeval legends, for like him they are mysterious and omnipresent beings, powerful for mischief, yet often not without a sense of humour, who are by turns the oppressors and the butts of the wily undergraduate. to most oxford men it comes as a discovery, about the time they take their degree at the earliest, that the proctors have many other things to do besides looking after them. the office goes back to the very beginnings of the university and is first mentioned in , when the proctors are associated with the chancellor in the charter of henry iii, which gave the university a right to interfere in the assize of bread and beer. their number recalls one of the most important points in the early history of oxford. the division of the students according to 'nations', which prevailed at mediaeval paris, and which still survives in some of the scotch universities, never was established in the english ones; in this as in other respects the strong hand of the anglo-norman kings had made england one. but though there was no room for division of 'nations', there was a strongly-marked line of separation between the northerners and the southerners, i.e. between those from the north of the trent, with whom the scotch were joined, and those south of that river, among whom were reckoned the welsh and the irish. the fights between these factions were a continual trouble to the mediaeval university, and it was necessary for the m.a.s of each division to have their own proctor; hence originally the senior proctor was the elect of the southerners and the junior proctor of the northerners. proctorial elections were a source of constantly recurring trouble, till archbishop laud at last transferred the election to the colleges, each of which took its turn in a cycle carefully calculated according to the numbers of each college. in our own generation this system has been carried a step further, and all colleges, large or small alike, have their turn for the proctorship, which comes to each once in eleven years. the electors for it are the members of the governing body along with all members of congregation belonging to the college. the proctors represent the masters of arts as opposed to the higher faculties (i.e. the doctors), and it is in virtue of the time-honoured right of the faculty of arts to decide all matters concerning the granting of 'graces', that the proctors take their prominent part in the degree ceremony. although the vice-chancellor is presiding, it is the proctor who submits the degrees to the house, and declares them 'granted'. before doing this the two proctors, as has been said (p. ), walk half-way down the house and return, thus in form fulfilling the injunction of the statutes that 'they should take the votes in the usual way'.[ ] [sidenote: the registrar.] one other university official must be mentioned, the registrar, i.e. the secretary of the university. the existence of a register of convocation implies that there must have been an officer of this kind in mediaeval oxford, but the actual title does not occur till the sixteenth century; its first holder seems to have been john london of new college, so scandalously notorious in the first days of the reformation. but the character of university officials was not high in the sixteenth century. one of the earliest registrars, thomas key of all souls, was expelled from his post in for having during two years neglected to take any note of the university proceedings; he actually struck in the face another master of arts who was trying to detain him at the order of the vice-chancellor. for this he was sent to prison, and fined _s._ _d._; but he was released the very next day, and his fine cut down to _d._ he lived to be elected master of university college nine years later, and to be the mendacious champion of the antiquity of oxford against the cambridge advocate. this was his namesake dr. caius, equally mendacious but more reputable, the pious 'second founder' of a great cambridge college. the registrar's duty in the degree ceremony, as has been said (p. ), is to certify that the candidates have fulfilled all the requirements for the degree, that they have received 'graces' from their colleges as to proper residence, and that all examinations have in every case been passed; the registrar derives this latter information from the university books in which records are now kept of each stage of an undergraduate's career. it is only recently, however, that this system has been adopted; less than twenty years ago each candidate for a degree had to produce his 'testamur', the precious scrap of blue paper issued after every examination to each successful candidate, pass-man and class-man alike. it was a clumsy system, but it had strong claims of sentiment; most old oxford men will remember the rush to get the 'testamur' for self or for friend, and the triumph with which the visible symbol was brought home. since the university has abolished these, it might with advantage introduce the custom of granting to each graduate, on taking his degree, a formal certificate of the examinations he has passed, of his residence and of the rank to which he has attained. such a certificate, whether called 'diploma' or by any other name, would be of practical value; in these days study is international, and the number of men is very great, and is increasing, who need to produce evidence of their university career and its results for the authorities of foreign or american universities. these bodies often issue diplomas of most dignified appearance; it is a pity that oxford, which in some ways is so rich in survivals of picturesque custom, should fail in this matter. it is true that a certificate of the degree can be obtained, if a man writes to the registrar for it and pays an extra fee; this additional payment seems a little unjust; and men would be more willing to take the degree if, as they say, 'they had something definite to show for it.' [sidenote: the presenters for the degrees.] the presenters for the degrees are mainly college officials; it is only for the higher degrees that university professors present, and then not simply in virtue of being university officials[ ], but also as having already attained the degree which the candidate is seeking. the old oxford theory was that of the roman magistracy, that only those who were of a certain rank could admit others to that rank. thus the regius professor of medicine usually presents our medical bachelors and doctors; but he performs this duty because he is a doctor; he has, however, as occupying the professorial chair, the right to claim presentations for himself, as against all other doctors, even those senior to him in standing. this right is a matter of immemorial custom for the regius professors; it has been given to the professor of music by a recent statute ( ). footnotes: [footnote : for their history and for a description of the present staves, cf. appendix ii.] [footnote : it seems a pity that the old order cannot be restored, and the candidates kept outside till their 'graces' have been passed. formerly they were kept in the 'pig market', i.e. the ante-chamber of the divinity school (see p. ), or in the apodyterium, till this part of the ceremony was completed; they were then finally ushered into the presence of the vice-chancellor by the yeoman bedel. the modern arrangement, by which candidates are present at the passing of their own 'graces', i.e. at their admission to the degree, may be convenient, but it is quite inconsistent with the whole theory of the ceremony.] [footnote : for the importance of the proctorial walk and for the legends attached to it, compare p. .] [footnote : for the presentation to the new doctorates, d.litt. and d.sc., cf. p. .] chapter v university dress [sidenote: importance attached to dress.] 'from the soberest drab to the high flaming scarlet, spiritual idiosyncrasies unfold themselves in the choice of colour; if the cut betoken intellect and talent, so does the colour betoken temper and heart.' mediaeval oxford would have agreed with carlyle's german professor in his philosophy of clothes, as an instance or two will show. a solemn enactment was passed in against the tailors, who were apparently trying to shorten the length of university garments; 'for it is honourable and in accordance with reason that clerks to whom god has given an advantage over the lay folk in their adornments within, should likewise differ from the lay folk outwardly in dress.' if any tailor broke the statute, he was to be imprisoned. [illustration: _procurator_] [illustration: _commensalis superioris ordinis_] [sidenote: statute as to m.a.s.] the observance of this principle was strictly enjoined also on members of the university; the master of arts at his inception had to swear that he has 'of his own' the dress proper for his degree, and that he will wear it on all proper occasions. moreover it was further provided that masters should wear 'boots either black or as near black as possible', and that they should never give 'ordinary lectures' when wearing 'shoes cut down or short in any way'. [sidenote: sophisters[ ].] naturally means had to be taken also to prevent members of the university of lower rank from usurping the dress of their superiors. in it was ordained that 'whereas the insolence of many scholars in our days is reaching such a pitch of audacity that they are not afraid to wear hoods like masters', henceforth they were to wear only the '_liripipium consutum et non contextum_'[ ], on pain of a fine of _s._; the fine was to be shared between the university, the chancellor, and the proctors; it was further provided (which seems unnecessary) that if any official had been negligent in exacting it, his portion should go to the university. [sidenote: b.a.s.] at the same time, the hoods of the b.a.s were legislated on: 'whereas the b.a.s in the different faculties, careless of the safety of their own souls,' were wearing hoods insufficiently lined with fur, henceforth all hoods were to be fully lined; a fortnight was given to the b.a.s to put their scanty hoods right. the danger to salvation was incurred by the perjury involved in the neglect of a statute which had been solemnly accepted on oath. [sidenote: tailors.] the university further settled what was to be charged by tailors for cutting the various dresses; the prices seem very low, only _d._ for a furless gown (_toga_) and _d._ for a furred cope; but no doubt the tailors of those days knew how to evade the statute by enhancing their profit on the price of materials; we have one suit before the chancellor (in ) in which the furred gown in question was priced at no less than _s._ _d._ these instances, which could be multiplied indefinitely, are enough to show how careful the mediaeval university was as to dress. but it will be noticed that they nearly all refer to the dress of graduates; the modern university on the other hand practically leaves its m.a.s alone[ ], while it still enforces (at least in theory) academic dress on its undergraduates, as to whom the mediaeval university had little to say. the laudian statutes here as elsewhere form the transition from the arrangements of pre-reformation oxford to those of our own day. they enforce (on all alike) dress of a proper colour, short hair, and abstinence from 'absurdus ille et fastuosus mos' of walking abroad in fancy boots (_ocreae_); only while the graduate is fined _s._ _d._ for offending, the undergraduate ('if his age be suitable') suffers '_poena corporalis_' at the discretion of the vice-chancellor and proctors. perhaps the following general points may be made as to university dress in the olden times. [sidenote: ( ) university dress clerical.] as all members of the university were _ipso facto_ clerks, their dress had to correspond; the marks of clerical dress were that it was to be of a certain length (later it was specified that it should reach the heels, _talaris_), and that it should be closed in front, but there was great licence as to colour; the 'black' or 'subfusc' prescribed by the laudian statutes is the result of the asceticism of the reformation, and was unknown in oxford before the sixteenth century. we have in the wills of students and in the inventories of their properties, abundant evidence that our mediaeval predecessors wore garments suitable to 'merrie englande', e.g. of green, blue or blood-colour. sometimes the founder of a college left directions what 'livery' all his students should wear; e.g. robert eglesfield prescribed for the fellows of queen's college that they were to dine in hall in purple cloaks, the doctors wearing these trimmed with fur, while the m.a.s wore theirs 'plain'; the colour was 'to suit the dignity of their position and to be like the blood of the lord'. cambridge colleges still in some cases prescribe for their undergraduates gowns of a special colour or cut. one curious survival of the 'clerkship' of all students is the requirement of the white tie in all university examinations and in the degree ceremony. the 'bands', which (to quote dr. rashdall) 'are merely a clerical collar', have disappeared from the necks of all lay members of the university below the degree of doctor, except the vice-chancellor and the proctors; the dress of the latter is the full-dress of an ordinary m.a. in the seventeenth century, and preserves picturesque old features which have been lost elsewhere. [sidenote: ( ) the cope and the gown.] the proper dress of the mediaeval master, though probably an undergraduate could also wear it, was the _cappa_ or cope; this at oxford was usually black in colour, but doctors had quite early (i.e. in the time of the edwards) adopted as the colour for it some shade of red, thus beginning the custom which still survives. the scarlet 'habit', worn at convocations by oxford doctors over their ordinary gowns, retains the old name '_cappa_', but the shape has been completely altered. the sister university, however, still preserves the old shape; the cambridge vice-chancellor presides at their degree ceremonies in a sleeveless scarlet cloak, lined with miniver, which exactly corresponds to the fourteenth-century picture of our chancellor receiving the charter from edward iii. the gown, the 'putting on' of which is now the distinguishing mark of the taking of the b.a. or m.a., is simply the survival of a mediaeval garment which was not even clerical, the long gown (_toga_) or cassock, which was worn under the _cappa_. the dress of the 'blues' at christ's hospital preserves the gown in an earlier stage of development. the modern usage which gives the gown of the b.a. sleeves, while that of an m.a. has them cut away, has in some unexplained way grown out of a similar usage as to the mediaeval _cappa_. [sidenote: ( ) the hood.] the mark, however, which specially distinguished the degree was the hood, as to which the university was always strict, assigning the proper material and the proper colour[ ] to that of each faculty. the hood was not a mere adornment or a badge, it was an article of dress. originally it seems to have been attached to the _cappa_, and, as its name implies, was used for covering (the head) when required. its practical purpose is quaintly implied in the books of the chancellor and the proctors (sub anno ), where it is provided that 'whereas reason bids that the varieties of costume should correspond to the ordering of the seasons, and whereas the festival of easter in its due course is akin from its nearness to summer,' it is henceforth allowed that from easter to all saints' day, 'graduates may wear silken hoods,' instead of fur ones, 'old custom notwithstanding.' the m.a. hood, even in its present mutilated form, still presents survivals of the time when it was a real head covering, survivals which should prevent those who wear it from putting it on upside down, as many often do. the b.a. hood was already in the fifteenth century lined with lamb's wool or rabbit's fur, and the use of miniver by other than m.a.s and persons of birth or wealth[ ] was strictly forbidden by a statute of . [sidenote: ( ) the cap.] the last and not the least important part of mediaeval academic dress still remains to be spoken of, the cap. the conferring of this with the ring and the kiss of peace has been already mentioned (p. ), these being the marks of the admission of new masters and doctors. as under the roman law the slave was manumitted by being allowed to put on a cap, so the '_pileus_' of the m.a. was the sign of his independence; hence he was bound to wear it at all university ceremonies. the cap was sometimes square (_biretta_), sometimes round (_pileus_); gascoigne (writing in ) tells us that in his day the round cap was worn by doctors of divinity and canon law, and that it had always been so since the days of king alfred; not content with this antiquity, he also affirms that the round cap was given by god himself to the doctors of the mosaic law. he adds the more commonplace but more trustworthy information that the cap was in those days fastened by a string behind, to prevent its falling off. the modern stiff corners of the cap are an addition, which is not an improvement; the old cap drooped gracefully from its tuft in the centre, as can still be seen in the portraits of seventeenth-century divines, e.g. in vandyck's 'archbishop laud', so familiar from its many replicas and copies. later usage has specialized the round cap of velvet as belonging to the doctors of law and medicine, and a most beautiful head-gear it is; it is preserved, in a less elaborate form, at the degree ceremony in the round caps of the bedels. after the reformation the cap began to be worn by b.a.s and undergraduates, but originally without the tuft; the eighteenth century, careless of the old traditions, replaced the tuft by the modern commonplace tassel, and extended this to all caps except those of servitors. with the disappearance of social distinctions in dress, the tassel has been extended to all, except to choir-boys, and so the coveted badge of the mediaeval master is now the property of all university ranks, and is undervalued and neglected in the same proportion as it has been rendered meaningless. before leaving the subject of head-gear, it may be noted that the old university custom of giving the son of a nobleman a gold tassel for his cap has left a permanent mark in the familiar phrase 'tuft-hunting'; the right of wearing this distinctive badge still exists for peers and for their eldest sons[ ], but they are at liberty not to avail themselves of it, and it is practically never used. academic dress has sadly lost its picturesqueness, especially for the undergraduate; his gown no longer reaches to his heels, as the statute still requires it to do, and the injunction against 'novi et insoliti habitus' is surely a dead letter in these days when norfolk jackets and knickerbocker suits penetrate even to university and college lecture-rooms. but what can the university expect when m.a.s, in evasion of the statutes, come to congregation without gowns, and borrow them from each other in order to vote, and when the university itself knows nothing of the 'exemplaria' (models) which are supposed to be 'in archivis reposita'? whether there ever were these models of proper university dress, e.g. a doll in d.d. habit, &c., is uncertain; what is certain is that there are none now. at the present time the scanty relics of mediaeval usage are at the mercy of the tailors; and though it must be said for their representatives in oxford that they do their best to maintain old traditions, yet there is no doubt that innovations are slowly but steadily introduced, e.g. the m.a. hood is losing in length, and is altering in colour. the recent attempt on the part of the university to devise new gowns and habits for the 'research' doctors is, it may be hoped, the beginning of a better state of things; whatever may be thought of the aesthetic success in this case, the subject was treated with seriousness and expert evidence was taken. perhaps in the near future oxford may bestir itself in this matter, and see that nothing more is lost of its mediaeval survivals; restoration of what is actually gone is probably hopeless. such pious conservatism would be in accordance with the spirit of the present age; for even the modern radical, unlike his predecessor of half a century back, cares, or at any rate professes to care, for the external traces of the past. [sidenote: oxford hoods and gowns.] the following list makes no attempt to distinguish between the full dress and the undress of doctors; it is only intended as a help in identifying the various functionaries who take part in the degree ceremony. _doctors._ divinity (d.d.[ ]).--scarlet hood and habit; the gown has black velvet sleeves. {scarlet hood and civil law (d.c.l.) {habit; the gown medicine (d.m.) {has sleeves of crimson {silk. the master of surgery (m.ch.) wears the same hood, gown, and habit as an m.d., and ranks next after him. science (d.sc.) {scarlet hood and habit; letters (d.litt.) {the gown has sleeves of {french grey. the habits of these doctors, though in the main similar, have different facings, that of the d.d. being black, of the d.m. and d.c.l. crimson, and of the d.litt. and d.sc. french grey. doctor of music (mus.doc.).--gown of crimson and cream brocade. the hood is of the same colours. this gorgeous dress goes back for nearly years. the gown is made of that rich kind of brocade which is popularly said to be able to stand up by itself, and tradition (not very well authenticated) has it that the identically same gown was worn by richter on his admission as doctor in , which had been worn by haydn in the preceding century. the doctor of music, however, unlike all other doctors, ranks after an m.a.; the reason is that musical graduates need not take the ordinary arts course, but the degrees in music are open to all who have passed responsions, or an equivalent examination. the undress gowns of all doctors but those of divinity have the sleeves trimmed with lace; d.d.s wear also a scarf (fastened by a loop behind), and a cassock under their habit or their gown. all doctorates are given, or at any rate are supposed to be given, for original work that is a contribution to knowledge; but in the case of the d.d. the theses have quite lost this character. _the proctors._ the proctors, as the representatives of the m.a.s, wear their old full-dress gown, which has otherwise disappeared from use. the sleeves are of black velvet; the hoods are of miniver, and are passed on from proctor to proctor. on the back of the gown is a curious triangular tassel, called a 'tippet'; this is a survival of a bag or purse, which was once used for collecting fees; the appropriateness of its retention by proctors will still be easily understood by undergraduates. they used also to receive all fees for examinations, till about . _master of arts_ (m.a.) crimson hood and black gown, with the sleeves cut short and fitting above the elbows, and hanging in a long bag, cut at the end into crescent shape. _bachelors._ divinity (b.d.).--the hood is black. a scarf is worn, and a cassock also is worn under the gown. the bachelor of divinity is placed here for convenience of reference; but the degree is really higher than that of an m.a. and can only be taken three years after a man has 'incepted' as m.a. civil law (b.c.l.)} medicine (b.m.) } the hoods are blue, surgery (b.ch.) } trimmed with lamb's music (b.mus.) } wool. the gown of all the above bachelors has laced sleeves fitting to the arm, like those of the m.a.s, but slit; the bag is straight and also trimmed with lace. arts (b.a.).--the hood is trimmed with lamb's wool; the gown has full sleeves, with strings to fasten back. [illustration] footnotes: [footnote : when a candidate had passed responsions, he was called a '_sophista generalis_'. the title has now died out in the english universities, but survives in the form 'sophomore' in america.] [footnote : this adornment seems to have survived in oxford till within the last half-century; at all examinations subsequent to 'responsions' a candidate, when going in for viva voce, had a little black hood placed round his neck; this arrangement has now disappeared.] [footnote : the old statutes as to the dress of graduates are still in force, and partially observed at conferment of degrees, examinations, &c., but there is consideredable slackness as to them. it is only too common to see a dean 'presenting' in a coloured tie, although his undergraduates are all compelled to don a white one.] [footnote : this is delightfully commemorated in the old custom of queen's college, by which, at the gaudy dinner on jan. st, each guest receives a needle with a silk thread of the colour of his faculty--theologians black, lawyers blue, arts students red--and is bidden 'take this and be thrifty'. the mending of the hood was a duty which must have often devolved on the poor mediaeval student. the custom dates from the time of the founder ( ). it is sad that so few colleges have been careful, as queen's has been, to preserve their old customs.] [footnote : those of royal blood, the sons of peers and members of parliament, and those who could prove an income of marks a year, were allowed the privilege of masters.] [footnote : i.e. if they are admitted by a college as 'noblemen', and are entered on the books as such.] [footnote : the initials s.t.p. (sanctae theologiae professor), so commonly used for doctors of divinity on monuments, are simply a survival of the old usage according to which, in the middle ages, doctor, professor, and master were synonymous terms for the highest degree. it was only later that 'professor' came to be especially applied to a paid teacher in any subject.] chapter vi the places of the degree ceremony the university of oxford confers its degrees in three rooms, the sheldonian theatre, the divinity school, and the convocation house; the choice rests with the vice-chancellor, and now that, in the last year or so, degree-days have been made less frequent, and there are consequently more candidates on each occasion, the place is often the sheldonian. this is a great improvement on old custom, for it is the only one of the three buildings which was designed for the purpose, and it is also the only one which gives room for the proper conduct of the ceremony, when the number of candidates is large. [sidenote: the sheldonian.] the sheldonian, therefore, commonly known in oxford as 'the theatre', will be spoken of first, although it is the last in date of construction. it is a memorial at once of the munificence of one of the greatest among oxford's many episcopal benefactors, and also of the architectural skill of her most eminent architect, sir christopher wren. down to the time of the civil war, the ceremony of the 'act' (cf. p. seq.) at which degrees were conferred, had taken place in st. mary's; but the influence of the puritans was beginning to affect all parties, and was causing the growth of a feeling that religious buildings should not be used for secular purposes. john evelyn, who gives us our fullest account of the opening ceremony at the sheldonian, notes that it might be thought 'indecent' that the act should be held in a 'building set apart for the immediate worship of god'[ ], and this was 'the inducement for building this noble pile'. wren had shown his design to the royal society in , and it had been much commended; he was only a little more than thirty years of age, and it was his first public building, but he was already known as that 'miracle of a youth' and that 'prodigious young scholar', and he fully justified the archbishop's confidence in him. so great was this that sheldon told evelyn that he had never seen the building and that he never intended to do so. wren showed his boldness alike in the style he chose--he broke once for all with the gothic tradition in oxford--and in the skill with which he designed a roof which was (and is) one of the largest unsupported roofs in england. the construction of it was a marvel of ingenious design. [sidenote: its dedication.] the cost of the whole building was £ , , as wren told evelyn, and architects, even the greatest of them, do not usually over-estimate the cost of their designs; but other authorities place it at £ , , or even at a little over £ , . at any rate, it was felt to be, as evelyn writes, 'comparable to any of this kind of former ages, and doubtless exceeding any of the present, as this university does for colleges, libraries, schools, students and order, all the universities in the world.' we may pardon the enthusiasm of one who was himself an oxford man, after a day on which 'a world of strangers and other company from all parts of the nation' had been gathered for the dedication. the ceremonies lasted two days (july and , ), and on the first day extended 'from eleven in the morning till seven at night'; we are not told how long they lasted on the second day. they consisted of speeches, poems, disputations, and all the other forms of learned gaiety wherein our academic predecessors took such unwearying delight; there was 'music too, vocal and instrumental, in the balustrade corridor opposite to the vice-chancellor's seat'. and those who took part had among them some who bore famous names; the great preacher, south, was public orator; among the d.d.s incepting were tillotson, afterwards archbishop of canterbury, one of the first to introduce modern english into the style of the pulpit, and compton, who, as bishop of london, took so prominent a part in the revolution. [sidenote: the roof paintings.] not the least conspicuous feature in the new building was the paintings by robert streater, which had been especially executed for it. in accordance with the idea of wren, who wished to imitate the uncovered roofs of greek and roman theatres, the building, 'by the painting of the flat roof within, is represented as open.' pepys, who went to see everything, records how he went to see these pictures in streater's studio, and how the 'virtuosos' who were looking at them, thought 'them better than those of rubens at whitehall'; 'but,' pepys has taste enough to add, 'i do not fully think so.' this unmeasured admiration was, however, outdone by the contemporary poetaster, whitehall, who ends his verses on the paintings, that future ages must confess they owe to streater more than michael angelo, lines in which the grammar and the connoisseurship are about on an equality. the paintings are on canvas fixed on stretchers, and hence have been removed for cleaning purposes more than once; this was last done only a few years ago ( - ). there are thirty-two sections, and the whole painting measures feet by . unfortunately the subject is rendered difficult to understand, because the most important section, which is the key of the whole, representing 'the expulsion of ignorance', is practically concealed by the organ; the present instrument was erected in . [sidenote: the sheldonian press.] sheldon's building was designed for a double use. it was to be at once the university theatre and the university printing press, and it was used for the latter purpose till , when the oxford press was moved across the quadrangle to the clarendon building, designed by sir john vanbrugh. the actual printing was done in the roof, on the floor above the painted ceiling. the theatre is for this reason the mark on all oxford books printed during the first half-century of its existence. in one respect archbishop sheldon was so unlike most oxford benefactors that his merit must be especially mentioned. men are often willing enough to give a handsome sum of money down to be spent on buildings; they too often leave to others the charge of maintaining these; but sheldon definitely informed the university that he did not wish his benefaction to be a burden to it, and invested £ , in lands, out of the rents of which his theatre might be kept in repair. the sheldonian, thanks to its original donor and to the ever liberal dr. wills of wadham, who supplemented the endowment a century later, has never been a charge on the university revenues. [sidenote: the restoration of the sheldonian.] unfortunately these repairs have been carried out with more zeal than discretion. even in wren's lifetime the alarm was raised that the roof was dangerous ( ), but the vice-chancellor of the time was wise enough not to consult a rival architect but to take the practical opinion of working masons and carpenters, who reported it safe. nearly years later the same alarm was raised, whether with reason or not we do not know, for no records were left; all we do know is that the 'restorers' of the day took wren's roof off, removed his beautiful windows, inserted a new and larger cupola, and generally did their best to spoil his work. it is only necessary to compare the old pictures of the sheldonian with its present state to see how in this case, as in so many others, oxford's architectural glories have suffered from our insane unwillingness to let well alone. [sidenote: the history of the sheldonian.] the sheldonian was not in existence during the period when university history was most picturesque. its associations therefore are nearly all academic, and academic functions, however interesting to those who take part in them, do not appeal to the great world. perhaps the most romantic scene that the sheldonian has witnessed was the installation of the duke of wellington as chancellor in , when the whole theatre went mad with enthusiasm as the writer of the newdigate, joseph arnould of wadham, declaimed his lines on napoleon,-- and the dark soul a world could scarce subdue bent to thy genius, chief of waterloo. the subject of the poem was 'the monks of st. bernard'. but the enthusiasm was almost as great, and the poetry far superior, when heber recited the best lines of the best newdigate on record:-- no hammer fell, no ponderous axes swung; like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung. majestic silence. this happy reference to the manner of building of solomon's temple was suggested by sir walter scott. another almost historic occasion in the sheldonian was when, at a diocesan conference, the late lord beaconsfield made his well-known declaration, 'i for my part prefer to be on the side of the angels.' but these scenes only indirectly touch oxford. more intimately connected with her history are the famous proctorial veto of , when dean church and his colleague saved tract no. from academic condemnation, and the stormy debates of twenty years ago, when the permission to use vivisection in the university physiological laboratory was only carried after a struggle in which the odium scientificum showed itself capable of an unruliness and an unfairness to opponents which has left all displays, previous or subsequent, of odium theologicum far behind. [sidenote: commemoration scenes.] there is no doubt that the organized medical vote on that occasion holds the record for noise in the theatre. and the competition for the record has been and is still severe; every year at commemoration, we have a scene of academic disorder, which can only be called 'most unbecoming of the gravity of the university', to use john evelyn's words of the performance of the terrae filius at the opening of the sheldonian. it is true that the proceedings of the encaenia have been always able to be completed, since the device was hit on of seating ladies freely among the undergraduates in the upper gallery; this change was introduced in . the disorder of the undergraduates' gallery had culminated in , and in the ceremony was held in the divinity school. but the noise is as prevalent as ever, and it must be confessed that undergraduates' wit has suffered severely from the feminine infusion. however, our visitors, distinguished and undistinguished alike, appreciate the disorder, and it certainly has plenty of precedent for it in all stages of university history. but the sheldonian has more harmonious associations. music was from the first a regular feature of the encaenia, and compositions were written for it. the most famous occasion of this kind was in july, , when handel came to oxford, at the invitation of the vice-chancellor, to conduct the performance of some of his works; among these was the oratorio _athaliah_, especially written for the occasion. handel was offered the degree of doctor of music, but (unlike haydn) declined it, because he disliked 'throwing away his money for dat de blockhead wish'. [sidenote: convocation house.] till quite recently the degree ceremony was usually held in the convocation house, which lies just in front of the sheldonian, under the northern end of the bodleian library (the so-called selden wing). this plain and unpretentious building, which was largely due to the munificence of archbishop laud, was begun in and finished two years later. it cost, with the buildings above, about £ , . its dreary late-gothic windows and heavy tracery, and the spartan severity of its unbacked benches, are characteristic of the time of transition, alike architectural and religious, to which it belongs. it has been from that time to this the parliament house of the university, where all matters are first discussed by the congregation of resident doctors and masters; it is only on the rare occasions when some great principle is at stake, and when the country is roused, that matters, whether legislative or administrative, are discussed anywhere else; a sheldonian debate is fortunately very rare. [sidenote: its history.] the building is well suited for the purpose for which it was erected, and so has not unnaturally been used as the meeting-place of the nation's legislators, when, as has several times happened, parliament has been gathered in oxford. charles i's house of commons met here in , when oxford was the royalist capital of england; and in , when parliament fled from the great plague, and in , when charles ii fought and defeated the last exclusion parliament, the house of commons again occupied this house. it was on the latter occasion just preparing to move across to the sheldonian, and the printers there were already packing up their presses to make room for the legislators, when charles suddenly dissolved it, and so completed his victory over shaftesbury and monmouth. a less suitable use for the convocation house was its employment for charles i's court of chancery in - . for the reasons given above, degree days are now much more important functions than they used to be, and the convocation house, never very suitable for the ceremony, is now seldom used. [sidenote: divinity school.] but the divinity school, which lies at a right angle to the convocation house, under the bodleian library proper, is a room which by its beauty is worthy to be the scene of any university ceremony, for which it is large enough, and degrees are still often conferred there as well as in the sheldonian. the architecture of the school makes it the finest room which the university possesses. it was building through the greater part of the fifteenth century, which professor freeman thought the most characteristic period of english architecture; and certainly the strength and the weakness of the perpendicular style could hardly be better illustrated elsewhere. the story of its erection can be largely traced in the _epistolae academicae_, published by the oxford historical society; they cover the whole of the fifteenth century, and though they are wearisome in their constant harping on the same subject--the university's need of money--they show a fertility of resource in petition-framing and in the returning of thanks, which would make the fortune of a modern begging-letter writer, whether private or public. the earliest reference to the building of the proposed new school of divinity is in , when the university picturesquely says it was intended 'ad amplianda matris nostrae ubera' (so many things could be said in latin which would be shocking in english). in the archbishop of canterbury, chichele, is approached and asked 'to open the torrents of his brotherly kindness'. parliament is appealed to, the monastic orders, the citizens of london, in fact anybody and everybody who was likely to help. cardinal beaufort gave marks, william of waynflete lent his architectural engines which he had got for building magdalen--at least he was requested to do so--( ), the bishop of london, by a refinement of compliment, is asked to show himself 'in this respect also a second solomon'. [the touch of adding 'also' is delightful.] the agreement to begin building was signed in , when the superintendent builder was to have a retaining fee of _s._ a year, and _s._ for every week that he was at work in oxford; the work was finally completed in . and the building was worthy of this long travail; its elaborate stone roof, with the arms of benefactors carved in it, is a model at once of real beauty and of structural skill. [sidenote: history of the divinity school.] the divinity school, as its name implies, was intended for the disputations of the theological faculty, and perhaps it was this special purpose which prevented it being used so widely for ordinary business, as the other university buildings were. at any rate it was this connexion which led to its being the scene of one of the most picturesque events in oxford history; it was to it, on april , , that cranmer was summoned to maintain his theses on the blessed sacrament against the whole force of the roman doctors of oxford, reinforced by those of cambridge. single-handed and without any preparation, he held his own with his opponents, and extorted their reluctant admiration by his courtesy and his readiness. 'master cranmer, you have answered well,' was the summing up of the presiding doctor, and all lifted their caps as the fallen archbishop left the building. it was the last honour paid to cranmer. in the eighteenth century, when all old uses were upset, the divinity school was even lent to the city as a law court, and it was here the unfortunate miss blandy was condemned to death. but as a rule its associations have been academic, and it is still used for its old purpose, i.e. for the reading of the divinity theses. it is only occasionally that university functions of a more general kind are held there, e.g. the famous debates on the admission of women to degrees in . so splendid a room ought to be employed on every possible occasion, and happy are they who, when the number of candidates is not too large, take their degrees in surroundings so characteristic of the best in oxford. footnotes: [footnote : the buffooneries of the terrae filius, who was a recognized part of the 'act', would be even more shocking in a consecrated building than merely secular business.] appendix i the public assemblies of the university of oxford i. degrees are given and examiners appointed by the ancient house of congregation. this corresponds to the 'congregation of regents' of the laudian statutes. its members are the university officials, the professors, the heads and deans of colleges, all examiners, and the 'necessary regents', i.e. doctors and masters of arts of not more than two years' standing; it thus includes all those who have to do with the conduct, the instruction, or the examination of students. the 'necessary regents' are added, because in the mediaeval university the duty of teaching was imposed on doctors and masters of not more than two years' standing; others might 'rule the schools' if they pleased, but the juniors were bound to discharge this duty unless dispensed. ii. congregation consists of all those members of convocation who reside within two miles of carfax, along with certain officials. this body has nothing to do with degrees; it is the chief legislative body of oxford. iii. convocation is made up of all doctors and masters whose names are on the university's books. it confirms the appointment of examiners, and confers honorary degrees at commemoration. it is also the final legislative body of the university, and controls all expenditure. appendix ii the university staves the old university staves, which are now in the ashmolean museum at the university galleries, seem to date from the reign of elizabeth; they have no hall-marks, but the character of the ornamentation is of that period. no doubt the mediaeval staves perished in the troubles of the reformation period, along with other university property, and the new ones were procured when oxford began to recover her prosperity. two of the old staves were discovered in in a box on the top of a high case in the archives; their very existence had been forgotten, and they were covered with layers of dust. the legend that they had been concealed there by the loyal bedels must be given up; no doubt they were put away when the present staves were procured in . the third staff was in the keeping of the esquire bedel, and was brought to the university chest, when that office ceased to exist. the present staves are six in number, three silver and three silver-gilt. the three former are carried by the bedel of arts and the two sub-bedels, the three latter are carried by the bedels of the three higher faculties, divinity, law, and medicine. all of them date (as is proved by the hall-marks) from , except one of the silver staves, which seems to have been renewed in . the three silver staves bear the following inscriptions:-- no. i. on the top 'ego sum via'; on the base 'veritas et vita'. no. ii. on the top 'aequum et bonum'; on the base 'iustitiae columna'. no. iii. on the top 'scientiae et mores'; on the base 'columna philosophiae'. the inscriptions are the same on the silver-gilt staves, except that the staff of the bedel of divinity has all the mottoes on it--'ego sum via', 'veritas et vita' on the top, and the others on the base. the letters on the bases of all the staves are put on the reverse way to those on the tops; this is because the staves are carried in different ways; before the king and the chancellor they are carried upright, before the vice-chancellor always in a reversed position, with the base uppermost. it should be noted that they are staves and not maces, as the university of oxford derives its authority from no external power, but is independent. the arms on the tops of three of the staves present a very curious puzzle; one roundel bears those of neville and montagu quarterly, and seems to be a reproduction of the arms of the chancellor of , george neville, the archbishop of york; another bears the old plantagenet 'england and france quarterly' as borne by the sovereigns from henry iv to elizabeth; a third the stuart arms as borne from james i to queen anne; yet the work of all three roundels seems to be seventeenth century in character, and does not match that of the rest of the fabric of the staves. index 'act,' meaning of, ; term, ; confused with encaenia, - . aristotle, portions read of, , . arnould, j., . bachelor (of arts), etymology of, ; in france, ; dress of, , ; hood of, , , ; when taken, , . ---- of divinity, qualification for, ; dress of, . bands worn, . beaconsfield, lord, . beaufort, cardinal, . bedels, history of, seq.; caps of, ; at degrees, , . bodleian, , . boots to be worn, . caius, dr., . cambrensis, g., . cambridge, dress of vice-chancellor at, ; degree ceremonies at, - ; king's college, _n._; gowns at, . candidates (for degrees), dress of, ; presentation of, ; oath of, ; admission of, , . cap, seq. _cappa_, , . chancellor, origin of, , ; authority of, ; non-resident, . chichele, archbishop, . church and university, . church, dean, . _circuitus_, . _collecta_, . 'commencement' in american universities, . commemoration, origin of, ; description of, - ; noise at, - ; music at, . compton, h., . congregation, , . ---- ancient house of, ; degrees conferred in, , ; nominates examiners, . convocation, ; business in, . ---- house, seq. cranmer, archbishop, . crewe, lord, ; oration of, . degrees, meaning of, ; order of taking, - ; elements in, ; requirements for, seq.; in absence, ; _ad eundem_, ; lambeth, ; honorary, . ---- ceremony, admittance to, ; notice of, . d.c.l., ; dress of, . d.d., first, ; qualifications for, ; dress of, , - ; cap of, ; theses for, , . _depositio_, . divinity school, , seq. d.m., dress of, . d.mus., dress of, ; haydn, ; handel, ; richter, . doctorate, german, ; qualifications for, ; presentation for, , . eglesfield, r., , _n._ _encaenia_, see commemoration; etymology of, _n._ evelyn, j., , , , . examinations, mediaeval, seq.; control of, . fell, dr., . friars at oxford, . gibbon, e., quoted, . gowns, , seq.; proposed abolition of, . 'graces,' college, , ; university, seq., . green, j.r., quoted, . heber, r., . hoods, - , seq. 'inception,' , , . key, t., . laud, 'grace' for, ; and proctorial election, ; portrait of, ; munificence of, . laudian statutes, quoted, , , , ; oath in, ; greater strictness of, . lectures required for degree, ; rules as to, - ; fees for, ; cutting of, ; college, . 'licence,' origin of, ; conferred, . london, j., . margaret, the lady, . master of arts, admission of, ; association of, ; old qualifications for, , , ; modern, ; privileges of, ; m.a.s term, ; gowns of, , , ; hood of, , , . master in grammar, . masters of the schools, . matriculation, . 'nations,' divisions into, . neville, g., chancellor, ; arms of, . new college, privilege of, . paris, university of, ; examinations at, ; oxford and, _n._ parliaments at oxford of charles i and charles ii, . parvis of st. mary's, examinations in, . pepys, s., . pig market, the, _n._ 'plucking,' . pope and universities, . printing press, , . proctors, history of, seq.; walk of, ; charge by, , , ; 'books' of, _n._; dress of, . professor, original meaning of, _n._; presentations by, _n._, - . queen's college, customs of, _n._ rashdall, dr., quoted, _n._, . registrar, history of, seq.; duties of, , . residence for degree, ; relaxations as to, , . responsions, . rich, e., - . st. mary's, ; bell of, . scott, sir w., . sheldon, g., , . sheldonian, history of, seq.; dedication of, , ; roof of, ; organ, ; alteration of, . sophisters, . south, r., . staves, description of, ; puritan 'visitors', - . streater, r., . _studium generale_, _n._, . _supplicat_, , . tailors, oxford, , ; statute as to, . _terrae filius_ at 'act', , , _n._ _testamur_, . tillotson, j., . _tom brown_, quoted, . tract no. , . tufts on caps, , tuft-hunting, . university, meaning of, ; oldest charter of, ; colonial and foreign, . vanbrugh, sir j., . _verdant green_, quoted, . vice-chancellor, history of, seq.; admission by, , . vivisection, debate on, . wellington, duke of, . white ties, . wills, j., . wood, a., quoted, , . wren, sir c., , , . wykeham, w. of, . oxford: printed at the clarendon press by horace hart, m.a. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) the youth of parnassus and other stories by logan pearsall smith london macmillan and co. and new york _all rights reserved_ to philip morrell contents page the youth of parnassus the will to live. i. the will to live. ii. the claim of the past a broken journey the sub-warden idyll buller intervening the optimist _the youth of parnassus_ i. he came straight to oxford from his american home, parnassus city, a town in the western state of indiana. the first time foley saw him was one wet october evening, when, splashing across the quadrangle towards his rooms, he noticed a large umbrella moving through the dripping twilight--an umbrella which, from its undecided motion, must belong, he had told himself, to some tourist, who, in spite of the rain and darkness, was finishing a day of sight-seeing at st. mary's. but when the umbrella collapsed in front of his own staircase, and foley saw the spectacles and pale face of a young man who turned to enter there, he decided that it must be an agent, come to collect money for missions or something of the kind. and as he followed upstairs, in the wet footprints of the feet he could still hear mounting above him, he asked himself with vague annoyance what right they had--people like that--to push themselves into the rooms of oxford men. the melancholy footsteps went on till they reached the top; nor did foley hear them again descend. soon after he was told that an american had come into college, and was living above him; and when he went to call, he recognized, in the person who awkwardly rose to receive him, the young man he had taken for a mission agent in the rain that evening. a thin, small young man, in a long, black broadcloth coat of provincial cut, he seemed at first sight nothing but the traditional western american foley had read of in books, or seen in the theatre sometimes--a student who looked curiously out of place in that old panelled room. the young englishman talked to him as best he could, asking the questions always asked of a new-comer; questions which this one answered with the usual shyness, but in a very unusual voice and accent. he had just come from america; he had left there on the sixth. he had come to study under dr. joseph at the new methodist college. dr. joseph had arranged for him to come to st. mary's; their own college wasn't built yet. foley asked if he thought he would like oxford. "yes, sir," the other replied, drawing a large handkerchief from his coat-tails, "i guess i will; though," he added cautiously after a moment, "it does seem kind of old and mouldy." foley thought he had done his duty in calling, and meant for the future to see as little as possible of his new neighbour. and yet there had been something pleasant and sensitive in his face, he remembered afterwards; and at times he was haunted by the thought of this stranger sitting as he had found him, alone and lonely in the room upstairs, with two or three books in the empty shelves, a few photographs of home that made the mantelpiece and bare walls look all the more homeless and unfriendly. now and then he would hear footsteps above moving vaguely about, or he would meet the american on the stairs, or see him walking out alone, and at last, out of kindness, he went again to call. before long he began to take a certain liking to sutton, and would often go up in the evenings with a cigarette to his rooms. to the young englishman the american was certainly a curious and amusing study. how curious were the views and impressions of oxford, that, breaking through his shy reserve, he would once in a while express, in his prim middle-aged way! he was a good deal shocked by the wine-drinking, card-playing, and sabbath-breaking that seemed so prevalent there; what religion there was, (well, he didn't guess there was much,) he thought mechanical and dead. of course there was a great deal of culture in oxford; but in other things, like telephones and electric lights, why england was behind the mississippi valley! ii. foley began to have ideas of his own about this mississippi valley. he had already read of its rivers and railways and mushroom towns, and he remembered some of the proud things that sutton had said at different times of parnassus city and its importance--it was almost the only subject on which the reticent young man ever seemed willing to talk--the thought-out comparisons he would draw between that place and oxford, in his attempts to explain to himself what he saw, and account for it all, according to his principles. one evening, in a burst of unusual talkativeness, he described how parnassus city had been laid out twenty years before, on what had been till then an unploughed prairie; but now there were thousands of inhabitants, rows of business buildings, and elegant residences in the outskirts. there were electric trolleys too in the streets; and the whole town was lighted by natural gas. not only had the place grown fast in trade and population, but there had been, he explained, a pretty rapid growth in culture. oh, they didn't intend to let the moss grow on them out in indiana! schools and churches were built--the most elegant was the first methodist, the reverend dr. turnpenny's. it was dr. turnpenny, he added, who started the forward movement among the indiana methodists which made such a stir. then, after the churches, they had built a lecture hall and library, and, at last, the parnassus college. foley asking more about this college, sutton explained that though it had been built a few years before as a college for methodist theology and liberal learning, it was already larger than the neighbouring institute at corinth creek, and only second in those parts to the university of miomi. it wasn't of course like the universities in the eastern states, but still they were proud of it there. he had pinned up on the old panelling of his wall a photograph of this parnassus college: a rather gaunt frame building, standing in a ploughed field among a few new-planted trees. about the steps were grouped a number of young men and women, many of them wearing spectacles, and all with earnest faces and provincial dress. "that's my class," sutton explained, pointing at his own figure in the group. "it's the biggest class we've had so far, thirteen gentlemen and seven ladies." foley studied the photograph of the college, and the pictures on the mantelpiece--several college friends, with lank serious faces; an intellectual young lady, her hand resting on a copy of the bible; and an old, mild, white bearded minister--dr. turnpenny, no doubt. there was a picture too of a wide city street. then it really existed, this remote place, and people lived there! he thought, amused at the curious chance which had brought sutton, the promise and pride, perhaps, of his native town, and set him down in so different a world. but at last foley turned from the yellow lamplight, the photographs, and the voice of the american sawing in his ear. going to the window he opened the lattice and leaned out into the night. cool, fresh, and dark was the air that breathed on his face, while before him, blue and vague under the white moon, there grew on his sight the towers, the dome-like trees, and shining roofs of oxford; dim, romantic, and steeped in silence, save for the even tinkle of a distant bell. with sudden unaffected sentiment, he felt how much he cared for oxford and all that oxford stood for. "do come here," he called out with a friendly impulse, turning his head into the yellow light of the room, "i don't think i ever saw such a view." the american came and leaned beside him at the open window. "yes, it is nice," he said at length, and foley was surprised by a fugitive sound of real feeling and appreciation in his voice. iii. gradually he came to take a more real interest in his neighbour. the books that sutton read, sutton's love of poetry--surprised him; little things he would say now and then seemed to show indications of sensitive fancies and shy feelings hardly in accordance with his dry exterior. what a thing it would be for him, foley thought, if the poor young man's taste could be really cultivated; if he could only be set free from his narrowing ideas and made to look at life for himself, instead of seeing it always through the grey fog of puritan prejudice! sutton took everything that foley said with delightful seriousness; the well-worn arguments against democracy and republicanism were new to him, and seemed to puzzle him--he would come days afterwards with carefully thought-out answers to them. or he would give his friend tracts to read, as if he was worried by foley's ritualistic tastes, and hoped to convert him to methodism; and once he persuaded him to go and hear dr. joseph preach. foley was really impressed by the good sense and vigour of sutton's master, but to sutton himself he criticized what he thought a want of beauty in the service. and it was only once that foley felt even for a moment the least uncomfortable about the things he said to his friend--one evening when he happened to run upstairs with some specious argument about the apostolic succession, (for when an idea occurred to him he liked to make use of it at once,) and going into the american's room, he found him on his knees in prayer. in that old place--for st. mary's was not one of the more liberal colleges, but a sleepy, ancient, aristocratic society, very conservative of its own beliefs and manners and prejudices--eliaphet sutton lived on at first, unknown to almost everybody, and only noticed for the oddness of his looks, as he went in and out to his lectures or solitary walks. but after a while foley's interest in him, and his own shy charm of manner, gained him a more friendly welcome in the college, and little by little he began to modify, it was remarked, the quaint unconventionalities of his speech and ways. a curious life it was, this oxford life into which the inexperienced american had chanced to drift! a community of young men, generously bred and taught, living together so intimately in that mediaeval place, with its own old usages and traditions and ways of thinking; shut out, as by a high wall, from the world outside; aloof from the vulgar needs of life; concerned, many of them, only with its theoretic problems, interested more, perhaps, in the ancient greeks than in contemporary affairs--and, indeed, not unlike the greeks in their care for the clearness and beauty of the mind, the athletic strength of the body--surely, foley thought, the young methodist could not have found so delightful a place in all the world beside. how much he was really influenced by it foley could not tell; certainly as the months went by he seemed to be more aware of the beauty of oxford; he would stop sometimes of his own accord to look through a blue gateway or down a sunlit street, and once foley saw him standing, a quaint figure, under the university church, and gazing up at the spire--at the religious statues there, which seemed to be voyaging through the windy sky and among its great white clouds. he started to join him, but sutton, seeing he was noticed, moved hastily away. then foley remembered an evening when, coming out into the quadrangle, he saw a figure he recognized as sutton's standing at a barred gate opening on the street. in front of the american, through that one small opening in the great dark walls, was the gas-lit yellow of the street, the noise of the passing crowd and traffic--for it was the evening of a market day--but at his back the deep shadow and silence of the old quadrangle. "it's rather absurd to be locked up in this way," foley said, joining him; but sutton replied after a moment, "why, i was just thinking i rather liked it! of course it is absurd, but still--" he stopped, as he so often stopped, in the middle of his sentence. other times there were when sutton seemed curiously narrow and stubborn; times when some of his dissenting acquaintances had just been to see him--the elderly undergraduates, with bald heads and big moustaches, whom foley took to be pupils of dr. joseph's when he met them mounting the stairs. one of these dissenting friends of the american's, a friendly, awkward young man, named abel, who was assistant tutor to dr. joseph, and had come with him to oxford when the college moved there from birmingham, seemed to have a special supervision over the american. abel had no very high idea of oxford and oxford people, and once, when they met in sutton's rooms, he and foley argued a little about the university. anyhow he envied sutton, abel said at last, turning, as he rose to go, to the silent american; it wasn't everybody who had the luck to live in such a place. but sutton suddenly coloured, and answered, "you can't blame me, abel, dr. turnpenny wanted me...." "i'm not blaming you, my friend, it's only envy," abel replied good-humouredly. he still lingered a moment, looking at the books, and cross-questioning sutton about his work, and how he spent his time. foley, who liked anything new, was interested by this intelligent, tactless man, and wondered why sutton should be so obviously glad when at last the young dissenter went his way. iv. the next day foley found his friend in a mood of deep depression. he would not go out anywhere, he said; he must spend the afternoon--indeed, he meant to spend all his afternoons now--on his work; he had been neglecting it too long. and though this desperate resolve was often broken, yet from this time on he seemed subject now and then to moods of troubled conscience--moods in which he would shut himself up, sometimes for days, working feverishly alone, or only coming to his friend late at night to talk in an uneasy, interrupted way about the sinfulness of the world, and its pleasures, and how wrong it was to enjoy yourself. at these notions foley would laugh, or argue seriously against them. that sutton could have any real reason for feeling as he did, foley never suspected, but thought it simply the old moroseness which haunted him, the unreasoned hatred of the puritans for gaiety and life. and sutton had very little to say in answer to his friend. yes, he was getting on with his work well enough, he admitted, and there was nothing really to keep him from going out, except--except--somehow he felt it was wrong. but the wrong thing, foley declared, was to stay in-doors all those beautiful summer days; and then more seriously he added, that he was sure what sutton needed was to see more of the world and life. living in his lonely retired way, what could he know of other people and the things they cared for, and how could he ever hope to have any influence on them? and, once convinced that it was his duty, sutton became curiously eager to shut up his books and go. indeed, for the most part, the poor young man was not hard to influence, foley found; any strong assertion attracted him, and he was often only too willing to resign to someone else the responsibility of deciding what he ought to do. but then again he would grow suddenly so stubborn and prejudiced; and at all times he was so reserved about himself and his own feelings, that the young englishman, in spite of his theories, never felt he really understood him. perhaps, he sometimes fancied, sutton had no very real ideas or impressions of his own; perhaps he was not influenced by oxford in the least, and was not aware of any real difference between the ancient town, with its traditions and memories, and the new-built parnassus city. v. but when foley had left oxford and gone abroad that summer, the long letters that came to him now and then, written in sutton's fine clerklike hand, surprised and touched him a little. it was odd, he thought, that a person who had talked with so much reserve, should write him such charming and intimate letters, and he told himself he had always believed there were real feelings and tastes behind sutton's mask of awkward silence. the first of the letters was written in the vacation just after foley had gone abroad. it was sutton's first summer in europe; he was staying on at oxford, having friends nowhere else, and not being able, of course, to go back to america. but from the way he wrote, america was plainly a good deal in his thoughts, and often in those long still days he wished himself back there, haunted as he was by the idea that he might be wasting his time, that what he was learning in oxford might not be of any use to him out in indiana after all. but then he really knew, he wrote, that he was doing the best thing in staying on. the church out there, and indeed the whole country, was growing so rapidly, that there would be need in the ministry for young men who were well trained, and familiar with the thought and culture of the day. he had come to see that foley was right in saying it was your duty to get familiar with modern ideas, and read modern books; he was getting on with the list of books foley had made for him. of course you ought to understand, or at least try to understand, your opponent's views. if you were afraid of this, it showed, as dr. turnpenny always said, that you could not be very sure of yourself. indeed, when dr. turnpenny had advised him to come to oxford, he had felt it would prove to the world that, at any rate the indiana methodists were quite assured of their position. in the next letter there was a mention of the american tourists who were coming through the summer in such numbers to oxford. sutton used to watch them when they walked into the quiet college garden, where he sat alone, wishing he knew them and could talk to them about america. their voices and ways made them seem like old friends to him there in that strange country. once two ladies had asked him the way to the chapel, and he had been delighted to show them the sights of the college. they were from buffalo, new york; he must be sure to call on them, they said, if he ever came to buffalo. they told him how much they would like to stay on in oxford--but they had to go back to america in a month. sutton envied them their quick return; but after all, he added, when the time came, probably he might be a little sorry to leave oxford.... vi. then in the autumn, sutton wrote about the coming together of the college, the beginning of busy life after the long quiet of the vacation days. for the first time he had gone to service in the college chapel. he did not like the way of worship, finding it formal and meaningless; but gradually, as the twilight faded away, and the great painted windows filled with darkness--growing black in the candle-lit walls about them--another impression came to him, looking at all those faces in the dim light, and listening to their voices--an impression of the unity and living spirit of the college, as being a small, ancient commonwealth, with a history and traditions of its own. there they all were, just themselves, shut in from the world outside, gathered together, as the college had gathered together in the same place for five or six hundred years. though he was only there as a spectator, who had chanced to wander in from the outside, yet he realized how great an influence such a place, with all its old ways and customs, might have on the young englishmen who came there. indeed, if the influence had not been so obviously narrow and deadening he himself might have been a little affected by it.... "yes, you were right," he said in another letter, "when you told me that the antiquity of england belongs to us americans as much as to you.... sometimes i fancy i had an ancestor here once; i am sure he was a puritan, and disapproved of the ecclesiasticism and worldliness of the place. and yet, poor man, he could not help loving oxford too. a retired, melancholy person, he liked it best in the days like these when the buildings and yellow and greenish trees are half veiled in the autumn mist. but at last he went over with the puritans to new england, and was much better and more active there, and free from all the dreamy influences that held him in oxford. and it will be much better for me too, when i go back next year." vii. but he had almost decided to go back at once, he wrote in the next letter. he saw now, and indeed all along he had felt deep down in his soul, that he was doing wrong in staying there; that there was nothing really in oxford to help him. if foley only knew all the circumstances he would understand. and, in any case, it was not wholesome to be always living in the past. and in oxford you _were_ in the past; the dead were about you everywhere; you dwelt in the buildings they had built, you read their books, you thought their thoughts, and the weight of their dreary traditions crushed down on you, forcing your life into the shape of theirs. surely there was something evil and haunted about the place! and during all those dripping autumn days, sutton's one thought had been a longing to be back again under the keen skies of his prairie-home; life was new and hopeful there, unshadowed by the gloom of antiquity and death.... but soon after sutton wrote that he had had a talk with dr. joseph. "he advises me by all means to stay here. he says that all i am getting at oxford will certainly be very useful to me when i go back. i never had an idea how strong our position is; i wish you might have a talk with him sometime, when you return. he explains that religion is progressive; that there is no real antagonism between the new and the old; the one has grown out of the other by a natural evolution. indeed he laughed at the idea of being afraid of the past; one ought to enjoy it, not fear it, he said. then when i asked him if there wasn't a danger in the new criticism, and too much reasoning about things, he said that there never could be any real danger in following one's best reason, and that we need not be the least afraid of what it will lead us to." viii. other letters came to foley now and then. sutton spoke of his work and occupations, the taciturn young man taking a certain pleasure, as it seemed, in writing down the ideas and impressions that he found it hard to express in any other way. but foley at this time was travelling in the east; he could only read the american's letters with haste and small attention. some, however, he put aside to keep, and now and then would write back in a disconnected way, for he felt a certain friendliness for this assiduous correspondent. as time went on, however, the letters grew more infrequent, and at last the correspondence died. foley, with his new interests, had almost forgotten sutton, or would only think of him vaguely as a preacher somewhere in america, whither doubtless he had returned some time ago. ix. after foley had spent a year or two almost entirely abroad, he returned to england, began working hard at his profession, and it was some time before he found the leisure to go back to oxford. at last he went one mid-summer alone, for an idle visit. it was the vacation; the old college was almost deserted, and sometimes in the evening he would go into the garden there, and, sitting under one of the great trees, would read, or idly watch the fading of the twilight. and now memories of the old days, and sentiments towards a place which he had once loved with a certain enthusiasm--though half forgetting it afterwards, amid his other occupations--came back to him with unexpected vividness. how much more delightful it made life, he told himself one evening, as he sat there, half lost in sentimental musing, how much more delightful it made life to have been at oxford, to have learned to love the place as one did learn to love it--to have it always as a charming memory! it was so perfect, that evening, with the sunset still lingering faint and red behind the blue trees and towers, up there above the dusky garden stretches. and that figure of a cloistered student which foley could vaguely distinguish on the twilight path; it was no real person, surely, but a part of the picture, a figure painted into the grey landscape to give the final touch of tranquil life! but as the figure drew nearer and became more real, foley began to wonder, who could it be who seemed so familiar to him? "why, sutton!" he called out, as he joined him, surprised at finding the american still at oxford, "you still here?" sutton started, and then greeting foley in his old reserved way, they paced together slowly on the garden path. after foley had talked a little about his travels and work, he turned to his companion and said in a friendly way, "but tell me about yourself, eliaphet, it's three years since i have seen you; what have you been doing, and when are you really going back to america?" sutton replied with all his old vagueness and reticence that he had stayed; he had found it necessary; he had not decided yet about going back. "probably you will be sorry to leave oxford when the time comes?" foley suggested, but the american did not answer. eliaphet was a good deal changed, foley thought when they parted; he seemed so much thinner and more melancholy looking, and his voice was almost like that of another person. what a difference a few years made! x. several times in the following days foley met his friend again--indeed, they two just then seemed almost alone together in oxford--and more than once, in the long summer afternoons, they walked together in a desultory way among the vacant streets and empty colleges. sutton was even more reserved than of old, but there was a charm in his silent company and in his affectionate, scrupulous knowledge of the place. each of the churches, dim college chapels, and libraries was dear and familiar to him now; he had found remnants of norman architecture, and little early gothic windows in obscure old places which foley, who had thought he knew oxford so well, was forced to admit he had never visited. and even for the despised classicism, sutton seemed to have a certain fondness, for everything that bore the stately quaint mark of the stuart times--laud's quadrangle at st. john's, and its italian-looking busts and arches; the chapel at trinity; the little ashmolean museum, and the prim old botanic garden, with its battered statue of charles i. over the gate, the half neglected formality of its urns and fountain, its walls and walks within. then the old names of places seemed all to have a meaning for him. he could trace the remains of the religious houses, the friars minor, the friar preachers, the carmelites, after which some of the more ancient streets are called; showing foley the gateways or ruined arches, bits of college buildings which now alone remain of their former stately precincts. and on their walks together sutton often chose by preference the little back streets, or those ancient footpaths that wind through the old heart of the city, through the mediaeval town whose gables and walls and gardens still sleep in the sun, almost untouched, behind the modern fronts and the traffic of many of the busy streets. to foley in his sentimental mood just then, the quiet of oxford was very pleasant, after the noise of the london season; and there seemed to be something almost poetic in the life of this solitary student. how wise he was after all, foley thought, to stay there among the old colleges and churches, where the ambitions and obligations of the world could scarcely trouble him; nor the noise of its busy life break in on his tranquil moods, or disturb the old memories he loved. and yet a vague suspicion crossing his mind, once or twice, made him ask himself, was sutton really so happy after all? xi. one morning this vacation quiet of the college was rather noisily broken by the arrival of a number of undergraduates, who had returned to prepare for an examination, bringing with them the noise and influences of the outside world. now the american was no longer to be met with in the garden or quadrangle, whither he had been wont to come almost every day, as if fond of the place and not averse from foley's company. wondering that he did not see him any more, foley one evening asked the undergraduates if they knew sutton or had ever heard anything about him. by sight and reputation they knew him very well,--a solitary person, who led in oxford a most melancholy life, without friends or apparent occupation; staying there, it was reported, because of something in his past which kept him from going back to america. foley knew how distorted gossip of this kind would grow in coming through the minds of undergraduates; and yet there was enough in what they told, to make him uneasy about his friend. sutton had given up studying theology, had tried history, making however a complete failure in the schools; he was said to have adopted strange religious ideas and had been heard, it was rumoured, groaning and scourging himself at night. there was a report too that some americans had come to oxford, and, after visiting him, had gone to the warden and accused sutton of keeping some money which was not his own. xii. as soon as he could, foley went off to find his friend, getting the address from the college books. at last in a dark alley he discovered the house. mr. sutton had gone away from oxford the day before, the landlady told him, and had not said when he would be back. perhaps the gentleman would like to leave his card? the room was at the top; he must be mindful of the stairs. climbing up with care, foley opened the door and lighted a match in the darkness; the poverty and destitution of the little room growing vivid for a moment, and then fading again into blackness, affected him somewhat sadly. just two chairs, a table, a bed, and a few signs of human habitation,--several books, a coat hanging on the wall, and three photographs over the fireplace, the familiar one of dr. turnpenny, the dreamy face of philip gerard, and a picture that foley was touched to recognize as his own. all the pictures of parnassus city, his class mates, the young lady, the street, and college, had disappeared, and a few old religious prints were in their place. feeling as if he had intruded where he had no right, foley turned away; lingering on the stairs, however, for he was loth to leave the house till he had learned something more definite about his friend. then in the hall below he met the landlady, and began to talk to her about the american. mr. sutton was such a kind gentleman, she said, and always very quiet; but lately he had been, she thought, very lonesome and melancholy, and he didn't seem to have any friends in oxford now. and though he had paid her regular, she couldn't complain of that, yet she was afraid the poor gentleman had very little money. indeed, he had seemed to be in some trouble, and now he had gone away mysterious-like. the voice of this woman, plainly so poor herself, her anxiety on sutton's account, remained in foley's mind in a haunting way. and yet, what could have happened, he asked himself, unable in common sense to imagine any definite trouble, and nevertheless disturbed by a sense of mystery, as if he had suddenly found himself face to face with something more real and sad than most of the sentiments and troubles of his own experience. certainly the american had greatly changed--the narrow, rustic young man who had come there first, and the pale scholar foley had met years afterwards, in the twilight of the garden--there was difference enough between the two! he thought, putting them side by side in memory. but what this change was sutton had not told; probably never would tell, for in his reserve and reticence he was just the same. and yet in his letters he had written with much less reserve, foley remembered. he began to wonder whether, if he should read the letters again, with more attention, he might not find in them some hint of sutton's trouble. friendless as the american seemed to be in oxford, a little advice and sympathy from some one who understood his circumstances, might make perhaps all the difference to him. when foley got back to his own rooms, he began looking through the portfolio of papers that he had brought with him from germany. yes, there they were, the envelopes addressed in sutton's neat fine writing. arranging them in order of their dates, he began to go through them. letters written during two or three years of his friend's life, in half an hour he could read them all. xiii. first came the letters foley remembered: sutton's first long vacation; his home-sickness in oxford; his thoughts of parnassus; the american tourists he would watch and speak with sometimes. then in the autumn his impression of the chapel, his growing fondness for oxford, followed by the sudden determination to go home, from which dr. joseph had dissuaded him, telling him that there was nothing he need be afraid of in oxford, or in the past. then came the letters which had come to foley in the east, and been hardly regarded by him in the hurry of travel. letters which read pleasantly for the most part, as he went through them now, with their echoes of charming oxford life--charming for a time, though troubled afterwards. with dr. joseph's theology to rely on, and dr. joseph's approval of his life, sutton's uneasy conscience had been at rest for a while, and he had let himself enjoy life without questioning--just the simple human joy of the world and youth, with the weather growing warmer, and the spring blossoming in the gardens of that beautiful old city, where he was quite at home now. "i have so enjoyed the spring," he wrote "your tardy, veering english spring, with its gusts of snow and black weather, and yet enough warm days to woo from the earth the english flowers that till last year i only knew of in books. but i greet them as old friends now, the primroses, and cowslips, and daffodils.... may is here, the air is full of the greenness of leaves and the songs of birds, the lank rose trees are budding on the gothic walls, and when i breathe the fragrant air and look about me i rub my eyes, and wonder whether may was ever so beautiful at home. some beautiful days, of course, i can remember vividly; but i lived then for the most part, i think, among pale thoughts and theories, growing old before i was young, and looking so rarely out--indeed, thinking somehow that it was almost wrong to look out on the beauty and colour of the world...." he had written a good deal about oxford; and really it wasn't true, what foley had told him once, that he didn't deserve to live in so beautiful a place; he did care, and was learning more and more to look at things and enjoy them. on may morning he had gone to magdalen to hear them salute the rising sun from the tower. "i wish i could describe it all," he wrote, "the streets, as i went out, cold and vacant in the early dawn, the pale flames in the street lamps, and the silence of those rows of sleeping houses, only broken, as i passed under garden walls, by the acute music of the birds awake already in the trees. birds, millions of them! i never heard such a clamour. at the college gate there was a group of shivering people; and soon they let us in, to climb the steep tower stairs, with its narrow windows here and there in the darkness, with views like little old pictures of grey castles and green country. on the windy platform at the top we found almost all the college gathered, the president, and fellows, and undergraduates, with the group of white choristers. gradually, as we waited, the formless sky all round and above us grew white and blue; the sky-line reddened; and then, bringing a sudden hush in the crowded talk, a sudden baring of all our heads, the may sun began to blaze in the east; and as it rose into the sky the boys, facing the light, chanted loud, with their shrill young voices, the old latin hymn. well, you can hardly imagine what a solemn moment it was, with the slow hymn, the stately yellow sun rising over all that great view of green country. turning toward oxford we saw black figures like dots on the sun-flushed towers and roofs of the other colleges. our tower, and, indeed, the whole sky, seemed to rock with the pealing bells; and the undergraduates, engaging in a wild scuffle, tore off each other's caps and gowns, throwing them out into the air, to fall with giddy swirls on the roofs, or into the street below. it seemed almost an outburst of pagan turbulence, after the pagan sun-worship, up there on that windy tower-top over the sleeping town! i wrote describing it to dr. turnpenny; i only hope he won't be shocked!" xiv. in sir philip gerard, whom foley had known slightly as a youth, of poor and ancient catholic family, sutton, it appeared, had found a congenial companion; and he described how they would often spend their afternoons together on the river; rowing up the windings of the cherwell, past little woods and garden walks, or between the sliding horizons of meadow banks, where the tangled edge of grass and flowers fringed the near sky. "i lie on luxurious cushions in the bow, and gerard pushes me along, through sleepy sunshine and shadow, and under the unwilling branches of trees; and then, anchoring in some secluded place, we read together some poet or old book, while the endless afternoon glides by, and boats float down the shady river." "this sounds dreadfully lazy, i'm afraid! but i am taking a rest; i have been feeling rather tired, and dr. joseph says i had better do nothing but enjoy myself for a week or two now...." "... i discovered the other day the old market. i wonder if you know it? it is a delightful place! people from the villages about oxford have stalls there, and you see the ruddy, old-fashioned cottagers' wives, seated each one behind a fresh bank of vegetables and flowers she herself has grown at home in her quaint garden. sweet, old-fashioned flowers, flags and peonies and roses, made up into tight bouquets and set out for sale in trim rows, not unlike, i fancy, the trim rows in which they grew in their formal cottage flower beds...." letters came to him from home, he said, telling of all that was going on in parnassus city: the bryant literary society they had started, the church bazaar for the missionary work, the monday evening prayer meetings at the college; and he often felt that he ought to be back there, that he was dreaming away his time. yes, it was like a dream in oxford; but such an enchanted dream!... he wrote, in another letter, of the oxford bells. more and more he was conscious of them, sounding always in the near or distant sky; and if ever he woke up in the night, restless with his dreams, he had only to wait a little and they would ring out--first the silver voices of the colleges, and then the slow booming tones of the great church, so near at hand. and he found a comfort, he said, in the nearness of the churches, and their wakefulness through the night. although of course he did not approve, he said, of a religion of external forms, yet he confessed that he had come to take a certain interest in noticing how, almost every time he went out, he discovered some new symbol of the old catholic religion--old stone crosses, statues gazing out from the towers, images of the virgin, hands raised in prayer, the adoration of kings and queens in the painted windows; and even in the gardens stone fragments, covered with ivy, of old saints--everywhere tokens of ancient faith, and intimations of another world, shining and immanent, about this world of sense. it was curious, but he had never noticed these things when he had first come to oxford! indeed, he grew to love all the antiquity of the place; was no longer oppressed or frightened by it; and for the old portraits in the hall and library, the tombstones in the cloisters, with their quaint epitaphs and names, he felt a certain fondness, he said, looking on the dead now, not as enemies, frowning on his creed and life, but as friends rather, and kindly predecessors. xv. the lives of many of those old scholars and worthies had become familiar to him, since he had read anthony à wood's _athenae oxonienses_, and he had gone sometimes with his friend on antiquarian walks about oxford, and the colleges wood described. or gerard would lend him a horse, and they would ride out to visit the historic places and villages that lie in the old country about--woodstock, cumnor, abingdon--the names were familiar to him of long date; had he not first read of some of them, and the scenes they were famous for, in jones' _excelsior reader_, out in indiana as a boy? he spoke of the village churches, that seemed so beautiful on those june afternoons, as they stood among their old trees and flowers, with the white clouds in the sky above, a shiver of wind in the long grass over the graves. and then, through the scent of roses about the open door, the dim interior, with its white norman arches, and light falling from painted windows on the crusaders' tombs--on all the many monuments of the dead. the dead! sutton wrote that he had always known of the times gone by, and the faith of the middle ages, but only in an unreal way, through books. and it made such a difference--to him at least--if he saw the proof of a thing, actually existing with the daylight on it! "once, gerard says, these churches were filled in the morning and evening light with labouring people kneeling in silent prayer. but that, of course, was in the dark ages. gerard thinks that the world has done nothing but go back since the middle ages; certainly he does hate everything that is modern. how he will detest parnassus city, if he comes to see me there, as he says he will. it has been bad for him, i am sure, living out of the world, as he has lived, among old memories and dreams of his own. he is a catholic, you know, but he respects my religion; he knows, of course, what my views are, and we never talk about theology. there is a friend of his i meet sometimes a priest, and i suppose a jesuit. but he seems really quite a cultivated person." foley took up another letter: they had ridden out, sutton wrote, to an old country house and park, where charles i. had stayed once, while parliament was being held in oxford. the house, all save one wing, now a farm-house, had been torn down; but on the hill overlooking the lake, in the midst of the green shade of beeches, the chapel was still standing, abandoned now, and almost untouched, save by decay and time, since the polite court of the stuarts had said their worldly devotions there. what rich brocades, what hushed gallantries and frivolous prayers had once rustled and whispered under the graceful high arches of those pews! but birds had their nests there now, he said, while through the decaying roof the rain dripped down on the frail woodwork, the classic columns and fading colours of this deserted place of elegant worship and old fashion. the american puritan confessed to a certain tenderness for the generous lost cause, for the fine futile courage of the gay cavaliers and lovely forgotten ladies. and as they rode homeward through the twilight, his companion sang snatches of some old cavalier songs--tunes with a certain pathos and grace in their gallant wistful music. xvi. then there was a long letter, dating from the autumn after this delightful summer, in which he wrote again about anthony à wood, the old oxford antiquary. he had been reading wood's diaries, finding in them, he said, in spite of their old-fashioned pedantry and long genealogies, a vivid picture of the university and wood's life in it, two hundred years ago. a calm life, sutton described it, in curious contrast to the times in which wood lived, when the academic quiet was so often disturbed by armies, and royal visits, and great events; and the noise of tumults in the oxford streets, and troops marching by, reaching the old antiquary's ears, would draw him from the chronicles of the past, to look with blinking eyes from his library window on the turmoil and disquiet of contemporary history. for his life was spent in his own study, or in "bodlie's library," or among the dusty archives of the colleges, reading and transcribing the monastic registers, the old manuscripts and histories. sutton quoted from his diary a sentence in which he speaks of the exceeding pleasure he took in "poring on such books." "heraldry, musick, and painting did so much crowd upon him, that he could not avoid them, and could never give a reason why he should delight in those studies more than in others, so prevalent was nature." "my pen cannot enough describe," he writes in his enthusiasm, when he first read dugdale's _antiquities of warwickshire_, "how a. wood's tender affections and insatiable desire of knowledge were ravish'd and melted down by the reading of that book. what by music and rare books that he found in the public library, his life at this time and after was a perfect elysium." "wood often went for long, solitary walks, collecting arms and monumental inscriptions from the churches, and visiting all the ruined religious houses and old halls in the country about oxford. he describes in his diary how, as he returned towards oxford in the evening, 'after he had taken his rambles about the country to collect monuments,' he would hear the bells of merton, his own college, ringing clearly in the distance." "wood had small love for the puritans," sutton wrote, "who in his lifetime were so long in power; and in his record of contemporary events, sudden deaths, and alleged appearances of the devil, he more than once mentions their destruction of antiquities, their contempt for the fathers and schoolmen, and hatred of all authority, and 'everything that smelt of an academy, never rejoicing more than when he could trample on the gowne, and bring humane learning and arts into disgrace.'" "then came the restoration, and almost the last event that wood records is the revival of catholicism under james ii. wood himself was suspected of being a papist; his writings had made him enemies, and before he died he was expelled from the university, and his book burned by order of the vice-chancellor's court." "and yet, on the whole, his life was a happy one," sutton said, writing, it was plain, with a certain envy for the tranquil occupations and lettered tastes of the old oxford antiquary. xvii. the next two letters that foley found (and they were the last) were dated in the long vacation, nearly a year later. either sutton had not written again for some time, or foley had lost the letters. it was the american's third summer in england; as before, he had stayed in oxford. he described the quiet afternoons he spent in the college garden; how he seemed to be alone with oxford and the past, and how even the city noises, which came in over the walls--the rattle of carts, the shrill, faint voices of newsboys, crying the world's events--only added a deeper hush to the stillness and solitude within, the sunlight on the grass, the shadows of the trees. he remembered how homesick he had been the first summer he had spent in oxford, and how he had longed to go back. but now that his work was almost finished, and he was soon to go to america, he could not help admitting that he shrank a little from it--felt a certain reluctance, after all. he would watch, as he had watched before, the tourists who now and then came into the quiet garden. then he had enjoyed seeing them, and wished he could talk to them; but now!... and one day some people whom he had known in indiana came in. he spoke to them, showed them about, and tried to be friendly, and yet they seemed so far away somehow! he hated himself for it, and tried to believe that it was all the fault of oxford and its fastidious standards; he had let himself be too much influenced, but when he got back to parnassus again, he hoped he should see things as he used to see them, and feel the same towards the slocums and all his old friends. but in the last letter, "it will never be the same now," sutton had written; "i have come too far and stayed too long. at first i was always thinking of parnassus city; i would dream of it at night, and wake in the morning to wonder at the strangeness of my dim little windows and the voices of the rooks outside. but then it began to fade, and gradually everything changed. and yet, poor fool that i was, all the time i tried to think that i was preparing myself to go back. of course i _shall_ go back; if i can't be a minister, i can still teach in their university, perhaps--i _must_ do something to help them, it would be treachery if i did not. but my heart will be far away from it all, i know. i try to think of the excellent people there, and how fatally kind they have been to me; but when i shut my eyes, i can see nothing but the ugly church, the wooden 'university,' and a great sun-baked street, with sparse houses and dusty trees straggling off on the prairie. how can i ever live there now? and yet, if i had never come away, i might have been happy. why did they send me to oxford, i wonder. yet was it not my fate? it seems to me that i _must_ have come here sometime!" xviii. with this the letters ended. from the undergraduates foley had heard how sutton tried to study history, but failed rather badly in it. what had happened afterwards he had not heard, save by vague report. he only knew that sutton was still in oxford. but no wonder he had stayed there, foley thought, remembering the passion for the place that breathed in sutton's letters, his growing preoccupation with, and interest in, everything that was ecclesiastical and ancient. indeed, the beauty and antiquity of oxford, the libraries and cloisters and old places he haunted, now seemed to have grown into an almost necessary part of the american's environment, the needful background of his life. as if, like old anthony à wood, one could not imagine him living anywhere except in oxford, walking through its almost doorless streets, or on the lawns of its college gardens, and ordering his studies and ways by the sound of its bells. why then should he not stay there; was it anything more than a false conscience that had made him feel he ought to go back to america? the next morning, as if in answer to this question, foley received an unexpected visit from abel, dr. joseph's assistant. he had come, he said, to find out where sutton was; they were a good deal worried about him; they must be allowed to see him again before he took any step. foley was greatly surprised at the way abel spoke; he knew nothing of the american's whereabouts, he said; they had told him at his lodgings the night before that he was away from oxford. "yes, i know, i saw your card there. but i supposed you would know where he has gone, or would be willing to tell me how i could find out. we have heard again from america, and really, for your own sakes you must allow us to see him once." with still greater astonishment foley protested that he knew nothing; he had feared sutton might be in trouble, but having just returned, after two years abroad, he had no idea of what the trouble was. his assurances were so evidently sincere, that abel, who had looked at him suspiciously at first, now shut the door and came forward into the room. the trouble was that sutton had absolutely refused to go back to america. they might have known it would happen, he added; and, in answer to a question of foley's, he gave his version of all that had occurred. sutton had come to oxford with a letter from dr. turnpenny, his pastor and guardian, requesting dr. joseph to see that he should live under some kind of care and protection. dr. joseph, as their own buildings were not yet finished, had arranged with the warden of st. mary's that the young man should enter that college and live there, while he carried on his theological work with his own tutors. it was a mistake; abel had thought it a mistake all along. with another man it might not have mattered; but sutton, thrown into the society of rich young men, who had no sympathy with his ideas, and who ridiculed his ways, had not been able to withstand their influence. and just when he was on the point of ordination, he had thrown it all over; said he no longer believed in methodism, or wished to be a minister. he had stayed for another year in oxford, studying, or pretending to study, history; but he could not have worked very seriously; the examiners said, indeed, that his papers were full of the most absurd ideas. and now he refused to go back to america at all. abel didn't know who it was who had tried to pervert him; it was reported to be the jesuits--and there was a man called gerard, sir philip gerard--; but at any rate they ought to know what trouble they had made. foley said he was certain there had been no deliberate attempt to pervert sutton. if any of his friends had tried to influence him, it was probably because they believed in culture, and thought it would help him in his work. "help him to be a minister out in indiana! how could the ideas of a narrow university set and its expensive tastes help a man for that?" "but everyone surely was the better for being cultivated!" foley exclaimed. even to this abel could not agree entirely; he admitted that of course culture had its charm and value; only in cases it might be dangerous, he thought. but how could that be? foley asked, and for a moment, in their discussion of the larger question, they almost forgot sutton. abel thought that an undue cultivation of taste, of the sense of beauty, without an equal training of the reason, would make you into a narrow and fastidious person, judging things by the eyes and ears, and caring only for what was well-expressed and beautiful. and surely for the most part, he said, (and he seemed anxious to be fair and moderate,) for the most part it was the ideals of the past, the out-worn, romantic, and old-fashioned things, that had had time to be well-expressed, while the modern--"but all this has very little to do with sutton!" he said, stopping suddenly. "oh, i don't know, isn't he the kind of person you mean--a sensitive poetic person--" "eliaphet sutton! he never wrote poetry, did he?" "no, i don't mean exactly that. only it seems to me natural enough that a man of his temperament, coming to oxford from an ugly new town, should not want to go back." "temperament!" abel exclaimed, as if the word annoyed him. then more quietly he added that he did not think anything could excuse sutton for behaving in the way he had behaved. why he himself had come to oxford from a new town that was probably as ugly as parnassus city. they were angry enough in parnassus, you couldn't talk of temperaments out there! it had really broken dr. turnpenny's heart. "if you could only see his letters! no, after spending all the old man's money--" "his money?" foley asked. "yes, didn't you know? he was sent over on a subscription got up by the methodist church there, and dr. turnpenny, who had adopted him and brought him up, gave all his savings. he was to go back of course, and help support dr. turnpenny. he was engaged to a girl out there too. and now he says he won't go back. but really he must, it doesn't matter what he says. it's the only honest and decent thing for him to do." "indeed he must go back," exclaimed foley. "i hadn't the least idea!--" xix. foley went to sutton's rooms again, but for several days he could hear nothing of him. one evening, however, when he was sitting in the garden, happening to look up, he saw the melancholy figure of the american coming down the garden path. now that he actually saw sutton, and was vividly aware of the atmosphere of reserve and solitude that enveloped him, foley shrank from saying the things that he felt he ought to say. and yet someone must speak to him; someone must tell him his duty, and make him go back to the good simple people who had cared for him, supported him, and who relied on him so much! he had been away, sutton said, as the two young men walked slowly down the garden path. it was very still there in the twilight; and they were alone, shut in as it seemed, and very remote from the world outside. "have you decided yet when you are going home?" foley asked. "home?" "yes; home to america." "i don't know," sutton replied. after a moment he added, in the same quiet voice, "perhaps i shall never go back." "then you have found some occupation in england?" sutton shook his head. but didn't he think he ought to go back then, foley asked. one had duties--and, trying to speak more lightly, he added, "you must have learned a great deal, eliaphet, after studying all these years. oughtn't you to go back and teach them out there?" "i have nothing to teach them--nothing they would be willing to learn." "oh, but surely, if you tried you could find something! it seems to me you _ought_ to try." "oh, i _have_ tried!" he said, his cheeks flushing with painful emotion; "but now they don't want me to come back any more--they never want to see me again! i used to pray i might never change;--and when you would argue with me,--but now i see it was all wrong, and all my liberal ideas--" "i hope," foley interrupted, for this had been on his conscience ever since his talk with abel, "i hope your change, whatever it is, has nothing to do with anything i ever said; you must have misunderstood me," and he went on to explain that he had never been really reactionary. he had always believed in compromise, and a conservative, reasonable progress. "do you know, eliaphet," he went on, "i think you have made a mistake in staying here so long in this old place. it isn't wholesome to live so far from real life; you ought to get away, you ought to go home." but sutton had only listened to two or three of his friend's words. "no," he cried eagerly, "no, we can make no compromise. we must give up the human reason, we must go back to the past, we must submit. oh, foley," he cried, and there was a strange appeal in his voice, "we have been friends, but now we may never see each other again,--let me warn you, you must decide whether you will be on the right or the wrong side--oh, if you only knew at what peril you refuse to listen!" for a moment foley was almost frightened. then, reminding himself of reason and reality, he said, "but, eliaphet, are you quite sure that you yourself are doing what is right in staying here? when so much depends on you out there--dr. turnpenny and all. and they have sacrificed so much too. have you thought--" "as if i was not always thinking of it!" sutton cried; "but i could not go back to them a roman catholic; they would rather i was dead. and foley, when you judge me, remember that i have had to make sacrifices too--i have given up everything, everything! what can i do?" a roman catholic! of course he could not go back. foley was dismayed. why had he not foreseen it? for a moment they stood in silence. then sutton turned away. "you don't understand," he said, in a voice that his friend always remembered afterwards; "no one understands," and he went down the path alone and out of foley's sight. xx. when foley went the next day to sutton's lodgings, he was told that sutton had already left oxford; had gone away early that morning. where he had gone, however, no one seemed to know. certainly foley never found out; he never saw sutton again, nor, in spite of all his inquiries, did he ever hear anything but the most vague and uncertain news about him. abel said he had never gone back to parnassus city. and then, years after, it was reported that an oxford man, when visiting some old shrine in italy, had recognized, or thought he recognized, sutton in the monk who showed him about the church. foley never got rid of a certain feeling of remorse, a sense that at the beginning he had too lightly interfered in the life of the young dissenter. but then he would tell himself, that it was probably after all nothing less than oxford itself, with its old ways and memories, that had gradually changed and influenced the american. influenced him not for good, surely! he thought. and indeed, remembering sutton's slow estrangement from his early ideas and friends, his poor attempts to remain faithful, the trouble and mystery in which he had disappeared at last, foley would ask himself, (and he took a strange sort of pleasure in the question,) whether there were not something really dangerous in the venerable and gothic beauty of oxford, a chill in the old shadows, an iron sound in the bells. _the will to live_ part one "moral philosophy," notwithstanding all its modern ideas and developments, is still taught at oxford from the greek texts of plato and aristotle. something indeed of the old academic discipline might be said still to exist there, the tradition of it coming down through the schools of the middle ages. certainly the discussions between tutor and pupils, by means of which so much of the philosophic training is carried on, are not without a certain resemblance to the socratic dialogues. and the young men who are so eager and amusing in plato's writings--one might find the like of these, perhaps, among the english undergraduates, as well as the types with which modern novels have made us more familiar. the questions they talk and think about would at least be much the same as those so eagerly debated in the athenian garden--the old questions about truth and justice and beauty; and then the meaning or purpose of life--that question which is the oldest of all, and which each generation of youth tries to solve in some new way. * * * * * "good night, sir"--"good night"--"good night"--and their discussion ended, the young men took their caps and books, and clattered noisily down the stone staircase from the tutor's room. they still lingered a moment, outside in the quadrangle, four or five together, vaguely talking in the darkness. "ames was right, you know--what he said about pleasure." "old ames! what does he know about it?" waters interrupted. more than once, during the argument that evening, waters had dropped a book or shuffled his feet impatiently; and now, declaring that all such talk was great waste of time and "rot" anyhow, he went off, after vainly inviting the others to join him, to an interrupted game of cards. in a minute the others separated, some to work, one or two to the concert in the college hall. walter cornish walked away alone across the quadrangle. finding a bench, he sat listlessly down, his hands in his pockets, his feet stretched out in front of him. he would do no more work that night; it would be better to rest there for a while, listening to the music of the concert. cornish, with the others, would be in for his last examinations in a few weeks; then he would be leaving oxford. but as he had money enough of his own, and belonged moreover to that fortunate class of young oxford men to whom success at everything seems easy, he could look into the future, untroubled by most of those commonplace difficulties and despairs that beset the ordinary unknown, untried, young man, when he is leaving the university to go out into the world. it seemed very hot that evening; no breath of air was stirring within the enclosure of those trees and walls. from the open windows of the college hall tinkling piano notes came faintly now and then across the darkness; while, drifting in over the roofs of the college, and deadening at times the music, there came, like a dim smoke of sound, the rumour of city noises, of carts, footsteps, and high faint voices in the street outside. but as cornish sat there lazily, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ground, he soon ceased to hear either the music or the sounds of the streets. vagrant thoughts about himself, his own affairs and prospects, were going through his head. then phrases from their argument--pleasure wasn't the end, and the end wasn't pleasure; but whose pleasure, and the end of what? to his tired mind, however, the words were little more than empty sounds. other things he had been studying floated past in large dim masses; he remembered the armies, invasions, and old battles of history; the roman empire seemed to be near him, like something immense and heavy in the night. and behind it in the past were the persian, assyrian, egyptian dominations, with the weight of all their millions and millions of lives! he was going to do well in the examinations, he knew; more or less mechanically he repeated over what his tutor had said, and some flattering words the warden had written to his father--"we consider him one of our best men; he is certain to distinguish himself." "but what's the good of it all?" he found himself asking. he looked up at the college buildings, dark about him, save for their squares of yellow windows. gradually he began to wake out of his vacant reverie. what was the good of doing well?--why, it was an absurd question; of course, he wanted to do well, to win honour for himself and his college. he assured himself of this, in conventional phrases, but somehow, just then, he did not seem to care in the least for success like that, and honour. yet here he had been, all this time, working for nothing else! he was ashamed of this want of ambition, this deadness of desire. of course, there were other things he cared for, he told himself, and to prove this he brought to mind the interests and pleasures of his ordinary life--his friendships, the ideas and books he believed in, his public speaking, the positions he held in various societies. but somehow all these seemed utterly foolish, futile, and unimportant. in desperation he began to think of simpler things--of boating, good clothes, and horses, and some riding boots he was having made. but everything, even the most universal pleasures of life, struck him now as tasteless and absurd. why did people do such things, and what could they find in them to enjoy? "but it's against common sense to feel this way!" he said to himself. he had always thought the disillusions of youth somewhat ridiculous, and often had made fun of the modern philosophy, or pseudo-philosophy, of disenchantment, with its literature of passion and despair. and now, as he sat there in the familiar quadrangle, with the rooms of his friends about him, all the people he knew so well, in there at the concert, he was uncomfortably aware of how absurd they would think it, should they know that he too had secretly begun, in the old, foolish, hackneyed way, to meditate on the nothingness of life. he of all people, who had always taken such sensible, commonplace views of things! "well, it will be different soon; i shall have things to work for that really are worth while," he told himself. hitherto, when he had felt any futility in his life, he had put it down to the youthfulness of his occupations, feeling sure that the world beyond his school or college, with its great interests and ambitions, would give endless objects of desire. but now, in spite of himself, he could not help asking--what were those great interests and ambitions after all? almost comically there rose before his mind pictures of all the middle-aged people he knew--his relatives, his father's friends--large, solemn, successful people, who were thought, and thought themselves, very important. and the dull speeches they made, and the way they often grew red and angry, as they argued about the government, or the eastern question! and their houses, their wives and dinner parties, their social differences and ambitions, and the way they pushed and struggled for money and titles! what was the value of it all; to succeed or fail, what difference did it make? he tried to imagine himself at the head of what would be his profession, as lord chancellor--a fat and bald lord chancellor in stuffy robes--wasn't that the position that young men were supposed to be ambitious of attaining? or if he should make a fortune, or write a famous book, or carry some great reform through parliament? but, somehow, he did not seem to care; and gradually, as he listened to the far-off rumour of the city, it came to sound faintly in his ears like a voice of blind craving--as if the agitation of the world and life were meaningless and vain. and he would go out into it, he knew, would struggle and push with the others.... now from the open windows, sounds of music floated again across the quadrangle. he could picture to himself the audience, all those rows of young men, sitting there in the hot air and gaslight. indeed, he could almost see, he felt, into the rows of minds--if you could call them minds--behind all those heads: the ridiculous images of hope and cheap romance wakened by the music, the foolish dreams of the future, and false, poetic ideas of life. pity the poets and novelists could not invent something a little more true to life! cornish thought. for after all they had but two receipts: either they enlarged the world into a glorious and unreal place, full of love, success, and eternal sunshine, or else they magnified poor human nature, and invented towering, byronic heroes, who could find nothing in a shrunken universe worthy of their passionate souls. the music finished in a noise of long and loud applause. how all of them enjoyed it; how all of them believed in it, he thought; finding something foolish and inane in these sounds of clapping hands and pounding feet. a little while afterwards the concert ended, and the audience, a vague press of people, began to murmur and move down the steps of the hall, and pass him in the darkness. but now the sound of their footsteps and cheerful retreating voices came back to him almost sadly. a whole generation of youth, they seemed to him, as he sat there almost like some remote spectator--a whole generation of youth, those young men, pouring out of that ancient hall and passing away into the silence. they were all gone at last; one by one the bright windows in the hall grew dark. cornish still sat there alone. these voices and footsteps and dim figures, moving past him thus in the darkness, had left his mind curiously vibrating. so life went by, he thought, a few careless steps together on the brief-trodden path, a few words, a few greetings, and then the darkness and silence of death. what a curious mystery it was, this life, so vivid and brief in each of those passers by; the life he was conscious of in himself, as he sat there alone--the sound of his breath, the blood beating at his temples, the "soul" within--what was the meaning of it all, and for what reason was it given? surely this was the question of philosophy--the very question they had discussed that evening! and now, for the first time, he realized that the theories and systems he had been studying so long were not mere exercises of thought, and abstract speculations, but almost passionate attempts to explain the meaning of existence--of his own existence! but the great solutions of the philosophers--aristotle's "contemplation," kant's "moral law," the "calculated pleasure" of the hedonists, and all the rest--there seemed to be a mortal coldness in them all. surely they could never give a motive, or make life desirable to anyone! vaguely dismayed at this conclusion, he repeated over to himself all the words again. still he could find in them no motive for existence; and in a dim way he began to feel half proud of this discernment. yes, waters had been right after all, (and somehow he pitied both waters and himself), philosophy was but a barren waste. and the picture of a great desert filled his mind--a desert of endless sand. * * * * * when he was again conscious of himself, for a moment he wondered where he was, confused by the discomfort of his position, and the coolness of the air. then through the darkness he saw, outlined against the starry sky, the trees and buildings of the college quadrangle, and remembered how he had sat down there to rest after their discussion. he must have fallen asleep, and now it was late--the night had grown completely silent, and only one or two windows shone yellow in the blackness of the walls. what had their argument been about? he began to ask himself; but, chancing to look up again, he forgot everything in his wonder at the brilliance of the stars. the whole patch of sky, shut in by the dark college roofs, quivered and glowed with shining stars; he thought he had never seen the vault of heaven so wonderful and luminous. the long, faint sigh of a passing train on the distant railway brought back his thoughts at last, out of their vague wonder, to the earth and himself again. his imagination wandered after the train as it went through the night towards london. soon he would be in london himself, he thought, smiling. it was not three weeks now. there were some dances he was going to, and a cricket match, and the theatre, of course.... but then a vague sense of misfortune weighed him down, and in a moment he remembered how, a little while before, he had decided that life was altogether inane and meaningless. how was it that he had grown so foolishly eager again? no secret had been revealed to him; he had found no meaning behind desire, no purpose in existence. yet here he was, looking forward to dances, actually counting the days to a cricket match! it was absurd for a self-conscious spirit to desire such things as these, especially after surveying life and philosophy, and finding there was no reason why you should desire anything at all! but somehow cornish did not seem to need a reason now; success, love, friendship, and even dances and cricket matches, he desired these things for themselves, they shone with their own brightness; no theory, no sanction of greek or german philosophy could possibly make him want them more. how was it that there were desires that reason did not give? he puzzled over this, till at last he saw the question was rather a meaningless one, a question of words only. for desire of life came long before reasoning about it; reason did not sit aloft in a purer air, creating out of itself the meanings of experience. it could create no desires, could give us indeed none of the ultimate facts of life, for the ideas it used were all abstracted from things our direct perceptions gave us. and the existence of these things themselves--the blue sky, the solid earth, the sweetness of youth and sunshine--it could never prove, it did not need to prove! when, a little while before, he had felt no desire, reason had not helped him. and now he did not want its help. the striking clocks told cornish the lateness of the hour, and he got up to go in. as he walked across the quadrangle he heard voices and laughter in the darkness, and dimly saw a group of young men come out of a doorway in front of him. "well, have you had a good game, waters?" he asked, as he joined them. "oh, a ripping game. what have you been doing?" "nothing much--thinking." "thinking! lord, i'd turn looney if i thought so much. what's the good of it? you'd much better have taken a hand." cornish laughed. "well, i believe you're right," he said. _the will to live_ part two william waters had dreamed that the persians, in a fleet of canadian canoes, had come up the thames to attack the college barge, and that he himself had been sent on foot to demand reinforcements from the oxford examiners at sparta. and after the weary, breathless running, the hopeless search, in his dream, for the right greek words, it was most delightful to open his eyes and find himself comfortably lying in his familiar bedroom, with the sunlight glowing on the blinds. "why am i so happy?" he asked himself, and then he remembered that it was all over now; for the future he would never have to trouble about greek or examinations, or getting up in the morning, or any of their stupid rules and worries. for the future! as he lay there, lazily opening and shutting his eyes, vague, bright pictures of the life before him floated through his mind, and set his heart beating a little quicker. william waters was the son of a business man in a northern town, who, with some sacrifice, had sent him, the eldest son, to the university, in order that his education, and the connections he would form, might help him on in the world. now that the young man, after a lucky scramble through the examinations, had just finished four pleasant years of oxford life, it was his vague purpose to find some occupation in london, something pleasant and gentlemanly, which would enable him to live as he liked. "of course, sir, i know one can't expect anything very much at first," he said, half aloud, as he imagined himself talking modestly and sensibly to his tutor. for he was going to talk about it to ames; old ames wasn't such a fool about things of that kind. "there is no nonsense about that young waters," ames would say afterwards; "a modest, sensible chap, the kind of man who'll always do well." waters was determined to do well of course; he would get on, he told himself, when people came to realize how hard he worked. and as the young man lay there in bed, he decided that in the future no one should ever accuse him of laziness and neglecting work. by simply making up his mind to it, he thought he would entirely change his character, and begin life anew, winning position and wealth by his own unremitting industry. buller and antrobus would be in london, he told himself, and philpotts, most likely, and they would belong to the same club, where they would go on sunday mornings to smoke and read the sporting papers. he would work tremendously hard, of course, spending laborious nights over his books, but he would also go out a great deal into society. he would not be dissipated--he didn't care much for that--but still he would not be puritanical either. he meant to be moral and steady, and at the same time he would enjoy the pleasures of a man of the world. but he would be always kind and popular; people in fashionable society would say that william waters was such a good fellow, and in the park ladies would smile at him from their carriages, and smart young men would walk with him arm in arm. and he would live well; but still he would save money, and would soon pay off his oxford bills, and send money to his father. for he would always be very kind to his people, having his sisters to visit him, helping them to marry well (he himself meant to marry someone for love who was very rich), and sometimes he would give up parties at country houses in order to pay them visits at home. how his fur coat and knowledge of the great world would impress all the neighbours! "but i must get up," waters said to himself, remembering how he was to go and see his tutor and talk over plans. and after luncheon buller was going to drive them out, three of them, with his tandem to woodstock. and thinking vaguely of this drive, and of some new clothes that he meant to wear, waters was just falling off to sleep again, when his bull-dog came rushing up the stairs, and began to whine and scratch at the door. rousing himself, waters jumped up, and went with a call of affection to the door to let lo-ben in. after he had bathed and dressed himself in his new fresh-smelling clothes, the young man sauntered into the sitting-room of his lodgings, and rang the bell for breakfast. the day was bright; waters felt wonderfully fresh and well; there were pleasant aches in his arms and legs as he moved, for the whole of the day before he had been rowing on the river. after breakfast he was just sitting down to smoke his pipe comfortably, when, looking at his watch, he snatched up his cap and rusty gown, and started out towards college. by jove! what a day it was! he walked along through the sunshine, smiling to himself, while lo-ben barked and bounced from side to side. it was a good world, waters thought a good world, and now he was really going to enjoy it. as waters was tying up lo-ben in the college porch, he was seized on suddenly from behind. "come along, fat william," they cried, pulling and pushing him along, "we're going to have a little game--you must take a hand." twisting himself around, as he struggled, waters recognized two of his friends, and appealed to reason breathlessly; he had to go and see old ames, on his honour he had; he would look in afterwards, in about half-an-hour, and stay to luncheon if they liked. so he started across the quadrangle, looking back and smiling and shaking his head, as he dodged the bits of gravel with which they pelted him. it was a good place after all, the old college, waters thought, when he was out of danger and could look about. he remembered the two years he had lived in rooms looking out on this quadrangle; the pleasant hours he had spent, sitting in the window with his pipe, or lying on the grass whole sunday afternoons, lazily reading, or talking with his friends; he thought of the beautiful chapel, and the old hall that was so much admired, and how he had sat up a tree one evening and poured water on the dean, and how at night the stealthy bonfires had blazed up red and sudden in the dark. he was really sorry to leave the old place, he thought sentimentally, remembering the emotions he had read of as felt by young men in books when about to leave their school or college. but then, with healthy common-sense, he told himself that all they wrote in books about your college days, and life never being so happy afterwards, was damned nonsense. waters knew how men lived in london! "sorry i'm late, sir," he said as he entered his tutor's room, addressing the spare shining head that was bent over a heap of papers. mr. ames raised his worn, cynical, kind face, and looked at waters with short-sighted eyes. "oh, no matter, sit down won't you, waters," and he gave a last hurried shuffle to his papers. waters thought that ames must spend his life looking for lost papers; and although occasionally surprised by flashes of almost supernatural knowledge in his tutor, for the most part he entertained--as a heathen might towards his helpless, yet vaguely awful, idol--a certain good-natured pity for the absent-minded, easily outwitted man. "i thought i'd like to talk things over with you a little," waters said, sitting down in a chair that groaned with his athletic weight. "i must decide what i shall choose, what to go in for." "to go in for?" ames repeated, looking at him vaguely. "i mean, i must choose"; waters found a pleasure in talking, not as an undergraduate, but as a serious young man. "one must do something of course." "of course it _is_ better," ames assented, though he still looked rather puzzled. "i thought i'd talk to you about the bar, or something of the kind." ames looked at him blankly. "talk to me about the bar?" "yes, i thought i'd better ask your advice." "do you mean for yourself?" ames asked after a moment, "but i supposed--i always supposed you were going into your father's business; he has some business, hasn't he, or am i wrong?" "into my father's business!" waters laughed comfortably. "no, i shouldn't ever think of that. no, i want to live in london." "oh, i see!" "yes, of course if anything very good was offered me somewhere else,--but no, i think i prefer london. what would you advise?" "what i should advise!" ames said, looking at him hopelessly. "i suppose you've thought of something for yourself; you have some preference?" "preference? oh no, nothing special. i thought i'd ask you." again ames looked at him with an odd expression. then in his polite, weary, equable voice, he said, "well, i must try and think. i suppose your father--what does he want you to do?" "my father--!" waters' voice showed what he thought of fathers. "oh, he said that if i had a university education, there would be something." "ah, did he! well, i suppose he ought to know," ames said doubtfully. "oh, he doesn't know of anything definite," waters explained; and then, speaking loudly, as if to a deaf man, he added, "it was only what he thought." "ah, that's quite different, isn't it?" ames exclaimed, his face brightening. "but surely there is a great deal to do in london," waters continued. yes, there must be a good deal, ames admitted doubtfully; at least everyone seemed very much occupied there. "all i want is some work, that isn't too much grind, and decent pay." "ah, that is all that most people want," ames observed, with half a sigh. "of course at first i shouldn't expect anything very much," waters went on, hardly heeding his tutor's vague remarks; and he explained again that he only wanted some decent occupation, with pay enough to live on. then he waited, gazing at his tutor's blank face as one might gaze at a revolving lighthouse, waiting for its flash of light. as nothing came, however, he said, "surely there are lots of places where they want oxford men?" "possibly there were"; ames looked as if he, however, had never heard of them. "but grant and vaughan had got good places, and sturdy, they said, was doing well at the bar." "ah, i see you mean those clever men, who do so well in the schools and all. you're quite right; a man like cornish for instance; i thought you meant more the average man." no, it wasn't cornish, waters meant; it wasn't the average man either. "i mean more the man--what you call an all-round-man." "what i call an all-round-man?" ames looked bewildered. "i mean," waters continued, with desperate efforts to explain himself, "i mean the man who is rather good all round, rows, and that sort of thing. perhaps he didn't get a first; didn't care much what he got, didn't approve of the system." ames seemed busy looking for his glasses. "there are people who don't approve of the system," waters went on. "i read an article once by someone, professor something, not approving of examinations. i forget just who it was." "professor freeman, perhaps?" "yes, that's it! well now, a man like that, what is he going to do?" waters asked, with renewed confidence. "but professor freeman is dead, you know." "but,--but,--i'm not speaking of professor freeman." "how would you like to be a solicitor?" ames asked, putting on his glasses. "a solicitor! oh, i shouldn't care for that," waters promptly replied. "you see it isn't the kind of work i like, and then the vacations are too short." ames said nothing. he was sitting unusually still, and his large glasses reflecting the light, resembled two enormous shining oval eyes in the smoothness of his face. what he was really looking at waters could not tell, and he grew more and more uncomfortable. at last, with diminished confidence, "there _are_ men who get on well at the bar?" he said. "there are." "and if i were living in london i might do some writing? they do that, don't they?" "they do." then ames sighed and shook his head. "i think you had better go home, waters," he added; "i'm afraid there's nothing else. if you had spoken to me before, i should have told you this." "oh, good lord, mr. ames, you don't mean there's nothing!" waters sat up in his chair, with open mouth, staring at his tutor. "well, you know, i'm afraid there isn't." "oh but, mr. ames, there must be something!" "well you can try; but honestly, i think you had--if your father can have you--i think you had better go home." waters looked at him. "he knows i helped to paint his door red last week," the young man muttered to himself, "and now he's furious about it." but the comfort of this ebbed away gradually, as ames went on to describe the different professions, the struggle for success, the cruel competition. ames indeed seemed to have focussed himself, and instead of the vague astonished way in which he was wont to speak of practical affairs, he now showed a precision, and clearness, and knowledge of life that was really appalling. "i am sorry it is so, waters," he ended. "we live pleasantly here, and we almost forget what the world outside is like." "i do think some one might have told me, mr. ames; i do indeed." waters could have cried with disappointment. "you would never have believed it, waters; we none of us can believe that the world doesn't need us. it's hard, but whether we live or die, the world doesn't care, can get on perfectly well without us. we each have to find it out for ourselves." he sighed as if he too had once known youth and hope, and the indifference of the world. "but, mr. ames, i can't go home, indeed i can't. my other brother was going into the business, and i always told people,--and everybody supposed,--and to think that all my time here is wasted." "oh, not exactly wasted," ames answered kindly. "it will always help you, to be an oxford man, and you will be sure to find it pleasanter at home than you expected." then beginning again to look at his papers, he added, more in his old distant way, "i'll see you again, i hope, before you go down. they'll miss you in college," he added politely, as waters moved towards the door. "i'm sure the 'torpid'--" "i might be a solicitor, mr. ames," waters said in a meek voice, as he stood disconsolately, his hand on the door-knob. "well, talk it over with your father," ames replied, without looking up. "it takes time and money you know. you think he wouldn't mind?" "oh no, he won't mind," waters said, although he knew his father would mind very much indeed. he walked away slowly through the familiar quadrangle. his father!--how would he ever dare tell his father? but no, it couldn't be true that there was nothing for him, that nobody wanted him. he was well known in college, had played in the football team, and rowed in the "torpid," and people liked him. besides it was such a thing, they always said, to be an english gentleman; and then oxford culture--and you read of the successful careers of rowing men, how they became cabinet ministers, and bishops, and things. no, it couldn't be true.... "poor lo-ben," he said, patting his dog tenderly, as he unchained him in the porch. "poor old lo-ben, you'll stick to your master, won't you?" the dog whined and licked the young man's hand, and they went out into the street together. well, they would live alone, he and lo-ben, and they would go out for lonely walks, after the long dreary days of work in his father's office. and the people there would see him, and wonder about him; but he would always be distant, only coldly polite when they met. sometimes his old college friends would come to stay in the neighbourhood; but they would not look him up: all his friends would forget him, though he would always remember them. and that afternoon they would all drive off without him, probably they would be really glad not to have him. and they would be perfectly happy; but he would never be happy again. for no, it was not true, what ames had said, about his getting to like it at home. he would always hate it, he told himself desperately; and life and everything was hateful; there was a chill in the sunshine, the streets seemed full of noise and work and ugly working people. what was the good of it? he wondered. and ames said it was all like that. what was the good of it, he asked again, when he flung himself down into one of the great easy chairs in his lodgings. if you had to live in a dirty provincial town, and sit on a stool all day, what was the good? of course some of the men at home seemed happy enough; they had their cricket on saturdays and things; but then they weren't university men. for himself, waters decided, for the first time in his life considering in his concrete way the problem of existence, for himself it was all finished; there was nothing more in life which could give him pleasure. the servant brought up luncheon. at first waters thought he could eat nothing, and when he did begin in a melancholy way, he bitterly contrasted his lonely meal with the happy party in college. he felt an immense pity for himself; he would die young, he was sure; the life might even drive him to suicide--such things had happened. after his luncheon and beer he lit his pipe. by this time buller and philpotts must have finished their luncheon too, and have started for the stables. they would wonder at first why he did not come, but they would not really care. and now they must have started. he had done well not to go with them; he would not have enjoyed it, waters assured himself, repeating the old phrases; he would never enjoy anything again. he looked at his watch furtively. what! they wouldn't start for three minutes yet. then he had still just time enough to catch them. he seized his hat, and without waiting for a reason--he had no time to wait--he hurried out, lo-ben barking at his heels. _the claim of the past_ they had all been to luncheon with mr. windus, and now, under his guidance, they started out to see the college, walking together across the quadrangle through the summer sunshine. mr. windus talked to mrs. ellwood of dalmouth, the devonshire town where she lived, and he had friends; the others were gossiping of the heat, the oxford dances, while ruth ellwood and young rutherford came last of all. rutherford too belonged to dalmouth, was, indeed, a cousin of the ellwoods--all the dalmouth families were somehow related; but going away early to school, and afterwards to oxford, he had come at last to seem more like a stranger to them than a friend or cousin. and this invitation to meet the ellwoods he had accepted merely out of politeness; he was busy with his work, felt in no mood for the oxford gaieties, and anyhow cared, or thought he cared, very little indeed for dalmouth or the dalmouth people. but soon he had begun to listen with pleasure and interest to the home news, as his charming cousin told it. "and so the town isn't much changed?" he asked; "and the different cousins, what has become of them all?" with eager interest she went on telling him of all the old families, who lived in the different houses; how the young girls had grown up--there were so many pretty ones among the cousins!--and the young men had gone into the family offices. some of them were married and settled down already. "and aunt warner's house under the beeches, with its lawn, where we used to play, is it just the same?" "oh, yes, just the same, only the bartons live there now--uncle james's family; and on thursdays we meet there--i mean the cousins' tennis club--and when it rains we dance in the old drawing room. but how shocked dear old aunt warner would have been to see us!" then, as they went through the gateway into the college garden, she added, "i'm afraid all this gossip bores you; it's interesting for us who live at home, but for other people--" "oh, but i belong to dalmouth!" he protested. "of course you do, only it's so long since you've been there," she said in half apology, "and we thought--i thought you didn't care." it was indeed a long time, it was years since he had been there, he remembered with a certain regret for the preoccupation, the youthful intolerance, that had made him half despise his home. it was a charming place after all, the grey seaport town with its wharves, and shipping, and narrow streets, and the pleasant homes and gardens just outside where his cousins and uncles, the merchants, lived--where as a boy he had lived. how well he remembered watching, on summer afternoons, the white sails of the family ships, as they floated up with the tide past the green lawns and square old houses. a pleasant life it must be there, he thought, and quite untroubled in its tranquil interests by any great ambitions or ideas--the echoes of which, indeed, could hardly reach them in their quiet old corner of the world. and, as they talked, the young man began to fancy idly what his own life would have been, had he never gone away from the old devonshire town. it had been intended, of course, that he should stay there, and take his own part in the family concerns; even yet his uncles were keeping a place for him; and although they feared he was quite spoiled by oxford, yet they would welcome him back, he knew, should he only give up those ambitions, that to them--and to himself sometimes!--seemed so impossible, so dreamy and unreal. ruth ellwood stopped now and then to look at the garden flowers. "what lovely irises, and how quaint those roses are, trained so stiffly on the old walls." "are you fond of gardening?" he asked. she was very fond of it, she said--not that she knew much about it! but she liked planting things and tying them up, and she always gathered the flowers for the house. things grew so well at dalmouth--roses and peonies, and great chrysanthemums in the autumn. only it made her a little sad to see the chrysanthemums; their summers were so lovely! rutherford knew the house in which his cousin lived, and now he could almost see her there, moving over the sweet grass, hatless, in the morning light, to gather roses, filling old china bowls with their fragrant leaves; or walking home on rainy evenings past the great cedar, the wet lawn, and borders of dripping flowers. "how beautiful she is!" he thought, looking furtively at her. the impression of this beauty, her pleasant voice, the friendly people she spoke of, and all the memories that made them seem so intimate together, affected him with a curious fresh sense of happiness, coming into his life, which had been of late somewhat discouraged and lonely, with a charm as real and actual as that of the warmth of the sun, the scent of roses. they had reached the end of the garden, and as they turned back, still following the others, he said hesitatingly to his companion something about coming to dalmouth soon for a visit. "oh, do come!" she cried, "i'm sure you'll enjoy it, and they will all be so glad to see you." "i hope so--but i'm afraid they must think rather badly of me--will be prejudiced against me; you will have to introduce me." "oh, i will--only really, they won't be prejudiced against you." then she added, "oxford is so charming!" in a way that touched rutherford a little. she at least, in spite of all she had heard at home, plainly could see nothing so dreadful or dangerous in oxford, or her cousin, after all! yes, oxford was charming, she said again, and not at all what she had expected--at first she had been really almost afraid to come! but it was all so pleasant; why had people such a prejudice against the university?--her two brothers wanted to come, but her father would not hear of it. but how could it unfit them for living at home? she had seen how the undergraduates lived. and her brothers would have enjoyed it so. she had been in several of the colleges now, and had been on the river, and was going out to tea that afternoon, and afterwards, to a dance. "tell me," she asked, as they followed the others towards the chapel door, "are you going to any of the dances?" he was afraid he wouldn't have the time, he said. "oh, what a pity, you ought to come," she cried; but her voice was hushed when, out of the glare and sunshine, they went into the blue obscurity, the cool old smell and quiet of the chapel. the ladies looked at the windows, the religious carving; and their movement, as they went about, filled with a rustling sound the vacant silence of the place. then they all gathered in a group while one of the fellows told them something of the history of the chapel: how it had been built in the fourteenth century, and how ever since then the members of the college had worshipped there, and among them many whose names had afterwards grown famous. "tell me," ruth ellwood whispered, as they walked away, "is this where the undergraduates sit; where do you sit?" he showed her the scholars' seats, and the old brass eagle from which they read the lessons, and then, when they went through the ante-chapel, she paused a moment, looking at the inscriptions and monuments. "were there any nice old epitaphs?" she asked. "do show them to me, if there are." the rest of the party had left the chapel, but could still be seen through the open door standing not far off in the sunshine, and the gossip of their voices came in faintly now and then. the old brasses, dating from gothic times, bore inscriptions in rhyming latin, that rutherford read and translated to his companion; there were monuments of a later time, adorned with urns, cherubs, and garlands--old trappings of death that made death itself seem almost quaint and charming. but in the seventeenth century the tranquil records of the scholars' lives were disturbed by echoes of old war and exile. "reader, look to thy feet! honest and loyal men are sleeping under thee," one inscription ran; and the name of more than one was recorded "who, when loyalty and the church fainted, lay down and died." other monuments were put up to the memory of young men who had died at college. well-born and modest, the old latin described them, and dead, centuries ago, in the flower of their fruitless years. "vivere dulce fuit!" one of them had complained, as four hundred years before, in florid latin, he bade farewell to youth and hope. of another it was quaintly said, "talis erat vita, qualis stylus, elegans et pura"; while another undergraduate's virtues were recorded in verses ending with the line, "expertus praedico, tutor eram." then there was an inscription in english verse, from some cavalier poet, rutherford thought, "him while fresh and fragrant time cherisht in his golden prime; ere hebe's hand had overlaid his smooth cheeks with downy shade, the rush of death's unruly wave swept him off into his grave. * * * * * eyes are vocall, teares have tongues, and there be words not made with lungs; sententious showres: oh let them fall! their cadence is rhetoricall." another of the same date recorded the deeds of the young scholar-soldiers "who, at the news of battle, changed their gownes for armour, and faithfully served king charles i. from edge hill fight, to the end of those unhappie wars." but one youth in that early conflict had been killed in the pursuit of victory "after gloriously redeeming, with his own hands, the banner royal of the king." so they linger there for a few moments, passing from one to another of the epitaphs, with their records of knightly effort, of the ideal and romantic hopes of youth, completed afterwards, or quenched long ago by early death. and to the young man, as he spells them out, they seem at last to form a continuing tradition of lives dauntlessly lived and lost, and then recorded here, briefly, in this ancient corner of the college. his companion, too, was vaguely charmed and touched by the old inscriptions, and as they turned at last to go out she stopped in front of another tablet. would he read it? it was too high for her to see. rutherford looked at it. "it's a modern one, i don't think it will interest you--" "oh yes, it will--do read it." he looked at it in silence for a minute. faint sounds of music floated into the dim chapel from the world outside--music, and distant voices calling. then he read the name and date; a young man who had been drowned the year before. "his companions at school and college have erected this tablet, wishing to preserve the recollection of one who was much beloved, and whose influence for good was greatly felt in this place. he was of a courageous and enthusiastic nature; the example, had he lived, of his generous ambitions--" but in the middle, rutherford's voice changed a little, and with a shiver his cousin turned and went away. had she guessed that they had been friends, these two, or was it merely that she felt at last the chill of the place, and of all the old dead about her? in a moment the young man turns to go out too. but as he looks through the dimness of the chapel on the summer and sunlight, and his cousin standing there outside the door, how far it all seems, how unreal! only real to him is a sense of the briefness of life, and of the great, difficult things that may nevertheless be done or attempted before death comes. and as he walks away again with his cousin, he is quite certain, now at last, that this is no mere emotion or boyish enthusiasm, but an influence that for evil or good must rule his life--must come, at least, between him and any choice of ease and the common happiness. _a broken journey_ i. the air tasted fresh; through the sunshiny mist the london houses shone beautiful and vague; the passers-by seemed to be whistling and singing as they went to their morning work. already at paddington cabs were arriving; they drove down under the clock in an endless procession; the family luggage was unloaded, and the passengers, muffled for winter journeys, hurried into the station. then a hansom pulled up sharply, and a young man got out, whose air of fashion and slim figure, as he stood there paying his driver, drew for a moment the notice of the other travellers. on the platform within, by the waiting trains, all was movement; the great adventurous station was full of grey light, and a confusion of sounds and echoes. arthur lestrange, as he walked across, looked about with quick eyes on the orderly tumult, the heaps of moving luggage, the hurrying people. they were all starting off on pleasant holiday journeys, he fancied; indeed, everything seemed eager and gay that morning. he chose an empty first-class carriage in the train going northwards; but in a moment he hurried out back to the bookstall to get a paper, and returned with several novels in his hands. on the top of one was pictured, in bright tragic colours, a young man suspended over the edge of a perilous cliff. "why did i buy them?" arthur wondered, looking at the books with amusement. settling himself again, he watched through his window the anxious procession of people who came peering by, looking for corner seats. then he saw his own luggage passing. "oh, you can put those things in here with me," he called out to the porter. "i've labelled them, sir," the porter said, looking up with a stupid face. "put them in, put them in, don't you see there's plenty of room," arthur said with a certain sharpness and nervous agitation. there were two young men standing on the platform near his window. "well, good-bye," one of them said, as he looked at the other with friendly eyes, "you mustn't wait, and you'll come up and see us, won't you?" they were oxford men, young lestrange thought, as he watched them, feeling envious, and almost lonely for a moment as he remembered the times when he had travelled down so often with friends from paddington to oxford. but surely it was time for the train to start! the movement on the platform seemed to be increasing; the tumult and screaming whistles sounded louder and louder in his ears, as he waited, leaning uncomfortably forward. at last all the doors were shut; the platform grew more vacant; a few belated people hurried up; a green flag was waved; a whistle blown; everything about him seemed to glide backwards, and then, with the shaking and noise of travel, the train drew itself slowly out of the station. arthur leaned back with a sensation of immense relief. he was really away at last. away from everybody! he had been almost afraid that they might come to the station and try to stop him. but it was absurd, he told himself, as he opened the morning paper, it was absurd to make so much trouble; for what was there to bother about? he could take care of himself; and anyhow his relations had better mind their own business. as for talking about ruin! he thought of his pompous uncle and dull pale cousins, and then of the people with whom he was going to stay. "good old ruin," he said half aloud, running down the news of the day with eyes that hardly noticed what he read. in a moment he turned to look out of the window. after making its way through the suburbs, the train had begun at last to travel more quickly through the open country. the trees and earth and houses near at hand drifted backwards; the more distant fields moved back with a slower motion, while the horizon seemed to glide forward with the train. the sun shone on the brown earth and mist and leafless trees; a young horse galloped the length of his field in a playful race with the moving carriages. young lestrange changed his seat restlessly. then he began to rearrange his luggage on the rack; he looked at himself in the mirror, caressing his slight moustache. his hair was smooth and dark over his handsome young face. only his straight eyebrows, twitching nervously now and then, would give him rather a harassed, anxious look for a moment. what was the use of bothering, he said to himself, smiling as he turned carelessly away. if one was young! men sowed their wild oats; he would settle down soon enough, but in the meantime he would enjoy himself. you have only one life to live.... the winter morning seemed unusually bright and clear; the train went swiftly; its wheels beat on the rails an unquiet and delicious measure, answering and echoing his thoughts. restless and excited, he again threw down the paper, for the bright images of desire, that floated before his eyes, made the printed words seem almost meaningless. he pictured to himself the end of his journey--the trap that would probably meet him--a dog-cart, with shining bay horse and man in livery, standing in the gravel sweep of a country station. the drive up, and then at tea, or just before dinner, he and she would meet in the drawing room, greeting each other with pretended indifference. how he hated and loved her! after a while the train, going more slowly now, began to draw into reading. with the beginnings of weariness and headache arthur looked at the waste of railway trucks, the heaps of coal and blackened snow, the red factory buildings, and the dreary streets beyond. biscuit factories--who could eat all the biscuits they made? he wondered; "clapper's restaurant"--suppose you should dine there, they would give you nothing but biscuits, probably. did the train stop at reading?--he could get some spirits at the refreshment room. at the bar, lestrange saw the figure and long grey coat of a man he thought he recognized; and then, getting sight of boyle's smooth-shaven face, and remembering his supercilious manners and reputation, he felt with sudden repulsion how much he hated men of that kind--men of pleasure, who were no longer young. when you were young it was different--but to go on always.... but when boyle turned and greeted him in an indifferent, half-friendly way, and then walked up and down with him on the platform, arthur could not help feeling, in spite of himself, somewhat flattered and pleased. after all, boyle knew most of the best people, and went everywhere. "i have an empty carriage; you might as well come in with me, if you are by yourself." boyle seemed not unwilling, and soon appeared at arthur's carriage. "i'm just on my way to marcham," arthur said, as if casually; "the vallences', you know." there was a slight lisp in his pleasant musical voice. boyle was putting his golf clubs in the rack, but turned round at this and glanced at arthur oddly. however he said nothing, and after a moment he sat down, and, lighting a cigarette, began looking at the paper. as the train went out of reading they began to talk, or rather arthur talked. soon he was discussing horses and actresses and gambling debts. it was a good game, baccarat, arthur said, but you had to pay for it sometimes. he had just dropped a cool thousand or two, which was rather a bore. there was a music hall singer to whom arthur referred more than once as "mamie." "and how about lulu, hey?" boyle asked, with his disagreeable laugh. "oh, lulu--good old lulu!" arthur said, but he really had no idea of what boyle meant. boyle told a story in his short, indifferent way, and arthur exclaimed, "capital! capital!" and laughed loudly in the fashion of a popular man he knew. had he ever been to the vallences' before? boyle asked. no, he had never gone before. did boyle know them?--boyle had been there; was going there now, in fact, he said. "really, are you going there now? how odd we should meet like this!" they talked a little about the place and people. it would be rather a lively set, wouldn't it? arthur asked; and he boasted that his uncle, lord seabury, had warned him against them. but, good god! what did he care if people were amusing. "do you know who else will be there?" "oh, a lot of people. mrs. stair (arthur blushed at this), and that young glass." "glass?" arthur exclaimed; "oh, not really that man! they can't like him." "they like his money." "you don't mean they ask a man--a stupid boy like that--to get his money." "they don't say they do," and boyle looked up from his paper with an expression that seemed to say, "you young fool, you don't know much." ("is that what i'm asked for?" arthur wondered for a second.) "i say, did you read about that young hughes?" boyle was saying. "it seems he's gone and played the fool--shot himself; wrote to his mamma he was ruined. so he won't be there." "used he to go to marcham?" "oh, always there." "well, it's the pace that kills," arthur said sententiously, though his hand, as he lighted another cigarette, shook a little. "it isn't everyone that can stand the racket." "if they weren't all such sickening young fools," boyle replied in a short contemptuous way, as if the talk bored him. "he thinks a damned lot of himself," arthur thought, looking with a sidelong glance at boyle. his head began to ache again; a sudden disgust came over him; he felt he hated boyle. and he hated himself too, for talking and boasting as he had talked and boasted but a few minutes before. and they were all like boyle, all those people; they cared only for his name and money. "name and money, name and money," the wheels beat on the rails. well, soon he would lose them, most likely--his name and money--like the young suicide, who had lost them both and his life too. still he made an effort to ward off the mood that was settling down on him--the mood he knew so well! he was not ruined, he told himself, and there was nothing ruinous in an ordinary visit. he could take care of himself. the chief of his debts were gambling debts, and he was going to stop playing soon; would settle down quietly; he would make a resolution, and keep to it. but what was he doing now in that rattling train? only the day before he had resolved not to come; had promised solemnly that he would not come; had made a resolution to break with all that set, and not yield to the passion which people said would ruin him. yet here he was, going on to it all! there seemed to him something sinister in his journey, something fatal in the swiftness of the rattling train, as if he were being carried on to a dreadful place, and into misfortune, against his will. he leaned away from boyle, and touched his cheek to the cool pane of the window. masses of steam enveloped the train, but arthur saw the quiet landscape now and then, glimpses of faded green fields with snow, and, over the hedges, the shining river, and bluish hills beyond. he saw a boat on the river; recognized a bit of wood, a church tower. those were the hills that he had ridden over; the lanes through which he had so often walked; the river down which he had floated in the summer sunshine, pulling up refreshed and strong after bathing. with an eager, almost childish interest he waited for the green visions, through the shifting steam, of these familiar places. he opened the window; the singing air tasted pleasantly cool and fresh. over the flooded fields and the moving trees he saw the spires and towers of oxford. he could well remember the quiet streets there; seemed to see himself, indeed, moving through them; and he almost believed that in a few minutes he would be driving up, as he had driven up so often before, in that procession of racing cabs to the old college, and to all his friends. the steam blew again about the train, wrapped his face in its warm breath, and blotted out the view. inside the shaking carriage was the tobacco smoke, and his luggage. "where am i going with that man?" he asked himself suddenly, for the picture of oxford had filled his mind entirely for a moment. the buildings and towers were so near now, the water of the reservoir gleamed slowly past. arthur took down his luggage from the rack. at the bottom of his mind he had been wanting for a long time to go back to oxford, and see it all, and see an old friend there; and so, eagerly, almost before the train had stopped, he hailed a porter and got out of the carriage. "i must stay over here a few hours," he said to boyle, with apparent calmness. "there is something i have just thought of, and must attend to. i'll telegraph, but you'd better tell them, though, not to meet me." he turned and walked away. but as he drove up to oxford, "what a fool i am," he kept saying to himself. indeed boyle's surprise, the commonplace platform, the ticket-collector's questions, the sight outside of his own luggage being lifted up on a hansom, had soon made his foolish, helpless impulse fade, like the flame of a candle, taken out into the daylight and windy air. but to go back to the train would have seemed doubly foolish, so, borne on by the impetus of his dead desire, he drove away. the next train was not till half-past six. he would get luncheon, and, after all, it might be pleasant to see the old place. but he was resolved that never again would he act on those stupid, sudden ideas--they made him seem like a fool. ii. after luncheon arthur went out--the time had to be spent somehow--and walked idly along the high street. it was all so familiar: the shops, the windows of the club to which he had belonged, the rooms where his friends had lived. but he knew no one now. the streets were wet with winter mud, there was a commonplace light on the houses, and arthur looked about him with very little interest and emotion. walking past the colleges, he loitered for a little on magdalen bridge, and then turned back again. it was still early, and he began to meet now the young men who were starting out of oxford for the open air and country. some were dressed for football; three or four in brown coats rode by on horses, talking and laughing as they passed; but the greater number were in flannels, and moving towards the river. these arthur followed--he had nothing else to do--through the streets and meadows, coming at last to the barges and windy river. men were calling to each other, boats were pushing out, and the turbid current of the thames ran swiftly with the winter floods. but for him there was too much sound about the wind and water, the cold sunshine was too bright and harsh, and he felt doubly weary, as he looked at all that life and activity and health. and yet once he would have delighted in it. when arthur lestrange had come first from school to oxford, he had entered with eagerness and youthful ambition into the pleasures and activities of university life, wishing to do everything well that he tried to do, and with distinction if he could. and all these ambitions and activities he came to share, in the pleasant, intimate oxford way, with a friend, slightly older than himself. but after a while he began to grow discontented; success was not so easy;--and what was the good of it after all? he asked himself, with impatient lassitude. finding new friends and more exciting pleasures, he gradually drifted away from his old companions. what was the harm? he said impatiently to austen, resenting his friend's affectionate advice. he would enjoy life as other people enjoyed it; he only wanted to be left alone. so they grew less intimate; and when lestrange found himself in trouble, serious enough to make him leave oxford, he had been too angry and proud to see austen, or answer his friendly letter. "how stupid it has all been," he said to himself, the memory of all this coming over him rather drearily, as he walked back towards oxford. but his feeble attempts to make some change in his life--these were the stupidest of all his memories; how, when his father died abroad, he was really frightened, fearing for himself a death like that, and going back to the half-neglected place that was now his own, he remembered his old plans of life, and tried to do his duty there, and be a good landlord and neighbour. but in a few months he grew weary of it all; it was too lonely, too depressing.... and then a year after, when he hoped for a while that a nice girl he knew might care for him; and this last time, when his losses at play had made him mortgage his property still more heavily. then, sobered for a moment by his uncle's warnings, and by the ruin that seemed not far off, he suddenly resolved to change, to give up playing, to keep away from all those people. but he had started for marcham after all. it was no good trying, and no one cared. of course no one cared--why should they? with worldly derision he remembered now the foolish, tattered hope he had cherished all along--the hope that some day, coming back to oxford, he would find the old life, the old friend, who _had_ cared once. and without stopping he walked past his college, the place where austen was still living. he did not want to see any of them, nor would they want to see him. oppressed by the slowness of the time, the afternoon quiet of the streets, he resolved to go back to the station and wait there, watching the railway clock slowly eat up the hours. but passing by chance the livery stable where he had always kept his horses, with an aimless impulse he sauntered into the open court. one of the stable grooms coming up, addressed him by name, and asked him if he wanted to order a horse. "it's a long while since we've seen you in oxford, sir." this recognition and friendly look in the man's face, touched arthur, and, with a revival of eagerness, he felt that a ride would be just the thing to kill the time. so, ordering a horse to be sent to the hotel where he had left his luggage, he hurried back to get ready. iii. as he rode back towards oxford, two hours afterwards, the light was already fading from the winter sky. sleepily and quietly he jogged along now, his horse tired at last after the quick gallop through grass lanes and over the wet fields and commons. the young man, too, was tired; but with a healthy, physical fatigue, pleasant in all his body. he felt almost happy after the motion, the wide light, the freshness of the air. and when he rode into the old city, walking his horse through the darkening streets, it seemed to him as if he were riding home now, as often he had ridden home into oxford before, at just this hour of the twilight. the groups in the doorways, the lighted windows in the dim buildings, the sounds about him of bells and footsteps and friendly voices, brought back to him confusedly, mixed with the memory of this and that, the charm and comfort of that old life--that life of order and disciplined ways, and high old-fashioned purposes. how quietly the days had gone by: the mornings of work, the rides with friends, or afternoons on the river, between the yellowing autumn willows; the evenings with the white lamplight and pleasant talk and books. he had quarrelled with the restraint, the subordination, sometimes; had thought it too severe, too painful, to go out on the river in the wind and rain, to get up so early in the cold of winter mornings. but now, after the stale dissipation of his life, it was only the friendly warmth, the lazily-wasted hours he remembered, the pleasant fatigue after exercise, and the taste of the winter air when he had hurried out to chapel through the earliest sunlight. if he could only go back to it all; if, putting up his horse, he could walk to his rooms through the twilight, and find his books, and the fire burning there, and friends not far off! but things had been against him somehow. and yet he had meant it all to be so different. and with half a sigh he remembered the summer evenings when he and austen had walked in the old garden, talking of their plans in life--of all they meant to do--together! if they could. but then, people never did remain friends like that. when he gave up his horse, however, he looked at his watch, and, after standing in hesitation for a moment, he turned with a sudden impulse, and walked quickly towards his old college. in the porch stood a group of undergraduates, just up from the river, and vaguely gossiping before they separated. but they were all strangers to arthur, and the porter, who answered his questions, was a stranger too. crossing the darker quadrangle, the young man went into a staircase and up two flights of steps. then he stopped, and stood breathing quickly for a moment. there was the door, and the name over it, but he had grown suddenly ashamed of his errand. austen might have forgotten him, or might not want to see him.... but, bah! what did he care? and his footsteps must have been heard.... "i'm afraid you don't recognize me," arthur said, in his assured voice, as he went forward into the room. "i was in oxford; i thought i'd look you up." austen, who was sitting by a lamp, turned round with a puzzled expression on his staid, pleasant face. then, pushing aside a heap of papers, he got up and said: "oh, lestrange, i didn't recognize you at first, it's so dark there. but i'm glad to see you--do sit down; you'll have tea, won't you?" he was passing through oxford, arthur said; and having a few hours on his hands after riding over shotover, he had come back, and happened to look in at the old college. the plausibility of this explanation, and austen's voice as he said politely, "that's right, that's right, i'm delighted to see you again," soon overcame most of the shyness behind arthur's easy, unembarrassed manner. they still talked to each other rather formally, however, as men do who have not met for years. "it's a long time since you've been in oxford, isn't it?" austen asked. "yes, it is; i've been at home, in london. but i suppose it hasn't changed much." no, there wasn't much change, austen said; old people went and new came. what had become of all the men who had been with them in college, arthur asked; he had lost sight of them somehow. austen said that some were at the bar; some in the government offices; one or two in parliament already; the most of them seemed to be getting on pretty well, he thought, though he had lost sight of many of them, as one did. "and you've been living on here ever since? i heard you had been made a fellow. you like it, i suppose?" yes, austen said, he liked it well enough, the work was tiring sometimes; that afternoon he had been going through papers. arthur noticed that he looked fatigued, and a good deal older. it was dry, hard work no doubt, but still it was not the kind of thing that changed you. "i say, you have jolly rooms here, austen; i envy you living in a place like this. do you remember your old rooms over the garden? i think i used to live in them almost." as the old memories revived they seemed to grow less shy of each other. arthur leaned forward, talking in a vague, intermittent way as he stared into the fire. sometimes he would gaze at nothing, with a vacant, dazed look, for minutes together; or he would take the fire-irons and break up the coals. once the tongs slipped and fell with a sudden clatter; he started nervously. "well," he said at last, rousing himself from a reverie in which he seemed conscious of nothing but the warmth and comfort and pleasant, physical fatigue, "well, it seems very jolly here, like old times; i almost wish i had never gone away. but then, of course, i couldn't help it," he added; "i wasn't asked." "you had hard luck," austen said; "i hope it hasn't made any difference." the words sounded friendly and sympathetic to arthur. hard luck, yes, that was it; he had always had hard luck. "what have you been doing since?" austen said politely. "what have i been doing, charles? oh, nothing much; seeing about things at home a little. there were some cottages i had rebuilt. you remember we used to talk about it. it isn't so easy though, or i suppose i'm not so clever at it. but of course you know a great deal more about those things." "no, oh no! i've been so busy. that sort of thing is good in moderation, and i'm glad you keep it up." "oh yes, in a way ... but no, what am i saying? i don't really keep it up. it was all two years ago. i haven't done much of anything since--anything good. things, you know," he went on, as he stared into the fire, "haven't gone just--i mean, it's been rather stupid--stupid, and worse, i'm afraid; i don't seem good for much somehow." the familiar oxford room, with its order, and books, and shaded light, seemed so shut in, so far from the friendless world in which he lived, that for the moment arthur almost forgot the lonely distrust, the derision of everything, which his life had taught him. "i suppose it's fate," he added, staring into the fire, as if he were half-ashamed of what he was saying. "i suppose it _is_ fate--but still, i wonder--sometimes it seems if--that if i had had a chance, if anybody--" he waited a minute indecisively. but austen said nothing. arthur glanced at him, and then, flushing slightly, he got up. "but i must be going now," he said, with a curious change and coldness in his voice; "i have a train to catch." "oh, don't go," austen replied awkwardly, "don't go just yet. i'm sorry to hear what you say; but don't you think, if you will allow me to say so, don't you think it is a mistake to blame fate for such things? if you would tell me more--" "oh, thanks," arthur said, "i think i must be going." "but you were going to say something," austen urged, "and if you would tell me more, i might be able to help you, or give you advice at least." arthur glanced at him quickly. then suddenly the idea seemed to amuse him, and coming back a step or two he said, with a smile, "tell you more, austen? oh, i was only going to tell you what everyone knows, that i've turned out a bad lot, that's all." "i'm sorry to hear that," said austen, in a rather shocked voice; "i hope it's not so bad." arthur smiled pleasantly. "oh well, you know, it _is_ pretty bad, i'm afraid." "but what do you mean, lestrange?" "what do i mean? oh, all the usual things--bad company, gambling, and women." austen looked still more shocked. "but surely you could change if you wanted to!" "i suppose i might, if i wanted to," arthur said, playing with his riding whip. "but i'm afraid i don't want to. what's the good?" "what's the good?" austen repeated. "i don't see how you can ask such a question; if what you say is true, you ought to want to change." arthur mused a moment. then looking up, with apparent candour, he said, "well, i suppose it is odd; but honestly, you know, i don't want to change in the least. you see, your respectable people, they don't want to have anything to do with me; and anyhow, the things they care for bore me to death, really they do. you only have one life, so why not be happy in your own way? that's my principle." "but surely, lestrange, you can't go on--" "no, i suppose i can't for ever; but you try to enjoy it while it lasts; and anyhow, my father, you know how he died--i suppose it's fate; heredity you call those things, don't you?" "really, i'm shocked to hear you talk so recklessly, as if you didn't care. you seem very much changed." "am i changed? i don't know; i suppose i am. we've both changed a little, don't you think? at least, things seem different. i wonder where i put my gloves,--i really must be going." "well, of course, i can't keep you, lestrange; i can only give you my advice. but i can't believe you're happy." for a moment arthur looked at him sullenly. "well, what if i ain't?" he asked. "what's that to you?" "i was only going to say," austen went on, "i was only going to say that it seems to me that if you would try--" "try! good lord, i've tried enough, but what's the good?" arthur said, with his old calmness and indifference, as he turned away towards the door. "i don't care, and no one else does, either. but i must be off. good bye." he went down the steps quickly, whistling as he walked away through the darkness. he was angry at himself, and bitterly ashamed of his visit to austen. they were all like that--he ought to have known. and yet it was a pity, too! _the sub-warden_ the two old gentlemen walked out of the common room, across the quadrangle to the porter's lodge: the vicar of north mims, who had been spending a few hours in oxford and dining in college, wanted to catch the evening train back to north mims, the college living he had held for the last ten years, and the sub-warden wanted to see the last of him. "the point i make is this," the old vicar said again, frowning with his bushy eyebrows in the moonlight; "the point i make is this: there would be no trouble at all, if it wasn't for the drinking. if they want meetings, let them have temperance meetings; and i say that those socialist fellows from london have absolutely no business meddling in the affairs of my parish. and as for the undergraduates who come out from oxford to speak"--the vicar's voice grew more solemnly irate--"as for those undergraduates, they should be punished. it is, i consider, a case in which both college and university authorities should intervene with prompt severity." they walked on for a little in silence, and then the sub-warden said, as he looked at his companion, "really, philpotts, you know, you ought to tricycle." the truth is, that, as they had sat in the common room over their port, the rev. mr. philpotts had repeated himself a great many times; and, the sub-warden's mind at last beginning to wander, he had said to himself, as he looked at his glass and then at his old friend, "really, philpotts is getting very heavy! i used to be heavier, and probably should be now, if it wasn't for tricycling!" and, his mind being full of the thought, he had suddenly said, "really, philpotts, you know, you ought to tricycle!" "what!" said the vicar, in a voice of slow amazement. "what on earth has tricycling got to do with it?" "oh, i beg your pardon!" the sub-warden cried, who was the soul of good-nature, "i am so absent-minded. you were speaking of the radicals; it is certainly shocking." "radicals! pestilent socialists i call them," and the vicar's mind, after its jolt, got back into the old groove. "why, you would hardly believe it, but they had the impertinence to advertise some young ninny as a member of this college, and they actually posted it on the vicarage gate. my wife had to soak it off with a sponge. now, what i say is--" but they had arrived in the porch, and the sub-warden, telling the vicar it was late, hurried him out of college, and then turned and walked back to his rooms. "he certainly is getting heavy," he said to himself. "he has changed very much. these country livings! and if i had only started to ride a little earlier this afternoon, he wouldn't have caught me. another time when i miss my exercise i mustn't drink port! at my age one begins to feel it." the sub-warden reached his staircase, and, resting one hand on the wall of the building, he turned and looked at the moon. then he went upstairs, but, instead of sitting down at his table, he went to the window and opened the sash. there was a curious look about the trees and buildings, as if they had been turning round, and had just stopped. it was odd. poor old philpotts! what an undergraduate he had been--up to anything! what times they had had! and now he was on his way back to his wife at north mims! the sub-warden sighed; then smiled, and, straightening himself, after a moment's hesitation, he went and put on an old coat, and stole with soft steps out of the college. perhaps it was the moonlight; perhaps an old memory or two that had come back to him, or the thought of the exercise he had missed; or, again (but this is mere conjecture), the glass or two of college port may have done something to put his mind in a mood for adventure. anyhow, he got on his tricycle, and started for a ride into the country. he only hoped the bursar had not seen him; not that there was any reason why he shouldn't ride at night, but the bursar made up such funny stories about the sub-warden and his tricycle rides. and so he rode lightly along, over the vague roads, barred here and there by the blue shadows of the trees--rode lightly along through the ancient oxfordshire country; and he laughed in his genial tory heart as he thought of the vicar's absurd political panic. no, a ripple of radical excitement in the towns perhaps, but it would hardly touch the country. the labourers must know who were their real friends and leaders. and yet it was outrageous, he thought, as he began pushing his machine up a hill, it was outrageous that anyone should have such views. but that members of the university should go and speak at their dreadful meetings! the sub-warden shook his head and sighed, as he thought of the university--its sad change, its evil state. could it, indeed, be still called a university? ah, in the old days, before the royal commissions! but when he mounted his machine again at the top of the hill, he forgot these black thoughts, and rode quickly down--indeed, he almost felt himself on wings--into the village he saw below him, an old village, spread out asleep in the moonlight. he went on slow wheels through the blue-shadowed streets; he breathed in the night air, sweet-scented from the village gardens; he felt young in his soul, and would hardly recognize as his own the respectable, fat shadow that wheeled after him across each moon-lit space. all at once, in the midst of the sleeping village, there appeared in front of him a square red building, with brightly lighted windows. curious to know what was going on, he rode his machine up to one of the windows, and, looking through the glass, misty from the heat and perspiration within, he saw vague rows of dark figures, and an upright shape moving its arms at the end of the hall. what could it be? around at the door, whither he wheeled himself, there was a big poster, partly torn, with the word "temperance" on it, and something else pinned across it. "that's right, that's right!" the sub-warden exclaimed, "that's the way to cut the ground from under the radicals! philpotts was right; it's a question of drink, not of politics." and so he got down from his tricycle and went in for a moment. dazed by the heat and light, he stood still and stared about. the orator also stopped and stared at him. there were bright texts of scripture and temperance mottoes on the walls; but the sub-warden kept gazing at these words, "the lord is at hand," hung in large letters over the orator's head. but this orator was thomas woolley, his own pupil! soon it all seemed clear to him. woolley was known as a temperance speaker, and here he had come to hold a meeting in a little village. the sub-warden applauded, and woolley began to speak again. but as he gasped a good deal, and stuttered, the sub-warden could only catch phrases here and there--cold remnants, they seemed to be, of what must have been written as a fiery peroration. "the down-trodden--i mean the inactive ... the great heart of humanity--and--and--things--.... now is the time for hand to join in hand, and rush to the banner--i mean, it would be better if you would sign your names." ("that's the pledge-book," the sub-warden thought. "yes, i dare say it's right; you could not preach moderate drinking to labourers.") "deliver yourself from the classes--that--that profit by your weakness...." ("that's the public-house keepers," the sub-warden reflected. "but why does he call them classes?") woolley stared hard at the notes which he gripped in his hand, and then he turned and pointed at a place at the back of the platform, which he called "the future," and began to speak about a model dwelling, a cow, and a vine and fig-tree; then his voice sank, and he wavered and sat down. "he expects a good deal from temperance," the sub-warden thought; "what a thing it is to be young!" and he applauded with vigour, such vigour that several rustics in the audience turned and fixed him with their ruminating eyes. then the sub-warden rose (he never spoke in public, but as he had interrupted this meeting!), rose with dignity and internal tremors, and made a few smiling remarks; nothing very definite, for, after all, he was not a total abstainer; just his sympathy with the speech of his young friend, his entire approval of the objects of the meeting, his regret that academic duties held him back from a more active participation in the work.... but if there was anything that he or the college authorities could do to forward the cause--he believed that their college owned land in the neighbourhood--they must not hesitate to call upon him. then a mild joke, and he sat down and wiped his face. certainly his speech was a great success. woolley stared wildly at him, but the audience applauded with vigour, and, as they were giving three cheers for "the old college gentleman," the sub-warden slipped modestly out. it was hot in there, and they might be handing pledge-books about. the mood in which he rode home was a pleasant one. really he had never heard applause that was quite so warm, so evidently sincere, so spontaneous. there had been nothing like it when the warden of st. mary's had spoken at the corn exchange. and temperance was such a dull subject! it was a bore, of course, for a man who loved his quiet to find he had the power of moving an audience; but still, if the radicals were working so hard, the other side must come forward. the sub-warden went back into college, and, as he was walking across the quadrangle, he heard a tumult of cheers and cries burst out on the moon-lit stillness of the night. he started--the sounds fitted in so well with his dreams! but, of course, it was a debating society; and the window being open, the sub-warden went up and listened in his new quality of an amateur. a small young man, with a round face and deep voice, was thumping on a table. "what is the meaning, the outcome of this agitation? it is putting blood into the mouth of a tiger"--(applause)--"and when once the tiger has tasted blood, has tasted property that is not his own, it demands more, and it will have it! yes, sir," he said, turning with a fierce look at the good-natured president of the society, "mark my words, when the poor have divided, like the tiger, everything there is to be divided; when there is nothing left to feed their rage, then, sir, they will turn and rend themselves--like the tiger!" great shouts of applause roared through the window, and the bald-headed old gentleman listening outside smiled an indulgent smile. but as the speaker went on, denouncing more definitely the radical agitators, and even woolley, by name, the smile faded from the sub-warden's face. it must have been a temperance meeting; and yet--and yet--"temperance" had been printed on the poster--but hadn't there been something pinned over that, something which he hadn't read? the sub-warden looked about. he could see one or two towers against the faint sky, and near each college tower was a common room, and in each common room the fellows sat after dinner, telling stories. but suppose he had really spoken at a meeting which--which wasn't a temperance meeting, and the bursar should hear of it! the sub-warden lurked about in the quadrangle, holding his hat in his hand, and spying out for woolley. he came at last. "good evening, woolley," he said, "you have come from the temperance meeting?" "oh, sir, it wasn't a temperance meeting, that was the night before!" "oh!" said the sub-warden, coldly. "no, sir, it was a different meeting; in fact, the radical league. i was so afraid--" "what! then it was very wrong of you, woolley, to give me to understand it was a temperance meeting." "oh, please, sir--" "don't try to explain it, it admits of no explanation," the sub-warden said severely. "i should be sorry to get you into trouble, woolley, but if this should get to be known, i couldn't answer for the consequences. i shall take no steps personally to make it known, and i should advise you to mention it to no one--to no one at all, do you understand? it's--it's nothing to be proud of." he walked indignantly away; and, indeed, for the moment his words had made him feel really indignant. but when, on turning a corner, he glanced back and saw the honest woolley still standing there, he hesitated. should he return and explain? he took a step back, then he thought of the bursar, and, with a sudden, sinking fear he went quickly to his room. _idyll_ i. "i wish they hadn't asked me," said matthew craik, the logic tutor of st. mary's, as he looked down at the party in the old secluded college garden. "i wonder," he added, glancing at the reflection of his red tie in the glass, his new tie, his black coat, his young and scholarly face, "i wonder--but no, it isn't too red; they wear them red," he continued, with attempted cheerfulness. "no--," but hearing the laughter of ladies below his window, he scuttled back hastily. his rooms were high up in the garden tower, almost up amongst the topmost boughs of the college elms; and when, after a moment, he returned to his window and peered down, he could see, through the green of the trees, the white and pink of ladies' dresses, dappling the lawn, and moving and meeting on the college paths. among the summer leaves the summer wind was breathing; now and then it blew in at the window, laden with scents from the garden, and the happy stir and hum of human voices; and matthew craik, or the corn-craik, as the undergraduates called him, felt his heart beating high with an unwonted emotion of youth and excitement. the early philosophers of asia minor were very remarkable and suggestive men; but they had lived a long while ago, and now that he had finished and published his book about them, he meant to enjoy himself a little. and what shallow wisdom it was, moreover, to live in the almost solitary way he had been living all the winter. all the winter! all his life really; wasting his youth among books, and almost shut out from everything that is light and amiable in experience. why, the greenest of his undergraduate pupils might easily know more of modern life than he did. "oh, don't harp so on modern life!" his friend ranken, the junior dean of st. thomas', often said to him in his acrid way. "do for pity's sake leave it alone and stick to your asia minor." but then ranken was absurdly cynical. craik recalled with amusement some of the remarks he had made during the winter, when they walked out together for their sunday walks; remembering how, as they returned in the dusk through the red fringe of villas between oxford and the country, ranken had sometimes paused opposite an uncurtained window, and made merry, with bitter merriment, over the domestic picture they saw in the golden light within,--a family at tea very likely, or an academic parent romping with his children. craik had always listened in uncontradicting silence; only, standing in the chill gray of the twilight, he would draw his coat about him more tightly; and afterwards, alone in his rooms, these visions would sometimes haunt him, and not unpleasantly. as he looked down now, it was agreeable to him to see so many ladies in the old garden; he had never quite believed that ranken had very authentic grounds for his narrow prejudice. for ranken would have liked to shut ladies out of oxford altogether; and would have liked to keep it a tranquil home of learning and celibacy, as it used to be before the royal commission had granted the fellows the liberty of marrying. for this unblest liberty, he maintained, had filled the university with frivolity and ladies, and so destroyed the old character of the place that now, as was notorious, the whole of the summer term, with a good part of the rest of the academic year, was given over to dances, and picnics, and parties, and other silly and deteriorating trifles. craik had not been able to contradict his friend, for hitherto the sounds and echoes of this social dissipation had hardly reached his retired corner, save as he had heard them reverberating through the gloomy caverns of ranken's imagination. but he could not quite believe--here craik began to laugh, for his eye at that moment was caught by the gargoyle just above him, which was also leaning over and looking into the sunshiny garden. for hundreds of years it had sat there making faces, but now its visage seemed more than ever twisted with a look of gothic cynicism. as craik lingered, looking out, himself almost like a second gargoyle, he thought he could see in the garden below two ladies of his acquaintance, mrs. cotton and mrs. trotter. how ridiculous ranken was in his views! almost as grotesque as the gargoyle. craik took his hat and stick, and started downstairs. he would see for himself. ii. it was very worldly and very brilliant in the garden. beside a crowd of ladies and young men, three professors and two heads of houses had already arrived, and others were expected. mr. white, mr. long, and mr. maple fetters, the young unmarried fellows who were giving the party, kept glancing toward the gateway, over the shoulders of their arriving guests--all smiles, however, as they greeted their friends with apposite remarks. on tables under the trees white cloths were spread, looking almost blue in the vivid green, and on them were plates of red strawberries, ancient silver bowls of sugar, and dewy jugs of lemonade. sounds of discreet gaiety, voices and laughter, and the tinkling of glasses, quickened the sleepy silence of the garden; while from beneath a high and fleecy cloud the rays of the westering sun brightened the tree-tops and walls, lingered on the ladies' dresses, and streaked with blue shadows the old green lawn. it put craik in mind of old coloured french pictures he had seen, or the courtly fêtes he had read of; he thought, too, of the garden party in "_love's cottage_," a pretty novel he had looked at lately, the party where miss molyneux first meets pastorel the poet. he kept smiling as he moved about, but he really felt rather shy and alien; if he only knew more people, and could be seen laughing and talking and moving his hands, like the other young men! he came across one of his pupils at last, and began to speak to him of the recent boat-races in an animated way. but the undergraduate moved off suddenly, with a hasty excuse, to join some ladies who had just arrived, and craik heard himself observing to a bush that "brazenose had rowed very well." the observation, he felt, was not brilliant, even for conversation with a freshman; but as a fragment of soliloquy! he looked round; no one could have overheard him? soon he met his friend, mrs. cotton, the wife of professor cotton, and he begged to be allowed to get her an ice, or some other refreshment. the pink ice and biscuit were inadequate, it struck him, as he carried them with care toward the large presence of mrs. cotton; but was not this inadequacy, after all, of a piece with the delicious and conventional unreality of an affair like this? he noticed a brilliant purple feather conspicuously waving from the top of mrs. cotton's bonnet, and was glad that everything was so bright. how pleasant it was on a summer day, how pleasant and harmless to play brilliantly at life! and, he thought with a smile, did not old aristotle himself place magnificence high among the virtues? but maple fetters still had his anxious eye-glass fixed on the garden entrance. "miss lamb--has miss lamb come?" craik heard voices murmuring about him. "no, not yet, but she's coming. just heard maple fetters telling some one." "long says he can't understand it. in her note she said--" "so quiet, so different!" "they say in london--" "oh, yes; and here everybody, professors, heads of houses. it's too amusing--" "well, she says she wants to study all the types." "ah, look, there she comes!" craik turned with the others, and saw miss lamb coming in through the gothic archway. her face was shaded with a large white hat, and her white dress, falling in long plain lines to her feet, brightened with the sun as she walked over the grass, out of the shadow of the building. long and maple fetters started forward, and escorted miss lamb and her aunt across the lawn. they drew near to craik and mrs. cotton. "oh, there is mrs. cotton," miss lamb exclaimed, and turned towards them. "dear mrs. cotton," she said, "i was so hoping i should see you here!" craik looked at miss lamb. she rested her eyes on him for a second, then pressing mrs. cotton's hand, she stooped down with a graceful impulse and kissed the fat old thing. craik overheard mrs. lyon, the wife of the president of all saints, talking to the warden of st. simon's. "dear miss lamb!" she said in a deep and sentimental voice; "she is just as nice to women as she is to men." "she is much nicer, surely," the ancient warden replied with a cackling laugh; "she never kissed me!" miss lamb had disappeared. and mrs. cotton was busy discussing with philanthropic friends the affairs of oxford charities. "these oxford parties are so nice," she said to craik, as she turned her benevolent spectacles away from him; "they save one writing such heaps of notes." again craik walked about alone, smiling and conspicuous; and although he tried to think that he was enjoying himself, he really wished very much to be up in his tower again, up there in its pleasant green shade and solitude. that, after all, was his place, the only place he was fit for; and he had better stick to it, and stick to his books, and not cast again the gloom of his presence on the social enjoyment of other more fortunate people. for he could not talk agreeably, and laugh and be gay; and, even if he could, which of the ladies who swept so prettily past him on the grass would ever care to listen to him? thus resignedly musing, he retreated into the near shade of a laburnum tree, and, ceasing to smile in his fixed and weary way, he watched through the flowering branches the shining colours and placid agitation of the garden party. all the men except himself were moving among the groups of ladies, weaving darker threads into the brilliant pattern. young cobbe he saw, the captain of the college boat club, walking with miss lamb, walking and talking pleasantly, and he sighed; for although he was cobbe's tutor, and well versed in his stupidity, he could not help envying the easy manners of the undergraduate. but the half-real picture ceased to be a mere picture to him, and the sequence of images grew almost too vivid, when he noticed that miss lamb and her companion were coming directly to his tree. could he manage to slip away without being seen? she was coming probably to pick a spray of the yellow flower to put in her white dress, or carry away perhaps as a memory of the party. and if he were found standing there like a policeman, it would be so awkward. miss lamb fortunately met maple fetters, and, stopping herself, seemed to be sending him on to the tree alone. when he reached it, he pushed aside the branches and said, with a smile, "i say, craik, i want to introduce you to miss lamb." "me?" "yes, you. we saw you here; she wants to meet you." "wants to meet _me_?" "yes, _you_. come along." craik came out from beneath the tree. "miss lamb--does she live in oxford?" "you don't mean to tell me you've never heard of miss lamb?" fetters paused in astonishment. "you must be the only man in oxford then who has not. miss lamb is an american!" "an american?" craik had heard that american ladies were so brilliant. "miss lamb, let me introduce mr. craik, our philosopher." "mr. craik, i am glad to meet you." craik bowed; then he saw that miss lamb had put out her hand; he tried to take it, but was too late. the american young lady however smiled, and put out her hand again, and gave it to him frankly, almost as if it were a present. "we ought to shake hands, oughtn't we? it's the english way, isn't it?" craik stifled a guffaw, and his awkward sensations began to go. "mr. cobbe, would you mind getting me an ice?" cobbe's face wore an odd expression as he bowed and disappeared. maple fetters fluttered off to other occupations. craik and miss lamb were left alone, and they began to walk with vague steps, and, on the lady's part, vague, unfinished scraps of conversation, through the sunshine along the garden path. then stopping, and resting her hands on her parasol, she said, as if they were old friends already, "i wonder--would you take me into your old college cloisters? i have heard so much about them, and it wouldn't be wrong for us to run away from the party for just a few minutes? i should so love to! you won't mind?" "oh dear, no!" craik exclaimed. "certainly we can go. it's through the quadrangle. but mr. cobbe, will he find you?" "oh, he'll know where i am; and if he doesn't it's no matter. come!" they went under the garden tower, and through the little old quadrangle, into the entrance of the cloisters. of the history and traditions of the place, and of the whole college, craik spoke almost with eloquence, while miss lamb listened with murmurs and interruptions of enthusiastic interest. the cloisters, as he explained, were once the cloisters of a monastery; the tower was the monastery tower; and the bell that hung there, and twice a day rang the college into chapel, was the bell that once sounded for the matins and vespers of the monks. "what! monks? did monks really once live here? oh, how i should have liked to have seen it then!" "ah, but you couldn't, you know. they never allowed ladies inside the gates." "how silly!" "yes," craik said, smiling, "wasn't it silly?" they walked with slow steps around the shadowed cloisters, and miss lamb talked idly of the party. it was such a pretty party, so amusing. did he often go to garden parties? no! how odd! she did--to ever so many, in america, in london, and now in oxford. the oxford parties were the best though. then suddenly she cried in a changed voice, "but how frivolous i am, mr. craik! i can see that you are quite shocked." "shocked! oh no, not at all." "well, then, you ought to be! imagine being so frivolous in a solemn place like this. tell me, you study philosophy, don't you? it must be splendid; i do envy you so! when i am in a place like oxford i feel so frivolous, somehow, and ignorant. why, i feel afraid--" then after a moment's charming hesitation, "yes, quite afraid to talk to clever people. you mustn't mind what i say, will you?" "but i'm not clever!" he exclaimed. "why--" "oh, but mr. craik! why, you've written a book!" "but that's nothing. and it's only a sort of study, nothing really." "i wish i could read it." "oh no! don't try; it's a stupid thing, only meant for students." miss lamb paused, and, turning her eyes to craik with a look full of reproach, she said: "ah! you are like the others, you don't think i am serious; you think i would not understand it!" "oh no, not that!" craik urged in quick distress. "you would understand it, of course, what there is to understand. i only meant," he stammered, "i only meant that it was not well written, not interesting--not really worth reading, i mean." "oh, i'm sure it is worth reading, and i hear it's so clever. it is about asia minor, isn't it. asia minor is so interesting; i wish you would tell me something about it, and about your work. do you like it here? of course you do. have you been in oxford long?" for a third time they passed round the cloister square, loitering with slow footsteps, through the old arches and past the epitaphs of the ancient celibate fellows, and craik, talking with an unreserve that was intimate and sudden, and yet somehow seemed quite natural to him, told about his work, and the writing of his book. then, in answer to a question of miss lamb's, he described his quiet bringing up in an obsolete old town where his parents were tradespeople; his early schooling, how he had come to oxford on a scholarship, and how he had stayed there ever since, living in the same college, his parents having died, and the logic tutorship being offered to him just when he had taken his degree. so he seemed to have lived a long while there, in that sleepy old college, within its high walls and buildings: as an undergraduate first, busy and almost solitary, save for a few friends similar to himself; then as a tutor, still more busy with his work, and still more solitary; and above all, during the last few years, when all his thought and leisure had been given to his book on ionic philosophers. how many years was it altogether? eight; no, ten. and then, as she seemed to be really interested, he gave a sketch, half humorous and half serious, of his life in college, his amusements, his walks with ranken. a bare, monastic life it seemed to himself when he came to describe it. so little to tell of in so many years; and how long ago it seemed! "but dear me!" craik exclaimed at last, with a blush, "i don't think i have ever talked so much of myself before. it sounds rather dull, i'm afraid." miss lamb stopped for a moment. "dull, mr. craik," she cried, "oh no, i think it is noble! to have achieved so much already. you don't know how i have been interested! only it is so--i mean it makes me seem so--so--. i suppose you hate women." "oh no--_no_!" "i mean look down on them, despise them." "no! why i--" "i'm afraid you really do, only you're too polite to say so. you don't think, do you, that they could understand philosophy?" "of course they could, quite as well as we do, if they would only try." "do you think it would be any use my trying? really, do you really? i should so love to, if it would be of any use. you know, i have always wanted to understand about it, and there is hardly anyone in the world i admire so much as the philosophers. they are the real leaders of the world--socrates, and emerson, and herbert spencer. and a frivolous life like mine seems sometimes so--; but then people will never believe i am in earnest, and they all make fun of me and discourage me so. perhaps they are right; but i have never had any one to help me." "oh, i am sure they are wrong!" craik cried. "if you would only try. do you think i could--could help you?" "oh, you are too kind! and perhaps, if you wouldn't mind coming to see me some afternoon to talk to me about it. and maybe you would bring your book; i should so love to see it! and then if you would let me look at one or two of your lectures, those you have for just the stupidest of your pupils. no! don't tell me i'm not stupid, for i am, i assure you. and i have no right to ask you to come; you are so busy." "oh, but i should be only too delighted! if i may; if you don't think i should be a--with ladies, you know, i am always so afraid of being a bore." she smiled at him. "ah, you do yourself injustice, mr. craik. indeed you do! but come," she added suddenly, "we must be going back to the garden. how i hate to leave this dear old cloister!" "must we really go?" "yes, we really must. isn't it horrid, when you have had such an interesting talk, to have to go back and say stupid and silly things to stupid and silly people?" they left the cloisters and, crossing the quadrangle, they stopped for a moment, and looked at the blue picture set in an archway of grey walls, the blue picture of the afternoon light and air in the depth and distance of the garden. "how pretty! it's like,--what is it like?" "like standing in the past, and looking into the present?" craik romantically suggested. "yes, it's like that. but i mean the people, the way they look so far off and blue, as if they were under water. there's something else it reminds me of." "a tank at an aquarium, when you look through the plate glass?" "yes, it _is_ like that, really!" "with professors and heads of houses swimming about like old fat carp." "oh, mr. craik, how can you? for shame!" she paused again when she got through the archway. "tell me, mr. craik," she said, "is this the tower you live in? and the gargoyle you told me about? i should so like to see him. he must be charming. that face up there, peering over the roof? oh yes, i see. how too delightful! my! isn't that quaint? just think, he looks back on the past, and on the present, and on the town; and it symbolizes--symbolizes--life, doesn't it?" "yes,--perhaps it does," craik said rather dubiously. "he hasn't exactly a kind expression," said miss lamb, looking up again. "no," craik answered, looking up himself and laughing. "that's his way. then to-day he's shocked at seeing so many ladies here. he doesn't like ladies, you know." "how horrid of him! why, what harm can we do here?" "harm! why, miss lamb," craik said with quaint politeness, "your visits are our greatest blessings!" craik knew the old garden well, he thought, and he had certainly been in it in all weathers. but to-day it came over him that he had never seen the place before looking so oddly green and shining. certainly, when he and ranken had walked there--poor ranken! craik smiled a little. "what are you smiling at?" miss lamb asked. "smiling?" craik said in embarrassment. "why, was i smiling?" "certainly you were. it is strange, really it is, how much you are like a friend of mine in america. the way you smile reminds me so much of him. really it is quite funny, the resemblance. but perhaps you don't like to be told you look like other people?" "oh yes, i do." then he added, after a pause, with desperate and awkward courage, "if they are friends of yours." miss lamb did not seem to notice either his compliment or his blush. "how odd you should know mr. ranken," she said musingly. "i've not seen him lately. is he as sentimental as ever?" "ranken of st. thomas'! why, he's not sentimental. it must be someone else." "he used to be then; i'm sure it is mr. ranken of st. thomas'. i met him last summer at dieppe. we went on picnics. but, mr. craik," she added, laughing, "really this garden is like paradise! the undergraduates must fancy they have got back into the garden of eden." "indeed you would think so," said craik, "from the way they avoid the tree of knowledge! they are so much cleverer than adam." they were in the midst of the party now, and craik was proud, though somewhat embarrassed, with the attention they attracted, and mrs. cotton's smiles of obvious encouragement. indeed he was almost glad when cobbe joined them and, planting himself in front of miss lamb, exclaimed, "well, miss lamb, well! here i've been waiting half-an-hour with this ice, it's melted into soup." "i'm so sorry," miss lamb cried. "come, let's get another." then she turned her eyes to craik and said, giving him her hand in her friendly manner, "good-bye, mr. craik, good-bye; you won't forget? to-morrow, isn't it?" iii. craik took off his hat; wiped his forehead; tried to get rid of some of the dust on his boots, and then he rang the bell. "is miss lamb at home?" "yes, sir; miss lamb is in the garden." entering, craik saw a number of hats and sticks in the hall. miss lamb, he thought, must have several brothers. he put down his stick, and the book with it, after a moment's hesitation; that was better, he would leave it there and would come and fetch it when the conversation turned that way. then, buttoning up his black coat over the lecture notes that filled his pocket, he followed the servant through the house out into the little garden. it was full of strong sunlight, and there were several undergraduates there. one was up in a tree; cobbe lay in a hammock smoking, and another of craik's pupils lay on the grass at miss lamb's feet, rolling lemons. he stopped for a moment. "oh mr. corn--mr. craik, i mean," miss lamb called out in a friendly voice, "i am so glad to see you." craik advanced with an awkward smile, and miss lamb reached out her right hand most cordially. in her left hand she held a lemon-squeezer. "how good of you to come! and isn't it hot? exactly like america, i've been saying. we've just come out into the garden without our hats. won't you sit down on that rug, if you don't mind? oh, i nearly forgot; let me introduce you to my aunt, mrs. stacey. i guess you know everybody else." craik shook hands with a lady who was sitting and knitting in an arbour, nodded to the undergraduates, and then settled down on a rug in the sunshine. how he wished that he had not decided at the last moment to wear a tall hat and a long coat! the undergraduates were all in flannels. miss lamb spoke of the garden party. "your lovely college! it is _too_ ideal; it is like a dream. and the cloisters too! you don't know how solemn it made me feel. now, you needn't laugh, mr. cobbe, i really did feel solemn--more solemn, i guess, than you have ever been. gracious, it _is_ hot!" she added, with a sudden change of subject. "mr. craik, let me give you some of this lemon squash; i made it myself." "thanks! i shall be most pleased to have some." craik's voice seemed to himself to be formal, and his phrase pedantic. "oh, but what was i saying?" miss lamb went on, looking at the company generally. "you were telling us how solemn you were," cobbe suggested. "wasn't it rather a new experience?" "now, mr. cobbe, what a horrid thing to say," she replied, with great good-nature. "you're his tutor, mr. craik, aren't you? well, next time you have a chance, i hope you'll set him some real horrid work to do. i'm sure he needs it." miss lamb said this casually, with a pleasant laugh, as she fanned herself. no one answered; craik, and even cobbe coloured, and the undergraduate in the tree suppressed a titter. but mrs. stacey at this moment asked by happy chance some question of craik, addressing him as "professor craik," in her high american voice, and he hastened to answer her with effusion. "oh, i say," one of the undergraduates exclaimed, "that was a splendid score of yours, miss lamb, off the warden. perhaps you've not heard it, mr. craik, the joke about the garden of eden?" he said, turning to craik, who had come to an end of his conversation with mrs. stacey. "the warden was showing miss lamb the garden, when she said to him, 'why it is like the garden of eden here, mr. warden; only i suppose you are wiser than adam, and don't disturb the tree of knowledge.'" "my dear," mrs. stacey cried, "you didn't really speak so to the sweet old warden?" "but, i say," cobbe exclaimed, "how's this, miss lamb? long and maple fetters tell that story as having been got off them, and they seemed to think that they rather scored off you." "they didn't a bit; they were only silly!" "then you did get it off on them?" "no, i didn't." "oh, now, that explains," another undergraduate interposed, "that explains the story mrs. cotton was trying to tell. it seemed, as she told it, to have no point at all. 'mr. warden,' she made you say, 'mr. warden, you have a lovely garden here, but i am told you never pick the fruit.' 'the warden, you know, is so particular about his figs,' mrs. cotton added, 'it is quite a joke with all the fellows.'" miss lamb was silent. after a little while, however, when a few other anecdotes of mrs. cotton had been told, and they came to the well-known story of that lady and the cow in st. giles's, she began to smile, and before long was quite consumed with merriment, for a siphon of soda-water, fizzing off by mistake in the hands of one of the undergraduates, had sprinkled itself over cobbe. "you did that on purpose, galpin, i know you did," he cried, jumping out of the hammock and shaking himself. "oh, no, he didn't!" miss lamb said, shaking with laughter. "indeed, i'm sure he wouldn't for worlds!" her attention was then taken by the youth up in the tree, who had been throwing down leaves and bits of sticks on the heads of the party below. a piece of bark falling into the jug of lemon squash, miss lamb feigned great wrath and indignation. "i wanted to give mr. craik some more; but oh, you haven't drunk what you have! isn't it sweet enough for you?" "it is just right, thank you," he said, and he took up the glass, tepid now from standing in the sun, and was just going to drink it, when the young lady cried: "oh, wait a moment, please; there's a poor little insect tumbled into it. dear little thing! do take it out--oh, be careful! i can't bear to see anything suffer." craik fished the insect out of the lemonade with a blade of grass, and miss lamb, putting it down on the ground, poked it tenderly in aid of its moist attempts to crawl away. ultimately craik rose from his uncomfortable posture on the ground. it was a long while, it seemed to him, that he had been sitting there, smiling and solemn in the sunshine, and casting about in his mind for an excuse to go; while the others he envied so--the youth perched up in the tree, miss lamb fanning herself and squeezing lemons, cobbe smoking and slowly swinging in the hammock, laughed and lazily talked, as if their life was one afternoon of endless arcadian leisure. but craik had a morbid sense that his shadow, which he glanced at now and then, had been growing, almost as if he were swelling, he and his top hat, and casting a larger shade on the little garden. "well, i must be going! we college tutors, you know," he said, feeling pretty stiff in body and mind, but attempting nevertheless a little jauntiness of air. "oh, but, mr. craik, you mustn't go now!" miss lamb cried, "really you mustn't. why, we're all going up the river to have late tea at godstow, and come home by moonlight; and i'm going to take my banjo. i hoped you would come with us!" "i'm sorry, but i must be back." "well, i'm really sorry, too; i am, indeed. you must come again." she held his hand in hers for a second, and there was something appealing in her manner. "now you will come again, won't you? it's--it's rather hot just to-day for philosophy, isn't it?" she added, her face brightening with a friendly and apologetic smile. craik found his hat and stick, but not his book, in the hall. "i've left a book here," he said to the maid. "oh, i beg your pardon, sir, i thought it was for miss lamb, so i put it on the shelf where she puts the other university gentlemen's books that they sends. i'll go and bring it, sir." "is this it?" she called from a neighbouring room--"'elements of pishcology?'" "no," said craik, hurriedly; "it's about asia minor. 'life and thought in--'" "'in hearly asia minor,' sir?" "yes, that's mine," craik answered, in a voice that was not without a touch of melancholy. _buller intervening_ as vaughan was walking towards the underground station one of those bleak mornings last winter, he saw, coming the same way, a man who had been at college in his time--one buller by name; and buller, when he caught sight of vaughan, began to smile, but when they met, he exclaimed, in a mock mournful voice, "i say, have you heard about poor crabbe?" "you mean his political speech, when his spectacles were smashed, and he had to take to the woods?" asked vaughan, beating his hands and stamping, for the cold was bitter. "oh no, that's ancient. i mean"--and buller's voice broke with laughter--"i mean his engagement!" "crabbe! oh, nonsense!" "gospel fact, i'll take my oath on it. fancy crabbe!" and again his laughter froze into white puffs of breath about his head. they went into the station together, and bought their tickets. crabbe engaged! vaughan tried to picture him as an accepted lover. poor crabbe! they had all hoped that his fellowship and his work on the metres of catullus would keep him out of mischief. but they might have known--those prize fellows, with so much time on their hands; and crabbe above all, with his fixed idea that he was cut out for a man of action! "but tell me about crabbe," vaughan said, as they waited on the platform; "have you seen him?" "oh yes. the other day i ran up to have a look at the 'torpid.' it's all right now." "the torpid?" "no; i mean about crabbe." "you think it's a good match, then?" "good match! no, i mean that i went and talked to him myself." "and he was engaged?" "he _was_," said buller, laughing; "poor old beast!" the train drew in, and when they had taken their seats, buller leaned over, and, with a low voice, went on telling his story in vaughan's ear. "you see, i went up to oxford, and down at the barge blunt tells me about old crabbe; and when i go into college the first person i meet is the dean, looking as chirpy as ever. how those old parsons do keep it up! "'well, sir,' says i, 'and what do you think of crabbe's engagement?' "'perfect rot,' says the dean. 'the girl had no money; how were they going to live? crabbe would have to chuck his catullus--everything.' "'how did it happen?' i asked. 'crabbe never used to be sweet on the ladies.' 'no; but in reading catullus, crabbe had got some ideas,' the dean said, with a kind of wink." here vaughan could not help interrupting the story. "come, buller," he whispered, "it must have been blunt who said that. the old dean couldn't talk in that way." but buller felt sure it was the dean. "you see, you don't know the old boy; he's quite another person with me. anyhow, that's the way crabbe got into it. and he went on, the dean said, to read all sorts of other poetry, especially that man--what you may call him? they had a society--" "browning?" "yes, that's the man. well, crabbe thought it all very fine and exciting, the dean said; he used to read them browning in the common room, and there was one thing he seemed specially taken with--browning's theory of love." "what was that?" vaughan asked, for it was a joy to hear buller talking of literature. "well," buller whispered, "you see this man browning hates all your shilly-shallying about; he thinks that when you fall in love, you ought to go your whole pile, even if you come a cropper after. it's all rot, of course, the dean said; but poor crabbe thought it was real, and went and proposed to a young woman he had met once or twice. so there he was, engaged! and he seemed to think himself the hell of a duke, the dean said; but everyone else in oxford thought he was making a bl--" "oh, buller," vaughan interposed, "really, you mustn't put such words into the dean's mouth!" "well, i don't quite remember the old boy's lingo, but, at any rate, the dean thought crabbe was making a fool of himself. 'i think i can settle it,' says i to the dean. 'i wish you would,' said the dean; so off i go to crabbe's rooms. he came in just as i got there; i wish you could have seen him--a frock-coat, top-hat, flower in his button-hole, his hair plastered down. and only last year, it was, that he got up as a socialist, with a red silk handkerchief in his hat! but now he shook hands with me up in the air; was most affable and condescending; assured me he was glad to see his old pals--especially friends from london. oxford people were very well in their way, but narrow, and rather donnish. didn't i notice it in coming from london? "well, this was almost too much from crabbe, but i thought it would be more sport to draw him out a bit. so we got to talking; i didn't let on i knew he was engaged, but after a bit i began to talk about marriage and love and all that in a general sort of way. old crabbe swallows it all, talks a lot of literary stuff. 'fall in love, buller,' says he, 'fall in love, and live! let me read you what thing-a-majig says,' and he gets down a book--who did you say he was? browning, yes, that's the man--he gets down a book of browning's and begins to read--you ought to have seen him, his face got pink; and at the end he says, with a proud smile, as if the poem was all about him, 'isn't that ripping, buller, isn't that brave, isn't that the way to take life!' "'do you mind if i smoke?' said i. "'smoke? oh, do certainly,' and crabbe sits down looking rather foolish. but after a moment, he says in an easy sort of way, 'ah, i meant to ask you about all the chaps in london--getting on all right? any of them married?' "'married!' says i, 'o lord, no; _they_ don't want to dish themselves.' "'dish themselves,' says crabbe, 'why, what do you mean?' "'i mean what i say; if you get married without any money, you're dished, that's all--i mean practical people, who want to get on.' "then crabbe began to talk big; one shouldn't care only for success--it might be practical, perhaps, but he did not mean to sacrifice the greatest thing in life for money. "'the greatest thing in life--what's that?'" buller laughed so loudly at this part of his story, that the other people in the carriage began to stare at him and vaughan. so he went on in a lower whisper. "'what's that?' says i. "'i mean,' says crabbe, 'why, what i have been talking about.' "'well, what is it?' "'what i was saying a little while ago.' "'but you talked too fast--i couldn't catch it; give us the tip, out with it.' "'i mean love, passion,' says he. "'what? say it again.' "'well, i mean--and it's always said that love--the poets--' "'the who?' "'the poets.'" again buller laughed out loud. "'oh, poets!' says i, 'i thought you said porters. poets! so you've been reading poets, have you? but you oughtn't to believe all that--why, they don't mean it themselves; they write it because they're expected to, but it's all faked up--i know how it's done.' "old crabbe begins to talk in his big way. i let him go on for a while, but then i said, 'see here, crabbe, it's all very well to read that literary stuff, and i suppose it's what you're paid for doing. but don't go and think it's all true, because it isn't, and the sooner you know it the better.' 'there was a man i knew once,' says i, 'who got fearfully let in by just this sort of thing; oxford don too, fellow of queen's named peake; took to reading poetry; he went to brighton in the long, with his head full of it all. wild sea waves, the moon and all the rest of it; and back comes peake married; had to turn out of his college rooms, went to live at the other end of nowhere, stuffy little house, full of babies, had to work like a nigger, beastly work too; coached me for smalls, that's how i know him; no time for moon and sea waves now; and it all came from reading poetry.' "old crabbe begins to sit up at this. 'but i don't see,' he says, 'i don't see why--didn't he have his fellowship money?' "'but you don't suppose that's going to support a wife and a lot of children.' "'oh, if he had children,' says crabbe, and the old boy begins to blush and says, 'i don't see the need.' "'much you know about it, crabbe,' says i, and i couldn't help laughing, he looked such an idiot. "'well, anyhow,' he says, 'your friend may have been unfortunate, but i respect him all the same; he was bold, he lived.' "'what does all that mean?--he didn't die, of course!' "'i mean he loved--he had that.' "'oh yes, he had, but i rather think he wished he hadn't. he said it didn't come to much--and even when he was engaged she used to bore him sometimes.' "'really!' says old crabbe, 'that's odd now,' and then he goes on, as if he was talking to himself, 'i wonder if everyone feels like that?' "'of course they do! but after you're married, just think of it--never quiet, never alone; peake said it nearly drove him wild. and to think he was tied up like that for the rest of his life!' "'yes, it is a long time.' crabbe began to look rather green. 'your friend--his name was peake, i think you said--i suppose he couldn't have broken off the engagement?' and he smiled in a sort of sea-sick way. "'of course he could,' says i, as i got up to go. 'perfect ass not to--but good-bye, crabbe, you've got jolly rooms here.' "'yes, they are nice,' says crabbe in a kind of sinking voice. "so, a day or two after, i meet the dean; the old boy seems very much pleased. 'well buller, i think you've done the biz,' says he; 'i don't believe old crabbe will do it after all.'" when he had finished his story, buller leaned comfortably back. "i felt sure he would get out of it somehow," he said aloud, "i think that story finished him." "you know what i mean," he added, nodding significantly, "that story of peake." "i don't believe peake ever existed!" vaughan answered, as low as he could. buller leaned forward again, he was almost bursting with laughter. "of course he didn't!" he hissed in vaughan's ear. "but wasn't crabbe in a blue funk though!" "oh, i don't believe crabbe minded you a bit. i'm sure he won't break it off," vaughan whispered indignantly. "and what right had you to talk that way? i never heard of such impertinent meddling!" "bet you three to one he does," buller whispered back. "come, man, make it a bet!" the train drew into the temple station and vaughan got up. "i won't bet on anything of the kind," he said, as he stood at the door. "and what do you know about love anyhow, buller? then think of the poor girl, she probably believes that crabbe is a hero, a god--" "well, she won't for long," buller chuckled. _the optimist_ what was he doing there? why didn't he ride on? mrs. ross wondered, as she watched with some astonishment the tall young man who was staring in at the gate. but in a moment her husband left the hedge he was trimming, and waved his shears at the stranger, who thereupon came in, pushing his bicycle with him along the drive. when the two young men met, they seemed to greet each other like old acquaintances. probably he was one of george's oxford friends, she thought, beginning to feel a little shy, as they walked towards her across the grass. the bicyclist was thin and very tall; his shadow, in the late sunshine, seemed to stretch endlessly over the grass. his face was bathed in perspiration; he was grey with dust, and altogether he looked very shabby by the side of her good-looking husband. "mary, i want to introduce my friend, mr. allen, to you." mrs. ross was always a little afraid of her husband's friends; then allen was a don at oxford, and she knew he was considered extremely clever. however she greeted him in her friendly, charming way. he would have tea, of course? allen gripped her hand, smiling awkwardly. no, he wouldn't have tea, and he was afraid it was very late for calling; he must apologize; indeed, when he got to the gate, he had hesitated about coming in. oh, no! it wasn't late, she assured him; and her husband declared he must stay to dinner. he had never seen the grange before and, of course, they must show him everything. "oh, i don't think i can stay to dinner," allen murmured, looking through his spectacles at his dusty clothes. but at last he consented though doubtfully; he was staying at sunbridge, he explained, and it was rather a long ride over. ross took him to the house; soon he reappeared, well brushed, his pale and thoughtful face pink with scrubbing. they walked with him about the gardens, then they went to their little farm, showing him the cows and horses, and the new-built hayrick. george ross was a young land agent who, not long after leaving oxford, had had the luck to get a good appointment; and for more than a year he and his young wife had been living here in the most absurdly happy way. now and then his oxford friends would come to visit him, and it filled ross with delight and pride to show them over his new domain. as they came back from the farm through the garden, ross stopped a moment. "doesn't the house look well from here!" he said to allen. the roofs, gables, and trees stood out dark against the golden west; the garden, with its old red walls, sweet peas, and roses, was filled with mellow light. allen gazed at the view through his spectacles, and expressed a proper admiration. but of himself he seemed to notice nothing, and mrs. ross was rather hurt by the way he went past her borders of flowers without ever looking at them. "you see it's just the kind of life that suits me--suits both of us," ross explained; "i don't see how i could have found anything better. of course," he added modestly, "of course some men might not think much of work like this. but i consider myself tremendously fortunate--i didn't really deserve such luck." "quite so," allen assented in a way that mrs. ross thought rather odd, till she decided that it was merely absent-mindedness. every now and then she would look at allen--the tall, thin, threadbare young man puzzled her a little; he seemed so extremely dull and embarrassed; and yet there was a thoughtful, kind look in his eyes that she liked. and anyhow he was george's friend; so, as they walked rather silently and awkwardly about, waiting for dinner, she tried to talk to him, making remarks in her eager way, and glancing sometimes at her husband for fear he might be laughing at her. such subjects as bicycling, the roads, the weather, and life in oxford, were started, and they both talked to their guest with the exaggerated politeness of newly married people, who would much rather be talking to each other. yes, the road over was very pretty, allen agreed. but was there a river? he remembered noticing how pretty the road was, but he had not noticed that it ran by any river. and all their questions he answered with a certain eagerness, but in a way that somehow made the subject drop. "well, i finished the hedge," ross said at last, turning to his wife. "you said i wouldn't." "oh, but wait till i see it for myself!" the young man looked at her gloomily. "you see how it is, allen, she doesn't believe her husband's word!" "oh, hush, george," she said, and they both began to laugh like children. then they turned to allen again. was he comfortable where he was staying? she asked. well no, honestly, it wasn't very comfortable, allen replied. to tell the truth, he was rather disappointed in the place. he had gone there after hearing some undergraduates describe it, and tell how amusing they had found the people. but, somehow, he had not found the people different from people anywhere else. but then he had only made the acquaintance of one man-- "well, didn't he turn out to be an old poacher, or a gipsy, or something romantic?" asked mrs. ross. "no, not at all--he was a methodist calvinist deacon, who gave me a lift one wet afternoon, and lectured me all the way about temperance. and, of course," allen added, with rather a comic smile, "and, of course, i was already a total abstainer." they all laughed at this. what was he working at over there? ross asked him a few minutes afterwards. he was writing a paper, allen replied; but what it was about mrs. ross did not understand. she hoped her husband would ask something more, but he merely said, "i see," without much interest, adding that he had not read any philosophy for years. when they sat down to dinner, the lady's evening dress, the silver and flowers on the table, seemed to make allen all the more awkward and conscious of his appearance. however, he plainly meant to do his best to talk, and, after a moment's silence, he remarked that he supposed the theory of farming was very interesting. "yes, it is," said mrs. ross, "and it's such fun ploughing in the autumn, and in the spring seeing the young green things come up." "i suppose the climate is a great factor in the problem." "oh, of course, everything depends on that; suppose it comes on to rain just when you've cut your hay!" ross began to laugh. "i believe my wife thinks of nothing but hay now." "you farm yourself, don't you?" allen asked, looking at her rather timidly. "oh, a little; i always say i manage our little farm, and i'm going to learn to plough. and i keep chickens--this is one of mine--poor little thing!" she added. "she pretends to be sorry now, but when she has a chance to sell her chickens i never saw anyone so bloodthirsty." "oh, george, how can you say such things? don't believe him, mr. allen. and anyhow," she added (it seemed a platitude, but platitudes were better than absolute silence), "anyhow, i suppose it is what the chickens are meant for." to her surprise this mild remark led to an animated argument. for allen, in agreeing with her, said something about "the general scheme of things." ross began to laugh at this, and asked allen if he still held to that old system of his. allen answered this question so earnestly, that the lady looked at him with wonder. yes! he held to it more firmly than ever; he was sure it could be maintained! indeed, seriously he had come to feel more and more that you must accept something of the kind. ross dissented in a joking way, but allen would not be put off; he began talking rapidly and eagerly, almost forgetting his dinner as he argued. he drank a great deal of cold water, and his thin face grew quite flushed with excitement. mrs. ross looked from one to the other with puzzled eyes; probably that was the way they had been used to talk at oxford, but what it was about she could not understand. she only felt sorry for allen, he evidently cared so much, was as anxious to prove his point as if his whole life depended on it, while her husband seemed to treat the whole thing rather as a joke. soon she gave up trying to listen, and though the sound of their voices was in her ears, her mind wandered out into the garden, to the farm and meadows. but allen's voice, appealing to her, called her suddenly back. "i'm sure you agree with me, mrs. ross," he said, without the least shyness. he plainly looked on her now as nothing but a mind which might agree or disagree. "i'm sure you must regard it as existing for rational ends." "but what do you mean by 'it,' mr. allen?" she asked, very much puzzled. "why, the universe, of course." "oh, i don't know," she said, shaking her head and laughing. "it makes me dizzy to think of it. as for george, i wouldn't mind what he says, mr. allen; he believes all sorts of dreadful things, and he's always making fun--look how he's laughing at me now. george, will you have your coffee in here, or in the drawing-room?" "oh, in the drawing-room--we'll come in a minute, when we've settled the universe." as she went out, she heard them still arguing. and they had not ended it when they came into the drawing-room a little later. "but i deny that pain is an evil. i appeal to you," allen said, turning to mrs. ross; "don't you think that pain is necessary?" "but necessary for what, mr. allen?" "why, if we want to be really happy, i mean," he went on, trying to make himself quite clear, "i mean, suppose we lived as they do in the tropics, sitting under trees all day." ross also turned to her, "well, mary, tell us what you think?" mrs. ross laughed. "i'm afraid i'm not a fair judge, mr. allen, i'm so fond of sitting under trees, and i must say i think it sounds rather nice. do you have sugar in your coffee?" "no sugar, thanks. but surely," he went on as if he had an argument now that would be certain to convince a lady. "surely a certain amount of discomfort is an advantage! now, take a child for instance, to educate it you have to make it suffer." "oh, indeed you don't, mr. allen," she said so promptly, and in such a voice, that allen seemed a little disconcerted. ross begged for a little music. she sat down to the piano and began to play--with a little emotion at first, which soon died out of the quiet sounds. the window was open on the lawn; the faint light, the odours of the garden, mingled with the soft music. they sat in silence for a moment. at last allen rose; he must be going, he said, he had his paper to finish. "but it is nice here," he added, with half a sigh, as if vaguely aware, for a moment, of the romantic happiness about him. then his mind seemed to revert to the argument; if ross would only read hegel's _logic_-- "well, we might read it aloud in the evenings perhaps," the young man answered, laughing. "have you got a lamp on your machine?" "yes, i think there is." they went out to the gate and, lighting his lamp, they sent him off into the twilight. then they walked slowly back towards the house. a few stars were kindled above the dim trees; the air was fragrant with the scent of the hay, and through the stillness the faint noise of life came across the meadows--a woman singing, the voices of children, and sleepy sounds of cattle. "how good it is!" the young man said, drawing his companion closer to him. "but people are always coming, aren't they? it's dreadful! we never do seem to see anything of each other." "no, do we! but he's a nice man, mr. allen. i liked him." "oh, old allen's a good sort." "what does he do--how does he live in oxford?" "he teaches philosophy, and lives on bread and tea in little lodgings." "it sounds awfully dreary--" "well, it is rather dreary for him, poor man. i wouldn't be there for a good deal." "but, tell me, what was that he was arguing about?" "oh, that's his philosophy; he's always arguing about it. he believes in a kind of hegelianism." "what is that?" "oh, it's a view of things; he's what you call an optimist." "but i thought an optimist was a person who was very happy?" "no; it only means a man who believes that you ought to be happy, that you are meant to enjoy life--that the world is good." "but you don't mean that he was trying to _prove_ that?" "why, yes, you heard him; he's always at it when you give him a chance. he thinks it must be so, that you can deduce it from the first principles of things." but mrs. ross could not be made to understand it. to her it seemed that either you were happy or you weren't. "and, then, fancy trying to prove it to us!" she kept saying. at last she took her husband's arm to go in; but still stood for a moment in silence thinking it over. "that poor mr. allen!" she exclaimed at last, "an optimist, you said he was?" glasgow: printed at the university press by robert maclehose & co. scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. [illustration: book cover] the further adventures of mr. verdant green frontispiece. (see page .) [illustration: cuthbert bede, invt. kt. delt. e. evans, sc] mr. verdant green furnishes the subject for a striking frontispiece. the further adventures of mr. verdant green, an oxford under-graduate. being a continuation of "the adventures of mr. verdant green, an oxford freshman." by cuthbert bede, b.a. with numerous illustrations, designed and drawn on the wood by the author. "a college joke to cure the dumps." swift. second edition. h. ingram & co. milford house, milford lane, strand, london; and by all booksellers. . contents. page chapter i. mr. verdant green recommences his existence as an oxford undergraduate chapter ii. mr. verdant green does as he has been done by chapter iii. mr. verdant green endeavours to keep his spirits up by pouring spirits down chapter iv. mr. verdant green discovers the difference between town and gown chapter v. mr. verdant green is favoured with mr. bouncer's opinions regarding an under-graduate's epistolary communications to his maternal relative chapter vi. mr. verdant green feathers his oars with skill and dexterity chapter vii. mr. verdant green partakes of a dove-tart and a spread-eagle chapter viii. mr. verdant green spends a merry christmas and a happy new year chapter ix. mr. verdant green makes his first appearance on any boards chapter x. mr. verdant green enjoys a real cigar chapter xi. mr. verdant green gets through his smalls chapter xii. mr. verdant green and his friends enjoy the commemoration part ii. chapter i. mr. verdant green recommences his existence as an oxford undergraduate. the intelligent reader--which epithet i take to be a synonym for every one who has perused the first part of the adventures of mr. verdant green,--will remember the statement, that the hero of the narrative "had gained so much experience during his freshman's term, that, when the pleasures of the long vacation were at an end, and he had returned to brazenface with his firm and fast friend charles larkyns, he felt himself entitled to assume a patronising air to the freshmen, who then entered, and even sought to impose upon their credulity in ways which his own personal experience suggested." and the intelligent reader will further call to mind the fact that the first part of these memoirs concluded with the words--"it was clear that mr. verdant green had made his farewell bow as an oxford freshman." but, although mr. verdant green had of necessity ceased to be "a freshman" as soon as he had entered upon his second term of residence,--the name being given to students in their first term only,--yet this necessity, which, as we all know, _non habet leges_, will occasionally prove its rule by an exception; and if mr. verdant green was no longer a freshman in name, he still continued to be one by nature. and the intelligent reader will perceive when he comes to study these veracious memoirs, that, although their hero will no longer display those peculiarly virulent symptoms of freshness, which drew towards him so much friendly sympathy during the earlier part of his university career, yet that he will still, by his innocent simplicity and credulity, occasionally evidence the truth of the horatian maxim,-- "quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit odorem testa diu;"[ ] which, when _smart_-ly translated, means, "a cask will long preserve the flavour, with which, when new, it was once impregnated;" and which, when rendered in the saxon vulgate, signifieth, "what is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh." it would, indeed, take more than a freshman's term,--a two months' residence in oxford,--to remove the simple gaucheries of the country squire's hobbodehoy, and convert the girlish youth, the pupil of that nestor of spinsters, miss virginia verdant, into the man whose school was the university, whose alma mater was oxonia herself. we do not cut our wise teeth in a day; some people, indeed, are so unfortunate as never to cut them at all; at the best, two months is but a brief space in which to get through this sapient teething operation, a short time in which to graft our cutting on the tree of wisdom, more especially when the tender plant happens to be a verdant green. the golden age is past when the full-formed goddess of wisdom sprang from the brain of jove complete in all her parts. if our vulcans now-a-days were to trepan the heads of our jupiters, they would find nothing in them! in these degenerate times it will take more than one splitting headache to produce _our_ wisdom. so it was with our hero. the splitting headache, for example, which had wound up the pleasures of mr. small's "quiet party," had taught him that the good things of this life were not given to be abused, and that he could not exceed the bounds of temperance and moderation without being made to pay the penalty of the trespass. it had taught him that kind of wisdom which even "makes fools wise;" for it had taught him experience. and yet, it was but a portion of that lesson of experience which it is sometimes so hard to learn, but which, when once got by heart, is like the catechism of our early days,--it is never forgotten,--it directs us, it warns us, it advises us; it not only adorns the tale of our life, but it points the moral which may bring that tale to a happy and peaceful end. experience! experience! what will it not do? it is a staff which will help us on when we are jostled by the designing crowds of our vanity fair. it is a telescope that will reveal to us the dark spots on what seemed to be a fair face. it is a finger-post to show us whither the crooked paths of worldly ways will lead us. it is a scar that tells of the wound which the soldier has received in the battle of life. it is a lighthouse that warns us off those hidden rocks and quicksands where the wrecks of long past joys that once smiled so fairly, and were loved so dearly, now lie buried in all their ghastliness, stripped of grace and beauty, things to shudder at and dread. experience! why, even alma mater's doctors prescribe it to be taken in the largest quantities! "experientia--_dose it_!" they say: and very largely some of us have to pay for the dose. but the dose does us good; and (for it is an allopathic remedy), the greater the dose, the greater is the benefit to be derived. the two months' allopathic dose of experience, which had been administered to mr. verdant green, chiefly through the agency of those skilful professors, messrs. larkyns, fosbrooke, smalls, and bouncer, had been so far beneficial to him, that, in the figurative eastern language of the last-named gentleman, he had not only been "sharpened up no end by being well rubbed against university bricks," but he had, moreover, "become so considerably wide-awake, that he would very soon be able to take the shine out of the old original weazel, whom the pages of history had recorded as never having been discovered in a state of somnolence." now, as mr. bouncer was a gentleman of considerable experience and was, too, (although addicted to expressions not to be found in "the polite preceptor,") quite free from the vulgar habit of personal flattery,--or, as he thought fit to express it, in words which would have taken away my lord chesterfield's appetite, "buttering a party to his face in the cheekiest manner,"--we may fairly presume, on this strong evidence, that mr. verdant green had really gained a considerable amount of experience during his freshman's term, although there were still left in his character and conduct many marks of viridity which-- "time's effacing fingers," assisted by mr. bouncer's instructions, would gradually remove. however, mr. verdant green had, at any rate, ceased to be "a freshman" in name; and had received that university promotion, which mr. charles larkyns commemorated by the following _affiche_, which our hero, on his return from his first morning chapel in the michaelmas term, found in a conspicuous position on his oak. commission signed by the vice-chancellor of the university of oxford. mr. verdant green to be an oxford undergraduate, _vice_ oxford freshman, sold out. it is generally found to be the case, that the youthful undergraduate first seeks to prove he is no longer a "freshman," by endeavouring to impose on the credulity of those young gentlemen who come up as freshmen in his second term. and, in this, there is an analogy between the biped and the quadruped; for, the wild, gambolling, school-boy elephant, when he has been brought into a new circle, and has been trained to new habits, will take pleasure in ensnaring and deluding his late companions in play. the "sells" by which our hero had been "sold out" as a freshman, now formed a stock in trade for the undergraduate, which his experience enabled him to dispose of (with considerable interest) to the most credulous members of the generations of freshmen who came up after him. perhaps no freshman had ever gone through a more severe course of hoaxing--to survive it--than mr. verdant green; and yet, by a system of retaliation, only paralleled by the quadrupedal case of the before-mentioned elephant, and the biped-beadle case of the illustrious mr. bumble, who after having his own ears boxed by the late mrs. corney, relieved his feelings by boxing the ears of the small boy who opened the gate for him,--our hero took the greatest delight in seeking every opportunity to play off upon a freshman some one of those numerous hoaxes which had been so successfully practised on himself. and while, in referring to the early part of his university career, he omitted all mention of such anecdotes as displayed his own personal credulity in the strongest light--which anecdotes the faithful historian has thought fit to record,--he, nevertheless, dwelt with extreme pleasure on the reminiscences of a few isolated facts, in which he himself appeared in the character of the hoaxer. these facts, when neatly garnished with a little fiction, made very palatable dishes for university entertainment, and were served up by our hero, when he went "down into the country," to select parties of relatives and friends (n.b.--females preferred). on such occasions, the following hoax formed mr. verdant green's _pièce de résistance_. footnotes: [ ] horace, ep. lib. i. ii., . chapter ii. mr. verdant green does as he has been done by. one morning, mr. verdant green and mr. bouncer were lounging in the venerable gateway of brazenface. the former gentleman, being of an amiable, tame-rabbit-keeping disposition, was making himself very happy by whistling popular airs to the porter's pet bullfinch, who was laboriously engaged on a small tread-mill, winding up his private supply of water. mr. bouncer, being of a more volatile temperament, was amusing himself by asking the porter's opinion on the foreign policy of great britain, and by making very audible remarks on the passers-by. his attention was at length riveted by the appearance on the other side of the street, of a modest-looking young gentleman, who appeared to be so ill at ease in his frock-coat and "stick-up" collars, as to lead to the strong presumption that he wore those articles of manly dress for the first time. "i'll bet you a bottle of blacking, giglamps," said little mr. bouncer, as he directed our hero's attention to the stranger, "that this respected party is an intending freshman. look at his customary suits of solemn black, as othello, or hamlet, or some other swell, says in shakspeare. and, besides his black go-to-meeting bags, please to observe," continued the little gentleman, in the tone of a wax-work showman; "please to hobserve the pecooliarity hof the hair-chain, likewise the straps of the period. look! he's coming this way. giglamps, i vote we take a rise out of the youth. hem! good morning! can we have the pleasure of assisting you in anything." "yes, sir! thank you, sir," replied the youthful stranger, who was flushing like a girl up to the very roots of his curly, auburn hair; "perhaps, sir, you can direct me to brazenface college, sir?"' "well, sir! it's not at all improbable, sir, but what i could, sir;" replied mr. bouncer; "but, perhaps, sir, you'll first favour me with your name, and your business there, sir." "certainly, sir!" rejoined the stranger; and, while he fumbled at his card-case, the experienced mr. bouncer whispered to our hero, "told you he was a sucking freshman, giglamps! he has got a bran new card-case, and says 'sir' at the sight of the academicals." the card handed to mr. bouncer, bore the name of "mr. james pucker;" and, in smaller characters in the corner of the card, were the words, "_brazenface college, oxford_." "i came, sir," said the blushing mr. pucker, "to enter for my matriculation examination, and i wished to see the gentleman who will have to examine me, sir." "the doose you do!" said mr. bouncer sternly; "then young, man, allow me to say, that you've regularly been and gone and done it, and put your foot in it most completely." "how-ow-ow, how, sir?" stammered the dupe. "how?" replied mr. bouncer, still more sternly; "do you mean to brazen out your offence by asking how? what _could_ have induced you, sir, to have had printed on this card the name of this college, when you've not a prospect of belonging to it--it may be for years, it may be for never, as the bard says. you've committed a most grievous offence against the university statutes, young gentleman; and so this gentleman here--mr. pluckem, the junior examiner--will tell you!" and with that, little mr. bouncer nudged mr. verdant green, who took his cue with astonishing aptitude, and glared through his glasses at the trembling mr. pucker, who stood blushing, and bowing, and heartily repenting that his school-boy vanity had led him to invest four-and-sixpence in " cards, and plate, engraved with name and address." "put the cards in your pocket, sir, and don't let me see them again!" said our hero in his newly-confirmed title of the junior examiner; quite rejoiced at the opportunity afforded him of proving to his friend that _he_ was no longer a freshman. "he forgives you for the sake of your family, young man!" said mr. bouncer with pathos; "you've come to the right shop, for _this_ is brazenface; and you've come just at the right time, for here is the gentleman who will assist mr. pluckem in examining you;" and mr. bouncer pointed to mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, who was coming up the street on his way from the schools, where he was making a very laudable (but as it proved, futile) endeavour "to get through his smalls," or, in other words, to pass his little-go examination. the hoax which had been suggested to the ingenious mind of mr. bouncer, was based upon the fact of mr. fosbrooke's being properly got-up for his sacrifice in a white tie, and a pair of very small bands--the two articles, which, with the usual academicals, form the costume demanded by alma mater of all her children when they take their places in her schools. and, as mr. fosbrooke was far too politic a gentleman to irritate the examiners by appearing in a "loud" or sporting costume, he had carried out the idea of clerical character suggested by the bands and choker, by a quiet, gentlemanly suit of black, which, he had fondly hoped, would have softened his examiners' manners, and not permitted them to be brutal. mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, therefore, to the unsophisticated eye of the blushing mr. pucker, presented a very fine specimen of the examining tutor; and this impression on mr. pucker's mind was heightened by mr. fosbrooke, after a few minutes' private conversation with the other two gentlemen, turning to him, and saying, "it will be extremely inconvenient to me to examine you now; but as you probably wish to return home as soon as possible, i will endeavour to conclude the business at once--this gentleman, mr. pluckem," pointing to our hero, "having kindly promised to assist me. mr. bouncer, will you have the goodness to follow with the young gentleman to my rooms?" leaving mr. pucker to express his thanks for this great kindness, and mr. bouncer to plunge him into the depths of trepidation by telling him terrible _stories_ of the examiner's fondness for rejecting the candidates for examination, mr. fosbrooke and our hero ascended to the rooms of the former, where they hastily cleared away cigar-boxes and pipes, turned certain french pictures with their faces to the wall, and covered over with an outspread _times_ a regiment of porter and spirit bottles which had just been smuggled in, and were drawn up rank-and-file on the sofa. having made this preparation, and furnished the table with pens, ink, and scribble-paper, mr. bouncer and the victim were admitted. "take a seat, sir," said mr. fosbrooke, gravely; and mr. pucker put his hat on the ground, and sat down at the table in a state of blushing nervousness. "have you been at a public school?" "yes, sir," stammered the victim; "a very public one, sir; it was a boarding-school, sir; forty boarders, and thirty day-boys, sir; i was a day-boy, sir, and in the first class." "first class of an uncommon slow train!" muttered mr. bouncer. "and are you going back to the boarding-school?" asked mr. verdant green, with the air of an assistant judge. "no, sir," replied mr. pucker, "i have just done with it; quite done with school, sir, this last half; and papa is going to put me to read with a clergyman until it is time for me to come to college." "refreshing innocence!" murmured mr. bouncer; while mr. fosbrooke and our hero conferred together, and hastily wrote on two sheets of the scribble-paper. [illustration] "now, sir," said mr. fosbrooke to the victim, after a paper had been completed, "let us see what your latin writing is like. have the goodness to turn what i have written into latin; and be very careful, sir," added mr. fosbrooke, sternly, "be very careful that it is cicero's latin, sir!" and he handed mr. pucker a sheet of paper, on which he had scribbled the following: "to be translated into prose-y latin, in the manner of cicero's orations after dinner. "if, therefore, any on your bench, my luds, or in this assembly, should entertain an opinion that the proximate parts of a mellifluous mind are for ever conjoined and unconnected, i submit to you, my luds, that it will of necessity follow, that such clandestine conduct being a mere nothing,--or, in the noble language of our philosophers, bosh,--every individual act of overt misunderstanding will bring interminable limits to the empiricism of thought, and will rebound in the very lowest degree to the credit of the malefactor." "to be turned into latin after the master of the animals of tacitus. "she went into the garden to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie. just then, a great she-bear coming down the street, poked its nose into the shop-window. 'what! no soap!' so he died, and she (very imprudently) married the barber. and there were present at the wedding the joblillies, and the piccannies, and the gobelites, and the great panjandrum himself, with the little button on top. so they all set to playing catch-who-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots." it was well for the purposes of the hoaxers that mr. pucker's trepidation prevented him from making a calm perusal of the paper; and he was nervously doing his best to turn the nonsensical english word by word into equally nonsensical latin, when his limited powers of latin writing were brought to a full stop by the untranslateable word "bosh." as he could make nothing of this, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and gazed appealingly at the benignant features of mr. verdant green. the appealing gaze was answered by our hero ordering mr. pucker to hand in his paper for examination, and to endeavour to answer the questions which he and his brother examiner had been writing down for him. mr. pucker took the two papers of questions, and read as follows: "history. " . draw a historical parallel (after the manner of plutarch) between hannibal and annie laurie. " . what internal evidence does the odyssey afford, that homer sold his trojan war-ballads at three yards an obolus? " . show the strong presumption there is, that nox was the god of battles. " . state reasons for presuming that the practice of lithography may be traced back to the time of perseus and the gorgon's head. " . in what way were the shades on the banks of the styx supplied with spirits? " . show the probability of the college hornpipe having been used by the students of the academia; and give passages from thucydides and tennyson in support of your answer. " . give a brief account of the roman emperors who visited the united states, and state what they did there. " . show from the redundancy of the word [greek: gas] in sophocles, that gas must have been used by the athenians; also state, if the expression [greek: oi bharbaroi] would seem to signify that they were close shavers. . show from the-words 'hoc erat in votis,' (sat. vi., lib. ii.,) that horace's favourite wine was hock, and that he meant to say 'he always voted for hock.' " . draw a parallel between the children in the wood and achilles in the styx. " . when it is stated that ariadne, being deserted by theseus, fell in love with bacchus, is it the poetical way of asserting that she took to drinking to drown her grief? " . name the _prima donnas_ who have appeared in the operas of virgil and horace since the 'virgilii opera,' and 'horatii opera' were composed." "euclid, arithmetic, and algebra. " . 'the extremities of a line are points.' prove this by the rule of railways. " . show the fallacy of defining an angle, as 'a worm at one end and a fool at the other.' " . if one side of a triangle be produced, what is there to prevent the other two sides from also being brought forward? " . let a and b be squares having their respective boundaries in e and w. ends, and let c and d be circles moving in them; the circle d will be superior to the circle c. " . in equal circles, equal figures from various squares will stand upon the same footing. " . if two parts of a circle fall out, the one part will cut the other. " . describe a square which shall be larger than belgrave square. " . if the gnomon of a sun-dial be divided into two equal, and also into two unequal parts, what would be its value? " . describe a perpendicular triangle having the squares of the semi-circle equal to half the extremity between the points of section. " . if an austrian florin is worth . francs, what will be the value of pennsylvanian bonds? prove by rule-of-three inverse. " . if seven horses eat twenty-five acres of grass in three days, what will be their condition on the fourth day? prove by practice. " . if a coach-wheel, - / in diameter and - / in circumference, makes - / revolutions in a second, how many men will it take to do the same piece of work in ten days? " . find the greatest common measure of a quart bottle of oxford port. " . find the value of a 'bob,' a 'tanner,' a 'joey,' and a 'tizzy.' " . explain the common denominators 'brick,' 'trump,' 'spoon,' 'muff,' and state what was the greatest common denominator in the last term. " . reduce two academical years to their lowest terms. " . reduce a christ church tuft to the level of a teddy hall man. " . if a freshman a have any mouth _x_, and a bottle of wine _y_, show how many applications of _x_ to _y_ will place _y_+_y_ before _a_." mr. pucker did not know what to make of such extraordinary and unexpected questions. he blushed, attempted to write, fingered his curls, tried to collect his faculties, and then appeared to give himself over to despair; whereupon little mr. bouncer was seized with an immoderate fit of coughing which had well nigh brought the farce to its _dénouement_. "i'm afraid, young gentleman," said mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, as he carelessly settled his white tie and bands, "i am afraid, mr. pucker, that your learning is not yet up to the brazenface standard. we are particularly cautious about admitting any gentleman whose acquirements are not of the highest order. but we will be as lenient to you as we are able, and give you one more chance to retrieve yourself. we will try a little _vivâ voce_, mr. pucker. perhaps, sir, you will favour me with your opinions on the fourth punic war, and will also give me a slight sketch of the constitution of ancient heliopolis." mr. pucker waxed, if possible, redder and hotter than before, he gasped like a fish out of water; and, like dryden's prince, "unable to conceal his pain," he "sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again." but all was to no purpose: he was unable to frame an answer to mr. fosbrooke's questions. "ah, sir," continued his tormentor, "i see that you will not do for us yet awhile, and i am therefore under the painful necessity of rejecting you. i should advise you, sir, to read hard for another twelvemonths, and endeavour to master those subjects in which you have now failed. for, a young man, mr. pucker, who knows nothing about the fourth punic war, and the constitution of ancient heliopolis, is quite unfit to be enrolled among the members of such a learned college as brazenface. mr. pluckem quite coincides with me in this decision." (here mr. verdant green gave a burleigh nod.) "we feel very sorry for you, mr. pucker, and also for your unfortunate family; but we recommend you to add to your present stock of knowledge, and to keep those visiting-cards for another twelvemonth." and mr. fosbrooke and our hero--disregarding poor mr. pucker's entreaties that they would consider his pa and ma, and would please to matriculate him this once, and he would read very hard, indeed he would--turned to mr. bouncer and gave some private instructions, which caused that gentleman immediately to vanish, and seek out mr. robert filcher. five minutes after, that excellent scout met the dejected mr. pucker as he was crossing the quad on his way from mr. fosbrooke's rooms. "beg your pardon, sir," said mr. filcher, touching his forehead; for, as mr. filcher, after the manner of his tribe, never was seen in a head-covering, he was unable to raise his hat or cap; "beg your pardon, sir! but was you a lookin' for the party as examines the young gents for their matrickylation?" "eh?--no! i have just come from him," replied mr. pucker, dolefully. [illustration] "beg your pardon, sir," remarked mr. filcher, "but his rooms ain't that way at all. mr. slowcoach, as is the party you _ought_ to have seed, has _his_ rooms quite in a hopposite direction, sir; and he's the honly party as examines the matrickylatin' gents." "but i _have_ been examined," observed mr. pucker, with the air of a plucked man; "and i am sorry to say that i was rejected, and"---- "i dessay, sir," interrupted mr. filcher; "but i think it's a 'oax, sir!" "a what?" stammered mr. pucker. "a 'oax--a sell;" replied the scout, confidentially. "you see, sir, i think some of the gents have been makin' a little game of you, sir; they often does with fresh parties like you, sir, that seem fresh and hinnocent like; and i dessay they've been makin' believe to examine you, sir, and a pretendin' that you wasn't clever enough. but they don't mean no harm, sir; it's only their play, bless you!" "then," said mr. pucker, whose countenance had been gradually clearing with every word the scout spoke; "then i'm not really rejected, but have still a chance of passing my examination?" "percisely so, sir," replied mr. filcher; "and--hexcuse me, sir, for a hintin' of it to you,--but, if you would let me adwise you, sir, you wouldn't go for to mention anythin' about the 'oax to mr. slowcoach; _he_ wouldn't be pleased, sir, and _you'd_ only get laughed at. if you like to go to him now, sir, i know he's in his rooms, and i'll show you the way there with the greatest of pleasure." mr. pucker, immensely relieved in mind, gladly put himself under the scout's guidance, and was admitted into the presence of mr. slowcoach. in twenty minutes after this he issued from the examining tutor's rooms with a joyful countenance, and again encountered mr. robert filcher. "hope you've done the job this time, sir," said the scout. "yes," replied the radiant mr. pucker; "and at two o'clock i am to see the vice-chancellor; and i shall be able to come to college this time next year." "werry glad of it, indeed, sir!" observed mr. filcher, with genuine emotion, and an eye to future perquisites; "and i suppose, sir, you didn't say a word about the 'oax?" "not a word!" replied mr. pucker. "then, sir," said mr. filcher, with enthusiasm, "hexcuse me, but you're a trump, sir! and mr. fosbrooke's compliments to you, sir, and he'll be 'appy if you'll come up into his rooms, and take a glass of wine after the fatigues of the examination. and,--hexcuse me again, sir, for a hintin' of it to you, but of course you can't be aweer of the customs of the place, unless somebody tells you on 'em,--i shall be werry glad to drink your werry good health, sir." need it be stated that the blushing mr. pucker, delirious with joy at the sudden change in the state of affairs, and the delightful prospect of being a member of the university, not only tipped mr. filcher a five-shilling piece, but also paid a second visit to mr. fosbrooke's rooms, where he found that gentleman in his usual costume, and by him was introduced to the mr. pluckem, who now bore the name of mr. verdant green? need it be stated that the nervous mr. pucker blushed and laughed, and laughed and blushed, while his two pseudo-examiners took wine with him in the most friendly manner; mr. bouncer pronouncing him to be "an out-and-outer, and no mistake!" and need it be stated that, after this undergraduate display of hoaxing, mr. verdant green would feel exceedingly offended were he still to be called "an oxford freshman"? chapter iii. mr. verdant green endeavours to keep his spirits up by pouring spirits down. it was the evening of the fifth of november; the day which the protestant youth of england dedicate to the memory of that martyr of gunpowder, the firework faux, and which the youth of oxford, by a three months' anticipation of the calendar, devote to the celebration of those scholastic sports for which the day of st. scholastica the virgin was once so famous.[ ] rumour with its hundred tongues had spread far and wide the news, that a more than ordinary demonstration would be made of the might of town, and that this demonstration would be met by a corresponding increase of prowess on the side of gown. it was darkly whispered that the purlieus of jericho would send forth champions to the fight. it was mentioned that the parish of st. thomas would be powerfully represented by its bargee lodgers. it was confidently reported that st. aldate's[ ] would come forth in all its olden strength. it was told as a fact that st. clement's had departed from the spirit of clemency, and was up in arms. from an early hour of the evening, the townsmen had gathered in threatening groups; and their determined aspect, and words of chaff, had told of the coming storm. it was to be a tremendous town and gown! the poet has forcibly observed-- "strange that there should such diff'rence be, 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee!" but the difference between town and gown, is not to be classed with the tweedledum and tweedledee difference. it is something more than a mere difference of two letters. the lettered gown lorded it over the unlettered town: the plebeian town was perpetually snubbed by the aristocratic gown. if gown even wished to associate with town, he could only do so under certain restrictions imposed by the statutes; and town was thus made to feel exceedingly honoured by the gracious condescension of gown. but town, moreover, maintained its existence, that it might contribute to the pleasure and amusements, the needs and necessities, of gown. and very expensively was town occasionally made to pay for its existence; so expensively indeed, that if it had not been for the great interest which town assumed on gown's account, the former's business-life would have soon failed. but, on many accounts, or rather, _in_ many accounts, gown was deeply indebted to town; and, although gown was often loth to own the obligation, yet town never forgot it, but always placed it to gown's credit. occasionally, in his early freshness, gown would seek to compensate town for his obliging favours; but town would gently run counter to this wish, and preferred that the evidences of gown's friendly intercourse with him should accumulate, until he could, with renewed interest (as we understand from the authority of an aged pun), obtain his payments by degrees. when gown was absent, town was miserable: it was dull; it did nothing; it lost its customer-y application to business. when gown returned, there was no small change,--the benefit was a sovereign one to town. notes, too, passed between them; of which, those received by town were occasionally of intrinsic value. town thanked gown for these,--even thanked him when his civility had only been met by checks,--and smirked, and fawned, and flattered; and gown patronised town, and was offensively condescending. what a relief then must it have been to the pent-up feelings of town, when the saturnalia of a guy-faux day brought its usual license, and town could stand up against gown and try a game of fisticuffs! and if, when there was a cry "to arms!" we could always settle the dispute in an english fashion with those arms with which we have been supplied by nature, there would then, perhaps, be fewer weeping widows and desolate orphans in the world than there are just at present. on the evening of the fifth of november, then, mr. bouncer's rooms were occupied by a wine-party; and, among the gentlemen assembled, we noticed (as newspaper reporters say), mr. verdant green, mr. charles larkyns, mr. fosbrooke, mr. smalls, and mr. blades. the table was liberally supplied with wine; and a "desert at eighteen-pence per head,"--as mr. bouncer would afterwards be informed through the medium of his confectioner's bill;--and, while an animated conversation was being held on the expected town and gown, the party were fortifying themselves for the _émeute_ by a rapid consumption of the liquids before them. our hero, and some of the younger ones of the party, who had not yet left off their juvenile likings, were hard at work at the dessert in that delightful, disregardless-of-dyspepsia manner, in which boys so love to indulge, even when they have passed into university _men_. as usual, the _bouquet_ of the wine was somewhat interfered with by those narcotic odours, which, to a smoker, are as the gales of araby the blest. mr. blades was conspicuous among the party, not only from his dimensions,--or, as he phrased it, from "his breadth of beam,"--but also from his free-and-easy costume. "to get himself into wind," as he alleged, mr. blades had just been knocking the wind out of the honourable flexible shanks (youngest son of the earl of buttonhole), a tuft from christ church, who had left his luxurious rooms in the canterbury quad chiefly for the purpose of preparing himself for the forthcoming town and gown, by putting on the gloves with his boating friend. the bout having terminated by mr. flexible shanks having been sent backwards into a tray of wine-glasses with which mr. filcher was just entering the room, the gloves were put aside, and the combatants had an amicable set-to at a bottle of carbonell's "forty-four," which mr. bouncer brought out of a wine-closet in his bedroom for their especial delectation. mr. blades, who was of opinion that, in dress, ease should always be consulted before elegance, had not resumed that part of his attire of which he had divested himself for fistianic purposes; and, with a greater display of linen than is usually to be seen in society, was seated comfortably in a lounging chair, smoking the pipe of peace. since he had achieved the proud feat of placing the brazenface boat at the head of the river, mr. blades had gained increased renown, more especially in his own college, where he was regarded in the light of a tutelary river deity; and, as training was not going on, he was now enabled to indulge in a second glass of wine, and also in the luxury of a cigar. mr. blades's shirt-sleeves were turned up so as to display the anatomical proportion of his arms; and little mr. bouncer, with the grave aspect of a doctor feeling a pulse, was engaged in fingering his deltoid and biceps muscles, and in uttering panegyrics on his friend's torso-of-hercules condition. "my gum, billy!" (it must be observed, _en passant_, that, although the name given to mr. blades at an early age was frank, yet that when he was not called "old blades," he was always addressed as "billy,"--it being a custom which has obtained in universities, that wrong names should be familiarly given to certain gentlemen, more as a mark of friendly intimacy than of derision or caprice.) "my gum, billy!" observed mr. bouncer, "you're as hard as nails! what an extensive assortment of muscles you've got on hand,--to say nothing about the arms. i wish i'd got such a good stock in trade for our customers to-night; i'd soon sarve 'em out, and make 'em sing peccavi." "the fact is," said mr. flexible shanks, who was leaning smoking against the mantelpiece behind him, "billy is like a respectable family of bivalves--he is nothing but mussels." "or like an old turk," joined in mr. bouncer, "for he's a regular mussulman." "oh! shanks! bouncer!" cried charles larkyns, "what stale jokes! do open the window, somebody,--it's really offensive." "ah!" said mr. blades, modestly, "you only just wait till footelights brings the pet, and then you'll see real muscles." "it was rather a good move," said mr. cheke, a gentleman commoner of corpus, who was lounging in an easy chair smoking a meerschaum through an elastic tube a yard long,--"it was rather a good move of yours, fossy," he said, addressing himself to mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, "to secure the pet's services. the feller will do us some service, and will astonish the _oi polloi_ no end." "oh! how prime it _will_ be," cried little mr. bouncer, in ecstacies with the prospect before him, "to see the pet pitching into the cads, and walking into their small affections with his one, two, three! and don't i just pity them when he gets them into chancery! were you ever in chancery, giglamps?" "no, indeed!" replied the innocent mr. verdant green; "and i hope that i shall always keep out of it; lawsuits are so very disagreeable and expensive." [illustration] mr. bouncer had only time to remark _sotto voce_ to mr. flexible shanks, "it is so jolly refreshing to take a rise out of old giglamps!" when a knock at the oak was heard; and, as mr. bouncer roared out, "come in!" the knocker entered. he was rather dressy in his style of costume, and wore his long dark hair parted in the middle. opening the door, and striking into an attitude, he exclaimed in a theatrical tone and manner: "scene, mr. bouncer's rooms in brazenface: in the centre a table, at which mr. b. and party are discovered drinking log-juice, and smoking cabbage-leaves. door, left, third entrance; enter the putney pet. slow music; lights half-down." and standing on one side, the speaker motioned to a second gentleman to enter the room. there was no mistaking the profession of this gentleman; even the inexperience of mr. verdant green did not require to be informed that the putney pet was a prizefighter. "bruiser" was plainly written in his personal appearance, from his hard-featured, low-browed, battered, hang-dog face, to his thickset frame, and the powerful muscular development of the upper part of his person. his close-cropped thatch of hair was brushed down tightly to his head, but was permitted to burst into the luxuriance of two small ringlets, which dangled in front of each huge ear, and were as carefully curled and oiled as though they had graced the face of beauty. the pet was attired in a dark olive-green cutaway coat, buttoned over a waistcoat of a violent-coloured plaid,--a pair of white cord trousers that fitted tightly to the leg,--and a white-spotted blue handkerchief, which was twisted round a neck that might have served as a model for the minotaur's. in his mouth, the pet cherished, according to his wont, a sprig of parsley; small fragments of which herb he was accustomed to chew and spit out, as a pleasing relief to the monotony of conversation. the pet, after having been proclaimed victor in more than one of those playfully frolicsome "frolics of the fancy," in which nobly born but ignobly-minded "corinthians" formerly invested so much interest and money, had at length matched his powers against the gentleman who bore the title of "the champion of the ring;" but, after a protracted contest of two hours and a half, in which one hundred and nineteen rounds had been fought, the pet's eyes had been completely closed up by an amusing series of blows from the heavy fists of the more skilful champion; and as the pet, moreover, was so battered and bruised, and was altogether so "groggy" that he was barely able to stand up to be knocked down, his humane second had thrown up the sponge in acknowledgment of his defeat. but though unable to deprive the champion of his belt, yet--as _tintinnabulum's life_ informed its readers on the following sunday, in its report of this "matchless encounter,"--the putney pet had "established a reputation;" and a reputation is a reputation, even though it be one which may be offensive to the nostrils. retiring, therefore, from the more active public-duties of his profession, he took unto himself a wife and a beershop,--for it seems to be a freak of "the fancy," when they retire from one public line to go into another,--and placing the former in charge of the latter, the pet came forth to the world as a "professor of the noble art of self-defence." it was in this phase of his existence, that mr. fosbrooke had the pleasure of forming his acquaintance. mr. fosbrooke had received a card, which intimated that the pet would have great pleasure in giving him "_lessons in the noble and manly art of self-defence, either at the gentleman's own residence, or at the pet's spacious sparring academy, , cribb court, drury lane, which is fitted up with every regard to the comfort and convenience of his pupils. gloves are provided. n.b.--ratting sports at the above crib every evening. plenty of rats always on hand. use of the pit gratis._" mr. fosbrooke, having come to the wise conclusion that every englishman ought to know how to be able to use his fists in case of need, and being quite of the opinion of the gentleman who said:--"my son should even learn to box, for do we not meet with imposing toll-keepers, and insolent cabmen? and, as he can't call them out, he should be able to knock them down,"[ ] at once put himself under the pet's tuition; and, as we have before seen, still kept up his practice with the gloves, when he had got to his own rooms at brazenface. but the pet had other oxford pupils than mr. fosbrooke; and he took such an affectionate interest in their welfare, that he came down from town two or three times in each term, to see if his pupils' practice had made them perfect in the art. one of the pet's pupils, was the gentleman who had now introduced him to mr. bouncer's rooms. his name was foote, but he was commonly called "footelights;" the addition having been made to his name by way of _sobriquet_ to express his unusual fondness for the stage, which amounted to so great a passion, that his very conversation was redolent of "the footlights." he had only been at st. john's a couple of terms, and mr. fosbrooke had picked up his acquaintance through the medium of the pet, and had afterwards made him known to most of the men who were now assembled at mr. bouncer's wine. "your servant, gents!" said the pet, touching his forehead, and making a scrape with his leg, by way of salutation. "hullo, pet!" returned mr. bouncer; "bring yourself to an anchor, my man." the pet accordingly anchored himself by dropping on to the edge of a chair, and placing his hat underneath it; while huz and buz smelt suspiciously round his legs, and looked at him with an expression of countenance which bore a wonderful resemblance to that which they gazed upon. "never mind the dogs; they're amiable little beggars," observed mr. bouncer, "and they never bite any one except in play. now then, pet, what sort of liquors are you given to? here are claret liquors, port liquors, sherry liquors, egg-flip liquors, cup liquors. you pays your money, and you takes your choice!" "well, sir, thankee!" replied the pet, "i ain't no ways pertikler, but if you _have_ sich a thing as a glass o' sperrits, i'd prefer that--if not objectionable." "in course not, pet! always call for what you like. we keep all sorts of liquors, and are allowed to get drunk on the premises. ain't we, giglamps?" firing this raking shot as he passed our hero, little mr. bouncer dived into the cupboard which served as his wine-bin, and brought therefrom two bottles of brandy and whiskey which he set before the pet. "if you like gin or rum, or cherry-brandy, or old-tom, better than these liquors," said mr. bouncer, astonishing the pet with the resources of a college wine-cellar, "just say the word, and you shall have them. 'i can call spirits from the vasty deep;' as shikspur says. how will you take it, pet? neat, or adulterated? are you for _callidum cum_, or _frigidum sine_--for hot-with, or cold-without?" "i generally takes my sperrits 'ot, sir--if not objectionable;" replied the pet deferentially. whereupon mr. bouncer seizing his speaking-trumpet, roared through it from the top of the stairs, "rob-ert! rob-ert!" but, as mr. filcher did not answer the summons, mr. bouncer threw up the window of his room, and bellowed out "rob-ert" in tones which must have been perfectly audible in the high street. "doose take the feller, he's always over at the buttery;" said the incensed gentleman. "i'll go up to old sloe's room, and get his kettle," said mr. smalls; "he teas all day long to keep himself awake for reading. if he don't mind, he'll blow himself up with his gunpowder tea before he can take his double-first." by the time mr. smalls had re-appeared with the kettle, mr. filcher had thought it prudent to answer his master's summons. "did you call, sir?" asked the scout, as though he was doubtful on that point. "call!" said mr. bouncer, with great irony; "oh, no! of course not! i should rather think not! do you suppose that you are kept here that parties may have the chance of hollering out their lungs for you? don't answer me, sir! but get some hot water, and some more glasses; and be quick about it." mr. filcher was gone immediately; and, in three minutes, everything was settled to mr. bouncer's satisfaction, and he gave mr. filcher farther orders to bring up coffee and anchovy toast, at half-past eight o'clock. "now, pet, my beauty!" said the little gentleman, "you just walk into the liquors; because you've got some toughish work before you, you know." [illustration] the pet did not require any pressing, but did as he was told; and, bestowing a collective nod on the company, drank their healths with the prefatory remark, "i looks to-_wards_ you gents!" "will you poke a smipe, pet?" asked mr. bouncer, rather enigmatically; but, as he at the same time placed before the pet a "yard of clay" and a box of cigars, the professor of the art of self-defence perceived that he was asked to smoke a pipe. "that's right, pet!" said the honourable flexible shanks, condescendingly, as the prizefighter scientifically filled the bowl of his pipe; "i'm glad to see you join us in a bit of smoke. we're all _baccy_-nalians now!" "shanks, you're incorrigible!" said charles larkyns; "and don't you remember what _the oxford parodies_ say?" and, in his clear, rich voice, mr. larkyns sang the two following verses to the air of "love not:"-- smoke not, smoke not, your weeds nor pipes of clay! cigars they are made from leaves of cauliflowers;-- things that are doomed no duty e'er to pay;-- grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours. smoke not--smoke not! smoke not, smoke not, the weed you smoke may change the healthfulness of your stomachic tone; things to the eye grow queer and passing strange; all thoughts seem undefined--save one--to be alone! smoke not--smoke not! "i know what you're thinking about, giglamps," said mr. bouncer, as charles larkyns ceased his parody amid an approving clatter of glasses; "you were thinking of your first weed on the night of small's quiet party: wer'nt you now, old feller? ah, you've learnt to poke a smipe, beautiful, since then. pet, here's your health. i'll give you a toast and sentiment, gentlemen. may the gown give the town a jolly good hiding!" the sentiment was received with great applause, and the toast was drunk with all the honours, and followed by the customary but inappropriate chorus, "for he's a jolly good fellow!" without the singing of which mr. bouncer could not allow any toast to pass. "how many cads could you lick at once, one off and the other on?" asked mr. fosbrooke of the pet, with the air of boswell when he wanted to draw out the doctor. "well, sir," said the pet, with the modesty of true genius, "i wouldn't be pertickler to a score or so, as long as i'd got my back well up agin some'ut, and could hit out." "what an effective tableau it would be!" observed mr. foote, who had always an eye to dramatic situations. "enter the pet, followed by twenty townspeople. first t.p.--yield, traitor! pet--never! the man who would yield when ordered to do so, is unworthy the name of a pet and an englishman! floors the twenty t.p.'s one after the other. tableau, blue fire. why, it would surpass the british sailor's broadsword combat for six, and bring down the house." "talking of bringing down," said mr. blades, "did you remember to bring down a cap and gown for the pet, as i told you?" "well, i believe those _were_ the stage directions," answered mr. foote; "but, really, the wardrobe was so ill provided that it would only supply a cap. but perhaps that will do for a super." "if by a super you mean a supernumerary, footelights," said mr. cheke, the gentleman commoner of corpus, "then the pet isn't one. he's the leading character of what you would call the _dramatis personæ_." "true," replied mr. foote, "he's cast for the hero; though he will create a new _rôle_ as the walking-into-them gentleman." "you see, footelights," said mr. blades, "that the pet is to lead our forces; and we depend upon him to help us on to victory: and we must put him into academicals, not only because the town cads must think he is one of us, but also because the proctors might otherwise deprive us of his services--and old towzer, the senior proctor, in particular, is sure to be all alive. who's got an old gown?" "i will lend mine with pleasure," said mr. verdant green. "but you'll want it yourself," said mr. blades. "why, thank you," faltered our hero, "i'd rather, i think, keep within college. i can see the--the fun--yes, the fun--from the window." "oh, blow it, giglamps!" ejaculated mr. bouncer, "you'll never go to do the mean, and show the white feather, will you?" "music expressive of trepidation," murmured mr. foote, by way of parenthesis. "but," pursued our hero, apologetically, "there will be, i dare say, a large crowd." "a very powerful _caste_, no doubt," observed mr. foote. "and i may get my--yes, my spectacles broken; and then"---- "and then, giglamps," said mr. bouncer, "why, and then you shall be presented with another pair as a testimonial of affection from yours truly. come, giglamps, don't do the mean! a man of your standing, and with a chest like that!" and the little gentleman sounded on our hero's shirt-front, as doctors do when they stethoscope a patient. "come, giglamps, old feller, you mustn't refuse. you didn't ought to was, as shakspeare says." "pardon me! not shakspeare, but wright, in the 'green bushes,'" interrupted mr. foote, who was as painfully anxious as mr. payne collier himself that the text of the great poet should be free from corruptions. so mr. verdant green, reluctantly, it must be confessed, suffered himself to be persuaded to join that section of the gown which was to be placed under the leadership of the redoubted pet; while little mr. bouncer, who had gone up into mr. sloe's rooms, and had vainly endeavoured to persuade that gentleman to join in the forthcoming _mêlée_, returned with an undergraduate's gown, and forthwith invested the pet with it. "i don't mind this 'ere mortar-board, sir," remarked the professor of the noble art of self-defence, as he pointed to the academical cap which surmounted his head, "i don't mind the mortar-board, sir; but i shall never be able to do nothink with this 'ere toggery on my shudders. i couldn't use my mawleys no how!" and the pet illustrated his remark in a professional manner, by sparring at an imaginary opponent in a feeble and unscientific fashion. "but you can tie the tail-curtain round your shoulders--like this!" said mr. fosbrooke, as he twisted his own gown tightly round him. but the pet had taken a decided objection to the drapery: "the costume would interfere with the action," as mr. foote remarked, "and the management of a train requires great practice." "you see, sir," said the pet, "i ain't used to the feel of it, and i couldn't go to business properly, or give a straight nosender no how. but the mortar-board ain't of so much consekvence." so a compromise was made; and it was agreed that the pet was to wear the academicals until he had arrived at the scene of action, where he could then pocket the gown, and resume it on any alarm of the proctor's approach. "here, giglamps, old feller! get a priming of fighting-powder!" said little mr. bouncer to our hero, as the party were on the point of sallying forth; "it'll make you hit out from your shoulder like a steam-engine with the chill off." and, as mr. bouncer whispered to charles larkyns, "so he kept his spirits up by pouring spirits down," verdant--who felt extremely nervous, either from excitement or from fear, or from a pleasing mixture of both sensations--drank off a deep draught of something which was evidently not drawn from nature's spring or the college pump; for it first took away his breath, and made his eyes water; and it next made him cough, and endeavour to choke himself; and it then made his face flush, and caused him to declare that "the first snob who 'sulted him should have a sound whopping." "brayvo, giglamps!" cried little mr. bouncer, as he patted him on the shoulder; "come along! you're the right sort of fellow for a town and gown, after all!" chapter iv. mr. verdant green discovers the difference between town and gown. it was ten minutes past nine, and tom,[ ] with sonorous voice, was ordering all college gates to be shut, when the wine party, which had just left mr. bouncer's room, passed round the corner of st. mary's, and dashed across the high. the town and grown had already begun. as usual, the town had taken the initiative; and, in a dense body, had made their customary sweep of the high street, driving all before them. after this gallant exploit had been accomplished to the entire satisfaction of the oppidans, the town had separated into two or three portions, which had betaken themselves to the most probable fighting points, and had gone where glory waited them, thirsting for the blood, or, at any rate, for the bloody noses of the gowned aristocrats. woe betide the luckless gownsman, who, on such an occasion, ventures abroad without an escort, or trusts to his own unassisted powers to defend himself! he is forthwith pounced upon by some score of valiant townsmen, who are on the watch for these favourable opportunities for a display of their personal prowess, and he may consider himself very fortunate if he is able to get back to his college with nothing worse than black eyes and bruises. it is so seldom that the members of the oxford snobocracy have the privilege afforded them of using their fists on the faces and persons of the members of the oxford aristocracy, that when they _do_ get the chance, they are unwilling to let it slip through their fingers. dark tales have, indeed, been told, of solitary and unoffending undergraduates having, on such occasions, not only received a severe handling from those same fingers, but also having been afterwards, through their agency, bound by their own leading strings to the rails of the radcliffe, and there left ignominiously to struggle, and shout for assistance. and darker tales still have been told of luckless gownsmen having been borne "leg and wing" fashion to the very banks of the isis, and there ducked, amidst the jeers and taunts of their persecutors. but such tales as these are of too dreadful a nature for the conversation of gownsmen, and are very properly believed to be myths scandalously propagated by the town. the crescent moon shone down on mr. bouncer's party, and gave ample light to light _them_ on _their_ prey. a noise and shouting,--which quickly made our hero's bob-acreish resolutions ooze out at his fingers' ends,--was heard coming from the direction of oriel street; and a small knot of gownsmen, who had been cut off from a larger body, appeared, manfully retreating with their faces to the foe, fighting as they fell back, but driven by superior numbers up the narrow street, by st. mary's hall, and past the side of spiers's shop into the high street. [illustration] "gown to the rescue!" shouted mr. blades, as he dashed across the street; "come on, pet! here we are in the thick of it, just in the nick of time!" and, closely followed by charles larkyns, mr. fosbrooke, mr. smalls, mr. bouncer, mr. flexible shanks, mr. cheke, mr. foote, and our hero, and the rest of the party, they soon plunged _in medias res_. the movement was particularly well-timed, for the small body of gownsmen were beginning to get roughly handled; but the succour afforded by the pet and his party soon changed the aspect of affairs; and, after a brief skirmish, there was a temporary cessation of hostilities. as reinforcements poured in on either side, the mob which represented the town, wavered, and spread themselves across on each side of the high; while a huge, lumbering bargeman, who appeared to be the generalissimo of their forces, delivered himself of a brief but energetic speech, in which he delivered his opinion of gownsmen in general, and his immediate foes in particular, in a way which would have to be expressed in proper print chiefly by blanks, and which would have assuredly entailed upon him a succession of five-shilling fines, had he been in a court of justice, and before a magistrate. "here's a pretty blank, i don't think!" he observed in conclusion, as he pointed to mr. verdant green, who was nervously settling his spectacles, and wishing himself safe back in his own rooms; "i would'nt give a blank for such a blank blank. i'm blank, if he don't look as though he'd swaller'd a blank codfish, and had bust out into blank barnacles!" as the bargee was apparently regarded by his party as a gentleman of infinite humour, his highly-flavoured blank remarks were received by them with shouts of laughter; while our hero obtained far more of the _digito monstrari_ share of public notice than he wished for. [illustration] for some brief space, the warfare between the rival parties of town and gown continued to be one merely of words--a mutual discharge of _epea pteroenta_ (_vulgariter_ "chaff"), in which a small amount of sarcasm was mingled with a large share of vituperation. at length, a slang rhyme of peculiar offensiveness was used to a wadham gentleman, which so exasperated him that he immediately, by way of a forcible reply, sent his fist full into the speaker's face. on this, a collision took place between those who formed the outside of the crowd; and the gowns flocked together to charge _en masse_. mr. verdant green was not quite aware of this sudden movement, and, for a moment, was cut off from the rest. this did not escape the eyes of the valiant bargee, who had already singled out our hero as the one whom he could most easily punish, with the least chance of getting quick returns for his small profits. forthwith, therefore, he rushed to his victim, and aimed a heavy blow at him, which verdant only half avoided by stooping. instinctively doubling his fists, our hero found that necessity was, indeed, the mother of invention; and, with a passing thought of what would be his mother's and aunt virginia's feelings could they see him fighting in the public streets with a common bargeman, he contrived to guard off the second blow. but at the next furious lunge of the bargee he was not quite so fortunate, and, receiving that gentleman's heavy fist full in his forehead, he staggered backwards, and was only prevented from measuring his length on the pavement by falling against the iron gates of st. mary's. the delighted bargee was just on the point of putting the _coup de grâce_ to his attack, when, to verdant's inexpressible delight and relief, his lumbering antagonist was sent sprawling by a well-directed blow on his right ear. charles larkyns, who had kept a friendly eye on our hero, had spied his condition, and had sprung to his assistance. he was closely followed by the pet, who had divested himself of the gown which had encumbered his shoulders, and was now freely striking out in all directions. the fight had become general, and fresh combatants had sprung up on either side. "keep close to me, verdant," said charles larkyns,--quite unnecessarily, by the way, as our hero had no intention of doing otherwise until he saw a way to escape; "keep close to me, and i'll take care you are not hurt." [illustration] "here ye are!" cried the pet, as he set his back against the stone-work flanking the iron gates of the church, immediately in front of one of the curiously twisted pillars of the porch;[ ] "come on, half a dozen of ye, and let me have a rap at your smellers!" and he looked at the mob in the "come one, come all defiant" fashion of fitz-james; while charles larkyns and verdant set their backs against the church gates, and prepared for a rush. the bargee came up furious, and hit out wildly at charles larkyns; but science was more than a match for brute force; and, after receiving two or three blows which caused him to shake his head in a don't-like-it sort of way, he endeavoured to turn his attention to mr. verdant green, who, with head in air, was taking the greatest care of his spectacles, and endeavouring to ward off the indiscriminate lunges of half a dozen townsmen. the bargee's charitable designs on our hero were, however, frustrated by the opportune appearance of mr. blades and mr. cheke, the gentleman-commoner of corpus, who, in their turn, were closely followed by mr. smalls and mr. flexible shanks; and mr. blades exclaiming, "there's a smasher for your ivories, my fine fellow!" followed up his remark with a practical application of his fist to the part referred to; whereupon the bargee fell back with a howl, and gave vent to several curse-ory observations, and blank remarks. [illustration] all this time the pet was laying about him in the most determined manner; and, to judge from his professional observations, his scientific acquirements were in full play. he had agreeable remarks for each of his opponents; and, doubtless, the punishment which they received from his stalwart arms came with more stinging force when the parts affected were pointed out by his illustrative language. to one gentleman he would pleasantly observe, as he tapped him on the chest, "bellows to mend for you, my buck!" or else, "there's a regular rib-roaster for you!" or else, in the still more elegant imagery of the bing, "there's a squelcher in the bread-basket, that'll stop _your_ dancing, my kivey!" while to another he would cheerfully remark, "your head-rails were loosened there, wasn't they?" or, "how about the kissing-trap?" or, "that draws the bung from the beer-barrel i'm a thinkin'." while to another he would say, as a fact not to be disputed, "you napp'd it heavily on your whisker-bed, didn't you?" or, "that'll raise a tidy mouse on your ogle, my lad!" or, "that'll take the bark from your nozzle, and distil the dutch pink for you, won't it?" while to another he would mention as an interesting item of news, "now we'll tap your best october!" or, "there's a crack on your snuff-box!" or, "that'll damage your potato-trap!" or else he would kindly inquire of one gentleman, "what d'ye ask a pint for your cochineal dye?" or would amiably recommend another that, as his peepers were a goin' fast, he'd best put up the shutters, because the early-closing movement ought to be follered out. all this was done in the cheeriest manner; while, at the same time, the pet proved himself to be not only a perfect master of his profession, but also a skilful adept in those figures of speech, or "nice derangements of epitaphs," as mrs. malaprop calls them, in which the admirers of the fistic art so much delight. at every blow, a fresh opponent either fell or staggered off; the supremacy of the pet was complete, and his claim to be considered a professor of the noble and manly art of self-defence was triumphantly established. "the putney pet" was a decidedly valuable acquisition to the side of gown. soon the crowd became thinner, as those of the town who liked to give, but not to receive hard blows, stole off to other quarters; and the pet and his party would have been left peaceably to themselves. but this was not what they wanted, as long as fighting was going on elsewhere; even mr. verdant green began to feel desperately courageous as the town took to their heels, and fled; and, having performed prodigies of valour in almost knocking down a small cad who had had the temerity to attack him, our hero felt himself to be a hero indeed, and announced his intention of pursuing the mob, and sticking close to charles larkyns,--taking especial care to do the latter. "all the savage soul of _fight_ was up;" and the gown following the scattered remnant of the flying town, ran them round by all saints' church, and up the turl. here another town and gown party had fought their way from the corn-market; and the gown, getting considerably the worst of the conflict, had taken refuge within exeter college by the express order of the senior proctor, the rev. thomas tozer, more familiarly known as "old towzer." he had endeavoured to assert his proctorial authority over the mob of the townspeople; but the _profanum vulgus_ had not only scoffed and jeered him, but had even torn his gown, and treated his velvet sleeves with the indignity of mud; while the only fireworks which had been exhibited on that evening had been let off in his very face. pushed on, and hustled by the mob, and only partially protected by his marshal and bull-dogs,[ ] he was saved from further indignity by the arrival of a small knot of gownsmen, who rushed to his rescue. their number was too small, however, to make head against the mob, and the best that they could do was to cover the proctor's retreat. now, the rev. thomas tozer was short, and inclined to corpulence, and, although not wanting for courage, yet the exertion of defending himself from a superior force, was not only a fruitless one, but was, moreover, productive of much unpleasantness and perspiration. deeming, therefore, that discretion was the better part of valour, he fled, (like those who tended, or _ought_ to have attended to, the flocks of mr. norval, sen.) "for safety and for succour;" and, being rather short of the necessary article of wind, by the time that he had reached exeter college, he had barely breath enough left to tell the porter to keep the gate shut until he had assembled a body of gownsmen to assist him in capturing those daring ringleaders of the mob who had set his authority at defiance. this was soon done; the call to arms was made, and every exeter man who was not already out, ran to "old towzer's" assistance. "now, porter," said mr. tozer, "unbar the gate without noise, and i will look forth to observe the position of the mob. gentlemen, hold yourselves in readiness to secure the ringleaders." the porter undid the wicket, and the rev. thomas tozer cautiously put forth his head. it was a rash act; for, no sooner had his nose appeared round the edge of the wicket, than it received a flattening blow from the fist of an active gentleman who, like a clever cricketer, had been on the lookout for an opportunity to get in to his adversary's wicket. "oh, this is painful! this is very painful!" ejaculated mr. tozer, as he rapidly drew in his head. "close the wicket directly, porter, and keep it fast." it was like closing the gates of hougomont. the active gentleman who had damaged mr. tozer's nose threw himself against the wicket, his comrades assisted him, and the porter had some difficulty in obeying the proctor's orders. "oh, this is painful!" murmured the rev. thomas tozer, as he applied a handkerchief to his bleeding nose; "this is painful, this is very painful! this is exceedingly painful, gentlemen!" he was immediately surrounded by sympathising undergraduates, who begged him to allow them at once to charge the town; but "old towzer's" spirit seemed to have been aroused by the indignity to which he had been forced so publicly to submit, and he replied that, as soon as the bleeding had ceased, he would lead them forth in person. an encouraging cheer followed this courageous resolve, and was echoed from without by the derisive applause of the town. [illustration] when mr. tozer's nose had ceased to bleed, the signal was given for the gates to be thrown open; and out rushed proctor, marshall, bull-dogs, and undergraduates. the town was in great force, and the fight became desperate. to the credit of the town, be it said, they discarded bludgeons and stones, and fought, in john bull fashion, with their fists. scarcely a stick was to be seen. singling out his man, mr. tozer made at him valiantly, supported by his bull-dogs, and a small band of gownsmen. but the heavy gown and velvet sleeves were a grievous hindrance to the proctor's prowess; and, although supported on either side by his two attendant bull-dogs, yet the weight of his robes made poor mr. tozer almost as harmless as the blind king of bohemia between his two faithful knights at the battle of crecy; and, as each of the party had to look to, and fight for himself, the senior proctor soon found himself in an awkward predicament. the cry of "gown to the rescue!" therefore, fell pleasantly on his ears; and the reinforcement headed by mr. charles larkyns and his party, materially improved the aspect of affairs on the side of gown. knocking down a cowardly fellow, who was using his heavy-heeled boots on the body of a prostrate undergraduate, mr. blades, closely followed by the pet, dashed in to the proctor's assistance; and never in a town and gown was assistance more timely rendered; for the rev. thomas tozer had just received his first knock-down blow! by the help of mr. blades the fallen chieftain was quickly replaced upon his legs; while the pet stepped before him, and struck out skilfully right and left. ten more minutes of scientific pugilism, and the fate of the battle was decided. the town fled every way; some round the corner by lincoln college; some up the turl towards trinity; some down ship street; and some down by jesus college, and market street. a few of the more resolute made a stand in broad street; but it was of no avail; and they received a sound punishment at the hands of the gown, on the spot, where, some three centuries before, certain mitred gownsmen had bravely suffered martyrdom.[ ] now, the rev. thomas tozer was a strict disciplinarian, and, although he had so materially benefited by the pet's assistance, yet, when he perceived that that pugilistic gentleman was not possessed of the full complement of academical attire, the duties of the proctor rose superior to the gratitude of the man; and, with all the sternness of an ancient roman father, he said to the pet, "why have you not on your gown, sir?" [illustration] "i ax your pardon, guv'nor!" replied the pet, deferentially; "i didn't so much care about the mortar-board, but i couldn't do nothin' nohow with the t'other thing, so i pocketted him; but some cove must have gone and prigged him, for he ain't here." "i am unable to comprehend the nature of your language, sir," observed the rev. thomas tozer, angrily; for, what with his own excitement, and the shades of evening which had stolen over and obscured the pet's features, he was unable to read that gentleman's character and profession in his face, and therefore came to the conclusion that he was being chaffed by some impudent undergraduate. "i dou't in the least understand you, sir; but i desire at once to know your name, and college, sir!" the putney pet stared. if the rev. thomas tozer had asked him for the name of his academy, he would have been able to have referred him to his spacious and convenient sparring academy, , cribb court, drury lane; but the enquiry for his "college," was, in the language of his profession, a "regular floorer." mr. blades, however, stepped forward, and explained matters to the proctor, in a satisfactory manner. "well, well!" said the pacified mr. tozer to the pet; "you have used your skill very much to our advantage, and displayed pugilistic powers not unworthy of the athletes, and xystics of the noblest days of rome. as a palæstrite you would have gained palms in the gymnastic exercises of the circus maximus. you might even have proved a formidable rival to dares, who, as you, mr. blades, will remember, caused the death of butes at hector's tomb. you will remember, mr. blades, that virgil makes mention of his 'humeros latos' and says:-- "'nec quisquam ex agmine tanto audet adire virum, manibusque inducere cæstus;'[ ] "which, in our english idiom, would signify, that every one was afraid to put on the gloves with him. and, as your skill," resumed mr. tozer, turning to the pet, "has been exercised in defence of my person, and in upholding the authority of the university, i will overlook your offence in assuming that portion of the academical attire, to which you gave the offensive epithet of "mortar-board;" more especially, as you acted at the suggestion and bidding of those who ought to have known better. and now, go home, sir, and resume your customary head-dress; and--stay! here's five shillings for you." "i'm much obleeged to you, guv'nor," said the pet, who had been listening with considerable surprise to the proctor's quotations and comparisons, and wondering whether the gentleman named dares, who caused the death of beauties, was a member of the p.r., and whether they made it out a case of manslaughter against him? and if the gaining palms in a circus was the customary "flapper-shaking" before "toeing the scratch for business?"--"i'm much obleeged to you, guv'nor," said the pet, as he made a scrape with his leg; "and, whenever you _does_ come up to london, i 'ope you'll drop in at cribb court, and have a turn with the gloves!" and the pet, very politely, handed one of his professional cards to the rev. thomas tozer. a little later than this, a very jovial supper party might have been seen assembled in a principal room at "the roebuck." to enable them to be back within their college walls, and save their gates, before the hour of midnight should arrive, the work of consuming the grilled bones and welch-rabbits was going on with all reasonable speed, the heavier articles being washed down by draughts of "heavy." after the cloth was withdrawn, several songs of a miscellaneous character were sung by "the professional gentlemen present," including, "by particular request," the celebrated "marble halls" song of our hero, which was given with more coherency than on a previous occasion, but was no less energetically led in its "you-loved-me-still-the-same" chorus by mr. bouncer. the pet was proudly placed on the right hand of the chairman, mr. blades; and, when his health was proposed, "with many thanks to him for the gallant and plucky manner in which he had led on the gown to a glorious victory," the "three times three," and the "one cheer more," and the "again," and "again," and the "one other little un!" were uproariously given (as mr. foote expressed it) "by the whole strength of the company, assisted by messrs. larkyns, smalls, fosbrooke, flexible shanks, cheke, and verdant green." the forehead of the last-named gentleman was decorated with a patch of brown paper, from which arose an aroma, as though of vinegar. the battle of "town and gown" was over; and mr. verdant green was among the number of the wounded. footnotes: [ ] town and gown disturbances are of considerable antiquity. fuller and matthew paris give accounts of some which occurred as early as the year . these disputes not unfrequently terminated fatally to some of the combatants. one of the most serious town and gown rows on record took place on the day of st. scholastica the virgin, february th, , when several lives were lost on either side. the university was at that time in the lincoln diocese; and grostête, the bishop, placed the townspeople under an interdict, from which they were not released till , and then only on condition that the mayor and sixty of the chief burgesses should, on every anniversary of the day of st. scholastica, attend st. mary's church and offer up mass for the souls of the slain scholars; and should also individually present an offering of one penny at the high altar. they, moreover, paid a yearly fine of marks to the university, with the penalty of an additional fine of the same sum for every omission in attending at st. mary's. this continued up to the time of the reformation, when it gradually fell into abeyance. in the fifteenth year of elizabeth, however, the university asserted their claim to all arrears. the matter being brought to trial, it was decided that the town should continue the annual fine and penance, though the arrears were forgiven. the fine was yearly paid on the th of february up to our own time: the mayor and chief burgesses attended at st. mary's, and made the offering at the conclusion of the litany, which, on that occasion, was read from the altar. thia was at length put an end to by convocation in the year . [ ] corrupted by oxford pronunciation (which makes magdalen _maudlin_ into st _old's_.) [ ] "a bachelor of arts," act i. [ ] the great bell of christ church. it tolls times each evening at ten minutes past nine o'clock (there being students on the foundation) and marks the time for the closing of the college gates. "tom" is one of the lions of oxford. it formerly belonged to oseney abbey, and weighs about , pounds, being more than double the weight of the great bell of st. paul's. [ ] the porch was erected in by order of archbishop laud. in the centre of the porch is a statue of the virgin with the child in her arms, holding a small crucifix; which at the time of its erection gave such offence to the puritans that it was included in the articles of impeachment against the archbishop. the statue remains to this day. [ ] the marshal is the proctor's chief officer. the name of 'bull-dogs' is given to the two inferior officers who attend the proctor in his nightly rounds. [ ] the _exact_ spot where archbishop cranmer and bishops ridley and latimer suffered martyrdom is not known. "the most likely supposition is, that it was in the town ditch, the site of which is now occupied by the houses in broad street, which are immediately opposite the gateway of balliol college, or the footpath in front of them, where an extensive layer of wood-ashes is known to remain."--(parker.) [ ] Æn., book v., . chapter v. mr. verdant green is favoured with mr. bouncer's opinions regarding an undergraduate's epistolary communications to his maternal relative. [illustration] "come in, whoever you are! don't mind the dogs!" shouted little mr. bouncer, as he lay, in an extremely inelegant attitude, in a red morocco chair, which was considerably the worse for wear, chiefly on account of the ill-usage it had to put up with, in being made to represent its owner's antagonist, whenever mr. bouncer thought fit to practise his fencing. "oh! it's you and giglamps, is it, charley? i'm just refreshing myself with a weed, for i've been desperately hard at work." "what! harry bouncer devoting himself to study! but this is the age of wonders," said charles larkyns, who entered the room in company with mr. verdant green, whose forehead still betrayed the effects of the blow he had received a few nights before. [illustration] "it ain't reading that i meant," replied mr. bouncer, "though that always _does_ floor me, and no mistake! and what's the use of their making us peg away so at latin and greek, i can't make out. when i go out into society, i don't want to talk about those old greek and latin birds that they make us get up. i don't want to ask any old dowager i happen to fall in with at a tea-fight, whether she believes all the crammers that herodotus tells us, or whether she's well up in the naughty tales and rummy nuisances that we have to pass no end of our years in getting by heart. and when i go to a ball, and do the light fantastic, i don't want to ask my partner what she thinks about euripides, or whether she prefers ovid's metamorphoses to ovid's art of love, and all that sort of thing; and as for requesting her to do me a problem of euclid, instead of working me any glorified slippers or woolleries, i'd scorn the _h_action. i ain't like you, charley, and i'm not _guv_ in the classics: i saw too much of the beggars while i was at eton to take kindly to 'em; and just let me once get through my greats, and see if i don't precious soon drop the acquaintance of those old classical parties!" "no you won't, old fellow!" said charles larkyns; "you'll find that they'll stick to you through life, just like poor relations, and you won't be able to shake them off. and you ought not to wish to do so, more especially as, in the end, you will find them to have been very rich relations." "a sort of 'o my prophetic soul, my uncle!' i suppose, master charley," observed mr. bouncer; "but what i meant when i said that i had been hard at work, was, that i had been writing a letter; and, though i say it that ought not to say it, i flatter myself it's no end of a good letter." "is it a love-letter?" asked charles larkyns, who was leaning against the mantelpiece, amusing himself with a cigar which he had taken from mr. bouncer's box. "a love-letter?" replied the little gentleman, contemptuously--"my gum! no; i should rayther think not! i may have done many foolish things in my life, but i can't have the tender passion laid to my charge. no! i've been writing my letter to the mum: i always write to her once a term." mr. bouncer, it must be observed, always referred to his maternal relative (his father had been long dead) by the epithet of "the mum." "once a term!" said our hero, in a tone of surprise; "why i always write home once or twice every week." "you don't mean to say so, giglamps!" replied mr. bouncer, with admiration. "well, some fellers have what you call a genius for that sort of thing, you see, though what you can find to tell 'em i can't imagine. but if i'd gone at that pace i should have got right through the guide book by this time, and then it would have been all u p, and i should have been obleeged to have invented another dodge. you don't seem to take, giglamps?" "well, i really don't know what you mean," answered our hero. "why," continued mr. bouncer, "you see, there's only the mum and fanny at home: fanny's my sister, giglamps--a regular stunner--just suit you!--and they, you understand, don't care to hear about wines, and town and gowns, and all that sort of thing; and, you see, i ain't inventive and that, and can't spin a yarn about nothing; so, as soon as ever i came up to oxford, i invested money in a guide book; and i began at the beginning, and i gave the mum three pages of guide book in each letter. of course, you see, the mum imagines it's all my own observation; and she thinks no end of my letters, and says that they make her know oxford almost as well as if she lived here; and she, of course, makes a good deal of me; and as oxford's the place where i hang out, you see, she takes an interest in reading something about the jolly old place." "of course," observed mr. verdant green; "my mamma--mother, at least--and sisters, always take pleasure in hearing about oxford; but your plan never occurred to me." "it's a first-rater, and no mistake," said mr. bouncer, confidently, "and saves a deal of trouble. i think of taking out a patent for it--'bouncer's complete letter-writer'--or get some literary swell to put it into a book, 'with a portrait of the inventor;' it would be sure to sell. you see, it's what you call amusement blended with information; and that's more than you can say of most men's letters to the home department." "cocky palmer's, for instance," said charles larkyns, "which always contained a full, true, and particular account of his wheatley doings. he used to go over there, verdant, to indulge in the noble sport of cock-fighting, for which he had a most unamiable and unenviable weakness; that was the reason why he was called 'cocky' palmer. his elder brother--who was a pembroke man--was distinguished by the pronomen 'snuffy,' to express his excessive partiality for that titillating compound." "and snuffy palmer," remarked mr. bouncer, "was a long sight better feller than cocky, who was in the very worst set in brazenface. but cocky did the wheatley dodge once too often, and it was a good job for the king of oude when his friend cocky came to grief, and had to take his name off the books." "you look as though you wanted a translation of this," said charles larkyns to our hero, who had been listening to the conversation with some wonderment,--understanding about as much of it as many persons who attend the st. james's theatre understand the dialogue of the french plays. "there are college _cabalia_, as well as jewish; and college surnames are among these. 'the king of oude' was a man of the name of towlinson, who always used to carry into hall with him a bottle of '_the king of oxide's sauce_,' for which he had some mysterious liking, and without which he professed himself unable to get through his dinner. at one time he was a great friend of cocky palmer's, and used to go with him to the cock-fights at wheatley--that village just on the other side shotover hill--where we did a 'constitutional' the other day. cocky, as our respected friend says, 'came to grief,' but was allowed to save himself from expulsion by voluntarily, or rather in-voluntarily, taking his name off the books. when his connection with cocky had thus been ruthlessly broken, 'the king' got into a better set, and retrieved his character." "the moral of which, my beloved giglamps," observed mr. bouncer, "is, that there are as many sets of men in a college as there are of quadrilles in a ball-room, and that it's just as easy to take your place in one as it is in another; but, that when you've once taken up your position, you'll find it ain't an easy thing, you see, to make a change for yourself, till the set is broken up. whereby, giglamps, you may comprehend what a grateful bird you ought to be, for charley's having put you into the best set in brazenface." mr. verdant green was heard to murmur, "sensible of honour,--grateful for kindness,--endeavours to deserve,"--and the other broken sentiments which are commonly made use of by gentlemen who get upon their legs to return thanks for having been "tea-potted." "if you like to hear it," said mr. bouncer, "i'll read you my letter to the mum. it ain't very private; and i flatter myself, giglamps, that it'll serve you as a model." "let's have it by all means, harry," said charles larkyns. "it must be an interesting document; and i am curious to hear what it is that you consider a model for epistolary communication from an undergraduate to his maternal relative." [illustration] "off she goes then;" observed mr. bouncer; "lend me your ears--list, list, o list! as the recruiting-sergeant or some other feller says in the play. 'now, my little dears! look straight for'ard--blow your noses, and don't brathe on the glasses!'" and mr. bouncer read the letter, interspersing it with explanatory observations:-- "'_my dearest mother,--i have been quite well since i left you, and i hope you and fanny have been equally salubrious._'--that's doing the civil, you see: now we pass on to statistics.--'_we had rain the day before yesterday, but we shall have a new moon to-night._'--you see, the mum always likes to hear about the weather, so i get that out of the almanack. now we get on to the interesting part of the letter.--'_i will now tell you a little about merton college._'--that's where i had just got to. we go right through the guide book, you understand.--'_the history of this establishment is of peculiar importance, as exhibiting the primary model of all the collegiate bodies in oxford and cambridge. the statutes of walter de merton had been more or less copied by all other founders in succession; and the whole constitution of both universities, as we now behold them, may be, not without reason, ascribed to the liberality and munificence of this truly great man._'--truly great man! that's no end good, ain't it? observed mr. bouncer, in the manner of the 'mobled queen is good' of polonius.--'_his sagacity and wisdom led him to profit by the spirit of the times; his opulence enabled him to lay the foundation of a nobler system; and the splendour of his example induced others, in subsequent ages, to raise a superstructure at once attractive and solid._'--that's piling it up mountaynious, ain't it?--'_the students were no longer dispersed through the streets and lanes of the city, dwelling in insulated houses, halls, inns, or hostels, subject to dubious control and precarious discipline._'--that's stunnin', is'nt it? just like those times fellers write.--'_but placed under the immediate superintendence of tutors and governors, and lodged in comfortable chambers. this was little less than an academical revolution; and a new order of things may be dated from this memorable era. love to fanny; and, believe me your affectionate son, henry bouncer._'--if the mum don't say that's first-rate, i'm a dutchman! you see, i don't write very close, so that this respectably fills up three sides of a sheet of note-paper. oh, here's something over the leaf. '_p.s. i hope stump and rowdy have got something for me, because i want some tin very bad._' that's all! well, giglamps! don't you call that quite a model letter for a university man to send to his tender parient?" "it certainly contains some interesting information," said our hero, with a quaker-like indirectness of reply. "it seems to me, harry," said charles larkyns, "that the pith of it, like a lady's letter, lies in the postscript--the demand for money." "you see," observed the little gentleman in explanation, "stump and rowdy are the beggars that have got all my property till i come of age next year; and they only let me have money at certain times, because it's what they facetiously call _tied-up_: though _why_ they've tied it up, or _where_ they've tied it up, i hav'nt the smallest idea. so, though i tick for nearly everything,--for men at college, giglamps, go upon tick as naturally as the crows do on the sheep's backs,--i sometimes am rather hard up for ready dibs; and then i give the mum a gentlemanly hint of this, and she tips me. by-the-way," continued mr. bouncer, as he re-read his postscript, "i must alter the word 'tin' into 'money'; or else she'll be taking it literally, just as she did with the ponies. know what a pony is, giglamps?" "why, of course i do," replied mr. verdant green; "besides which, i have kept one: he was an exmoor pony,--a bay one, with a long tail." [illustration] "oh, giglamps!' you'll be the death of me some fine day," faintly exclaimed little mr. bouncer, as he slowly recovered from an exhausting fit of laughter. "you're as bad as the mum was. a pony means twenty-five pound, old feller. but the mum didn't know that; and when i wrote to her and said, 'i'm very short; please to send me two ponies;' meaning, of course, that i wanted fifty pound; what must she do, but write back and say, that, with some difficulty, she had procured for me two shetland ponies, and that, as i was short, she hoped they would suit my size. and, before i had time to send her another letter, the two little beggars came. well, i couldn't ride them both at once, like the fellers do at astley's; so i left one at tollitt's, and i rode the other down the high, as cool as a cucumber. you see, though i ain't a giant, and that, yet i was big for the pony; and as shelties are rum-looking little beggars, i dare say we look'd rather queer and original. but the proctor happened to see me; and he cut up so doosed rough about it, that i couldn't show on the shelties any more; and tollit was obliged to get rid of them for me." "well, harry," said charles larkyns; "it is to tollitt's that you must now go, as you keep your horse there. we want you to join us in a ride." "what!" cried out mr. bouncer, "old giglamps going outside an oxford hack once more! why, i thought you'd made a vow never to do so again?" "why, i certainly did so," replied mr. verdant green; "but charles larkyns, during the holidays--the vacation, at least--was kind enough to take me out several rides; so i have had a great deal of practice since last term." "and you don't require to be strapped on, or to get inside and pull down the blinds?" inquired mr. bouncer. "oh dear, no!" [illustration] the fact was, that during the long vacation charles larkyns had paid considerable attention to our hero's equestrian exercises; not so much, it must be confessed, out of friendship for his friend, as that he might have an opportunity of riding by the side of that friend's fair sister mary, for whom he entertained something more than a partiality. and herein, probably, mr. charles larkyns showed both taste and judgment. for there may be many things less pleasant in this world than cantering down a green warwickshire lane--on some soft summer's day when the green is greenest and the blossoms brightest--side by side with a charming girl whose nature is as light and sunny as the summer air and the summer sky. pleasant it is to watch the flushing cheek glow rosier, than the rosiest of all the briar-roses that stoop to kiss it. pleasant it is to look into the lustrous light of tender eyes; and to see the loosened ringlets reeling with the motion of the ride. pleasant it is to canter on from lane to lane over soft moss, and springy turf, between the high honeysuckle hedges, and the broad-branched beeches that meet overhead in a tangled embrace. but pleasanter by far than all is it, to hug to one's heart the darling fancy that she who is cantering on by your side in all the witchery of her maiden beauty, holds you in her dearest thoughts, and dowers you with all her wealth of love. pleasant rides indeed, pleasant fancies, and pleasant day-dreams, had the long vacation brought to charles larkyns! "well, come along, verdant," said mr. larkyns, "we'll go to charley symonds' and get our hacks. you can meet us, harry, just over the maudlin bridge; and we'll have a canter along the henley road." so mr. verdant green and his friend walked into holywell street, and passed under the archway up to symonds' stables. but the nervous trepidation which our hero had felt in the same place on a previous occasion returned with full force when his horse was led out in an exuberantly playful and "fresh" condition. the beast he had bestridden during his long vacation rides, with his sister and his (and sister's) friend, was a cob-like steed, whose placidity of temper was fully equalled by its gravity of demeanour; and who would as soon have thought of flying over a five-bar gate as he would of kicking up his respectable heels both behind and before in the low-lived manner recorded of the ethiopian "old joe." but, if "charley symonds'" hacks had been of this pacific and easy-going kind, it is highly probable that mr. c. s. and his stud would not have acquired that popularity which they had deservedly achieved. for it seems to be a _sine-quâ-non_ with an oxford hack, that to general showiness of exterior, it must add the power of enduring any amount of hard riding and rough treatment in the course of the day which its _pro-tem._ proprietor may think fit to inflict upon it; it being an axiom which has obtained, as well in universities as in other places, that it is of no advantage to hire a hack unless you get out of him as much as you can for your money, you won't want to use him to-morrow, so you don't care about over-riding him to-day. [illustration] but, all this time, mr. verdant green is drawing on his gloves, in the nervous manner that tongue-tied gentlemen go through the same performance during the conversational spasms of the first-set of quadrilles; the groom is leading out the exuberantly playful quadruped on whose back mr. verdant green is to disport himself; charles larkyns is mounted; the november sun is shining brightly on the perspective of the yard and stables, and the tower of new college; the dark archway gives one a peep of holywell street; while the cold blue sky is flecked with gleaming pigeons. at last, mr. verdant green has scrambled into his saddle, and is riding cautiously down the yard, while his heart beats in an alarming alarum-like way. as they ride under the archway, there, in the little room underneath it, is mr. four-in-hand fosbrooke, selecting his particular tandem-whip from a group of some two score of similar whips kept there in readiness for their respective owners. "charley, you're a beast!" says mr. fosbrooke, politely addressing himself to mr. larkyns; "i wanted bouncer to come with me in the cart to abingdon, and i find that the little man is engaged to you." upon which, mr. fosbrooke playfully raising his tandem-whip, mr. verdant green's horse plunges, and brings his rider's head into concussion with the lamp which hangs within the gateway; whereupon, the hat falls off, and our hero is within an ace of following his hat's example. [illustration] by a powerful exertion, however, he recovers his proper position in the saddle, and proceeds in an agitated and jolted condition, by charles larkyns's side, down holywell street, past the music room,[ ] and round by the long wall, and over magdalen bridge. here they are soon joined by mr. bouncer, mounted, according to the custom of small men, on one of tollitt's tallest horses, of ever-so-many hands high. as by this time our hero has got more accustomed to his steed, his courage gradually returns, and he rides on with his companions very pleasantly, enjoying the magnificent distant view of his university. when they have passed cowley, some very tempting fences are met with; and mr. bouncer and mr. larkyns, being unable to resist their fascinations, put their horses at them, and leap in and out of the road in an insane vandycking kind of way; while an excited agriculturist, whose smock-frock heaves with indignation, pours down denunciations on their heads. "blow that bucolical party!" says mr. bouncer; "he's no right to interfere with the enjoyments of the animals. if they break the fences, it ain't their faults; it's the fault of the farmers for not making the fences strong enough to bear them. come along, giglamps! put your beast at that hedge! he'll take you over as easy as if you were sitting in an arm-chair." [illustration] but mr. verdant green has doubts about the performance of this piece of equestrian upholstery; and, thinking that the arm-chair would soon become a reclining one, he is firm in his refusal to put the leaping powers of his steed to the test. but having, afterwards, obtained some "jumping powder" at a certain small road-side hostelry to which mr. bouncer has piloted the party, our hero, on his way back to oxford, screws up his courage sufficiently to gallop his steed desperately at a ditch which yawns, a foot wide, before him. but to his immense astonishment--not to say, disgust--the obtuse-minded quadruped gives a leap which would have taken him clear over a canal; and our hero, not being prepared for this very needless display of agility, flies off the saddle at a tangent, and finds that his "vaulting ambition," had o'erleap'd itself, and fallen on the other side--of the ditch. "it ain't your fault, giglamps!" says mr. bouncer, when he has galloped after verdant's steed, and has led it up to him, and when he has ascertained that his friend is not in the least hurt; but has only broken--his glasses; "it ain't your fault, giglamps, old feller! it's the clumsiness of the hack. he tossed you up, and could'nt catch you again!" and so our hero rides back to oxford. but, before the term has ended, he has become more accustomed to oxford hacks, and has made himself acquainted with the respective merits of the stables of messrs. symonds, tollitt, and pigg; and has, moreover, ridden with the drag, and, in this way, hunted the fabled foxes of bagley wood, and whichwood forest. chapter vi. mr. verdant green feathers his oars with skill and dexterity. november is not always the month of fog and mist and dulness. oftentimes there are brilliant exceptions to that generally-received rule of depressing weather, which, in this month (according to our lively neighbours), induces the natives of our english metropolis to leap in crowds from the bridge of waterloo. there are in november, days of calm beauty, which are peculiar to that month--that kind of calm beauty which is so often seen as the herald of decay. [illustration] but, whatever weather the month may bring to oxford, it never brings gloom or despondency to oxford men. they are a happily constituted set of beings, and can always create their own amusements; they crown minerva with flowers without heeding her influenza, and never seem to think that the rosy-bosomed hours may be laid up with bronchitis. winter and summer appear to be pretty much the same to them: reading and recreation go hand-in-hand all the year round; and, among other pleasures, that of boating finds as many votaries in cold november, as it did in sunny june--indeed, the chilness of the air, in the former month, gives zest to an amusement which degenerates to hard labour in the dog-days. the classic isis in the month of november, therefore, whenever the weather is anything like favourable, presents an animated scene. eight-oars pass along, the measured pull of the oars in the rowlocks marking the time in musical cadence with their plashing dip in the water; perilous skiffs flit like fire-flies over the glassy surface of the river; men lounge about in the house-boats and barges, or gather together at king's, or hall's, and industriously promulgate small talk and tobacco-smoke. all is gay and bustling. although the feet of the strollers in the christ-church meadows rustle through the sere and yellow leaf, yet rich masses of brown and russet foliage still hang upon the trees, and light up into gold in the sun. the sky is of a cold but bright blue; the distant hills and woods are mellowed into sober purplish-gray tints, but over them the sun looks down with that peculiar red glow which is only seen in november. [illustration] it was one of these bright days of "the month of gloom," that mr. verdant green and mr. charles larkyns being in the room of their friend, mr. bouncer, the little gentleman inquired, "now then! what are you two fellers up to? i'm game for anything, i am! from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter." "i'm afraid," said charles larkyns, "that we can't accommodate you in either amusement, although we are going down to the river, with which verdant wishes to renew his acquaintance. last term, you remember, you picked him up in the gut, when he had been played with at pitch-and-toss in a way that very nearly resembled manslaughter." "i remember, i remember, how old giglamps floated by!" said mr. bouncer; "you looked like a half-bred mermaid giglamps." "but the gallant youth," continued mr. larkyns, "undismayed by the perils from which he was then happily preserved, has boldly come forward and declared himself a worshipper of isis, in a way worthy of the ancient egyptians, or of tom moore's epicurean." "well! stop a minute you fellers," said mr. bouncer; "i must have my beer first: i can't do without my bass relief. i'm like the party in the old song, and i likes a drop of good beer." and as he uncorked a bottle of bass, little mr. bouncer sang, in notes as musical as those produced from his own tin horn-- "'twixt wet and dry i always try between the extremes to steer; though i always shrunk from getting----intoxicated, i was always fond of my beer! for i likes a drop of good beer! i'm particularly partial to beer! porter and swipes always give me the----stomach-ache! but that's never the case with beer!" "bravo, harry!" cried charles larkyns; "you roar us an' twere any nightingale. it would do old bishop still's heart good to hear you; and 'sure _i_ think, that _you_ can drink with any that wears a hood,' or that _will_ wear a hood when you take your bachelor's, and put on your gown." and charles larkyns sang, rather more musically than mr. bouncer had done, from that song which, three centuries ago, the bishop had written in praise of good ale,-- let back and side go bare, go bare, both hand and foot go cold: but, belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old. [illustration] they were soon down at the river side, where verdant was carefully put into a tub (alas! the dear, awkward, safe, old things are fast passing away; they are giving place to suicidal skiffs, and will soon be numbered among the boats of other days!)--and was started off with almost as much difficulty as on his first essay. the tub--which was, indeed, his old friend the _sylph_,--betrayed an awkward propensity for veering round towards folly bridge, which our hero at first failed to overcome; and it was not until he had performed a considerable amount of crab-catching, that he was enabled to steer himself in the proper direction. charles larkyns had taken his seat in an outrigger skiff (so frail and shaky that it made verdant nervous to look at it), and, with one or two powerful strokes, had shot ahead, backed water, turned, and pulled back round the tub long before verdant had succeeded in passing that eccentric mansion, to which allusion has before been made, as possessing in the place of cellars, an ingenious system of small rivers to thoroughly irrigate its foundation--a hydropathic treatment which may (or may not) be agreeable in venice, but strikes one as being decidedly cold and comfortless when applied to oxford,--at any rate, in the month of november. walking on the lawn which stretched from this house towards the river, our hero espied two extremely pretty young ladies, whose hearts he endeavoured at once to take captive by displaying all his powers in that elegant exercise in which they saw him engaged. it may reasonably be presumed that mr. verdant green's hopes were doomed to be blighted. let us leave him, and take a look at mr. bouncer. mr. bouncer had been content to represent the prowess of his college in the cricket-field, and had never aspired to any fame as an oar. the exertions, as well as the fame, of aquatic honours, he had left to mr. blades, and those others like him, who considered it a trifle to pull down to iffley and back again, two or three times a day, at racing pace with a fresh spurt put on every five minutes. mr. bouncer, too, had an antipathy to eat beefsteaks otherwise than in the state in which they are usually brought to table; and, as it seemed a _sine quâ non_ with the gentleman who superintended the training for the boat-races, that his pupils should daily devour beefsteaks which had merely looked at the fire, mr. bouncer, not having been brought up to cannibal habits, was unable to conform himself to this, and those other vital principles which seemed to regulate the science of aquatic training. the little gentleman moreover, did not join with the "torpids" (as the second boats of a college are called), either, because he had a soul above them,--he would be _aut cæsar, aut nullus_; either in the eight, or nowhere,--or else, because even the torpids would cause him more trouble and pleasurable pain than would be agreeable to him. when mr. bouncer sat down on any hard substance, he liked to be able to do so without betraying any emotion that the action caused him personal discomfort; and he had noticed that many of the torpids--not to mention one or two of the eight--were more particular than young men usually are about having a very easy, soft, and yielding chair to sit on. mr. bouncer, too, was of opinion that continued blisters were both unsightly and unpleasant; and that rawness was bad enough when taken in conjunction with beefsteaks, without being extended to one's own hands. he had also a summer passion for ices and creams, which were forbidden luxuries to one in training,--although (paradoxical as it may seem to say so) they trained, on isis! he had also acquired a bad habit of getting up in one day, and going to bed in the next,--keeping late hours, and only rising early when absolutely compelled to do so in order to keep morning chapel--a habit which the trainer would have interfered with, considerably to the little gentleman's advantage. he had also an amiable weakness for pastry, port, claret, "et _hock_ genus omne;" and would have felt it a cruelty to have been deprived of his daily modicum of "smoke;" and in all these points, boat-training would have materially interfered with his comfort. mr. bouncer, therefore, amused himself equally as much to his own satisfaction as if he had been one of the envied eight, by occasionally paddling about with charles larkyns in an old pair-oar, built by davis and king, and bought by mr. bouncer of its late brazenfacian proprietor, when that gentleman, after a humorous series of plucks, rustications, and heavy debts, had finally been compelled to migrate to the king's bench, for that purification of purse and person commonly designated "whitewashing." when charles larkyns and his partner did not use their pair-oar, the former occupied his outrigger skiff; and the latter, taking huz and buz on board a sailing boat, tacked up and down the river with great skill, the smoke gracefully curling from his meerschaum or short black pipe,--for mr. bouncer disapproved of smoking cigars at those times when the wind would have assisted him to get through them. [illustration] "hullo, giglamps! here we are! as the clown says in the pantermime," sung out the little gentleman as he came up with our hero, who was performing some extraordinary feats in full sight of the university crew, who were just starting from their barge; "you get no end of exercise out of your tub, i should think, by the style you work those paddles: they go in and out beautiful! splish, splash; splish, splash! you must be one of the _wherry_ identical row-brothers-row, whose voices kept tune and whose oars kept time, you know. you ought to go and splish-splash in the freshman's river, giglamps;--but i forgot--you ain't a freshman now, are you, old feller? those swells in the university boats look as though they were bursting with envy--not to say, with laughter," added mr. bouncer, _sotto voce_. "who taught you to do the dodge in such a stunning way, giglamps?" "why, last term, charles larkyns did," responded mr. verdant green, with the freshness of a freshman still lingering lovingly upon him. "i've not forgotten what he told me,--to put in my oar deep, and to bring it out with a jerk. but though i make them go as deep as i can, and jerk them out as much as possible, yet the boat _will_ keep turning round, and i can't keep it straight at all; and the oars are very heavy and unmanageable, and keep slipping out of the rowlocks--" "commonly called _rullochs_," put in mr. bouncer, as a parenthetical correction, or marginal note on mr. verdant green's words. "and when the trinity boat went by, i could scarcely get out of their way; and they said very unpleasant things to me; and, altogether, i can assure you that it has made me very hot." "and a capital thing, too, giglamps, this cold november day," said mr. bouncer; "i'm obliged to keep my coppers warm with this pea-coat, and my pipe. charley came alongside me just now, on purpose to fire off one of his poetical quotations. he said that i reminded him of beattie's _minstrel_:-- "'dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, save one short pipe.' "i think that was something like it. but you see, giglamps, i haven't got a figure-head for these sort of things like charley has, so i couldn't return his shot; but since then, to me deeply pondering, as those old greek parties say, a fine sample of our superior old crusted jokes has come to hand; and when charley next pulls alongside, i shall tell him that i am like that beggar we read about in old slowcoach's lecture the other day, and that, if i had been in the humour, i could have sung out, io bacche![ ] _i owe baccy_--d'ye see, giglamps? well, old feller! you look rather puffed, so clap on your coat; and, if there's a rope's end, or a chain, in your tub, and you'll just pay it out here, i'll make you fast astern, and pull you down the river; and then you'll be in prime condition to work yourself up again. the wind's in our back, and we shall get on jolly." [illustration] so our hero made fast the tub to his friend's sailing-boat, and was towed as far as the haystack. during the voyage mr. bouncer ascertained that mr. charles larkyns had improved some of the shining hours of the long vacation considerably to mr. verdant green's benefit, by teaching him the art of swimming--a polite accomplishment of which our hero had been hitherto ignorant. little mr. bouncer, therefore, felt easier in his mind, if any repetition of his involuntary bath in the gut should befal our hero; and, after giving him (wonderful to say) some correct advice regarding the management of the oars, he cast off the _sylph_, and left her and our hero to their own devices. but, profiting by the friendly hints which he had received, mr. verdant green made considerable progress in the skill and dexterity with which he feathered his oars; and he sat in his tub looking as wise as diogenes may (perhaps) have done in _his_. he moreover pulled the boat back to hall's without meeting with any accident worth mentioning; and when he had got on shore he was highly complimented by mr. blades and a group of boating gentlemen "for the admirable display of science which he had afforded them." mr. verdant green was afterwards taken alternately by charles larkyns and mr. bouncer in their pair-oar; so that, by the end of the term, he at any rate knew more of boating than to accept as one of its fundamental rules, "put your oar in deep, and bring it out with a jerk." in the first week in december he had an opportunity of pulling over a fresh piece of water. one of those inundations occurred to which oxford is so liable, and the meadow-land to the south and west of the city was covered by the flood. boats plied to and from the railway station in place of omnibuses; the great western was not to be seen for water; and, at the abingdon-road bridge, at cold-harbour, the rails were washed away, and the trains brought to a stand-still. the isis was amplified to the width of the christchurch meadows; the broad walk had a peep of itself upside down in the glassy mirror; the windings of the cherwell could only be traced by the trees on its banks. there was "water, water everywhere;" and a disagreeable quantity of it too, as those christchurch men whose ground-floor rooms were towards the meadows soon discovered. mr. bouncer is supposed to have brought out one of his "fine, old, crusted jokes," when he asserted in reference to the inundation, that "nature had assumed a lake complexion." posts and rails, and hay, and a miscellaneous collection of articles, were swept along by the current, together with the bodies of hapless sheep and pigs. but, in spite of these incumbrances, boats of all descriptions were to be seen sailing, pulling, skiffing, and punting, over the flooded meadows. numerous were the disasters, and many were the boats that were upset. [illustration] indeed, the adventures of mr. verdant green would probably have here terminated in a misadventure, had he not (thanks to charles larkyns) mastered the art of swimming; for he was in mr. bouncer's sailing-boat, which was sailing very merrily over the flood, when its merriness was suddenly checked by its grounding on the stump of a lopped pollard willow, and forthwith capsizing. our hero, who had been sitting in the bows, was at once swept over by the sail, and, for a moment, was in great peril; but, disengaging himself from the cordage, he struck out, and swam to a willow whose friendly boughs and top had just formed an asylum for mr. bouncer, who in great anxiety was coaxing huz and buz to swim to the same ark of safety. mr. verdant green and mr. bouncer were speedily rescued from their position, and were not a little thankful for their escape. footnotes: [ ] now used for the museum of the oxford architectural society. [ ] ----"si collibuisset, ab ovo usque ad mala citaret, io bacche!"--hor. sat. lib. i. . chapter vii. mr. verdant green partakes of a dove-tart and a spread-eagle. "hullo, giglamps, you lazy beggar!" said the cheery voice of little mr. bouncer, as he walked into our hero's bedroom one morning towards the end of term, and found mr. verdant green in bed, though sufficiently awakened by the sounding of mr. bouncer's octaves for the purposes of conversation; "this'll never do, you know, giglamps! cutting chapel to do the downy! why, what do you mean, sir? didn't you ever learn in the nursery what happened to old daddy long-legs when he wouldn't say his prayers?" "robert _did_ call me," said our hero, rubbing his eyes; "but i felt tired, so i told him to put in an _æger_." "upon my word, young 'un," observed mr. bouncer, "you're a coming it, you are! and only in your second term, too. what makes you wear a nightcap, giglamps? is it to make your hair curl, or to keep your venerable head warm? nightcaps ain't healthy; they are only fit for long-tailed babbies, and old birds that are as bald as coots; or else for gents that grease their wool with 'thine incomparable oil, macassar,' as the noble poet justly remarks." [illustration] [illustration] "it ain't always pleasant," continued the little gentleman, who was perched up on the side of the bed, and seemed in a communicative disposition, "it ain't always pleasant to turn out for morning chapel, is it, giglamps? but it's just like the eels with their skinning: it goes against the grain at first, but you soon get used to it. when i first came up, i was a frightful lazy beggar, and i got such a heap of impositions for not keeping my morning chapels, that i was obliged to have three fellers constantly at work writing 'em out for me. this was rather expensive, you see; and then the dons threatened to take away my term altogether, and bring me to grief, if i didn't be more regular. so i was obliged to make a virtuous resolution, and i told robert that he was to insist on my getting up in a morning, and i should tip him at the end of term if he succeeded. so at first he used to come and hammer at the door; but that was no go. so then he used to come in and shake me, and try to pull the clothes off; but, you see, i always used to prepare for him, by taking a good supply of boots and things to bed with me; so i was able to take shies at the beggar till he vanished, and left me to snooze peaceably. you see, it ain't every feller as likes to have a wellington boot at his head; but that rascal of a robert is used to those trifles, and i was obliged to try another dodge. this you know was only of a morning when i was in bed. when i had had my breakfast, and got my imposition, and become virtuous again, i used to slang him awful for having let me cut chapel; and then i told him that he must always stand at the door until he heard me out of bed. but, when the morning came, it seemed running such a risk, you see to one's lungs and all those sort of things to turn out of the warm bed into the cold chapel, that i would answer robert when he hammered at the door; but, instead of getting up, i would knock my boots against the floor, as though i was out of bed, don't you see, and was padding about. but that wretch of a robert was too old a bird to be caught with this dodge; so he used to sing out, 'you must show a leg, sir!' and, as he kept on hammering at the door till i _did_--for, you see, giglamps, he was looking out for the tip at the end of term, so it made him persevere--and as his beastly hammering used, of course, to put a stopper on my going to sleep again, i used to rush out in a frightful state of wax, and show a leg. and then, being well up, you see, it was no use doing the downy again, so it was just as well to make one's _twilight_ and go to chapel. don't gape, giglamps; it's beastly rude, and i havn't done yet. i'm going to tell you another dodge--one of old small's. he invested money in an alarum, with a string from it tied on to the bed-clothes, so as to pull them off at whatever time you chose to set it. but i never saw the fun of being left high and dry on your bed: it would be a shock to the system which i couldn't stand. but even this dreadful expedient would be better than posting an _æger_; which, you know, you didn't ought to was, giglamps. well, turn out, old feller! i've told robert to take your commons[ ] into my room. smalls and charley are coming, and i've got a dove-tart and a spread-eagle." "whatever are they?" asked mr. verdant green. "not know what they are!" cried mr. bouncer; "why a dove-tart is what mortals call a pigeon-pie. i ain't much in tennyson's line, but it strikes me that dove-tarts are more poetical than the other thing; spread-eagle is a barn-door fowl smashed out flat, and made jolly with mushroom sauce, and no end of good things. i don't know how they squash it, but i should say that they sit upon it; i daresay, if we were to inquire, we should find that they kept a fat feller on purpose. but you just come, and try how it eats." and, as mr. verdant green's bedroom barely afforded standing room, even for one, mr. bouncer walked into the sitting-room, while his friend arose from his couch like a youthful adonis, and proceeded to bathe his ambrosial person, by taking certain sanatory measures in splashing about in a species of tub--a performance which mr. bouncer was wont to term "doing tumbies." [illustration] "what'll you take for your letters, giglamps?" called out the little gentleman from the other room; "the post's in, and here are three for you. two are from women,--young uns i should say, from the regular ups and downs, and right angles: they look like billyduxes. give you a bob for them, at a venture! they may be funny. the other is suspiciously like a tick, and ought to be looked shy on. i should advise you not to open it, but to pitch it in the fire: it may save a fit of the blues. if you want any help over shaving, just say so, giglamps, will you, before i go; and then i'll hold your nose for you, or do anything else that's civil and accommodating. and, when you've done your tumbies, come in to the dove-tart and the spread-eagle." and off went mr. bouncer, making terrible noises with his post-horn, in his strenuous but futile endeavours to discover the octaves. our hero soon concluded his "tumbies" and his dressing (_not_ including the shaving), and made his way to mr. bouncer's rooms, where he did full justice to the dove-tart, and admired the spread-eagle so much, that he thought of bribing the confectioner for the recipe to take home as a christmas-box for his mother. "well, giglamps," said mr. bouncer, when breakfast was over, "to spare the blushes on your venerable cheeks, i won't even so much as refer to the billy duxes; but, i'll only ask, what was the damage of the tick?" "oh! it was not a bill," replied mr. verdant green; "it was a letter about a dog from the man of whom i bought mop last term." "what! filthy lucre?" cried mr. bouncer; "well, i thought, somehow, i knew the fist! he writes just as if he'd learnt from imitating his dogs' hind-legs. let's have a sight of it if it ain't private and confidential!" "oh dear no! on the contrary, i was going to show it to you, and ask your advice on the contents." and verdant handed to mr. bouncer a letter, which had been elaborately sealed with the aid of a key, and was directed high up in the left-hand corner to "virdon grene esqre braisenface collidge oxford." [illustration] "you look beastly lazy, charley!" said mr. bouncer to mr. charles larkyns; "so, while i fill my pipe, just spit out the letter, _pro bono_." and charles larkyns, lying in mr. bouncer's easiest lounging chair, read as follows:-- "onnerd sir i tak the libbaty of a dressin of you in respex of a dog which i wor sorry for to ear of your loss in mop which i had the pleshur of sellin of you onnerd sir a going astray and not a turnin hup bein of a unsurtin tempor and guv to a folarin of strandgers which wor maybe as ow you wor a lusein on him onnerd sir bein overdogd at this ere present i can let you have a rale good teryer at a barrging which wold giv sattefacshun onnered sir it wor munth ago i sold to bounser esqre a red smooth air terier dog anserin nam of tug as wor rite down goodun and no mistake onnerd sir the purpurt of this ere is too say as ow i have a hone brother to tug black tann and ful ears and if you wold like him i shold bee prowd too wate on you onnerd sir he wor by robbingsons twister out of mister jones of abingdons fan of witch brede bounser esqre nose on the merritts onnerd sir he is very smal and smooth air and most xlent aither for wood or warter a liter before tug onnerd sir is nam is vermin and he hant got his nam by no mistake as no vermin not even poll katts can live long before him onnerd sir i considders as vermin is very sootble compannion for a gent indors or hout and bein lively wold give amoosement i shall fele it a plesure a waitin on you onnerd sir opin you will pardin the libbaty of a dressin of you but my head wor ful of vermin and i wishd to tel you "onnerd sir yures komand j. looker." "the nasty beggar!" said mr. bouncer, in reference to the last paragraph. "well, giglamps! filthy lucre does'nt tell fibs when he says that tug came of a good breed: but he was so doosed pugnacious, that he was always having set-to's with huz and buz, in the coal-shop just outside the door here; and so, as i'd nowhere else to stow them, i was obliged to give tug away. dr. what's-his-name says, 'let dogs delight to bark and bite, for 'tis their nature to.' but then, you see, it's only a delight when they bite _somebody else's_ dog; and if dr. what's-his-name had had a kennel of his own, he would'nt have took it so coolly; and, whether it was their nature so to do or not, he would'nt have let the little beggars, that he fork'd out thirteen bob a-year for to the government, amuse themselves by biting each other, or tearing out each other's eyes; he'd have turn'd them over, don't you see, to his neighbours' dogs, and have let them do the biting department on _them_. and, altogether, giglamps, i'd advise you to let filthy lucre's vermin alone, and have nothing to do with the breed." so mr. verdant green took his friend's advice, and then took himself off to learn boxing at the hands, and gloves, of the putney pet; for our hero, at the suggestion of mr. charles larkyns, had thought it advisable to receive a few lessons in the fistic art, in order that he might be the better able to defend himself, should he be engaged in a second town and gown. he found the pet in attendance upon mr. foote; and, by their mutual aid, speedily mastered the elements of the art of self-defence. mr. foote's rooms at st. john's were in the further corner to the right-hand side of the quad, and had windows looking into the gardens. when charles had held his court at st. john's, and when the loyal college had melted down its plate to coin into money for the king's necessities, the royal visitor had occupied these very rooms. but it was not on this account alone that they were the show rooms of the college, and that tutors sent their compliments to mr. foote, with the request that he would allow a party of friends to see his rooms. it was chiefly on account of the lavish manner in which mr. foote had furnished his rooms, with what he theatrically called "properties," that made them so sought out: and country lionisers of oxford, who took their impressions of an oxford student's room from those of mr. foote, must have entertained very highly coloured ideas of the internal aspect of the sober-looking old colleges. the sitting-room was large and lofty, and was panelled with oak throughout. at the further end was an elaborately carved book-case of walnut wood, filled with books gorgeously bound in every tint of morocco and vellum, with their backs richly tooled in gold. it was currently reported in the college that "footelights" had given an order for a certain number of _feet_ of books,--not being at all proud as to their contents,--and had laid down the sum of a thousand pounds (or thereabouts) for their binding. this might have been scandal; but the fact of his father being a colossus of (the iron) roads, and indulging his son and heir in every expense, gave some colour to the rumour. the panels were covered with the choicest engravings (all proofs-before-letters), and with water-colour drawings by cattermole, cox, fripp, hunt, and frederick tayler--their wide, white margins being sunk in light gilt frames. above these gleamed groups of armour, standing out effectively (and theatrically), against the dark oak panels, and full of "reflected lights," that would have gladdened the heart of maclise. there were couches of velvet, and lounging chairs of every variety and shape. there was a broadwood's grand piano-forte, on which mr. foote, although uninstructed, could play skilfully. there were round tables and square tables, and writing tables; and there were side tables with statuettes, and swiss carvings, and old china, and gold apostle-spoons, and lava ware, and etruscan vases, and a swarm of spiers's elegant knick-knackeries. there were reading-stands of all sorts; briarean-armed brazen ones that fastened on to the chair you sat in,--sloping ones to rest on the table before you, elaborately carved in open work, and an upright one of severe gothic, like a lectern, where you were to stand and read without contracting your chest. then there were all kinds of stands to hold books: sliding ones, expanding ones, portable ones, heavy fixture ones, plain mahogany ones, and oak ones made glorious by margetts with the arms of oxford and st. john's, carved and emblazoned on the ends. [illustration] mr. foote's rooms were altogether a very gorgeous instance of a collegian's apartment; and mr. foote himself was a very striking example of the theatrical undergraduate. possessing great powers of mimicry and facial expression, he was able to imitate any peculiarities which were to be observed either in dons or undergraduates, in presidents or scouts. he could sit down at his piano, and give you--after the manner of theodore hook, or john parry--a burlesque opera; singing high up in his head for the prima donna, and going down to his boots for the _basso profondo_ of the great lablache. he could also draw corks, saw wood, do a bee in a handkerchief, and make monkeys, cats, dogs, a farm-yard, or a full band, with equal facility. he would also give you mr. keeley, in "betsy baker;" mr. paul bedford, as "i believe you my bo-o-oy!" mr. buckstone, as cousin joe, and "box and cox;" or mr. wright, as paul pry, or mr. felix fluffy. besides the comedians, mr. footelights would also give you the leading tragedians, and would favour you (through his nose) with the popular burlesque imitation of mr. charles kean, as _hablet_. he would fling himself down on the carpet, and grovel there, as hamlet does in the play-scene, and would exclaim, with frantic vehemence, "he poisods hib i' the garded, for his estate. his dabe's godzago: the story is extadt, ad writted id very choice italiad. you shall see adod, how the burderer gets the love of godzago's wife." moreover, as his room possessed the singularity of a trap-door leading down into a wine-cellar, mr. "footelights" was thus enabled to leap down into the aperture, and carry on the personation of hamlet in ophelia's grave. as the theatrical trait in his character was productive of much amusement, and as he was also considered to be one of those hilarious fragments of masonry, popularly known as "jolly bricks," mr. foote's society was greatly cultivated; and mr. verdant green struck up a warm friendship with him. but the michaelmas term was drawing to its close. buttery and kitchen books were adding up their sums total; bursars were preparing for battels;[ ] witless men were cramming for collections;[ ] scouts and bedmakers were looking for tips; and tradesmen were hopelessly expecting their little accounts. and, in a few days, mr. verdant green might have been seen at the railway station, in company with mr. charles larkyns and mr. bouncer, setting out for the manor green, _viâ_ london--this being, as is well known, the most direct route from oxford to warwickshire. mr. bouncer, who when travelling was never easy in his mind unless huz and buz were with him in the same carriage, had placed these two interesting specimens of the canine species in a small light box, partially ventilated by means of holes drilled through the top. but huz and buz, not much admiring this contracted mode of conveyance, and probably suffering from incipient asphyxia, in spite of the admonitory kicks against their box, gave way to dismal howls, at the very moment when the guard came to look at the tickets. "can't allow dogs in here, sir! they must go in the locker," said the guard. "dogs?" cried mr. bouncer, in apparent astonishment: "they're rabbits!" "rabbits!" ejaculated the guard, in his turn. "oh, come, sir! what makes rabbits bark?" "what makes 'em bark? why, because they've got the pip, poor beggars!" replied mr. bouncer, promptly. at which the guard graciously laughed, and retired; probably thinking that he should, in the end, be a gainer if he allowed huz and buz to journey in the same first-class carriage with their master. footnotes: [ ] the rations of bread, butter, and milk, supplied from the buttery. the breakfast-giver tells his scout the names of those in-college men who are coming to breakfast with him. the scout then collects their commons, which thus forms the substratum of the entertainment. the other things are of course supplied by the giver of the breakfast, and are sent in by the confectioner. as to the knives and forks and crockery, the scout produces them from his common stock. [ ] battels are the accounts of the expenses of each student. it is stated in todd's _johnson_ that this singular word is derived from the saxon verb, meaning "to count or reckon." but it is stated in the _gentleman's magazine_ for , that the word may probably be derived from the low-german word _bettahlen_, "to pay," whence may come our english word, _tale_ or _score_. [ ] college terminal examinations. chapter viii. mr. verdant green spends a merry christmas and a happy new year. christmas had come; the season of kindness, and hospitality; the season when the streams of benevolence flow full in their channels; the season when the honourable miss hyems indulges herself with ice, while the vulgar jack frost regales himself with cold-without. christmas had come, and had brought with it an old fashioned winter; and, as mr. verdant green stands with his hands in his pockets, and gazes from the drawing-room of his paternal mansion, he looks forth upon a white world. the snow is everywhere. the shrubs are weighed down by masses of it; the terrace is knee-deep in it; the plaster apollo, in the long-walk, is more than knee-deep in it, and is furnished with a surplice and wig, like a half-blown bishop. the distant country looks the very ghost of a landscape: the white-walled cottages seem part and parcel of the snow-drifts around them,--drifts that take every variety of form, and are swept by the wind into faëry wreaths, and fantastic caves. the old mill-wheel is locked fast, and gemmed with giant icicles; its slippery stairs are more slippery than ever. golden gorse and purple heather are now all of a colour; orchards puts forth blossoms of real snow; the gently swelling hills look bright and dazzling in the wintry sun; the grey church tower has grown from grey to white; nothing looks black, except the swarms of rooks that dot the snowy fields, or make their caws (long as any chancery-suit) to be heard from among the dark branches of the stately elms that form the avenue to the manor-green. [illustration] it is a rare busy time for the intelligent mr. mole the gardener! he is always sweeping at that avenue, and, do what he will, he cannot keep it clear from snow. as mr. verdant green looks forth upon the white world, his gaze is more particularly directed to this avenue, as though the form of the intelligent mr. mole was an object of interest. from time to time mr. verdant green consults his watch in a nervous manner, and is utterly indifferent to the appeals of the robin-redbreast who is hopping about outside, in expectation of the dinner which has been daily given to him. [illustration] just when the robin, emboldened by hunger, has begun to tap fiercely with his bill against the window-pane, as a gentle hint that the smallest donations of crumbs of comfort will be thankfully received,--mr. verdant green, utterly oblivious of robins in general, and of the sharp pecks of this one in particular, takes no notice of the little redbreast waiter with the bill, but, slightly colouring up, fixes his gaze upon the lodge-gate through which a group of ladies and gentlemen are passing. stepping back for a moment, and stealing a glance at himself in the mirror, mr. verdant green hurriedly arranges and disarranges his hair--pulls about his collar--ties and unties his neck-handkerchief--buttons and then unbuttons his coat--takes another look from the window--sees the intelligent mr. mole (besom in hand) salaaming the party, and then makes a rush for the vestibule, to be at the door to receive them. let us take a look at them as they come up the avenue. _place aux dames_, is the proper sort of thing; but as there is no rule without its exception, and no adage without its counter-proverb, we will give the gentlemen the priority of description. hale and hearty, the picture of amiability and gentlemanly feeling, comes the rector, mr. larkyns, sturdily crunching the frozen snow, which has defied all the besom powers of the intelligent mr. mole. here, too, is mr. charles larkyns, and, moreover, his friend henry bouncer, esq., who has come to christmas at the rectory. following in their wake is a fourth gentleman attired in the costume peculiar to clergymen, dissenting ministers, linen-drapers' assistants, and tavern waiters. he happens to belong to the first-named section, and is no less a person than the rev. josiah meek, b.a., (st. christopher's coll., oxon.)--who, for the last three months, has officiated as mr. larkyns's curate. he appears to be of a peace-loving, lamb-like disposition; and, though sportive as a lamb when occasion requires, is yet of timid ways and manners. he is timid, too, in voice,--speaking in a feeble treble; he is timid, too, in his address,--more particularly as regards females; and he has mild-looking whiskers, that are far too timid to assume any decided or obtrusive colour, and have fallen back on a generalised whitey-brown tint. but, though timid enough in society, he was bold and energetic in the discharge of his pastoral duties, and had already won the esteem of every one in the parish. so, verdant had been told, when, on his return from college, he had asked his sisters how they liked the new curate. they had not only heard of his good deeds, but they had witnessed many of them in their visits to the schools and among the poor. mary and fanny were loud in his praise; and if helen said but little, it was perhaps because she thought the more; for helen was now of the susceptible age of "sweet seventeen," an age that not only feels warmly but thinks deeply; and, who shall say what feelings and thoughts may be beneath the pure waters of that sea of maidenhood whose surface is so still and calm? love alone can tell:--love, the bold diver, who can cleave that still surface, and bring up into the light of heaven the rich treasures that are of heaven's own creation. with the four gentlemen come two ladies--young ladies, moreover, who, as penny-a-liners say, are "possessed of considerable personal attractions." these are the misses honeywood, the blooming daughters of the rector's only sister; and they have come from the far land of the north, and are looking as fresh and sweet as their own heathery hills. the roses of health that bloom upon their cheeks have been brought into full blow by the keen, sharp breeze; the shepherd's-plaid shawls drawn tightly around them give the outline of figures that gently swell into the luxuriant line of beauty and grace. altogether, they are damsels who are pleasant to the eye, and very fair to look upon. since they had last visited their uncle four years had passed, and, in that time, they had shot up to womanhood, although they were not yet out of their teens. their father was a landed proprietor living in north northumberland; and, like other landed proprietors who live under the shade of the cheviots, was rich in his flocks, and his herds, and his men-servants and his maid-servants, and his he-asses and his she-asses, and was quite a modern patriarch. during the past summer, the rector had taken a trip to northumberland, in order to see his sister, and refresh himself with a clergyman's fortnight at honeywood hall, and he would not leave his sister and her husband until he had extracted from them a promise that they would bring down their two eldest daughters and christmas in warwickshire. this was accordingly agreed to, and, more than that, acted upon; and little mr. bouncer and his sister fanny were asked to meet them; but, to relieve the rector of a superfluity of lady guests, miss bouncer's quarters had been removed to the manor green. it was quite an event in the history of our hero and his sisters. four years ago, they, and kitty and patty honeywood, were mere chits, for whom dolls had not altogether lost their interest, and who considered it as promotion when they sat in the drawing-room on company evenings, instead of being shown up at dessert. four years at this period of life makes a vast change in young ladies, and the green and honeywood girls had so altered since last they met, that they had almost needed a fresh introduction to each other. but a day's intimacy made them bosom friends; and the manor green soon saw such revels as it had not seen for many a long year. every night there were (in the language of the play-bills of provincial theatres) "singing and dancing, with a variety of other entertainments;" the "other entertainments" occasionally consisting (as is scandalously affirmed) of a very favourite class of entertainment--popular at all times, but running mad riot at the christmas season--wherein two performers of either sex take their places beneath a white-berried bough, and go through a species of dance, or _pas de fascination_, accompanied by mysterious rites and solemnities that have been scrupulously observed, and handed down to us, from the earliest age. [illustration] mr. verdant green, during the short--alas! _too_ short--christmas week, had performed more polkas than he had ever danced in his life; and, under the charming tuition of miss patty honeywood, was fast becoming a proficient in the _valse à deux temps_. as yet, the whirl of the dance brought on a corresponding rotatory motion of the brain, that made everything swim before his spectacles in a way which will be easily understood by all bad travellers who have crossed from dover to calais with a chopping sea and a gale of wind. but miss patty honeywood was both good-natured and persevering: and she allowed our hero to dance on her feet without a murmur, and watchfully guided him when his giddy vision would have led them into contact with foreign bodies. it is an old saying, that gratitude begets love. mr. verdant green had already reached the first part of this dangerous creation, for he felt grateful to the pretty patty for the good-humoured trouble she bestowed on the awkwardness, which he now, for the first time, began painfully to perceive. but, what his gratitude might end in, he had perhaps never taken the trouble to inquire. it was enough to mr. verdant green that he enjoyed the present; and, as to the future, he fully followed out the horatian precept-- quid sit futurum cras, fuge quærere; ... nec dulces amores sperne, puer, neque tu choreas. [illustration] it was perhaps ungrateful in our hero to prefer miss patty honeywood to miss fanny bouncer, especially when the latter was staying in the house, and had been so warmly recommended to his notice by her vivacious brother. especially, too, as there was nothing to be objected to in miss bouncer, saving the fact that some might have affirmed she was a trifle too much inclined to _embonpoint_, and was indeed a bouncer in person as well as in name. especially, too, as miss fanny bouncer was both good-humoured and clever, and, besides being mistress of the usual young-lady accomplishments, was a clever proficient in the fascinating art of photography, and had brought her camera and chemicals, and had not only calotyped mr. verdant green, but had made no end of duplicates of him, in a manner that was suggestive of the deepest admiration and affection. but these sort of likings are not made to rule, and mr. verdant green could see miss fanny bouncer approach without betraying any of those symptoms of excitement, under the influence of which we had the privilege to see him, as he gazed from the window of his paternal mansion, and then, on beholding the approaching form of miss patty honeywood, rush wildly to the vestibule. the party had no occasion to ring, for the hall door was already opened for them, and mr. verdant green was soon exchanging a delightful pressure of the hand with the blooming patty. "we were such a formidable party," said that young lady, as she laughed merrily, and thereby disclosed to the enraptured gazer a remarkably even set of white teeth ("all her own, too!" as little mr. bouncer afterwards remarked to the enraptured gazer); "we were such a formidable party," said miss patty, "that papa and mamma declared they would stay behind at the rectory, and would not join in such a visitation." mr. verdant green replies, "oh dear! i am very sorry," and looks remarkably delighted--though it certainly may not be at the absence of the respected couple; and he then proclaims that everything is ready, and that miss bouncer and his sisters had found out some capital words. "what a mysterious communication, verdant!" remarks the rector, as they pass into the house. but the rector is only to be let so far into the secret as to be informed that, at the evening party which is to be held at the manor green that night, a charade or two will be acted, in order to diversify the amusements. the misses honeywood are great adepts in this sort of pastime; so, also, are miss bouncer and her brother. for although the latter does not shine as a mimic, yet, as he is never deserted by his accustomed coolness, he has plenty of the _nonchalance_ and readiness which is a requisite for charade acting. the miss honeywoods and mr. bouncer have therefore suggested to mr. verdant green and his sisters, that to get up a little amateur performance would be "great fun;" and the suggestion has met with a warm approval. the drawing-room at the manor green opened by large folding-doors to the library; so (as mr. bouncer observed to our hero), "there you've got your stage and your drop-scene as right as a trivet; and, if you stick a lot of candles and lights on each side of the doors in the library, there you'll have a regular flare-up that'll show off your venerable giglamps no end." so charades were determined on; and, when words had been hunted up, a council of war was called. but, as the ladies and gentlemen hold their council with closed doors, we cannot intrude upon them. we must therefore wait till the evening, when the result of their deliberations will be publicly manifested. chapter ix. mr. verdant green makes his first appearance on any boards. it is the last night of december. the old year, worn out and spent with age, lies a dying, wrapped in sheets of snow. [illustration] a stern stillness reigns around. the steps of men are muffled; no echoing footfalls disturb the solemn nature of the time. the little runnels weep icy tears. the dark pines hang out their funereal plumes, and nod with their weight of snow. the elms have thrown off their green robes of joy, and, standing up in gaunt nakedness, wildly toss to heaven their imploring arms. the old year lies a dying. silently through the snow steal certain carriages to the portals of the manor green: and, with a ringing of bells and a banging of steps, the occupants disappear in a stream of light that issues from the hall door. mr. green's small sanctum to the right of the hall has been converted into a cloak-room, and is fitted up with a ladies'-maid and a looking-glass, in a manner not to be remembered by the oldest inhabitant. there the finishing stroke of ravishment is given to the toilette disarranged by a long drive through the impeding snow. there miss parkington (whose papa has lately revived his old school friendship with mr. green) discovers, to her unspeakable disgust, that the ten mile drive through the cold has invested her cheek with purple tints, and given to her _retroussé_ (ill-natured people call it "pug") nose a hue that mocks the turkey's crested fringe. [illustration] there, too, miss waters (whose paternities had hitherto only been on morning-call terms with the manor green people, but had brushed up their acquaintance now that there was a son of marriageable years and heir to an independent fortune) discovers to her dismay that the joltings received during a six-mile drive through snowed-up lanes, have somewhat deteriorated the very full-dress aspect of her attire, and considerably flattened its former balloon-like dimensions. and there, too, miss brindle (whose family have been hunted up for the occasion) makes the alarming discovery that, in the lurch which their hack-fly had made at the cross roads, her brother alfred's patent boots had not only dragged off some yards (more or less) of her flounces, but had also--to use her own mystical language--"torn her skirt at the gathers!" all, however, is put right as far as possible. a warm at the sanctum's fire diminishes the purple in miss parkington's cheeks; and the maid, by some hocus-pocus peculiar to her craft, again inflates miss waters into a balloon, and stitches up miss brindle's flounces and "gathers." the ladies join their respective gentlemen, who have been cooling their toes and uttering warm anathemas in the hall; and the party sail, arm-in-arm, into the drawing-room, and forthwith fall to lively remarks on that neutral ground of conversation, the weather. [illustration] mr. verdant green is there, dressed with elaborate magnificence; but he continues in a state of listless apathy, and is indifferent to the "lively" rattle of the balloon-like miss waters, until john the footman (who is suffering from influenza) rouses him into animation by the magic talisman "bister, bissis, an' the biss 'oneywoods;" when he beams through his spectacles in the most benign and satisfied manner. the misses honeywood are as blooming as usual: the cold air, instead of spoiling their good looks, has but improved their healthy style of beauty; and they smile, laugh, and talk in a perfectly easy, unaffected, and natural manner. mr. verdant green at once makes his way to miss patty honeywood's side, and, gracefully standing beside her, coffee-cup in hand, plunges headlong into the depths of a tangled conversation. meanwhile, the drawing-room of the manor green becomes filled in a way that has not been seen for many a long year; and the intelligent mr. mole, the gardener (who has been impressed as an odd man for the occasion, and is served up in a pseudo-livery to make him more presentible), sees more "genteel" people than have, for a long time, been visible to his naked eye. the intelligent mr. mole, when he has afterwards been restored to the bosom of mrs. mole and his family, confides to his equally intelligent helpmate that, in his opinion, "master has guv the party to get husbands for the young ladies"--an opinion which, though perhaps not founded on fact so far as it related to the party which was the subject of mr. mole's remark, would doubtless be applicable to many similar parties given under somewhat similar circumstances. it is not improbable that the intelligent mr. mole may have based his opinion on a circumstance--which, to a gentleman of his sagacity, must have carried great weight--namely, that whenever in the course of the evening the hall was made the promenade for the loungers and dancers, he perceived, firstly, that miss green was invariably accompanied by mr. charles larkyns; secondly, that the rev. josiah meek kept miss helen dallying about the wine and lemonade tray much longer than was necessary for the mere consumption of the cooling liquids; and thirdly, that miss fanny, who was a pert, talkative miss of sixteen, was continually to be found there with either mr. henry bouncer or mr. alfred brindle dancing attendance upon her. but, be this as it may, the intelligent mr. mole was impressed with the conviction that mr. green had called his young friends together as to a matrimonial auction, and that his daughters were to be put up without reserve, and knocked down to the highest bidder. all the party have arrived. the weather has been talked over for the last time (for the present); a harp, violin, and a cornet-à-piston from the county town, influenced by the spirit of gin-and-water, are heard discoursing most eloquent music in the dining-room, which has been cleared out for the dance. miss patty honeywood, accepting the offer of mr. verdant green's arm, swims joyously out of the room; other ladies and gentlemen pair, and follow: the ball is opened. a polka follows the quadrille; and, while the dancers rest awhile from their exertions, or crowd around the piano in the drawing-room to hear the balloon-like miss waters play a firework piece of music, in which execution takes the place of melody, and chromatic scales are discharged from her fingers like showers of rockets, mr. verdant green mysteriously weeds out certain members of the party, and vanishes with them upstairs. [illustration] when miss waters has discharged all her fireworks, and has descended from the throne of her music-stool, a set of lancers is formed; and, while the usual mistakes are being made in the figures, the dancers find a fruitful subject of conversation in surmises that a charade is going to be acted. the surmise proves to be correct; for when the set has been brought to an end with that peculiar in-and-out tum-tum-tiddle-iddle-tum-tum-tum movement which characterises the last figure of _les lanciers_, the trippers on the light fantastic toe are requested to assemble in the drawing-room, where the chairs and couches have been pulled up to face the folding doors that lead into the library. mr. verdant green appears; and, after announcing that the word to be acted will be one of three syllables, and that each syllable will be represented by itself, and that then the complete word will be given, throws open the folding doors for scene i. _syllable_ .--enter the miss honeywoods, dressed in fashionable bonnets and shawls. they are shown in by a footman (mr. bouncer) attired in a peculiarly ingenious and effective livery, made by pulling up the trousers to the knee, and wearing the dress-coat inside out, so as to display the crimson silk linings of the sleeves: the effect of mr. bouncer's appearance is considerably heightened by a judicious outlay of flour sprinkled over his hair. mr. bouncer (as footman) gives the ladies chairs, and inquires, "what name shall i be pleased to say, mem?" miss patty answers in a languid and fashionable voice, "the ladies louisa and arabella mountfidget." mr. bouncer evaporates with a low bow, leaving the ladies to play with their parasols, and converse. lady arabella (miss patty) then expresses a devout wish that lady trotter (wife of sir lambkin trotter, bart.), in whose house they are supposed to be, will not keep them waiting as long as she detained her aunt, lady bellwether, when the poor old lady fell asleep from sheer fatigue, and was found snoring on the sofa. lady louisa then falls to an inspection of the card-tray, and reads the paste-boards of some high-sounding titles not to be found in debrett, and expresses wonder as to where lady trotter can have picked up the duchess of ditchwater's card, as she (lady louisa) is morally convinced that her grace can never have condescended to have even sent in her card by a footman. becoming impatient at the non-appearance of lady trotter, miss patty honeywood then rings the bell, and, with much asperity of manner, inquires of mr. bouncer (as footman) if lady trotter is informed that the ladies louisa and arabella mountfidget are waiting to see her? mr. bouncer replies, with a footman's bow, and a footman's _h_exasperation of his h's, "me lady is hawcer hof your ladyships' visit; but me lady is at present hunable to happear: me lady, 'owever, has give me a message, which she hasks me to deliver to your ladyships." "then why don't you deliver it at once," says miss patty, "and not waste the valuable time of the ladies louisa and arabella mountfidget? what _is_ the message?" "me lady," replies mr. bouncer, "requests me to present her compliments to your ladyships, and begs me to hinform you that me lady is a cleaning of herself!" amid great laughter from the audience, the ladies mountfidget toss their heads and flutter grandly out of the room, followed by the floured footman; while mr. verdant green, unseen by those in front, pushes-to the folding doors, to show that the first syllable is performed. praises of the acting, and guesses at the word, agreeably fill up the time till the next scene. the revd josiah meek, who is not much used to charades, confides to miss helen green that he surmises the word to be, either "visitor" or "impudence" but, as the only ground to this surmise rests on these two words being words of three syllables, miss helen gently repels the idea, and sagely observes "we shall see more in the next scene." scene ii. _syllable_ .--the folding-doors open, and discover mr. verdant green, as a sick gentleman, lying on a sofa, in a dressing-gown, with pillows under his head, and miss patty honeywood in attendance upon him. a table, covered with glasses and medicine bottles, is drawn up to the sufferer's couch in an inviting manner. miss patty informs the sufferer that the time is come for him to take his draught. the sufferer groans in a dismal manner, and says, "oh! is it, my dear?" she replies, "yes! you must take it now;" and sternly pours some sherry wine out of the medicine bottle into a cup. the sufferer makes piteous faces, and exclaims, "it is so nasty, i can't take it, my love!" (it is to be observed that mr. verdant green, skilfully taking advantage of the circumstance that miss patty honeywood is supposed to represent the wife of the sufferer, plentifully besprinkles his conversation with endearing epithets.) when, after much persuasion and groaning, the sufferer has been induced to take his medicine, his spouse announces the arrival of the doctor; when, enter mr. bouncer, still floured as to his head, but wearing spectacles, a long black coat, and a shirt-frill, and having his dress otherwise altered so as to represent a medical man of the old school. the doctor asks what sort of a night his patient has had, inspects his tongue with professional gravity, feels his pulse, looks at his watch, and mysteriously shakes his head. he then commences thrusting and poking mr. verdant green in various parts of his body,--after the manner of doctors with their victims, and farmers with their beasts,--enquiring between each poke, "does that hurt you?" and being answered by a convulsive "oh!" and a groan of agony. the doctor then prescribes a draught to be taken every half-hour, with the pills and blister at bed-time; and, after covering his two fellow-actors with confusion, by observing that he leaves his patient in admirable hands, and, that in an affection of the heart, the application of lip-salve and warm treatment will give a decided tone to the system, and produce soothing and grateful emotions--takes his leave; and the folding-doors are closed on the blushes of miss patty honeywood, and mr. verdant green. [illustration] more applause: more agreeable conversation: more ingenious speculations. the revd. josiah meek is now of opinion that the word is either "medicine" or "suffering." miss helen still sagely observes, "we shall see more in the next scene." scene iii. _syllable_ .--mr. verdant green discovered sitting at a table furnished with pens and ink, books, and rolls of paper. mr. verdant green wears on his head a chelsea pensioner's cocked-hat (the "property" of the family,--as mr. footelights would have said), folded into a shovel shape; and is supposed to accurately represent the outside of a london publisher. to him enter mr. bouncer--the flour off his head--coat buttoned tightly to the throat, no visible linen, and wearing in his face and appearance generally, "the garb of humility." says the publisher "now, sir, please to state your business, and be quick about it: i am much engaged in looking over for the press a work of a distinguished author, which i am just about to publish." meekly replies the other, as he holds under his arm an immense paper packet: "it is about a work of my own, sir, that i have now ventured to intrude upon you. i have here, sir, a small manuscript," (producing his roll of a book), "which i am ambitious to see given to the world through the medium of your printing establishment." to him, the publisher--"already am i inundated with manuscripts on all possible subjects, and cannot undertake to look at any more for some time to come. what is the nature of your manuscript?" meekly replies the other--"the theme of my work, sir, is a history of england before the flood. the subject is both new and interesting. it is to be presumed that our beloved country existed before the flood: if so, it must have had a history. i have therefore endeavoured to fill up what is lacking in the annals of our land, by a record of its antediluvian state, adapted to the meanest comprehension, and founded on the most baseless facts. i am desirous, sir, to see myself in print. i should like my work, sir, to appear in large letters; in very large letters, sir. indeed, sir, it would give me joy, if you would condescend to print it altogether in capital letters: my _magnum opus_ might then be called with truth, a capital work." to him, the publisher--"much certainly depends on the character of the printing." meekly the author--"indeed, sir, it does. a great book, sir, should be printed in great letters. if you will permit me, i will show you the size of the letters in which i should wish my book to be printed." mr. bouncer then points out in some books on the table, the printing he most admires; and, beseeching the publisher to read over his manuscript, and think favourably of his history of england before the flood, makes his bow to mr. verdant green and the chelsea pensioner's cocked hat. more applause, and speculations. the revd. josiah meek confident that he has discovered the word. it must be either "publisher" or "authorship." miss helen still sage. scene iv. _the word._--miss bouncer discovered with her camera, arranging her photographic chemicals. she soliloquises. "there! now, all is ready for my sitter." she calls the footman (mr. verdant green), and says, "john, you may show the lady fitz-canute upstairs." the footman shows in miss honeywood, dressed in an antiquated bonnet and mantle, waving a huge fan. john gives her a chair, into which she drops, exclaiming, "what an insufferable toil it is to ascend to these elevated photographic rooms;" and makes good use of her fan. miss bouncer then fixes the focus of her camera, and begs the lady fitz-canute to sit perfectly still, and to call up an agreeable smile to her face. miss honeywood thereupon disposes her face in ludicrous "wreathed smiles;" and miss bouncer's head disappears under the velvet hood of the camera. "i am afraid," at length says miss bouncer, "i am afraid that i shall not be able to succeed in taking a likeness of your ladyship this morning." "and why, pray?" asks her ladyship with haughty surprise. "because it is a gloomy day," replies the photographer, "and much depends upon the rays of light." "then procure the rays of light!" "that is more than i can do." "indeed! i suppose if the lady fitz-canute wishes for the rays of light, and condescends to pay for the rays of light, she can obtain the rays of light." miss bouncer considers this too _exigeant_, and puts her sitter off by promising to complete a most fascinating portrait of her on some more favourable day. lady fitz-canute appears to be somewhat mollified at this, and is graciously pleased to observe, "then i will undergo the fatigue of ascending to these elevated photographic-rooms at some future period. but, mind, when i next come, that you procure the rays of light!" so she is shown out by mr. verdant green, and the folding-doors are closed amid applause, and the audience distract themselves with guesses as to the word. "photograph" is a general favourite, but is found not to agree with the three first scenes, although much ingenuity is expended in endeavouring to make them fit the word. the curate makes a headlong rush at the word "daguerreotype," and is confident that he has solved the problem, until he is informed that it is a word of more than three syllables. charles larkyns has already whispered the word to mary green; but they keep their discovery to themselves. at length, the revd. josiah meek, in a moment of inspiration, hits upon the word, and proclaims it to be calotype ("call--oh!--type;") upon which mr. alfred brindle declares to miss fanny green that he had fancied it must be that, all along, and, in fact, was just on the point of saying it: and the actors, coming in in a body, receive the violet-crowns and laurel-wreaths of praise as the meed of their exertions. perhaps, the miss honeywoods and mr. bouncer receive larger crowns than the others, but mr. verdant green gets his due share, and is fully satisfied with his first appearance on "the boards." [illustration] dancing then succeeds, varied by songs from the young ladies, and discharges of chromatic fireworks from the fingers of miss waters, for whom charles larkyns does the polite, in turning over the leaves of her music. then some carol-singers come to the hall-door, and the bells of the church proclaim, in joyful peals, the birth of the new year;--a new year of hopes, and joys, and cares, and griefs, and unions, and partings;--a new year of which, who then present shall see the end? who shall be there to welcome in its successor? who shall be absent, laid in the secret places of the earth? ah, _who_? for, even in the midst of revelry and youth, the joy-peals of those old church bells can strike the key-note of a wail of grief. another charade follows, in which new actors join. then comes a merry supper, in which mr. alfred brindle, in order to give himself courage to appear in the next charade, takes more champagne than is good for him; in which, too (probably, from similar champagney reasons), miss parkington's unfortunately self-willed nose again assumes a more roseate hue than is becoming to a maiden; in which, too, mr. verdant green being called upon to return thanks for "the ladies"--(toast, proposed in eloquent terms by h. bouncer, esq., and drunk "with the usual honours,")--is so alarmed at finding himself upon his legs, that his ideas altogether vanish, and in great confusion of utterance, he observes,--"i--i--ladies and gentlemen--feel--i--i--a--feel--assure you--grattered and flattified--i mean, flattered and gratified--being called on--return thanks--i--i--a--the ladies--give a larm to chife--i mean, charm to life--(_applause_)--and--a--a--grace by their table this presence,--i mean--a--a--(_applause_),--and joytened our eye--i mean, heighted our joy, to-night--(_applause_),--in their name--thanks--honour." mr. verdant green takes advantage of the applause which follows these incoherent remarks, and sits down, covered with confusion, but thankful that the struggle is over. more dancing follows. our hero performs prodigies in the _valse à deux temps_, and twirls about until he has not a leg left to stand upon. the harp, the violin, and the cornet-à-piston, from the county-town, play mechanically in their sleep, and can only be roused by repeated applications of gin-and-water. carriages are ordered round: wraps are in requisition: the mysterious rites under the white-berried bush are stealthily repeated for the last time: the guests depart, as it were, in a heap; the rectory party being the last to leave. the intelligent mr. mole, who has fuddled himself by an injudicious mixture of the half-glasses of wine left on the supper-table, is exasperated with the butler for not allowing him to assist in putting away the silver; and declares that he (the butler) is "a hold himage," for which, he (the intelligent mr. m.), "don't care a button!" and, as the epithet "image" appears to wondrously offend the butler, mr. mole is removed from further consequences by his intelligent wife, who is waiting to conduct her lord and master home. at length, the last light is out in the manor-green. mr. verdant green is lying uncomfortably upon his back, and is waltzing through dreamland with the blooming patty honeywood. chapter x. mr. verdant green enjoys a real cigar. the christmas vacation passed rapidly away; the honeywood family returned to the far north; and, once more, mr. verdant green found himself within the walls of brazenface. he and mr. bouncer had together gone up to oxford, leaving charles larkyns behind to keep a grace-term. charles larkyns had determined to take a good degree. for some time past, he had been reading steadily; and, though only a few hours in each day may be given to books--yet, when that is done, with regularity and painstaking, a real and sensible progress is made. he knew that he had good abilities, and he had determined not to let them remain idle any longer, but to make that use of them for which they were given to him. his examination would come on during the next term; and he hoped to turn the interval to good account, and be able in the end to take a respectable degree. he was destined for the bar; and, as he had no wish to be a briefless barrister, he knew that college honours would be of great advantage to him in his after career. he, at once, therefore, set bodily to work to read up his subjects; while his father assisted him in his labours, and mary green smiled a kind approval. meanwhile, his friends, mr. verdant green and mr. henry bouncer, were enjoying oxford life, and disporting themselves among the crowd of skaters in the christ church meadows. and a very different scene did the meadows present to the time when they had last skimmed over its surface. then, the green fields were covered with sailing-boats, out-riggers, and punts, and mr. verdant green had nearly come to an untimely end in the waters. but now the scene was changed! jack frost had stepped in, and had seized the flood in his frozen fingers, and had bound it up in an icy breast-plate. and a capital place did the meadows make for any undergraduate who was either a professed skater, or whose skating education (as in the case of our hero) had been altogether neglected. for the water was only of a moderate depth; so that, in the event of the ice giving way, there was nothing to fear beyond a slight and partial ducking. this was especially fortunate for mr. verdant green, who, after having experienced total submersion and a narrow escape from drowning on that very spot, would never have been induced to again commit himself to the surface of the deep, had he not been fully convinced that the deep had now subsided into a shallow. with his breast fortified by this resolution, he therefore fell a victim to the syren tongue of mr. bouncer, when that gentleman observed to him with sincere feeling, "giglamps, old fellow! it would be a beastly shame, when there's such jolly ice, if you did not learn to skate; especially, as i can show you the trick." for, mr. bouncer was not only skilful with his hands and arms, but could also perform feats with his feet. he could not only dance quadrilles in dress boots in a ball-room, but he could also go through the figures on the ice in a pair of skates. he could do the outside edge at a more acute angle than the generality of people; he could cut figures of eight that were worthy of cocker himself, he could display spread-eagles that would have astonished the fellows of the zoological society. he could skim over the thinnest ice in the most don't-care way; and, when at full speed, would stoop to pick up a stone. he would take a hop-skip-and-a-jump; and would vault over walking-sticks, as easily as if he were on dry land,--an accomplishment which he had learnt of the count doembrownski, a russian gentleman, who, in his own country, lived chiefly on skates, and, in this country, on pigeons, and whose short residence in oxford was suddenly brought to a full stop by the arbitrary power of the vice-chancellor. so, mr. verdant green was persuaded to purchase, and put on a pair of skates, and to make his first appearance as a skater in the christ church meadows, under the auspices of mr. bouncer. the sensation of first finding yourself in a pair of skates is peculiar. it is not unlike the sensation which must have been felt by the young bear, when he was dropped from his mamma's mouth, and, for the first time, told to walk. the poor little bear felt, that it was all very well to say "walk,"--but how was he to do it? was he to walk with his right fore-leg only? or, with his left fore-leg? or, with both his fore-legs? or, was he to walk with his right hind-leg? or, with his left hind-leg? or, with both his hind-legs? or, was he to make a combination of hind and fore-legs, and walk with all four at once? or, what was he to do? so he tried each of these ways; and they all failed. poor little bear! [illustration] mr. verdant green felt very much in the little bear's condition. he was undecided whether to skate with his right leg, or with his left leg, or with both his legs. he tried his right leg, and immediately it glided off at right angles with his body, while his left leg performed a similar and spontaneous movement in the contrary direction. having captured his left leg, he put it cautiously forwards, and immediately it twisted under him, while his right leg amused itself by describing an altogether unnecessary circle. obtaining a brief mastery over both legs, he put them forwards at the same moment, and they fled from beneath him, and he was flung--bump!--on his back. poor little bear! but, if it is hard to make a start in a pair of skates when you are in a perpendicular position, how much is the difficulty increased when your position has become a horizontal one! you raise yourself on your knees,--you assist yourself with your hands,--and, no sooner have you got one leg right, than away slides the other, and down you go. it is like the movement in that scene with the pair of short stilts, in which the french clowns are so amusing, and it is almost as difficult to perform. mr. verdant green soon found that though he might be ambitious to excel in the polite accomplishment of skating, yet that his ambition was destined to meet with many a fall. but he persevered, and perseverance will achieve wonders, especially when aided by the tuition of such an indefatigable gentleman as mr. bouncer. [illustration] "you get on stunningly, giglamps," said the little gentleman, "and hav'nt been on your beam ends more than once a minute. but i should advise you, old fellow, to get your sit-upons seated with wash-leather,--just like the eleventh hussars do with their cherry-coloured pants. it'll come cheaper in the end, and may be productive of comfort. and now, after all these exciting ups and downs, let us go and have a quiet hand at billiards." so the two friends strolled up the high, where they saw two queensmen "confessing their shame," as mr. bouncer phrased it, by standing under the gateway of their college; and went on to bickerton's, where they found all the tables occupied, and jonathan playing a match with mr. fluke of christchurch. so, after watching the celebrated marker long enough to inspire them with a desire to accomplish similar feats of dexterity, they continued their walk to broad street, and, turning up a yard opposite to the clarendon, found that betteris had an upstair room at liberty. here they accomplished several pleasing mathematical problems with the balls, and contributed their modicum towards the smoking of the ceiling of the room. since mr. verdant green had acquired the art of getting through a cigar without making himself ill, he had looked upon himself as a genuine smoker; and had, from time to time, bragged of his powers as regarded the fumigation of "the herb nicotiana, commonly called tobacco," (as the oxford statute tersely says). this was an amiable weakness on his part that had not escaped the observant eye of mr. bouncer, who had frequently taken occasion, in the presence of his friends, to defer to mr. verdant green's judgment in the matter of cigars. the train of adulation being thus laid, an opportunity was only needed to fire it. it soon came. [illustration] "once upon a time," as the story-books say, it chanced that mr. bouncer was consuming his minutes and cigars at his tobacconist's, when his eye lighted for the thousandth time on the roll of cabbage-leaves, brown paper, and refuse tobacco, which being done up into the form of a monster cigar (a foot long, and of proportionate thickness), was hung in the shop-window, and did duty as a truthful token of the commodity vended within. mr. bouncer had looked at this implement nine hundred and ninety nine times, without its suggesting anything else to his mind, than its being of the same class of art as the monster mis-representations outside wild-beast shows; but he now gazed upon it with new sensations. in short, mr. bouncer took such a fancy to the thing, that he purchased it, and took it off to his rooms,--though he did not mention this fact to his friend, mr. verdant green, when he saw him soon afterwards, and spoke to him of his excellent judgment in tobacco. "a taste for smoke comes natural, giglamps!" said mr. bouncer. "it's what you call a _nascitur non fit_; and, if you haven't the gift, why you can't purchase it. now, you're a judge of smoke; it's a gift with you, don't you see; and you could no more help knowing a good weed from a bad one, than you could help waggling your tail if you were a baa-lamb." mr. verdant green bowed, and blushed, in acknowledgment of this delightful flattery. "now, there's old footelights, you know; he's got an uncle, who's a governor, or some great swell, out in barbadoes. well, every now and then the old trump sends footelights no end of a box of weeds; not common ones, you understand, but regular tip-toppers; but they're quite thrown away on poor footelights, who'd think as much of cabbage-leaves as he would of real havannahs, so he's always obliged to ask somebody else's opinion about them. well, he's got a sample of a weed of a most terrific kind:--_magnifico pomposo_ is the name;--no end uncommon, and at least a foot long. we don't meet with 'em in england because they're too expensive to import. well, it would'nt do to throw away such a weed as this on any one; so, footelights wants to have the opinion of a man who's really a judge of what a good weed is. i refused, because my taste has been rather out of order lately; and billy blades is in training for henley, so he's obliged to decline; so i told him of you, giglamps, and said, that if there was a man in brazenface that could tell him what his magnifico pomposo was worth, that man was verdant green. don't blush, old feller! you can't help having a fine judgment, you know; so don't be ashamed of it. now, you must wine with me this evening; footelights and some more men are coming; and we're all anxious to hear your opinion about these new weeds, because, if it's favourable we can club together, and import a box." mr. bouncer's victim, being perfectly unconscious of the trap laid for him, promised to come to the wine, and give his opinion on this weed of fabled size and merit. [illustration] when the evening and company had come, he was rather staggered at beholding the dimensions of the pseudo-cigar; but, rashly judging that to express surprise would be to betray ignorance, mr. verdant green inspected the formidable monster with the air of a connoisseur, and smelt, pinched, and rolled his tongue round it, after the manner of the best critics. if this was a diverting spectacle to the assembled guests of mr. bouncer, how must the humour of the scene have been increased, when our hero, with great difficulty, lighted the cigar, and, with still greater difficulty, held it in his mouth, and endeavoured to smoke it! as mr. foote afterwards observed, "it was a situation for a screaming farce." "it doesn't draw well!" faltered the victim, as the bundle of rubbish went out for the fourth time. "why, that's always the case with the barbadoes baccy!" said mr. bouncer; "it takes a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together to get it to make a start; but when once it does go, it goes beautiful--like a house a-fire. but you can't expect it to be like a common threepenny weed. here! let me light him for you, giglamps; i'll give the beggar a dig in his ribs, as a gentle persuader." mr. bouncer thereupon poked his pen-knife through the rubbish, and after a time induced it to "draw;" and mr. verdant green pulled at it furiously, and made his eyes water with the unusual cloud of smoke that he raised. "and now, what d'ye think of it, my beauty?" inquired mr. bouncer. "it's something out of the common, ain't it?" "it has a beautiful ash!" observed mr. smalls. "and diffuses an aroma that makes me long to defy the trainer, and smoke one like it!" said mr. blades. "so pray give me your reading--at least, your opinion,--on my magnifico pomposo!" asked mr. foote. "well," answered mr. verdant green, slowly--turning very pale as he spoke,--"at first, i thought it was be-yew-tiful; but, altogether, i think--that--the barbadoes tobacco--doesn't quite--agree with--my stom--" the speaker abruptly concluded by dropping the cigar, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and rushing into mr. bouncer's bedroom. the magnifico pomposo had been too much for him, and had produced sensations accurately interpreted by mr. bouncer, who forthwith represented in expressive pantomine, the actions of a distressed voyager, when he feebly murmurs "steward!" [illustration] to atone for the "chaffing" which he had been the means of inflicting on his friend, the little gentleman, a few days afterwards, proposed to take our hero to the chipping norton steeple-chase,--mr. smalls and mr. fosbrooke making up the quartet for a tandem. it was on their return from the races, that, after having stopped at _the bear_ at woodstock, "to wash out the horses' mouths," and having done this so effectually that the horses had appeared to have no mouths left, and had refused to answer the reins, and had smashed the cart against a house, which had seemed to have danced into the middle of the road for their diversion,--and, after having put back to _the bear_, and prevailed upon that animal to lend them a non-descript vehicle of the "pre-adamite buggy" species, described by sidney smith,--that, much time having been consumed by the progress of this chapter of accidents, they did not reach peyman's gate until a late hour; and mr. verdant green found that he was once more in difficulties. for they had no sooner got through the gate, than the wild octaves from mr. bouncer's post-horn were suddenly brought to a full stop, and mr. fosbrooke, who was the "waggoner," was brought to woh! and was compelled to pull up in obedience to the command of the proctor, who, as on a previous occasion, suddenly appeared from behind the toll-house, in company with his marshall and bull-dogs. the sentence pronounced on our hero the next day, was, "sir!--you will translate all your lectures; have your name crossed on the buttery and kitchen books; and be confined to chapel, hall, and college." this sentence was chiefly annoying, inasmuch as it somewhat interfered with the duties and pleasures attendant upon his boating practice. for, wonderful to relate, mr. verdant green had so much improved in the science, that he was now "number " of his college "torpid," and was in hard training. the torpid races commenced on march th, and were continued on the following days. our hero sent his father a copy of "_tintinnabulum's life_," which--after informing the manor green family that "the boats took up positions in the following order: brazenose, exeter , wadham, balliol, st. john's, pembroke, university, oriel, brazenface, christ church , worcester, jesus, queen's, christ church , exeter "--proceeded to enter into particulars of each day's sport, of which it is only necessary to record such as gave interest to our hero's family. "first day. * * * brazenface refused to acknowledge the bump by christ church ( ) before they came to the cherwell. there is very little doubt but that they were bumped at the gut and the willows. * * * "second day. * * * brazenface rowed pluckily away from worcester. * * * "third day. * * * a splendid race between brazenface and worcester; and, at the flag, the latter were within a foot; they did not, however, succeed in bumping. the cheering from the brazenface barge was vociferous. * * * "fourth day. * * * worcester was more fortunate, and succeeded in making the bump at the cherwell, in consequence of no. of the brazenface boat fainting from fatigue." under "no. " mr. verdant green had drawn a pencil line, and had written "v. g." he shortly after related to his family the gloomy particulars of the bump, when he returned home for the easter vacation. chapter xi. mr. verdant green gets through his smalls. despite the hindrance which the _grande passion_ is supposed to bring to the student, charles larkyns had made very good use of the opportunities afforded him by the leisure of his grace-term. indeed, as he himself observed, "who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, the power of _grace_?" and as he felt that the hours of his grace-term had not been wasted in idleness, but had been turned to profitable account, it is not at all unlikely that his pleasures of hope regarding his degree-examination, and the position his name would occupy in the class-list, were of a roseate hue. he therefore, when the easter vacation had come to an end, returned to oxford in high spirits, with our hero and his friend mr. bouncer, who, after a brief visit to "the mum," had passed the remainder of the vacation at the manor green. during these few holiday weeks, charles larkyns had acted as private tutor to his two friends, and had, in the language of mr. bouncer, "put them through their paces uncommon;" for the little gentleman was going in for his degree, _alias_ great-go, _alias_ greats; and our hero for his first examination _in literis humanioribus_, _alias_ responsions, _alias_ little-go, _alias_ smalls. thus the friends returned to oxford mutually benefited; but, as the time for examination drew nearer and still nearer, the fears of mr. bouncer rose in a gradation of terrors, that threatened to culminate in an actual panic. "you see," said the little gentleman, "the mum's set her heart on my getting through, and i must read like the doose. and i havn't got the head, you see, for latin and greek; and that beastly euclid altogether stumps me; and i feel as though i should come to grief. i'm blowed," the little gentleman would cry, earnestly and sadly, "i'm blow'd if i don't think they must have given me too much pap when i was a babby, and softened my brains! or else, why can't i walk into these classical parties just as easy as you, charley, or old giglamps there? but i can't, you see: my brains are addled. they say it ain't a bad thing for reading to get your head shaved. it cools your brains, and gives full play to what you call your intellectual faculties. i think i shall try the dodge, and get a gent's real head of hair, till after the exam.; and then, when i've stumped the examiners, i can wear my own luxuriant locks again." [illustration] and, as mr. bouncer professed, so did he; and, not many days after, astonished his friends and the university generally by appearing in a wig of curly black hair. it was a pleasing sight to see the little gentleman with a scalp like a billiard ball, a pipe in his mouth, and the wig mounted on a block, with books spread before him, endeavouring to persuade himself that he was working up his subjects. it was still more pleasing to view him, in moments of hilarity, divest himself of his wig, and hurl it at the scout, or any other offensive object that appeared before him. and it was a sight not to be forgotten by the beholders, when, after too recklessly partaking of an indiscriminate mixture of egg-flip, sangarce, and cider-cup, he feebly threw his wig at the spectacles of mr. verdant green, and, overbalanced by the exertion, fell back into the coal-scuttle, where he lay, bald-headed and helpless, laughing and weeping by turns, and caressed by huz and buz. but the shaving of his head was not the only feature (or, rather, loss of feature) that distinguished mr. bouncer's reading for his degree. the gentleman with the limited knowledge of the cornet-à-piston, who had the rooms immediately beneath those of our hero and his friend, had made such slow progress in his musical education, that he had even now scarcely got into his "cottage near a wood." this gentleman was mr. bouncer's frankenstein. he was always rising up when he was not wanted. when mr. bouncer felt as if he could read, and sat down to his books, wigless and determined, the doleful legend of the cottage near a wood was forced upon him in an unpleasingly obtrusive and distracting manner. it was in vain that mr. bouncer sounded his octaves in all their discordant variations; the gentleman had no ear, and was not to be put out of his cottage on any terms; mr. bouncer's notices of ejectment were always disregarded. he had hoped that the ears of mr. slowcoach (whose rooms were in the angle of the quad) would have been pierced by the noise, and that he would have put a stop to the nuisance; but, either from its being too customary a custom, or that the ears of mr. slowcoach had grown callous, the nuisance was suffered to continue unreproved. mr. bouncer resolved, therefore, on some desperate method of calling attention to one nuisance, by creating another of a louder description; and, as his octaves appeared to fail in this,--notwithstanding the energy and annoying ability that he threw into them,--he conceived the idea of setting up a drum! the plan was no sooner thought of than carried out. he met with an instrument sufficiently large and formidable for his purpose,--hired it, and had it stealthily conveyed into college (like another falstaff) in a linen "buck-basket." he waited his opportunity; and, the next time that the gentleman in the rooms beneath took his cornet to his cottage near a wood, mr. bouncer, stationed on the landing above, played a thundering accompaniment on his big drum. [illustration] the echoes from the tightened parchment rolled round the quad, and brought to the spot a rush of curious and excited undergraduates. mr. bouncer,--after taking off his wig in honour of the air,--then treated them to the national anthem, arranged as a drum solo for two sticks, the chorus being sustained by the voices of those present; when in the midst of the entertainment, the reproachful features of mr. slowcoach appeared upon the scene. sternly the tutor demanded the reason of the strange hubbub; and was answered by mr. bouncer, that, as one gentleman was allowed to play _his_ favourite instrument whenever he chose, for _his_ own but no one else's gratification, he could not see why he (mr. bouncer) might not also, whenever he pleased, play for his own gratification his favourite instrument--the big drum. this specious excuse, although logical, was not altogether satisfactory to mr. slowcoach; and, with some asperity, he ordered mr. bouncer never again to indulge in, what he termed (in reference probably to the little gentleman's bald head), "such an indecent exhibition." but, as he further ordered that the cornet-à-piston gentleman was to instrumentally enter into his cottage near a wood, only at stated hours in the afternoon, mr. bouncer had gained his point in putting a stop to the nuisance so far as it interfered with his reading; and, thenceforth, he might be seen on brief occasions persuading himself that he was furiously reading and getting up his subjects by the aid of those royal roads to knowledge, variously known as cribs, crams, plugs, abstracts, analyses, or epitomes. but, besides the assistance thus afforded to him _out_ of the schools, mr. bouncer, like many others, idle as well as ignorant, intended to assist himself when _in_ the schools by any contrivance that his ingenuity could suggest, or his audacity carry out. "it's quite fair," was the little gentleman's argument, "to do the examiners in any way that you can, as long as you only go in for a pass. of course, if you were going in for a class, or a scholarship, or anything of that sort, it would be no end mean and dirty to crib; and the gent that did it ought to be kicked out of the society of gentlemen. but when you only go in for a pass, and ain't doing any one any harm by a little bit of cribbing, but choose to run the risk to save yourself the bother of being ploughed, why then, i think, a feller's bound to do what he can for himself. and, you see, in my case, giglamps, there's the alum to be considered; she'd cut up doosid, if i didn't get through; so i must crib a bit, if it's only for _her_ sake." but although the little gentleman thus made filial tenderness the excuse for his deceit, and the salve for his conscience, yet he could neither persuade mr. verdant green to follow his example, nor to be a convert to his opinions; nor would he be persuaded by our hero to relinquish his designs. [illustration] "why, look here, giglamps!" mr. bouncer would say; "how _can_ i relinquish them, after having had all this trouble? i'll put you up to a few of my dodges--free, gratis, for nothing. in the first place, giglamps, you see here's a small circular bit of paper, covered with peloponnesian and punic wars, and no end of dates,--written small and short, you see, but quite legible,--with the chief things done in red ink. well, this gentleman goes in the front of my watch, under the glass; and, when i get stumped for a date, out comes the watch;--i look at the time of day--you understand, and down goes the date. here's another dodge!" added the little gentleman--who might well have been called "the artful dodger"--as he produced a shirt from a drawer. "look here, at the wristbands! here are all the kings of israel and judah, with their dates and prophets, written down in india-ink, so as to wash out again. you twitch up the cuff of your coat, quite accidentally, and then you book your king. you see, giglamps, i don't like to trust, as some fellows do, to having what you want, written down small and shoved into a quill, and passed to you by some man sitting in the schools; that's dangerous, don't you see. and i don't like to hold cards in my hand; i've improved on that, and invented a first-rate dodge of my own, that i intend to take out a patent for. like all truly great inventions, it's no end simple. in the first place, look straight afore you, my little dear, and you will see this pack of cards,--all made of a size, nice to hold in the palm of your hand; they're about all sorts of rum things,--everything that i want. and you see that each beggar's got a hole drilled in him. and you see, here's a longish string with a little bit of hooked wire at the end, made so that i can easily hang the card on it. well, i pass the string up my coat sleeve, and down under my waistcoat; and here, you see, i've got the wire end in the palm of my hand. then, i slip out the card i want, and hook it on to the wire, so that i can have it just before me as i write. then, if any of the examiners look suspicious, or if one of them comes round to spy, i just pull the bit of string that hangs under the bottom of my waistcoat, and away flies the card up my coat sleeve; and when the examiner comes round, he sees that my hand's never moved, and that there's nothing in it! so he walks off satisfied; and then i shake the little beggar out of my sleeve again, and the same game goes on as before. and when the string's tight, even straightening your body is quite sufficient to hoist the card into your sleeve, without moving either of your hands. i've got an examination-coat made on purpose, with a heap of pockets, in which i can stow my cards in regular order. these three pockets," said mr. bouncer, as he produced the coat, "are entirely for euclid. here's each problem written right out on a card; they're laid regularly in order, and i turn them over in my pocket, till i get hold of the one i want, and then i take it out, and work it. so you see, giglamps, i'm safe to get through!--it's impossible for them to plough me, with all these contrivances. that's a consolation for a cove in distress, ain't it, old feller?" both our hero and charles larkyns endeavoured to persuade mr. bouncer that his conduct would, at the very least, be foolhardy, and that he had much better throw his pack of cards into the fire, wash the kings of israel and judah off his shirt, destroy his strings and hooked wires, and keep his examination-coat for a shooting one. but all their arguments were in vain; and the infatuated little gentleman, like a deaf adder, shut his ears at the voice of the charmer. what between the cowley cricketings, and the isis boatings, mr. verdant green only read by spasmodic fits; but, as he was very fairly up in his subjects--thanks to charles larkyns and the rector--and as the little-go was not such a very formidable affair, or demanded a scholar of first-rate calibre, the only terrors that the examination could bring him were those which were begotten of nervousness. at length the lists were out; and our hero read among the names of candidates, that of "green, _verdant, è coll. Æn. fac._" there is a peculiar sensation on first seeing your name in print. instances are on record where people have taken a world of trouble merely that they may have the pleasure of perusing their names "among the fashionables present" at the countess of so-and-so's evening-reception; and cases are not wanting where young ladies and gentlemen have expended no small amount of pocket-money in purchasing copies of _the times_ (no reduction, too, being made on taking a quantity!) in order that their sympathising friends might have the pride of seeing their names as coming out at drawing-rooms and _levées_. when a young m.p. has stammered out his _coup-d'essai_ in the house, he views, with mingled emotions, his name given to the world, for the first time, in capital letters. when young authors and artists first see their names in print, is it not a pleasure to them? when ensign dash sees himself gazetted, does he not look on his name with a peculiar sensation, and forthwith send an impression of the paper to master jones, who was flogged with him last week for stealing apples? when mr. smith is called to the bar, and mr. robinson can dub himself m.r.c.s., do they not behold their names in print with feelings of rapture? and when miss brown has been to her first ball, does she not anxiously await the coming of the next county newspaper, in order to have the happiness of reading her name there? [illustration] but, different to these are the sensations that attend the seeing your name first in print in a college examination-list. they are, probably, somewhat similar to the sensations you would feel on seeing your name in a death-warrant. your blood runs hot, then cold, then hot again; your pulse goes at fever pace; the throbbing arteries of your brow almost jerk your cap off. you know that the worst is come,--that the law of the dons, which altereth not, has fixed your name there, and that there is no escape. the courage of despair then takes possession of your soul, and nerves you for the worst. you join the crowd of nervous fellow-sufferers who are thronging round the buttery-door to examine the list, and you begin with them calmly to parcel out the names by sixes and eights, and then to arrive at an opinion when your day of execution will be. if your name comes at the head of the list, you wish that you were "young, _carolus, è coll. vigorn._" that you might have a reprieve of your sentence. if your name is at the end of the list, you wish that you were "adams, _edvardus jacobus, è coll. univ._" that you might go in at once, and be put out of your misery. if your name is in the middle of the list, you wish that it were elsewhere: and then you wish that it were out of the list altogether. through these varying shades of emotion did mr. verdant green pass, until at length they were all lost in the deeper gloom of actual entrance into the schools. when once there, his fright soon passed away. re-assured by the kindly voice of the examiner, telling him to read over his greek before construing it, our hero recovered his equanimity, and got through his _vivâ voce_ with flying colours; and, on glancing over his paper-work, soon saw that the questions were within his scope, and that he could answer most of them. without hazarding his success by making "bad shots," he contented himself by answering those questions only on which he felt sure; and, when his examination was over, he left the schools with a pretty safe conviction that he was safe, "and was well through his smalls." he could not but help, however, feeling some anxiety on the subject, until he was relieved from all further fears, by the arrival of messrs. fosbrooke, smalls, and blades, with a slip of paper (not unlike those which mr. levi, the sheriff's officer, makes use of), on which was written and printed as follows:-- "green, verdant, È coll. Æn. fac. "quæstionibua magistrorum scholarum in parviso pro forma respondit. "ita testamur, { gulielmus smith, { robertus jones. "_junii_ , --." alas for mr. bouncer! though he had put in practice all the ingenious plans which were without a doubt to ensure his success; and though he had worked his cribs with consummate coolness, and had not been discovered; yet, nevertheless, his friends came to him empty-handed. the infatuated little gentleman had either trusted too much to his own astuteness, or else he had over-reached himself, and had used his card-knowledge in wrong places; or, perhaps, the examiners may have suspected his deeds from the nature of his papers, and may have refused to pass him. but whatever might be the cause, the little gentleman had to defer taking his degree for some months at least. in a word--and a dreadful word it is to all undergraduates--mr. bouncer was plucked! he bore his unexpected reverse of fortune very philosophically, and professed to regret it only for "the mum's" sake; but he seemed to feel that the dons of his college would look shy upon him, and he expressed his opinion that it would be better for him to migrate to the tavern.[ ] but, while mr. bouncer was thus deservedly punished for his idleness and duplicity, charles larkyns was rewarded for all his toil. he did even better than he had expected: for, not only did his name appear in the second class, but the following extra news concerning him was published in the daily papers, under the very appropriate heading of "university _intelligence_." "oxford, june .--the chancellor's prizes have been awarded as follows:-- "latin essay, charles larkyns, commoner of brazenface. the new digate prize for english verse was also awarded to the same gentleman." his writing for the prize poem had been a secret. he had conceived the idea of doing so when the subject had been given out in the previous "long:" he had worked at the subject privately, and, when the day (april ) on which the poems had to be sent in, had come, he had watched his opportunity, and secretly dropped through the wired slit in the door of the registrar's office at the clarendon, a manuscript poem, distinguished by the motto:-- "oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand and the sound of a voice that is still." we may be quite sure that there was great rejoicing at the manor green and the rectory, when the news arrived of the success of charles larkyns and mr. verdant green. footnotes: [ ] a name given to new inn hall, not only from its title, "new inn," but also because the buttery is open all day, and the members of the hall can call for what they please at any hour, the same as in a tavern. chapter xii. mr. verdant green and his friends enjoy the commemoration. the commemoration had come; and, among the people who were drawn to the sight from all parts of the country, the warwickshire coach landed in oxford our friends mr. green, his two eldest daughters, and the rector--for all of whom charles larkyns had secured very comfortable lodgings in oriel street. [illustration] the weather was of the finest; and the beautiful city of colleges looked at its best. while the rector met with old friends, and heard his son's praises, and renewed his acquaintance with his old haunts of study, mr. green again lionised oxford in a much more comfortable and satisfactory manner than he had previously done at the heels of a professional guide. as for the young ladies, they were charmed with everything; for they had never before been in an university town, and all things had the fascination of novelty. great were the luncheons held in mr. verdant green's and charles larkyns' rooms; musical was the laughter that floated merrily through the grave old quads of brazenface; happy were the two hearts that held converse with each other in those cool cloisters and shady gardens. how a few flounces and bright girlish smiles can change the aspect of the sternest homes of knowledge! how sunlight can be brought into the gloomiest nooks of learning by the beams that irradiate happy girlish faces, where the light of love and truth shines out clear and joyous! how the appearance of the commemoration week is influenced in a way thus described by one of oxonia's poets:-- "peace! for in the gay procession brighter forms are borne along-- fairer scholars, pleasure-beaming, float amid the classic throng. blither laughter's ringing music fills the haunts of men awhile, and the sternest priests of knowledge blush beneath a maiden's smile. maidens teach a softer science--laughing love his pinions dips, hush'd to hear fantastic whispers murmur'd from a pedant's lips. oh, believe it, throbbing pulses flutter under folds of starch, and the dons are human-hearted if the ladies' smiles be arch." thanks to the influence of charles larkyns and his father, the party were enabled to see all that was to be seen during the commemoration week. on the saturday night they went to the amateur concert at the town hall, in aid of which, strange to say, mr. bouncer's proffer of his big drum had been declined. on the sunday they went, in the morning, to st. mary's to hear the bampton lecture; and, in the afternoon, to the magnificent choral service at new college. in the evening they attended the customary "show sunday" promenade in christ church broad walk, where, under the delicious cool of the luxuriant foliage, they met all the rank, beauty, and fashion that were assembled in oxford; and where, until tom "tolled the hour for retiring," they threaded their way amid a miscellaneous crowd of dons and doctors, and tufts and heads of houses,-- with prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, and bright girl-graduates with their golden hair. on the monday they had a party to woodstock and blenheim; and in the evening went, on the brazenface barge, to see the procession of boats, where the misses green had the satisfaction to see their brother pulling in one of the fifteen torpids that followed immediately in the wake of the other boats. they concluded the evening's entertainments in a most satisfactory manner, by going to the ball at the town hall. [illustration] indeed, the way the two young ladies worked was worthy of all credit, and proved them to be possessed of the most vigorous constitutions; for, although they danced till an early hour in the morning, they not only, on the next day, went to the anniversary sermon for the radcliffe, and after that to the horticultural show in the botanical gardens, and after that to the concert in the sheldonian theatre, but--as though they had not had enough to fatigue them already--they must, forsooth--brazenface being one of the ball-giving colleges--wind up the night by accepting the polite invitation of mr. verdant green and mr. charles larkyns to a ball given in their college hall. and how many polkas these young ladies danced, and how many waltzes they waltzed, and how many ices they consumed, and how many too susceptible partners they drove to the verge of desperation, it would be improper, if not impossible, to say. [illustration] but, however much they might have been fagged by their exertions of feet and features, it is certain that, by ten of the clock the next morning, they appeared, quite fresh and charming to the view, in the ladies' gallery in the theatre. there--after the proceedings had been opened by the undergraduates in _their_ peculiar way, and by the vice-chancellor in _his_ peculiar way--and, after the degrees had been conferred, and the public orator had delivered an oration in a tongue not understanded of the people, our friends from warwickshire had the delight of beholding mr. charles larkyns ascend the rostrums to deliver, in their proper order, the latin essay and the english verse. he had chosen his friend verdant to be his prompter; so that the well-known "giglamps" of our hero formed, as it were, a very focus of attraction: but it was well for mr. charles larkyns that he was possessed of self-control and a good memory, for mr. verdant green was far too nervous to have prompted him in any efficient manner. we may be sure, that in all that bevy of fair women, at least one pair of bright eyes kindled with rapture, and one heart beat with exulting joy, when the deafening cheers that followed the poet's description of the moon, the sea, and woman's love (the three ingredients which are apparently necessary for the sweetening of all prize poems), rang through the theatre and made its walls re-echo to the shouting. and we may be sure that, when it was all over, and when the commemoration had come to an end, charles larkyns felt rewarded for all his hours of labour by the deep love garnered up in his heart by the trustful affection of one who had become as dear to him as life itself! * * * * * it was one morning after they had all returned to the manor green that our hero said to his friend, "how i _do_ wish that this day week were come!" "i dare say you do," replied the friend; "and i dare say that the pretty patty is wishing the same wish." upon which mr. verdant green not only laughed but blushed! for it seemed that he, together with his sisters, mr. charles larkyns, and mr. bouncer, were about to pay a long-vacation visit to honeywood hall, in the county of northumberland; and the young man was naturally looking forward to it with all the ardour of a first and consuming passion. the end popular illustrated works published by h. ingram and co. milford house, milford lake, strand, london, and by all booksellers. * * * * * the national illustrated library. _each volume containing about pages and numerous engravings, crown vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt, s. d.; cloth extra, gilt edges, s. d.; morocco, gilt edges, s. d.; morocco antique, s. d.; vols, in , calf, marbled edges, s.; morocco, gilt edges, s. d._ boswell's life of dr. johnson. complete in four volumes. with numerous portraits, views, and characteristic designs, engraved from authentic sources.--_third edition._ the illustrated book of english songs, from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. with fifty engravings from original designs.--_fourth edition._ the mormons, or latter-day saints. an account of the rise and progress of this new religious sect. illustrated with forty engravings from original sources.--_third edition._ the orbs of heaven; 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and knickerbocker's new york. royal vo, cloth gilt, s. essays.--volume i., containing the essays of alison, emerson, goldsmith, bacon, and locke, and michelet's life of luther, royal vo., cloth gilt, s. cloth cases for volumes, s. each godfrey marten undergraduate by charles turley author of 'godfrey marten, schoolboy' london william heinemann _all rights reserved_ contents chap. i. oxford ii. interviews iii. the result of the freshers' match iv. unexpected people v. the wine vi. jack ward and dennison vii. the inn at sampford viii. luncheon with the warden ix. a surprise x. my maiden speech xi. a cricket match at burtington xii. the use and abuse of an essay xiii. nina comes to oxford xiv. guide, host and nurse xv. mishaps xvi. the schemes of dennison xvii. the professor and his son xviii. the energy of jack ward xix. the warden and the bradder xx. the hedonists xxi. one word too many xxii. a tutorship xxiii. our last year chapter i oxford the night before i left home for oxford i had a talk with my father. he was not of the sentimental kind, but i knew that he had a rare fondness for my brother, my sister nina and myself, and i have never had a moment when i did not return his affection. he had always been bothered by my lack of seriousness, and he doubted whether i should really get the best out of 'varsity life. after telling me that the time had come for me to treat things more seriously, he finished up by saying: "i am going to give you two hundred pounds a year, which is more than i can afford, and which, with your exhibition, must be enough for you. i have put that amount to your credit in the bank at oxford, and i don't expect to hear anything about money from you either during the term or when you are at home. you ought to know by this time what money is worth, and that debt is a thing you must avoid. be a man, godfrey, and don't forget that the first step towards becoming one is to behave like a gentleman." i shook his hand to show that i understood, for he wanted neither promises nor protestations, and if i had been able to be sentimental he would have left the room without listening to me. he didn't say much, but what he did say was beautifully simple, and on leaving him i felt very solemn and, since i must tell the truth, very important. the idea of having a bank account was one which did not lose its glamour for several days. there was something about my first cheque-book which pleased me immensely, for i had not been brought up in a nest of millionaires, and am glad to confess that until i went to oxford the possibilities attached to a five-pound note were almost without limit. fred foster--who had been staying with me--and i parted at oxford railway-station without falling on each other's necks, but although we did not cause any further obstruction on a platform already far too crowded, we understood that the friendship which had prospered during so many years at school was not going to be interrupted because he had got a scholarship at oriel while i was an exhibitioner of st. cuthbert's. i began by losing my luggage, which was exactly the way some people would have expected me to begin, and when i arrived at the college lodge i must have looked as if i had come to spend a saturday to monday visit. one miserable bag was all i possessed, and the porter viewed me, as i thought, with suspicion. he was a grumpy old person, and when i told him that i had lost my luggage he grunted, "gentlemen do, especially when they're fresh," which i thought very fair cheek on his part, though i did not feel at that moment like telling him so. then having said that my name was marten, he hunted in a list and told a man to take my bag to number vii. staircase in the back quadrangle. i followed, feeling rather dejected, and i cannot say that the first sight of my rooms tended to raise my spirits. they were small and dismal, the window opened on to a balustrade which, if it prevented me from falling into the quadrangle, also managed to shut out both light and air. the furniture can be described correctly by the word adequate; there were some chairs and a table, college furniture for which i was privileged to pay rent. the chairs looked as if nothing could ever wear them out or make them look different. they had been built to defy time and ill-usage. i went into my bedroom and was more satisfied, by some strange freak it was bigger than my sitting-room, and after i had seen other freshers' bedrooms i acknowledged my good luck. there was at least room to have a bath without splashing the bed. i was still looking disconsolately about me when my scout came in and treated me with a calm contempt which immediately raised my spirits. his air was so obviously that of the man who knew all about things, and he told me what to do with a gravity which was intended to be most impressive. his name was clarkson and i stayed on his staircase during the three years i was in college, though at the end of my first year i moved into larger rooms. he was in a mild kind of way an endless source of amusement to me, because every one knew that under his veil of imperturbability was hidden, not very successfully, a flourishing crop of failings. whenever his chief failing overpowered him his gravity increased, until he became one of the most indescribably comic people i have ever seen. he told me that chapel was at eight o'clock on the following morning, and asked me if i should be breakfasting in. i found out afterwards that unless i wanted to go to chapel i could go to a roll-call in any garments which looked respectable, and then go back to bed; but i did not hear this from clarkson. he was far too keen on getting men out of bed and their rooms put straight to give such very unnecessary information. however, he was useful at the beginning, and had he not told me where to go for dinner i don't suppose i should have troubled to ask him. my first dinner in hall was not a pleasant experience. the senior men came up a day after us, and most freshers, until they settle down, seem to spend their time in waiting for somebody else to say something. that dinner really made me feel most gloomy; things seemed to have been turned upside down, and in the process i felt as if i had fallen with a thud to the bottom. there were two or three freshers from cliborough to whom i had scarcely spoken during my last two years at school, and these fellows all sat together and enjoyed themselves, while i counted for nothing whatever. i began to learn the lesson that being in the cliborough xi. and xv. was not a free passport to glory. the man opposite to me looked as if he had never heard of w. g. grace, and when i tried to speak to the fellow on my right about the australians, he thought that i was talking about any ordinary australian, and had no notion that i meant the cricket team which had been over in the summer. he was quite nice about it, i must admit, and when he found out what i was driving at, said: "i am afraid i don't know much about cricket; i have been over in germany the last two or three months, trying to get hold of the language. i want to read schiller and those other people in the original." he did not suit me at all, and as i had not the courage to give myself away by asking the names of the other people our conversation dropped. i was, in fact, dead off colour, and the sight of those three cliborough fellows almost took away my appetite. until that moment it had never occurred to me that i had been in the habit of thinking a lot of myself at cliborough, and in self-defence i must add that i do not see how a public school can prosper unless some of the fellows stick together and try to make things go on properly. any "side" i may have had was certainly unconscious, but i haven't an idea whether that is the worst or the best kind. i know that i should have felt like having a fit if any one had told me that i was conceited, and apart from that i don't know anything about it, except, as i have said, that i was angry that these fellows did not seem to remember that i had been at cliborough. i told myself that they had lost their sense of proportion, which was a phrase my father used about any one who argued with him; and i also said vehemently that they were worms; but unless you are quite sure of it, and can get some one to agree with you, there is not much satisfaction to be got from calling people worms. i went out of the hall and found a tall, dark fellow bowling pebbles aimlessly about the quadrangle. i bowled a pebble, and hitting him on the back, had to apologize. it is rather odd, now i come to think about it, that the first words i ever said to jack ward were in the nature of an apology. we strolled out of the quadrangle into the lodge, and after he had looked at me he asked me to come up to his rooms and have some coffee. i was not at all sure that i wanted to go, but i went. he shouted to his scout at the top of a very powerful voice, and i felt that he was much more at home than i was. i determined, moreover, to shout at my scout upon the earliest possible opportunity. "i had a brother up here," he said as soon as we were sitting by the fire, "and he gave me some tips. one of them was to shout at your scout for at least a week to show that you are not an infant, another was not to row, and the last was not to play cards all day and night. my brother's an odd kind of chap, the sort of man who doesn't know the ace of spades by sight, but it's as easy to shout as it is not to row. your name's marten, isn't it?" "yes," i replied; "how did you know that?" "i scored when you came over last term to play for cliborough against wellingham. i was twelfth man to the xi., though you needn't believe it if you don't want to. it's wonderful what a crop of twelfth men there are kicking around; you may just as well say you are a liar smack out, as tell any one you are a twelfth man." i told him that i believed him. "that's only your politeness," he went on; "in a week you will be talking about me as 'that man ward who says he was twelfth man at wellingham.'" i sat in his rooms and listened to him talking until eleven o'clock; for almost the first time in my life i had nothing to say, and that must have been the reason why i felt amused and uncomfortable at the same time. he seemed to know all sorts of people, and he spoke of them by their christian names, which impressed me, and he referred to london as a place well enough to stay in for a time, but a terrible bore when one got accustomed to it. now i had only been to london three times, and one of those could hardly be said to count since it was to see a dentist. as i went back to my rooms, i thought that my education had been neglected in many ways, and that ward had been having a much better time than i had. but i soon changed my mind and decided that he was the kind of fellow whom i should have thought a slacker at cliborough, and i cannot put up with a man, who when he is doing one thing always wants to be doing another. when i got back to my rooms i found a letter from my uncle. he was a bishop, and there had been trouble between us when i was a small boy at cliborough; he had made jokes about me which i did not bear in silence. but he had spent a month of the summer holidays with us, and had told my mother that i had greatly improved; i thought the same thing about him, so we got on together very well. i may as well say at once that i had laid siege to the bishop. instead of waiting for him to go for me i went for him, and my mother said that i had discovered the boy in the bishop. if he was idle i employed him, and on his last day with us i finished off by making one hundred and thirty-six against him at stump cricket. when he went away i had changed my opinion of him, but my father was annoyed that he could behave like a boy when it was time for me to forget that i was one. "you are as silly as the bishop," became one of my father's favourite remarks, until my mother asked him to think of something which was not quite so rude. the bishop had really been splendid while he was staying with us, because nina, having arrived at the age of eighteen, was very difficult to please. some man in my brother's regiment had been down and said that her pug was an angel, and i being unable to reach such heights as that was compared to my disadvantage with this man. i am nearly sure, too, that she wanted to flirt with fred, quite regardless of the fact that he was no use at flirting, and i should have had something to say if he had been. in a short year she had changed most dreadfully, and was no longer satisfied with being liked very much. she was a puzzle to me, and had it not been for the bishop, who smoothed things over, i should probably have worried her far more than i did. his letter did not contain one word of cant; he just wished me good luck, and told me to write to him whenever i felt that he could be of use to me. a less sensible man might have preached to me and talked about the "threshold of a career"; but, thank goodness, he knew what i wanted, and that if i had not made up my mind to let oxford do something for me, i was hopeless from the start. chapter ii interviews i soon found out that jack ward was of a most friendly disposition, for he came over to my rooms before ten o'clock the following morning and bounced in with an air of having known me all my life. at the moment i was talking to a man called murray, whose acquaintance i had made an hour before. my introduction to murray could hardly be called formal; he lived in the next rooms to me and at precisely the same time each of us had poked our heads into the passage and shouted for our scout. we then looked at each other and laughed, and the deed was done. i wish that i could have made all my friends at oxford as easily; it would have saved so much time. murray was going as ward came in, and they nodded and said "good-morning" in the way men do when they don't altogether love one another. "you seem to know everybody," i said, without much reason, as soon as murray had disappeared. "i can't well help knowing that fellow, considering that he was at wellingham with me for five years." "he didn't tell me he was at wellingham." "he would have in another minute, and that he was captain of the school and the footer fifteen, and what he was fed on as a baby and how many muscles he had got in his big toe," ward jerked out as he pulled furiously at his pipe, which he had already tried to light two or three times. "i thought he seemed a nice sort of man," i said. "i expect you think everybody you see nice sort of men," he replied rather queerly, though he laughed as he spoke. "i hope so; it is a jolly comfortable state to be in," i answered. "but a very dangerous one. you must get awfully left." i picked up _wisden's cricket almanack_, which had been one of the things in my bag, and began to read it, for i had taken a fancy to murray and did not see much use in listening to what i felt ward wanted to say about him. "you will probably be friends with murray for about a month, and then it will end with a snap," he said. "i can promise you that if i am friends with him for a month it won't end with a snap, even if his toes simply bulge with muscles," i replied. "if anybody warned you against a man you would take no notice." "it depends who warned me, and whom i was warned against. and since it is no use pretending things," i added, "i don't see much wrong in a fellow because he happens to remember something about baby's food." "he might be a bore." "so may anybody," i answered, for ward's persistence was beginning to annoy me. he got up from his chair with a great laugh, and put his hands on my shoulders. "we mustn't begin by having a row with each other," he said. i stood up so that i could get rid of his hands, and felt inclined to say that i did not want to begin at all, but i stopped myself. there was something in the man that attracted me. i may be peculiar, but i like people who shake the furniture when they laugh, having suffered much from a master at cliborough who never let himself go farther than a giggle. "i suppose we must go and see these blessed dons. they want to see us at half-past ten, don't they?" he said. i looked at my watch and found that it was nearly eleven o'clock, so we bolted down-stairs and across the quadrangle as hard as we could. it was a very bad start but i had completely forgotten that we had to go to the hall at half-past ten, and ward gave me no comfort by saying that he did not suppose it mattered when we went as long as we turned up some time. dons would have to be very different from masters if that was the case, and as i imagined that they would be of much the same breed only glorified, i had no wish to begin by making them angry. there were thirty or forty freshers in the hall when we got there, and a few dons sitting at the high table at the end of it. murray and two or three other men were up talking to them when i arrived, and i guessed that they were taking the scholars and exhibitioners alphabetically, and that i was too late for my turn; though ward, who was a commoner and fortunate enough to begin with a w, was probably in heaps of time. when murray came down he told me that they had called out my name several times, which made me, quite unreasonably, feel angry with ward, but presently they shouted for me again and i went up. though i felt rather agitated as i walked up the hall and saw these gowned people waiting for me, the idea flitted across my mind that they looked most extremely like a row of rooks sitting on a long stick. my prevailing impression as i approached them was one of beak, they seemed to me like a lot of benevolent and expectant birds. as a matter of fact this impression was false, and i got it because i was looking at the warden--as the head of st. cuthbert's was called--and not at the group of dons on each side of him. the warden was a little man whose head had apparently sunk down into his neck and got a tilt forward in the process. his eyes were grey and shrewd, the sort of eyes which one watches to see the signs of the times; his nose, being that of the warden, i will only call prominent, and he had a habit of passing his hand over his mouth and chin, which was merely a habit, but suggested to me at first sight that he was pleased with his morning shave. he was nearly sixty years old, and when he wanted to be nice his efforts were not intelligible to everybody, but there was no mistaking him when he really wished to be nasty. however, he was one of those men who are spoken of at oxford as having european reputations, and possibly the burden of an european reputation gives the owner of it a right to behave differently from ordinary people who have no reputation at all, or if they have one would prefer that it should be forgotten. the warden held out a hand to me and almost winced at my manner of grasping it. my father always said that he knew a man by his hand-shake, but i ought to have been wise enough to spare the warden. "i was in doubt whether or no we were to have the privilege of seeing you this morning. perhaps the fatigues of a long journey by rail caused you to remain in your bedroom for a longer time than is usual, or indeed beneficial." i was on the point of saying that i had been up at eight o'clock, when it occurred to me that an apology would be shorter than an explanation, so i mumbled that i was very sorry for being late. my chief desire was to get away from an atmosphere which i found overpowering. i had to listen to some more remarks from the warden, all of which were spun out in his extraordinary way, and at last i was introduced to my tutor, mr. gilbert edwardes, who took me on one side and set to work telling me what lectures i was to attend. i think he meant to be friendly but he had a dreadfully stiff manner, and i am sure that he found it very difficult to unbend. he reminded me most strongly of a shirt with too much starch in it, or whatever it is that makes shirts as stiff as boards. later on in the day i went to see him in his rooms in college and he gave me a little advice and exhorted me to work. it was all a cut-and-dried sort of affair which did not appeal to any feelings i had, but since he was my tutor i thought i had better tell him something about myself. he was even smaller than the warden and quite the most prim-looking man i have ever beheld. his face was colourless and smooth, and as i sat opposite him in his gloomy room he looked so tidy and sure of himself that i found a great difficulty in speaking to him. having said the usual things he was very obviously expecting me to go, but i did not want him to begin by thinking that i was a saint, though why i imagined that he was in any danger of thinking so i cannot explain. he had, however, said so much about work and the great care i must take in avoiding men who distracted me from my duty, that i thought i had better tell him that i was a very human being. i never remember having twiddled my thumbs before but i caught myself doing it in his room. he was so placid and demure that i could not imagine that he had ever done a foolish thing in his life. it was impossible for me to think that he had ever been young, and i wanted him to know that i was both young and foolish. he must have known the one and i expect he guessed the other, but at any rate my intention was to begin fair. then whatever happened he would not be able to say that i had not warned him. but he made me so nervous that i did not get the right words, and i made him look more like a poker then ever. "thanks, most awfully," i began, and it was a bad beginning, "for all your advice. but i want to tell you that i do the most stupid things without meaning to do them. i mean that they only strike me as being stupid after i have done them." mr. edwardes made noises in his throat which sounded like a succession of "ahems," and i floundered on: "i am afraid it is very hard for me not to like amusing myself as much as possible, but of course i will try to work and all that sort of thing as well." he stood up when i got as far as that and smiled at me, but i cannot say that he seemed to be pleased. "i thought i had better tell you, so that you would know," i added before i left him, and i went away with the hopeless feeling that i had made a complete idiot of myself. i hated mr. edwardes as i went back across the quadrangle, for i felt that i had tried to take him into my confidence and that he had responded by getting rid of me. when i reached my rooms my luggage had arrived and i let off steam--so to speak--by having a dispute with the man who had brought it. i did not get the best of that dispute, but i did make an effort to practise the economy which my people had advised, and clarkson saw me in a rage, which must have been very good for him. for a solid hour i unpacked things which i had thought beautiful in my study at cliborough and put them about my room, but somehow or other most of them did not seem as beautiful as i had thought them, and there was a picture--i had won it in a shilling raffle, and been very proud of it--which filled me with sorrow. it had been painted by the sister of a fellow at cliborough, and when he was frightfully hard-up he arranged a raffle, and everybody said i was jolly lucky to win it. i was even bid fifteen shillings for the picture by the original owner, but as i suspected that he wanted to get up another raffle i refused the offer. when i saw the thing hanging on my wall i wished that i had not been such a fool. having got the thing i did not like to waste it, but if some one would have come in and stuck a knife into it i should have been very pleased. the name of this burden was "a last night at sea," and the subjects represented were a small boat and two or three people huddled together at one end of it, while in the middle of the boat a woman with long streaming hair was stretching out her arms towards a terrific wave. if i had not remembered the name it might not have been so bad, but under the circumstances no one could say that it was a cheerful thing to live with. i suppose the satisfaction of having it in my study at cliborough had been enough, for i did not recollect having looked at it before, and when a lot of fellows are swarming around saying what a lucky chap you are to have won a thing, it is not very likely to give you the blues then, whatever it may have in store for you afterwards. i turned "a last night at sea" with its face to the wall and went on decorating my room. photographs of my father and mother which i put on my mantelpiece made me feel rather better, but nina resplendent in a green plush frame made me think again. i had been very proud of that frame some years before when nina had given it to me; she had sold two rabbits and borrowed sixpence from miss read, her governess, to buy it, and it had never occurred to me that i could grow out of my admiration for green plush. the question of what to do with it puzzled me tremendously; i didn't want to treat nina badly but the frame was an abomination. fortunately there was a ring attached to the frame and i hung it up in a dark corner, but i promised myself that it should come out the following morning. i had just sat down to survey my labours when murray came in and proposed we should go for a walk in the town, and as i was perfectly sick of my room i was quite ready to go. although the time was barely four o'clock and the sun doesn't set for another hour in the middle of october, it was half dark and drizzling with rain as we walked down turl street and came into the high. but i had got rid of my gloom and was eager to spend money. i did not quite know what i wanted but that was not of much consequence. we went into a shop which seemed to be exactly the place for any one who wished to buy things, and did not care much what he bought. before i came out of it i had bought two chairs, a standard lamp, a small book-case, an enormous bowl--which got in my way for two years until somebody smashed it--a tea-set, a small table and half-a-dozen china shepherdesses. i then went to other shops and made more purchases, while murray looked on and smiled until i was waylaid by an accommodating man in the cornmarket, who wanted to sell me a fox-terrier pup, and was ready to keep it for me if i had no place for it; and then i was told not to be a fool. that man's opinion of murray is not worth mentioning. when we got back to college it was past five o'clock, and between us we managed to find everything that was necessary for tea. i had a fire in my room, but murray had not one in his; he had tea-cups, but i had none; while i had things to eat, which our cook at home had declared would be useful and i had most reluctantly brought with me. we were in the middle of this very substantial meal when fred foster came in, and from his glance round my room i saw that he thought it was a fairly dismal spot. "rather like an up-stairs dungeon," i said. "have you got a better place than this?" "it is bigger and not so stuffy," he answered; "but it won't make you very jealous." "you wait until i have got all the things i have just bought, and then you will think this no end of a place," i remarked. "if any one can get inside," murray put in. "it will be rather a squash," i admitted; "i've spent over twelve pounds already." "that's just the sort of thing you would do," foster said. we sat and talked for an hour until ward burst in, knocking and opening the door at the same moment. murray and foster had been getting on splendidly together, but directly ward came they hardly said a word. possibly they did not get much chance, but any one could see that foster had taken a dislike to ward at sight. murray went away very soon and left the three of us together. "i've been over to woodstock in a dog-cart with bunny langham and bob fraser," ward said. "by jove, that cob of bunny's can move. we got back in five-and-twenty minutes." as i didn't know how far it was to woodstock and didn't care, i said nothing, so ward went on, "bunny's a rare good sort; you ought to meet him." "what college is he at?" i asked. "at the house--christchurch, you know." i did know, and thought the explanation cheek. "i have hired a gee from carter's to-morrow, and am going to drive over to abingdon with bunny, will you come?" "to-morrow's sunday," i said. "yes, there is nothing else to do. the better the day the----" but i interrupted him. "don't talk rot, i hate those things. are you going in a dog-cart?" i asked. "yes, it is bunny's cart." "i am jolly well not going to sit on the back seat of a dog-cart if i can help it; i would rather go about in a perambulator," i said. "you are so confoundedly particular," he went on with a great guffaw of laughter, "but since it is bunny's cart and i am going to drive i don't see how we can offer you any other seat." "who the blazes is bunny?" i asked, for his name was beginning to get on my nerves, and fred foster sitting as dumb as a mute was enough to upset any one. "i know him at home, his father is the marquis of tillford and his real name is lord augustus langham, only his teeth stick out and every one calls him bunny," ward answered. "heaps of money?" i said. "plenty, i should think." "then he is no use to me, though he may be the best fellow in the world," i declared. "you are a rum 'un, why he is just the sort of man who is some use." "that depends," foster said suddenly. "yes, it depends," i repeated, though i didn't know exactly what depended. "what depends?" ward asked foster. "well, if a man hasn't got much money it is no use knowing a lot of men who have got no end." "it never struck me that way. perhaps you are right," and then turning to me, he added, "come to breakfast anyhow to-morrow morning, bunny won't be there then." i promised to go, and then he left us. i walked back to oriel with foster and he had got a lot to say about jack ward. "where in the world did you find that man?" was his first remark after we were alone. "he found me," i said. "i should lose him as soon as possible," fred went on. "i don't think that would be very easy," i answered, "and i don't believe he is a bad sort really." "i'll bet he never came back from woodstock in five-and-twenty minutes," foster said. chapter iii the result of the freshers' match if i had to describe in detail the first two or three weeks of my life at oxford, i think that accusations might be brought against me of having eaten too much, or at any rate too often. fortunately i had a good digestion, i cannot imagine the fate of a dyspeptic freshman if he had to attend a series of oxford breakfasts. i have, however, only once encountered a fresher who suffered from dyspepsia, and if there was any other man so afflicted at st. cuthbert's he probably did not admit his complaint. for we were supposed to be very cultivated at st. cuthbert's, and at that time it was not good form to hold a roll-call of our diseases at breakfast, to discuss surgical operations at luncheon, and to provide tales of sea-sickness by way of humour at dinner. we kept our complaints to ourselves and were in truth more than a little ashamed of them. st. cuthbert's had a reputation of its own. men in other colleges criticized us very freely. they said that we were prigs, that the 'varsity boat would never be any good as long as there was a st. cuthbert's man in it, and other pleasant things which did not annoy me, since i, having been a butt for much personal criticism all my life, can even get some satisfaction from finding that a crowd of other people are as bad as i am. besides, we had nearly one hundred and fifty men at st. cuthbert's, and i thought it was absolutely stupid to say we were all prigs and that none of us could row. the truth of the matter was, as far as i could judge, that at st. cuthbert's there were often a large number of clever men, and clever men when young can get on one's nerves most terribly. it is all right for men to be clever when they are old or even middle-aged, then allowances are made for them and they may be as odd as they please. but if any one happens to be clever when he is at oxford, he will have to watch himself closely or he will be called either a genius or a lunatic, and the one is almost as fatal as the other. in a college as large as st. cuthbert's it was natural that there should be a number of different sets. we had several men who are best described by the word "bloods"; two or three of them belonged to the bullingdon, a few of them to vincent's, of which club most of "the blues" in the 'varsity were members, and nearly all had plenty of money and every one of them lived as if they had plenty. i cannot call them athletic, though they and the really athletic set were more or less mixed up together. we had also a very serious set who, i thought, gave themselves far too many airs. perhaps serious is not quite the right word to apply to them, for one of this gang wrote a comic opera and another wrote a farce; but these were just thrown out in their spare time, and when i attended a reading of the libretto of the comic opera i went so fast asleep that i cannot say how comic it was. but if it had been very funny i should think some one would have laughed loud enough to wake me up. generally speaking this set seemed to be bent on the reformation of england, a thing which has happened once and is rather a difficult matter for a college debating society to bring about again. the reformation which they were bent upon was not, however, religious, for they thought little of the religion which satisfies ordinary people. one of them told me that religion was merely emotional and sentimental, a crutch for a weak man, and went on to say that their scheme was moral and social, a cry for a better life and against the oppression of the poor. that man bored me terribly, but since one of his own set had told me that he was the cleverest man in oxford i did not like to tell him what i thought. besides i was only a fresher who had not yet looked around, and he was the first man i had met who was the cleverest man in oxford, though i met several others afterwards who had arrived at the same peak of distinction. i even got so weary of meeting this particular brand of man that i asked jack ward to help me along my way by spreading a report that i was a most promising poet, but he said that no one who had ever seen me would believe him. he meant to be complimentary, i believe. it was into this medley of sets that i was plunged headlong. crowds of men called upon me and asked me to meals. some of them wanted to know me because i played cricket and football, the captain of the college boat called because he wanted me to row, some of the "bloods" left cards on me because they had seen me walking about with jack ward, whom they had marked down as one of themselves. a few men called from other colleges who had known me at cliborough, or had been asked to see something of me because their people knew mine. i got to know the oddest lot of men imaginable, and as long as they looked clean and did not try to rush me into helping them to reform the world, i liked them all. but in spite of ward, who pretended that rugby football was an overrated amusement, i wanted to belong to the athletic set, and i started by playing footer in a thing which is most correctly called "the freshers' squash." in this struggle any fresher who had never played rugger in his life, but thought he would like some exercise, could play, while footer blues dodged round and took your names, if you were lucky enough to touch the ball, and booked you for the proper game. on the following day i played back in the real freshers' match, and was most tremendously encouraged before i started by hearing one man say to another that i had come up with a big reputation from cliborough. perhaps i was encouraged too much, or possibly i had eaten too heavy a luncheon, for whatever reputation i might have had before the game began, was effectually dispersed before we had finished playing; and foster, who was playing three-quarters on the other side, was the man who assisted me in this dismally easy task. four times he came right away from everybody, and once he slipped down in front of me, but on the other three occasions he simply swerved away from me and i missed him by yards. the man who had been full back to the 'varsity xv. the year before had gone down, and foster had put into my head the idea that i ought to have a jolly good chance of getting my blue. this match was a very rude blow, and when i put on my coat and walked out of the parks i felt that i had been very badly treated. i was not at all sure with whom i was most angry, but i had a general feeling that whatever i tried to do went most hopelessly wrong, and that i was much better fitted to sit in a dog-cart with jack ward, than i was to stand up in a footer-field and be made a fool of by fred foster. as luck would have it the first man i saw when i went into the college was ward, and he shouted with laughter when he saw me. "i went down to the parks to see you," he said, "but for heaven's sake don't look so down on your luck. i don't see that it matters, there are other things worth doing besides trying to collar impossible people. if you don't have to play again i shall think you are thundering well out of it." if anybody had said this to me at school i should have thought that he was mad, but during the few days i had been at oxford i had somehow or other got hopelessly mixed up. foster wanted me to do one thing, murray advised me to do another, ward kept on asking me to slack, and a fellow called dennison, whom i had met several times, seemed to think that oxford was a tremendous joke and that the most amusing people in it were the dons. at any rate i was not in the least angry at ward's way of taking my wretched exhibition, so i asked him and dennison and two or three other freshers, who were standing around in the quad, to come and have tea with me, and that tea was the beginning of my first big row. i had not finished my bath when i was sorry i had asked them, for i remembered that before the game had begun foster had asked me to go round afterwards to see him, and i had a sort of feeling that if he had made an idiot of himself, and i had caused him to do so, he would have most certainly not been as angry as i was. however, i had let myself in for this tea and had to go through with it, and i must say that it was very good fun. if, as some wit said, only a dull man can be brilliant at breakfast, it seems to me that if the converse of this is true st. cuthbert's must have contained an extraordinary number of brilliant men. the amusements of a breakfast given by a senior man to half-a-dozen freshers were principally food and silence. it is, i think, dreadfully difficult to talk to a batch of freshers, and only one man, as far as my experience went, overcame the difficulty. he resorted to the simple means of telling us what a wonderful man he was. but when we were alone we chattered like a lot of starlings, every one talked and no one listened, so we got on well together. ward and dennison came up to my rooms before i was dressed, and two other men, lambert and collier, arrived soon afterwards. it was a party of which ward strongly approved. while i was trying to make the kettle boil, i heard dennison say that we were the pick of the freshers, a statement which no one was very likely to deny. i felt badly in need of some tonic after my afternoon, and i swallowed the one provided by dennison without any hesitation, not stopping to wonder how often he had said the same thing to other men. as a matter-of-fact we were rather an odd lot to be the pick of anybody. dennison looked younger than any boy in the sixth form at cliborough, and he could, on occasions, blush most bashfully. his blush was, however, the only bashful thing about him and he used it very seldom. ward had told me that although dennison looked such a kid he knew a tremendous lot. i discovered this for myself later on, but i cannot say that his knowledge was the kind which is difficult to acquire. he professed a wholesale contempt for any game at which he could get his mouth full of dirt, and said that he would as soon make mud-pies as play football. lambert was hugely tall and walked with a stride which was as long as it was stately. he went in for dressing himself beautifully, strummed on the banjo, and had a playful little habit of arranging his tie in any mirror which he saw. his pride in himself was so monstrously open that no one with a grain of humour could be angry with him. he talked about every game under the sun as if they were all equally easy to him, but i should not think that any one was ever found who believed half of what he said. collier's great point was the beam which he kept on his face, he always looked so perfectly delighted to see you that he was a most effective cure for depression. he was fat and did not mind, which persuaded me that he was very easy to please. nature had prevented him from playing football with any success, but for six or seven overs, on a cool day, he was reported to be a dangerous fast bowler. as jack ward thought that no ball yet made was worth worrying when he could ride, drive, or even be driven, and since i was feeling about as sick with footer as it is possible for any one who had got a love for the game in him to be, i confess that we were a peculiar lot to think much of ourselves. my room was not made to hold five people, who, with the exception of dennison, were all either very broad or long, but a good honest squash certainly makes for friendship. we were a fairly rowdy party, because lambert had brought his banjo and as soon as he had finished tea he wanted to sing; in fact it may be said of him that he was always wanting to sing and could never find any one who wished to listen to him. i had already heard him sing some sentimental rubbish about meeting by moonlight and another thing about stars and souls, and i threw a cushion at his head as soon as he began to make some noise which he called "tuning up." that began a cushion fight, which resulted in two china shepherdesses, a small lamp, and some teacups being smashed, but it persuaded lambert that he could not sing whenever he felt inclined. we all sat down again, and ward, who had been hanging on to the standard lamp while cushions had been flying around, said to me-- "you did look down on your luck when i saw you in the quad. i can't think why anybody should take these wretched games so seriously; it seems to me a perfectly rotten thing to do." "no game is worth playing in which it matters to any one else whether you win or lose," dennison said before i had a chance to answer ward; "the only games a self-respecting man can play are court tennis, racquets and golf. then there is no one to swear at you except yourself." "that's rubbish," i answered. "half the fun of the thing is belonging to a side, and a man must be mad to say that golf is a better game than cricket." "dennison wasn't trying to make out that golf is better than cricket, but was just saying what games a man can play without being sworn at as if he were a coolie," ward said. "i refuse to take amusements seriously," dennison continued. "i would sooner shout with laughter at a funeral than lose my temper playing a game." "the sweetest thing on earth," i said, "is to catch a fast half-volley to leg plumb in the middle of the bat." "it isn't in the same street with a comic opera at the savoy after a good dinner," lambert remarked. "at any rate it doesn't last so long," dennison, who had a queer idea of what was funny, put in. "a punt, good cushions, june, and a novel by one of those people who make you feel sleepy, are hard to beat," collier stated. "you are a sybarite," dennison said, "and you will be a disappointed one before long. all we do here in the summer is to give our relations strawberries and cream and run with our college eight." "how do you know?" collier asked, but to so searching a question he got no reply. "the finest sight in the world is a thoroughbred horse," ward said. "you must have gone about with your eyes shut," dennison declared. "don't sit there talking rot," i said. "if anything ever pleases you, tell us what it is." "my greatest pleasure is in polite conversation," he answered. "oh, you are a sarcastic idiot," i retorted, for people who are afflicted by thinking themselves funny when i think they are idiotic always make me rude. "dennison never says what he means," ward explained, "it is a little habit of his." "why can't you talk straight, it's much simpler, and doesn't make me feel so horribly uncomfortable?" i asked, turning to dennison. "marten is getting angry," was the only answer i received, and it was so near the truth that i wanted to pick him up and drop him in the passage. ward, however, calmed my feelings by saying that he could not imagine any one troubling to be angry with dennison. "the one thing he prides himself on is getting a rise out of people, and we aren't such fools as he thinks us." "and he is a much bigger fool than he thinks," collier said solemnly. "you are a nice complimentary lot," dennison remarked, smiling amiably upon us. "it's your own fault," collier continued; "you try to be clever and succeed in being confoundedly dull. i was at school with him for five years and i know his only strong point is that the more you abuse him the more he likes you." "i'm fairly in love with you, coalheaver," dennison said. "naturally, but you might forget that very witty name." "i'm going," lambert declared, "for i'm dining in hall, and if i don't go for a walk those kromeskis and quenelles will choke me." "half a minute," and ward pushed lambert back into his seat; "now we are all here, i think we had better arrange a freshers' wine. there always is one, and nobody will get it up if we don't, so i vote we do the thing properly." every one seemed to approve of the idea, but as i was no use at making arrangements i suggested that ward should manage the whole business. "i can order everything, but we must have a committee to choose the people we shall ask and all that part of it. we can't ask everybody," ward said. "half of them won't come if we do. i should think we had better ask the whole lot, and then we shall know what they are made of," lambert advised. "we shan't have a room big enough to hold them," collier said. after that we all began to talk, and though i had only a hazy notion of what we decided, i heard enough to know that ward and dennison meant having this wine in about ten days and only intended to ask the freshers whom they liked. chapter iv unexpected people the idea of working for mr. gilbert edwardes never had much attraction for me, and for the first two or three weeks at oxford i found it very difficult to satisfy him. however, the excuse that i took a long time to settle down in a fresh place did not seem as reasonable to him as it did to me, so i had to abandon it and try to appease him. the worst of him was that i never knew whether he was pleased or not; he accepted my most determined efforts at scholarship as a matter of course and reserved his eloquence for the occasions on which my work showed symptoms of haste. in less than a fortnight i felt that my tutor and i were watching each other, an element of distrust seemed to have sprung up; he took it for granted that i would do as little as possible, while i was searching for something which could tell me that he was human as well as learned. i could not understand him in the least, for i had been accustomed to masters who talked about things of which i knew a little even if they were bored by doing so; but when i met mr. edwardes i felt that he belonged to the ice period, and that he would think the smallest thaw a waste of time. i do like a human being, i mean a man who lets you know something about him and does not barricade himself against you. but a man who puts up the shutters in front of his virtues and faults bothers me most terribly, and i always seem to be bumping my head against something invisible whenever i see him, which is a most disconcerting performance. mr. edwardes was also murray's tutor, but murray was not afflicted, as i was, with the desire to know people more than they wanted to be known, and he told me that if i would only take edwardes as i found him we should get on together splendidly. in spite of jack ward, i saw murray every day, and the more i knew of him the more i liked him. he was in my room one evening after ward had arranged that we were to have a freshers' wine, and i asked him if he was coming to it. "i can't go unless i am asked," he said, "and i shan't go now if i am asked." i resolved to say a few things to ward, but i did not know what to say to murray. "ward is asking everybody he wants, isn't he?" he inquired. "yes it was left to him and dennison, i believe." "then i am not likely to be invited, for he and i never could do anything but have rows with each other at wellingham." "what about?" i asked, for murray had never said much about ward to me and i wanted to hear his side of the quarrel. "it isn't worth repeating," he answered. "i was head of the school and ward thought a friend of his ought to have seen. he thinks i am a smug because i have to work, and i suppose i think he is a fool because he thinks i am a smug. he is a queer sort, and it is hopeless for me to try to be friends with him, even if i wanted to be, and i don't." "he is a fairly good cricketer, isn't he?" i asked, for i had discovered that when murray had once made up his mind no efforts of mine would change it. "yes, he would have got into the xi. quite easily only he was so slack, and the master who looked after our cricket couldn't stand him. it was rather a swindle that he didn't get into the team all the same." "i hate slackers," i said, and to prove it i set to work on some homer for edwardes. murray got his books and we slaved together for nearly two hours, when a most timid knock sounded on my door, and a man came in who seemed to be most fearfully nervous. he was carrying a gown and a cap in his hand, and he looked at murray, who was not at all an alarming sight, as if he had encountered a wild man from one of those regions where wild men are bred. i had never had much practice at putting any one at their ease, for most people hit me on the back and call me "old fellow" far too soon; but i tried very hard to calm my visitor, and though it was six o'clock i asked him to have tea and every conceivable other thing i could think of, all of which he refused. he told me his name was owen, but apart from that i knew nothing, and the more he fidgeted with the tassel of his cap the more i wondered why he had come. murray, however, guessed that he was in the way and hurried off as soon as he could. then owen made two or three unsuccessful efforts to begin, until i felt that i must offer him something more, only i had nothing left to offer. the man who said that hospitality covers a multitude of emotions went nearer the mark than most of those word-turning people do. but at last it all came out in jerks, and i felt most thoroughly sorry for him; if i had been in his place i am certain i should never have faced such an ordeal. "i didn't like to tell you why i had come before your friend," he began; and he still twisted his cap round and round by the tassel. "i suppose a sort of false modesty prevented me, but i might just as well have spoken before him." "murray is a most awfully good sort," i said lamely, for i wanted to help him so much that my head felt hot and i could not think. "i expect he is," owen went on, "but i haven't come to be friends with your friends. i only wanted to see you, and the reason is that over twenty years ago in india your father saved my father's life." i did feel relieved when he told me that, for i had been imagining that he was the kind of man who is known as a freak, and had come to win me over to some stupid crank which he would call a noble cause. "i am most tremendously glad you have come," i said, and then i began talking about my father's old regiment, and owen could not get a word in until i had finished. "you don't understand," he said, as soon as he got a chance; "when you talk about a regiment you only think of the officers, my father was one of the men." "i don't see what that matters as long as his life was saved." "it does matter," owen replied; "it matters here very much, where there is not much liberality except in offering meals and things not wanted." i moved my feet and kicked the fender, the fire-irons jangled together and he went on: "i ought not to have said that, it is my blundering way to say the thing i oughtn't; what i meant was that oxford is not very liberal to a man like i am, who is here by hard work, and not because his fathers and grandfathers were here before him. it is impossible in a place of sets--social, athletic, and all the rest--for a man who has to work to keep himself, to be treated in the same way as you, for instance, are treated. i am not what the world calls a gentleman." "oh, confound the world," i said, "it is always mixed up in my mind with the flesh and the devil," and as owen did not say anything for a minute i asked him what college he was at. "i am unattached, st. catherine's if you like; we are called 'the toshers,'" he answered, and there was a note of bitterness in his voice. "of course," he went on, "i am boring you to death, but i must say that i should never have come to see you if my father had not made me promise that i would. he takes a tremendous interest in both your brother and you; he knows the place your brother passed into sandhurst and where he was in the list when he went out, and last summer he watched for your name in _the sportsman_, and when you got any wickets he was as pleased as punch. he writes to colonel marten still." i wished i could have said that my father had mentioned him to me, but if i had i am certain that owen would have seen that i was not telling the truth. "my father," i tried to explain, "never talks about anything he has done. if your father had saved his life i should have heard of it a hundred times." "you have the knack of saying the right thing, i shall never get that if i live to be a hundred;" and then he stood up, and putting a hand on the mantel-piece looked at the photographs of my people, but he did not say what he thought about them. "if i did say the right thing, it was a most fearful fluke," i said, for i could not be silent. "i simply hate men who walk about patting themselves on the back because they have had what they call success with a remark." he did not listen to what i was saying, but stood staring into the fire; at last he turned round and held out a hand to me. "i must thank you," he began; "and there is one other thing i have got to ask you before i say good-bye. my father asked me to make you promise that you would never mention what i have told you about his life being saved by your father, or anything about him. it seems to be a sort of compact, i don't understand it. he doesn't want your people to know anything about me, but only you." i promised, of course, but i felt rather bothered. "we may meet some day in the street," he said, and he pushed his hand into mine; but i let it go, and told him to sit down again. for this last speech of his was annoying, he had evidently got a wrong idea of me. "it is no use talking rot," i said. "to begin with, what on earth have you got to thank me for?" "if colonel marten hadn't saved my father's life, i should never have been born," he said. "and you have come to thank me for that?" i said, and i did not mean to be rude. "i was told to, you see," he answered. i looked at him and we both laughed, though i went on laughing long after he had stopped. the idea of me being thanked for anybody's existence was beautifully comic. "it is very good of you to have come," i said, as soon as i could; "but i don't deserve any thanks and you know that i don't." "you haven't got much to do with it, perhaps, but you were here and i should never have been forgiven if i hadn't come to see you. i shan't come again." "oh, bosh," i replied. "what's the good of talking stuff like that? of course you will come again, and i am coming to see you, if i may. how long have you been up here?" "this is the beginning of my third year." "what did you get in mods?" i asked, for i felt sure that he had done well. "a first," he answered. "i wish i had. where do you live?" "i shan't tell you." "you may just as well, for i shall easily find out." he stood up again, and talked as he strode up and down my room. "i have been here two years," he began, "and i know that it is impossible for us to be friends; and when you have thought it over you will think as i do. my father teaches fencing and boxing in london; i was educated at a school you never heard of; i am helped here by an old gentleman who discovered that i was more or less intelligent. he has a mania for experiments, and i am his latest hobby. have i said enough to put you off, or must i go on?" "i suppose i can please myself when i choose my friends," i said. "that you most certainly can't do here," he answered. "let me alone and i won't bother you any more. good-night, your bell is going for dinner." he walked straight out of my room, and before he had closed the door jack ward rushed in. "who is that man?" he asked at once. "i am not going to tell you," i answered, for i wanted time to think. "well he is a funny-looking johnny anyway, looks as pale as a codfish and as solemn as a boiled owl. you do collect an odd set of friends; there's that man foster, who seems to be deaf and dumb, and murray, who gives me the blues whenever i see him, and then this apparition." "you can just shut up jawing," i answered, as i hunted round for my gown; "when i want you to criticize my friends i will tell you. foster's worth about ten billion of you any day." i was very angry, but ward only laughed and told me to hurry up unless i wanted the soup to be cold. "we are going to have a little roulette in my rooms to-night," he said, as we walked across the quad. "will you come?" "no, i won't," i answered, and i let him go into the hall first, and as soon as he had chosen his seat i got as far from him as i could. i saw him talking to collier, and they seemed to be amused, which did not lessen my annoyance. if the freshers' wine had been held on that evening, i am very nearly sure that i should not have gone to it. after dinner i waylaid murray, and dragged him off to see foster at oriel. two days before foster had been playing rugger for the 'varsity against the london scottish, and i had neither seen the game, because i had to play in a college match on the same afternoon, nor had i seen him since. i wanted to hear whether he was satisfied with himself, but i wanted also to tell him about owen. we found him in the college lodge talking to a whole lot of men, but as soon as he saw us he grabbed one man and took us to his rooms. i did not want this fourth fellow, but since he was there i must say that foster could not have got any one nicer. his name was henderson, and he had been so successful as captain of his school cricket xi. that he had played three times for somersetshire during august. his legs and arms were extraordinarily long and his face was covered with freckles; one freckle had placed itself on the tip of his nose and i did not get accustomed to it for a long time--it was the sort of thing which one kept on looking at to see if it was still there. he would not talk about his cricket, except to say that he should not have played for somersetshire if half the regular team had not been laid up, and he kept on clamouring to play whist, so that at last we gave way to him. i had a good opinion of my whist, though how i arrived at it i cannot explain. henderson was my partner and he seemed to me to do the most odd things. for instance when i led a spade and he took the trick, instead of leading another spade he would begin some fresh suit, which made me wonder what in the world he was doing. and he did not seem to think his trumps half as valuable as i thought mine, but just led them whenever he felt inclined. when nina, foster and i played whist it was considered pretty bad form to lead trumps when we had anything else to lead, and we kept them for a big outburst at the finish. i pitied myself considerably for having henderson as a partner, and i was very surprised to see murray doing the same odd sort of things. so at the end of one rubber foster and i played together, but i cannot say that we had much luck, and just at the end i made a revoke which murray was brute enough to notice. when henderson had gone i said that he seemed to be a rare good sort, but it was a pity he did not know a little more about whist. i hoped murray would take that remark partly to himself, because at the end of every hand he had talked to henderson about what might have happened if he had led a different card, and sometimes he even went on jawing when he had got his fresh hand, which quite put me off my game. but all murray did was to laugh, while foster said to me that he was afraid our way of playing whist was all wrong, and i had some difficulty in persuading him that it was not. then murray said something about reading cavendish carefully, but i had heard some one say that cavendish was out of date, so i borrowed this man's opinion and expressed it as my own, which amused murray so much that if i had not been sorry for him i believe i should have lost my temper. at last, however, we stopped discussing whist, and after i had made foster and murray swear they would tell no one else, i gave them an account of owen coming to see me. before i began foster declared that the reason i bound them to keep my secret was because i wanted to tell it to every one myself. in fact he expected the whole thing to be some miserable little affair, for i had a habit, which i have since abandoned, of extracting the most terrific promises of secrecy from my friends and then telling them something which they did not think as important as i did. i started that game because i had once told something really funny to a lot of fellows at cliborough, and they went and spread it about so quickly that i could never find any one else who did not know it, which was simply nothing less than a fraud. but as soon as i had got fairly into my tale i saw that both foster and murray were interested, and at the end of it i asked them what i was to do. "do you think he meant that he wouldn't have anything more to do with you, or that he just wanted to show you that he would leave you to decide what was to happen next?" murray asked. "i don't know what he meant," i answered. "he seemed to be in a rage with the whole of oxford, only it was not a noisy sort of rage but a kind of smouldering business, and perhaps i only imagined the whole thing." "what was he like to look at?" foster inquired. "pale and dark, and he looked unwell without looking unwholesome," i replied. "i saw him," murray said, "and i thought he would have been rather nice if he hadn't been so nervous. he has got great big eyes and about half an acre of forehead." "he wore a flannel shirt and a turned-down collar, and looked clean," i told foster, for i thought he had better know everything. "ask him to lunch and murray and me to meet him," foster suggested. "i can't ask a senior man to lunch, it would show that i thought it didn't make any difference in his case, and i think he would be on the look-out for things like that. besides, he wouldn't come." "i should leave him alone," murray said. "i shan't do that, it would make me feel a brute," i replied. "find out where he lives and i will come with you and see him. i know your father, so it will be all right," foster proposed. "he has called on me, so he can't mind me going to see him, and i should like to take you with me. i'll let you know as soon as i have found out where his rooms are;" and then, as it was getting late, foster came down with us to the lodge, and i was half out of the door before i remembered to ask him about his footer. "i am playing against cooper's hill on wednesday," he said; "but i shall be kicked out if i don't play any better than i did on saturday." as we walked up king edward street murray did nothing but talk about foster, and since i was always delighted whenever i could get any one on that subject i did not look half carefully enough where i was going. murray was in cap and gown, but i was not wearing what is sometimes magnificently called "academical attire," but had on a cloth cap. it had never occurred to me that we were likely to meet the "proggins," but as i turned into the high we ran full tilt into him, and before i had time to think of running, a "bulldog" had told me that the proctor would like to speak to me. there was no way out of it, so i turned to gratify this unforeseen gentleman and found that he was my tutor, mr. edwardes. he did not trouble to go through the usual formula of asking me whether i belonged to the university and all the rest of it, but told me to call upon him the next morning. he spoke so quickly that i could not hear what time he told me to come, but i supposed any time would do. "did you know that edwardes was a proctor?" i asked murray, as soon as we could go on. "some one told me he was; he is a junior proctor, i think." "and a vile nuisance," i added. "he will be more down on me than ever now." "there is no harm in walking about without cap and gown," murray said. "i'll bet edwardes thinks there is," i answered, and as i was feeling furious at being caught so simply, i gave a tremendous hammer upon the door of st. cuthbert's, and when i wished the porter good-night he glared at me and did not answer. chapter v the wine the faculty of making people angry without meaning to do so is a most fatal possession. when i remember the men i know who seem to be constitutionally unpleasant and who walk about saying sarcastic things, i do think i am unlucky. for i annoy people quite unintentionally, and it must be the most stupid way of bringing about a bad result. i get no fun for my money, so to speak. honestly i did not hear at what time mr. edwardes told me to call upon him, and when i strolled over to his rooms about eleven o'clock on the following morning, i had no idea that he was likely to be more than usually displeased. but it did not take me a moment to discover that he was very angry indeed. from what he told me it seemed that i ought to have appeared at nine o'clock with many other men as unfortunate as i was, and he evidently considered that i had not come at the proper hour because i had thought that one time would do as well as another. i told him that i did not hear him mention any particular time, but i do not think he believed me, and after i had paid him five shillings for being without my cap and gown he did not even thank me, but looked first at his watch and then at a long list which he had on his table. "it is now a quarter-past eleven, and i believe mr. armitage's lecture at merton begins at eleven o'clock. may i ask why you have decided not to attend his lecture this morning?" and he screwed his mouth up until it seemed to disappear. his question was difficult to answer, because i could not tell him that murray and i had decided that mr. armitage lectured very badly, and that i had expressed my intention of cutting his lectures whenever i felt inclined. so i said that i had forgotten mr. armitage's lecture, which happened to be the truth. "i am afraid, mr. marten, that you take a very light view of your responsibilities," he said. "it is unusual, i imagine, for an exhibitioner of a college to interview the proctor as soon as you have done; the college authorities naturally expect their scholars and exhibitioners to obey the rules of the university, and they also expect them to apply themselves earnestly to their studies. at the present moment i am unable to consider that you have realized either of these expectations." "well, sir, they are early days yet," i said with a smile, for i thought it was best to take a cheery view of the situation. "this is no jest," he replied, and his teeth snapped together very disagreeably. "i did not mistake it for one," i said, and i wanted to be amicable; "but being without cap and gown last night is not a very awful offence, is it? the proctors would have a very dull time if they did not catch men sometimes." i cannot imagine why i made that last remark, except that he had fixed his little eyes upon me when i began and it seemed to be dragged out of me. "i do not think that you need trouble yourself about the duties of the proctors, mr. marten. good-morning, and please remember what i have said to you." i left his room smiling, and i am sure he thought i was laughing at him; but what really amused me was being called "mr. marten," for i had not grown accustomed to my prefix and the sound of it was most comical to me. i am afraid my taste for jokes was very different from that of my tutor. when i came away from mr. edwardes i stood in the front quadrangle and whistled. my whistle is unmusical and penetrative, useful only when a dog has been lost, and some man, whom i did not know, put his head out of his window and said abruptly, "for heaven's sake shut up that vile noise;" another man chucked a penny into the quad and told me he should send something heavier if i did not stop. the front quad was obviously no place for me, but before i had made up my mind where i would go the warden came out of his house and saw me before i saw him. "good-morning, mr. marten," he said before i could escape; "it is so unusual to find a beautiful quadrangle totally uninhabited that you seem to be undecided whether to leave it or not. your whistle as i stood by the open window of my bedroom suggested to me that you are not employing your time most advantageously either to yourself or to others." he stood by me for a moment, and then moving on with his peculiar shuffle disappeared through the doorway leading into the college gardens. my nerves were becoming upset from these constant encounters, and as i felt that i could not sit down and work until i had some kind of an antidote, i went up to see jack ward, who had rooms in the front quadrangle. i found him, as i thought, most beautifully unemployed, but as soon as he had asked me whether my temper was better in the morning than at night, of which remark i took no notice, he said that he was being worried to death. there were two telegrams lying on his table, and i thought something awful had happened to his people, so i tried to look sympathetic and replied that if he would rather be left alone i would go at once. then he broke forth into the language of towing-paths and barges and asked me whether i was a lunatic, which was a fairly nasty question when i thought i was treating his trouble in a becoming spirit. i was not, however, sure what was the matter with him, so i did not say what i might have said but asked him to tell me why he was bothered. "you see it is like this," he answered, picking up both the telegrams; "one of our groom fellows at home has a brother who knows everything about blackmore's stable, and he has just wired to me that dainty dick will win the flying welter at hurst park to-day, and i was off to back it when i get a wire from my tipster, tom webb, that the philosopher can't lose the same race. it is tom's 'double nap' and i am in a hole what to do." as i had never heard before of dainty dick, the philosopher, tom webb or blackmore, i did not feel in a position to give advice, but i laughed until i felt quite unwell, and ward walked about the room asking violently why i was amused. "i thought some of your people were ill when i came in here," i said after some minutes, "and the whole thing turns out to be some gibberish nonsense about tom webb, a tipster, and some rotten horses." "you are most refreshingly green," ward replied, and he screwed the telegrams together and threw them into the fire. "what are you going to do?" i inquired. "that's just it, i can't make up my mind. tom webb has sent me twelve stiff 'uns running, and if the philosopher won and i wasn't on it i should swear for a month." "then," i said wisely, "i think you had better back the philosopher; you ought to think a little of your friends." the only answer i received to my suggestion was that of all the fools in oxford i was the most sublime, so i told him that if he backed either of these horses he would be proving that, at any rate, i was not absolutely the biggest fool he knew. but he had begun to read racing guides and calendars, and every now and then made notes upon a piece of paper, so he treated my retort with contempt. "i believe," he said, with a pencil between his teeth, "that dainty dick can give the philosopher about eleven pounds, and he has only to give him four, so i shall back the philosopher." "that doesn't seem very good reasoning," i ventured to remark. "my opinion's always wrong," he explained, "but i have a thundering good mind to back both of 'em." "it seems the quickest way of losing your money," i said. "don't be such a confounded ass. i know about some of these stables, a man is a fool if you like who bets and doesn't know." he shut up his betting-book with a bang, and i told him the only tale i knew about racing. "i have a cousin," i began, "who owned racehorses and all the rest of it. he lost every penny he had, and a lot more besides. he knew, as you call it." i did not feel that my tale, though it had the merit of being true, was a good one. "it is no use for you to sit there and conjure up tragedies," ward replied. "i can't help gambling, it is in my blood; my father is about the biggest speculator in england. if you want a good tip, buy susquehambo consolidated rubies." i was not inclined to buy anything except a fox-terrier pup, and i told ward that he would come a most howling cropper if he did not look out. but i have never yet happened to find the man who was inclined to take my warnings seriously, and jack ward, at any rate, was so naturally optimistic, that i might have known that he would take no notice whatever of my advice. "i shall back both dainty dick and the philosopher," he said, when i had finished; "come down to wright's with me, and i will have a fiver on each of them. i don't get tips like these every day." he put on his cap and tried to persuade me to go with him, but i was sick of the man, he seemed to me to be simply throwing his money away; so i went back to my rooms, and finding that murray had been to armitage's lecture, i borrowed his notes and copied them into my book, though murray said, and i thought, that i was wasting my time. i did not see ward again until after five o'clock, when he brought an evening paper and a cheerful countenance into my rooms and told me that dainty dick had won the flying welter, and the philosopher had been second. "two pretty good tips, my boy," he said; "nothing but your obstinacy prevented your being on." collier had been having tea with me, and was to all appearances asleep when ward came in, but without opening his eyes he said, "betting is a mug's game. what price did this brute start at?" "i don't know until i get the next evening paper, but it is sure to be a good price; there were twelve runners, and they are sure to have backed the philosopher." "you are a rotter," collier stated; "if you are going to stay here, don't talk racing to us. i don't know anything about it and don't want to." "i know a real hot thing for the manchester november handicap, been kept for months," ward said quite cheerfully. "we don't want to hear it," i said. "i am thundering well not going to tell you anyway. you two men ought to be in bed, i am going to find some one who is not half asleep," ward answered, and he went away with unnecessary noise. both collier and i had promised to go to lambert's rooms after dinner on that evening; he had asked us because he said we ought to have a talk about the freshers' wine, but we knew well enough that he intended to twang his wretched banjo and sing little love songs which made the night hideous. if only he would have sung comic things he might not have caused such wholesale pain, though i should not like to speak positively upon that point. i did not go to this entertainment immediately after dinner, and when i arrived i found the usual gang, ward, dennison and collier, and one other man who turned out to be bunny langham. everybody except collier was playing a game of cards called "bank," the chief merit of which is its simplicity. the dealer puts some money into the pool and deals three cards to each player, who can bet up to the amount in the pool that one of his cards will beat the card which the dealer turns up against him. all that seemed to happen was that bunny langham kept on saying, "i'll go the whole shoot," and then complained violently of his luck. it was no game for me and i looked to collier for amusement, but he had got a bottle of french plums in his lap and was engaged in trying to get them out with a fork which was too short for the job. the banjo had been put back into its case, and though it was not amusing to see four men play cards and collier over-eating himself, i was content to see the banjo put away for the night, so i got the most comfortable chair i could grasp and waited until somebody thought it was time to go to bed. i sat facing bunny langham, and as there was nothing else to do i watched him losing his money, and i should think he was what is called a very good loser. he was a most curious-looking man and wore eyeglasses which did not seem powerful enough, for when he wanted to take any money from the pool or--which happened more frequently--pay something into it, he took them off and put up a single eyeglass which he managed with the skill of one to whom it was a necessity and not an inconvenience. his complexion was pink and white, and he had a small patch of piebald hair over his right car, which in some lights looked like a rosette. but in spite of his odd appearance there was something attractive in his face; it must, i think, have been either his expression or his forehead, for it certainly was not his chin, and a nose never looks its best when shadowed by pince-nez. dennison was the only winner at the table, and smiled benignly round him when he was not lighting his pipe. lambert threw his money about with a magnificent air more comical than impressive, and jack ward seemed to be the one man whose attention was riveted on the game. when a remark was made on any subject except bad luck, ward broke in asking some one how much they were going to stake or telling bunny, who never seemed to know what was going to happen next, that they were waiting for him. i thought "bank" must be the dreariest of all card games, but it was nearly twelve o'clock before langham got up and said he must go. when the game was over i asked ward how much he had won over dainty dick, and at once there was a roar of laughter. "he lost over three pounds," dennison said "but how did he manage that?" i asked, for my knowledge of racing being limited i did not understand how he could have backed the winner of this race and yet lost money. "why dainty dick started at three to one on, so he only won about thirty shillings, and he lost a fiver backing the philosopher. i thought he had made a fortune by the way he was talking at dinner," dennison answered. for a moment ward looked furious, and the exultant way in which dennison told me what had happened must have annoyed him tremendously. i felt that dennison with his seraphic smile was a much bigger idiot than ward, so i said, "well, i can't see where the joke comes in, i think it is thundering rough luck," which remark i considered rather noble, for i did think that ward had been scored off beautifully, only dennison gibing at him was such a sickening sight that i thought i would put off the few words i meant having with him about dainty dick until we were alone. after bunny langham had gone we began to discuss the freshers' wine, but jack ward looked so down on his luck that i let him arrange what he liked, though as collier said to me afterwards, ward only thought he was deciding everything while dennison really managed the whole affair and simply twisted him round his fingers. "dennison is as clever as a wagon load of monkeys," collier complained, "he looks like a baby and is as cunning as a chinaman. i wonder how we can put up with him." i wondered, too, and i should think everybody else, except dennison himself, found it difficult to explain his popularity. for he was popular, and since no other reason occurs to me i expect the fact that he was always ready to play the piano must have helped him, lambert on his banjo was enough to depress a crowd of sunday-school children at their annual treat, but dennison played the kind of music which made collier, ward and me, who were not exactly musical, feel that we could sing quite well. at cliborough i had established a record by being the first boy who had tried to get into the school choir and failed, but the man who made me sing "ah, ah, ah," until i really could not go on any longer had told me that i should have a voice some day. perhaps he said that out of kindness, but when dennison played i always remembered it, and forgot that when i sang in church people sitting in front of me had been known to look round as if hymns were not made to be sung. if discussion beforehand helps to make an entertainment successful our freshers' wine ought to have been a colossal success. for days the thing seemed to pervade the air and i got horribly tired of it, though collier, who had been given rooms which compared with mine were palatial, had more reason to be sick than i had. collier had not only a certain amount of space at his disposal but also a piano, and if either of us had been any use at guessing we might have known that his rooms would have been chosen. i may as well say now that if any one of the freshers who had been invited had also possessed a little sense collier's rooms would not have been chosen, but the last thing we thought of was a row, until we got into one, which is one of the advantages of being a fresher. dennison and ward finally asked about fifteen men to the wine, and on the appointed night we met in collier's rooms. it was perhaps not so great a privilege to receive an invitation as we thought it was, because each man who accepted had to pay more than the thing was worth. however, there was no doubt that it was well done, ward had been to spinney's shop in the turl and had benefited by spinney's experience, and dennison with the assistance of collier's scout, and in spite of collier's mild protests, had prepared the rooms in a way which made me wonder where the owner of them was going to sleep. there was a tradition at st. cuthbert's, and a tradition seems to me a very dangerous possession unless carefully watched, that no wine was complete without a large bowl of milk punch. ward had been told this by spinney, who took what he called a fatherly interest in st. cuthbert's, though it must be an exorbitant kind of interest which makes a man recommend a lot of freshers, or anybody else, to mix punch with champagne and port. spinney had also provided a terrific amount of fruit and other things, and if collier's room had only been big enough to provide space for all of us and for what we were expected to eat and drink, i think our wine at the start would have been a most imposing display. as it was everybody thought it had been done well except collier, who told me to look in his bedroom. i looked without seeing the bed, which was so piled up with superfluities that they nearly touched the ceiling. "when this orgie is over," collier said, "every one will have forgotten that i have to go to bed to-night." "i will stay and help you," i answered, for i was in the mood when anything seems to be possible. we went back into the "sitter," where everybody was already beginning to eat and, i suppose, to enjoy themselves. there were not enough chairs to go round, but there is always the floor, and a man who won't sit on the floor when there is nothing else to sit upon is no use at an oxford wine. some men even prefer the floor, but that usually happens later on in the evening. ward began the musical part of the entertainment by singing "john peel," his voice was admirable, because it was loud without being very good, and nobody had the discomfort of wondering whether they could sing well enough to join in the chorus. i like a place where you can fairly bellow without hearing your own voice. a man called webb, who had a mole on his forehead and had been at cliborough with me, sang the next song, but it was a sentimental thing, and had a chorus with some high notes in it, an unsuitable choice which fell flat, and when it was over webb sat down by me in disgust, and helped himself lavishly to punch by way of consolation. i told webb that he had taken lambert's seat, because lambert for some other reason had also been helping himself lavishly to punch, and had become argumentative and almost quarrelsome. webb, however, said that he was not going to move, and when lambert returned dennison had to play the piano very lustily to drown the discussion which took place. lambert was six feet two and angry, webb was the same height and obstinate, both of them had been drinking punch, and if ward had not intervened by asking lambert to sing, i believe an unexpected item would have formed part of our programme. lambert sang, or rather tried to sing, and broke down several times; no one minded and he received tremendous encouragement to go on, but he fancied himself as a singer and at last became very indignant and abusive. he was then given champagne to soothe him, and sat on the floor with a very sad expression, and his legs stretched out in front of him. collier threw a fig at him which he caught and threw back, hitting another man on the cheek, figs began to fly about the room until ward begged everybody not to make a horrible rag before we had properly begun. collier went round on his hands and knees collecting figs and calling himself a fool for spoiling his own carpet. most people gave him a shove with their feet when he came near them, which sent him on to his back and prevented his collection from being a good one. then dennison began to play "the gondoliers," which was the popular comic opera of the day. solos were dispensed with, and each chorus was sung many times. the wine was evidently a huge success, the noise was magnificent, and everybody was reasonably peaceful. no one noticed that lambert and webb were now sitting side by side on the floor, swearing eternal friendship and requiring champagne in which to pledge each other, until webb got hold of the idea that he was leander trying to swim the hellespont, and collier poured a jug of water over his head so that he might make the scene more realistic. one or two men went quietly away, saying that it was getting late. the music stopped for a moment, while dennison walked about the room seeking refreshment and finding very little. the noise subsided so much that a knock was heard, and a scout poked his head into the room and spoke to dennison who was standing by the door. every one asked what he wanted, and dennison assured us that it did not matter, which we were all inclined to believe with the exception of ward, who went to the piano and began the national anthem. it was the only tune he could play, and he had to take infinite pains to get the right notes, so he was forcibly removed, and dennison installed in his place. "the gondoliers" and the noise began again, while ward, protesting that it was time we went away, was disregarded entirely. from sheer distaste for punch and only a very limited taste for wine i had not been seeking my enjoyment in drinking, but i had smoked far more than was good for me, and my head felt as large as a pumpkin. it occurred to me, however, that if ward wished our entertainment to close he was sure to be right, so i pulled over dennison backwards from the piano. that caused a very fair hubbub and did not do much good, since everybody began to sing what they liked, without music. ward went round persuading men to go, until lambert, webb, collier, ward, dennison and i were the only ones remaining. collier was heavy with sleep, but lambert and webb, who still sat on the floor with their backs propped up against a sofa, were full of song. dennison sulked in a corner; he told me afterwards that i had hurt his head. ward and i by violent efforts got lambert and webb upon their legs and propped them up against each other. they stood singing, "for he's a jolly good fellow," and looking extraordinarily foolish. at last we got them to the door and shoved them out, but unfortunately the sub-warden, who had a habit of being in the wrong place, was standing outside the room, and lambert, who most certainly looked upon him as an old friend, put an arm round him, and hurried him at break-neck speed down the stairs. webb followed, and when i got into the quadrangle he was on one side of the subby and lambert on the other. they were persuading him to dance. i tried to seize lambert, while ward went for webb; but as i did so they suddenly released their man, and instead of grabbing lambert i got my arm entangled in the subby's. i let it go quickly, but he recognized me, and said something about a disgraceful occurrence. it would have been giving lambert and webb away to tell him that i was acting the part of rescuer, so i stood looking at him, while ward drove the other two men out of the quadrangle. as he did not say anything i expressed a hope that he was not hurt, but it was more from a wish to prove myself sober than from any anxiety as to his condition that i made the remark. i thought he understood this, for he neither answered nor wished me good-night when he went back to his staircase. i was afraid he had been considerably jolted and was not quite himself. i turned round after watching him out of sight, and found murray standing by my side. "you had better come to bed," he said, and his tone suggested that i was incapable of looking after myself, so i told him that i was as sober as a judge. "i waited up for you," he said. "to see if you could be of any use, i suppose," i asked ungraciously. "and when lambert and webb began to shout the back quad down, i came out to see what had happened. what were you talking to the subby about?" "our arms got interlocked," i replied, as we walked over to our staircase. "the fact is the subby ought to go to bed in decent time." "he could hardly be expected to sleep with a wine going on in the rooms below him." "i forgot all about that." "and so apparently did everybody else who was there, though i should have thought the scout would have warned collier." "dennison managed the whole thing, i said, and you can thank your stars you can go to bed without the prospect of a row and a thundering headache." then i went into my room and sported my oak, for the rumblings of lambert and webb could still be heard in the quadrangle. chapter vi jack ward and dennison the morning following the wine was no morning for me. of course i awoke with a headache, but that was nothing in comparison with a general feeling that the day was not likely to be a peaceful one. i lay awake and thought over matters as well as i could until clarkson came in to put my bath. then i pretended to be asleep, but out of the corner of my eye i saw him looking at me and i conceived a great dislike for him. he seemed to think i was a curiosity of some kind. he tidied my room, and having finished he asked if i should be taking breakfast. i sat up in bed and inquired why he supposed i did not want breakfast, and my question, i flatter myself, surprised him considerably. i told him to get me twice as much breakfast as usual and to be quick, but while i was dressing i wondered how i should eat it, so i went into murray's room and persuaded him to breakfast with me. murray had already begun to eat, but when i explained to him that this was a little matter between clarkson and myself, and that it would not do for me to be scored off, he agreed to come. clarkson, however, was a difficult man to defeat; he provided enough breakfast for four men, and though i bustled him as much as i could and was very dictatorial, i could see that he was quietly amused. murray ate for all he was worth, but the amount of food which clarkson carried away for his hungry family was evidence enough to prove who had won the battle. conversation did not play any conspicuous part in that meal, but i told murray that if everybody at the wine had been as sensible as ward we should have got through without any row. "my opinion of ward has changed," i said more than once, for murray was not inclined to give him any credit and he certainly deserved some. at ten o'clock i went to a lecture, and when i returned i found a note from the sub-warden asking me to call upon him at noon. it was precisely what i expected, but the prospects of another row depressed me. the morning was dark and rainy, and my room was so dismal that i stood on the ledge outside my window and leant against the parapet. it was neither a comfortable nor a very safe position, but it suited my mood. i looked down on the back quadrangle below me and watched for something interesting to happen. i had not been up long enough to know that my wish was not likely to be gratified, nothing exciting ever does happen in oxford during the morning, or if it does i was always unfortunate enough to miss it. a man in a scholar's gown hurried across the quadrangle, rushed up a staircase, and came back with a note-book in his hand. the warden came out of his house and stood upon his doorstep as if he was trying to remember what he wanted to do. then he turned round and went into the house again. miss davenport, the warden's sister, a lady who was reported to be talkative and in love, came out and observed the weather. two minutes afterwards she appeared in a mackintosh, which was thoroughly business-like. she was most obviously bent on shopping. two men, regardless of the rain, strolled out of the front quadrangle and shouted for dennison, who did not come to his window. i told them that he was probably in bed, and they answered that i should fall over if i did not look out. it was all most painfully dull, and i was just going in when the subby appeared and went into the warden's house. i could guess the reason for that visit, and waited to see no more. i sat down by the fire and tried to think out what i should say to the subby, and what he would say to me. i did not know much about him except that his name was webster, and that he was a great authority on etruscan pottery, facts which did not help me much. he also had one of the finest stamp collections in the world, but i had never collected anything for more than a week at a time. i felt that he was a difficult man to gauge, because he had never been what i considered a sportsman. his appearance at any rate was not imposing, and i was depressed enough to feel thankful for very small mercies. if dons only remembered what men feel like after their first wine, they would scarcely be hard-hearted enough to inflict further penalties upon them. but it was the vocation of the subby to keep order in the college, and some one had told me that rowdy men were his pet abomination. he regarded st. cuthbert's as the intellectual centre of oxford, and oxford as the intellectual centre of the world. no wonder the poor man looked serious and seldom smiled, for he must have had a lot to think about. he covered up his eyes with enormous spectacles, and the lower part of his face with a straggling moustache and beard, you got neither satisfaction nor information from looking at him. it was nearly twelve o'clock before i saw any of the men who had been at the wine, and then ward and collier came into my rooms. i was still sitting by the fire, and ward, who would have gibed at my gloom under ordinary conditions, simply told me that i didn't look very cheerful, and sat down on the edge of the table, which tilted up and nearly placed him on the floor. collier threw himself into the nearest chair, and pulling a pipe out of his pocket, carefully rubbed the bowl of it, but showed no anxiety to smoke, and considering that i felt as if i should never smoke again, i was not surprised. "i should like to flay lambert, webb, and dennison alive," collier said quite solemnly. "i've got to go to the subby in ten minutes," i said, and collier's face brightened. "i didn't think you would have to go," ward remarked; "what an infernal nuisance, and why has he sent for you?" "i tried to rescue the stupid man from lambert and webb, and got entangled in his blessed arm. he was as sick as blazes, and i shall hear more stuff about being an exhibitioner," i answered. "the man's a fool," collier said, "but the biggest ass in the place is dennison. he knew the subby was out to dinner, and wouldn't be back till goodness knows when, but he must go on and kick up a row on that piano after he knew the subby was in his rooms. and the beauty of it is that dennison hasn't been sent for. i call it a confounded shame. we have just been round to see him, and the brute is still in bed as fit as anything, and thinks it the best joke he has heard for ages. he wouldn't see much humour in it if he went and smelt my rooms." "who has been sent for?" i asked. "you, collier, lambert, and webb," ward replied. "not you?" "i have seen the subby already. i met him in the quad and asked if i might speak to him." "was he furious?" i inquired. "i tried to explain things to him; he was not altogether furious, but stuck on a sort of injured dignity business which was rather funny." "it isn't likely a man would want to be danced down-stairs by lambert and webb," collier said; "i wonder they didn't break his neck, and it would have been a thundering good job if they had smashed themselves." i got up and seized my gown, leaving collier to continue his wishes for the destruction of lambert and webb if he felt inclined. at any other time they would have amused me, for collier was generally difficult to move in any way, and he was quite funny when his indignation could be roused. i am not going to describe my interview with the subby at any length. he listened patiently to what i had to say, but if a man came to me and said that he had caught hold of me by accident i confess that i should think it a poor sort of story. i could not tell him that i was trying to save him from lambert and webb, because that would have been contrary to what i should have expected them to say about me, if the positions had been reversed. the subby ought to have guessed it for himself and rewarded me, but he had been so hustled that it was perhaps too much to expect him to guess anything. my reputation for work seemed to have been of the worst. there was no denying that the subby and i had been entangled, and it was no use for me to say that it was his fault. i spoke of it as a very unfortunate occurrence, and i assured him most warmly that it should not happen again. assurances of that kind do not, i should say, count for much. he was so occupied by the importance of what had passed, that i could not make him see that the future was also important. and i did try hard to point this out to him, i regretted much, i promised more, and i meant everything i said most honestly. i had never been so penitent before, but i must at the same time admit that i had never previously felt quite so unwell. perhaps my protestations had some effect, for my sentence was that i should be gated for three weeks, and i received also what must, when translated into simple english, have been a warning that unless i changed the errors of my ways my exhibition would be taken away from me. the subby jawed badly, he was not to be compared with mr. edwardes, and he hesitated and coughed, until once or twice i was almost inclined to help him out, for i knew what he was going to say and he fidgeted me. i was, however, in too great a hole to risk much, so as soon as he began i remained silent and hoped steadily that he would either end soon or be interrupted. he did not know how to begin or when to finish, and if collier had not knocked at the door and come into the room, it seemed to me that nothing but the pangs of hunger would have warned him that he had said enough. i have never seen a more welcome arrival than collier's, because i had really been with the subby a very long time, and to stand with an attentive expression for ten minutes at a stretch and listen to the usual remarks is in its way quite a feat. i found ward waiting for me in the front quad, and he asked at once what had happened to me. "gated for three weeks," i answered; "i suppose i ought to consider myself lucky, he might have sent me down." "it knocks all your fun on the head," he said, "being in by nine o'clock every night is average rot." "it won't matter to me, i am going to settle down and read for a first in mods," and i turned into the common room and picked up _the sportsman_. there were no other men in the room, and ward stood in front of the fire and kept looking at me as if he wanted to say something and could not manage to begin. i read the names of the 'varsity xv. chosen to play that afternoon against richmond, and saw that foster was still among them. "fred foster's going to get his blue," i said. "who the deuce wants to get a blue?" ward replied. "well, it's better than getting into rows, anyway," i retorted. "you seem to have taken this thing very quietly," he said, "don't you see that your being dropped on is a most wretched swindle. lambert and webb are only gated for three weeks." "it doesn't make a tuppenny-ha'penny bit of difference to me what has happened to them. if they had been gated for two years it wouldn't give me any satisfaction." "but they had been mixing all kinds of drink." "and the subby thinks i had," i said. "but you hadn't." "no, but that doesn't make any difference. the subby may be a fair ass, but i caught hold of him, and i must be a bigger fool than he is. it's the last time i ever try to rescue a don." two senior men, bagshaw and crane came into the room and overheard my last remark, so i had to tell them the whole thing over again. both of them laughed tremendously, but crane, who was captain of the college cricket eleven, and president of the mohocks, which was the inappropriate name of the st. cuthbert's wine club, seemed to be more amused at the solemn way i told the story, while bagshaw said he would have given anything to have seen the subby rushing down-stairs. they laughed loudly, and as soon as i could escape i went back to my rooms, leaving jack ward to talk to them. for once i wanted to be by myself, but there was no shaking off ward that morning, and he turned up again in about ten minutes and said that he had told his scout to bring his lunch round to my rooms. i had struggled nobly with breakfast, but i hated the suggestion of more food and told him he had better go and eat somewhere else. my head ached abominably, and i wanted to sit by the fire and go to sleep. ward, however, decided that i wanted cheering up, though how he was likely to enliven me by eating when i had no appetite he did not tell me. as a matter of fact cheering me up was only an excuse, what he really wanted to do was to give me the explanation which he thought i must be expecting. if he had known me better he would not have expected me to wait for anything, had i imagined any explanation was necessary i should have asked him for it at once. but i was not taking any interest in explanations, my mouth felt like a cinder, and when some man had met me in the quad and told me i looked "precious cheap," which is an expression i detest, i had not the energy to retaliate. ward, having eaten his luncheon and gulped down a most horrible quantity of beer, lit a cigarette, and sat down by the fire. "you must think me a most awful brute for having got out of this row," he began. i told him that if he felt as i did, he would think everybody in the world was a brute. "well, you see," he went on, "i got the thing up and the subby didn't send for me." "it was dennison's fault," i said, for i saw no good in dividing the blame, "and if a man can't take his luck in these things he is no use to anybody. my luck's always vile, but that doesn't matter to any one except me, and i am used to it." he took no notice of what i said, and continued, "so i told the subby it was my fault, but when i saw him i thought only collier, webb and lambert had been nailed." i roused myself and looked at ward, who was staring into the fire. "you are a fool," i stated, but i didn't mean it. "i had to do it or i should have felt awful," he said, and then he jumped up and banged round the room, tossing things about and failing to catch them. he stood in a new light, and it took me some time to digest what he had told me. of all the men i had met since coming to oxford i should have said that jack ward was the one who would watch his own interests most closely, and he had upset all my opinions by walking into a quite unnecessary row. "why did you do it?" i asked him, and i added, "it isn't as if you could do anybody else any good," for it is at first very perplexing to find a man doing exactly the reverse of what you expect. "i have told you why i did it, i should have felt so confoundedly mean if i hadn't. but while i was with the subby i wish i had known that he had nailed you as well, because i might have told him that you hate drinking. a don seems to me to have the fixed idea that freshers naturally drink too much, at least that was the impression the subby gave me." "what happened to you?" "i'm gated for a fortnight, and he talked a lot of tommy-rot." "well, i think it is most frightfully decent of you," i said. "oh, shut up," ward answered, "i can't stand that. i have never done anything of the kind before and shan't again. i simply couldn't have faced you men if i hadn't owned up, and that ends it." at that moment dennison walked in wearing an enormous overcoat and a wellingham scarf round his neck, he looked as beautifully pink as ever, and i hated the sight of him. "this is such a blighted day that i am going to watch a footer match," he said, "it amuses me to see thirty people tumbling about in the mud, and we can go and play pool at wright's when we have had enough, if you will come." i did not intend to tell dennison that i was ill, so i said i would go if ward would come with us, and as soon as we got into the broad and the rain fairly beat upon us, i began to feel much better and more capable of being disagreeable to dennison. i was in the state of mind which makes one anxious to be unpleasant, the sort of mood in which horrid people abuse servants or try to kick animals, and i was glad to have dennison, who deserved every rudeness imaginable, at my disposal. but the worst of feeling so thoroughly disagreeable is that you are ashamed of yourself so quickly. i am either violently angry or not angry at all, and it is the people who are good at sulks and call them dignity who get their own way in this world. i once tried to be dignified at home, and i am not inclined to repeat the experiment; my father told me not to be a fool, my sister walked about as if wrestling with suppressed laughter, and my mother offered me various medicines. rudeness is my _rôle_, its intention is not so easily mistaken. so i hung on to dennison very earnestly, and though ward did all he knew to keep the peace, i had managed before we reached the parks, to convince both of them that our walk was a mistake. we went to the far end of the ground where very few spectators were standing, for an oxford crowd always collect behind the goal of the visiting side, hoping magnificently that by those means they will see most of the game. it is very noble of them, but they are sometimes disappointed, and this happened to be one of the days on which those who were behind the 'varsity goal-posts saw a good deal more than they wanted. for the day was made for the richmond xv., who were big, bulky men, very heavy in the scrimmage, and the three-quarter backs on both sides spent most of their time trying to keep warm. dennison said he was bored to death, and i told him richmond never were any good outside the scrum and were playing a jolly good game. he answered that he was not a football encyclopaedia, and i assured him that he never could be anything half so useful. we kept up this kind of conversation for some time, while ward stamped his feet and asked us to stop. "how long have you been gated for?" i asked dennison suddenly, springing the question upon him as had been the habit of one master at cliborough when he was going to ask me something very embarrassing. ward hit me in the ribs with his elbow, and dennison pretended not to hear, so i moved a little further from ward and repeated my question. "the subby didn't send for me," he replied; "i wasn't caught and i made no row to speak of." "oh well, if you like to get out of the whole thing it has nothing to do with me," i said, and the thought suddenly struck me that if i really goaded dennison into giving up his name i should feel a brute for the rest of my existence. what i wanted to do was to prove that ward was worth about ten of him, but it is very uphill work trying to convince a man that he is only a fraction of the fellow he thinks himself, i have often seen people going sorrowfully away from tasks of that kind. "there is no question of getting out of it," dennison said quite calmly, "because i have never been in it." "no question at all," ward put in. "at any rate you arranged it," i retorted. "and the very deuce of a job it was," he replied. "of course it was," ward said, and though i imagined i was out of elbow-shot i got another blow which did nothing to improve my temper. "it's like this," i began, "ward went to the subby and said----" but ward burst in with, "by jove, that is about the tenth time that man foster has fallen on the ball, and now i believe he's hurt." for quite two minutes fred lay on the ground, and i forgot all about dennison and the exasperating mood i was in. at last he got up and moved about in a dazed condition, while some people clapped and others, more enthusiastic than anxious, began to shout, "now then, 'varsity." the game went on again, but my desire to be nasty had vanished, and i found that i had moved away from ward and dennison. when i returned to them i found that my interrupted remark had created a greater disturbance than i had expected. dennison was fuming like anything, and so far was he from thinking that ward and i had a grievance against him that he was treating himself as a thoroughly injured man. "it is a pretty low down game," he was saying to ward, when i came back, "for you to go and give your name up to the subby and tell me nothing about it. what do you think everybody will be saying about me? marten has been talking to me as if i was a pick-pocket, while you were standing there and thinking yourself a sort of tin hero. if you want to know what i think you are, my opinion is that you're a confounded fool, but since you have done this i must go and see the subby when i get back to college." this is only an expurgated copy of what dennison said, as a matter of fact he called ward and me much worse names than a pick-pocket, and qualified them with adjectives too violent to be recorded. i looked blankly at ward, who had his head down and looked thoroughly ashamed of himself. "it is one of the few times in my life," he said, "when i have tried to do the right thing, and it seems to have been all wrong." there was only one line to take, and i started on it at once. "that's rot," i began, "because you suggested the whole thing, and if you felt like owning up to it no one else has any right to swear at you. dennison is altogether different, and if he goes to the subby everybody else will have to go. we are like a lot of school-boys." i thought my last remark a sound one, for dennison pretended to despise boys, because he said they always got up so late for morning school that they had not time to wash properly. there was always a faint smell of scent about dennison, which did not make me take much notice of his opinion about school-boys. i cannot even now tell whether he was really angry or whether he was just pretending a rage to put us into a hole. i did find out afterwards that he knew all the time that ward had given up his name, so if he pretended one thing i do not see why he should not have pretended another. but the result was the same whether he was shamming or not. ward and i implored him not to go to the subby, for quite ten minutes during that damp and shivery afternoon we besought him to leave things as they were. and at last with great reluctance he gave way, and to please us he said that he would forgive ward for having done rather a mean thing, and he pardoned me for having been so rude. of course we were most properly taken in, but that was the fate of most men who had much to do with dennison, and i was so glad to be at peace once more that it did not occur to me then that ward and i were two colossal idiots. i went round to see foster after the match, but found that he was going to dine early with the richmond team, so he did not tell me anything except that he had got a splitting headache. each time i had been to see him for the last fortnight he had either been out, just going out, or had a room full of men with him. whenever he had come to see me the same kind of things had happened, so we had not managed to have one respectable talk together. i determined that this was most unsatisfactory, so after dinner i wrote him a note, asking him to go for a walk with me on the following day, and then i went to see jack ward. my opinion of him had been changing all day, and as i went to his room i felt that whatever foster and murray said about him, he was at bottom a splendid sort. roulette was going on in his rooms, and the usual crowd were playing. ward was banker, and he did not even ask me to play, but roulette is a very difficult game to watch without playing, and after black had come up six times consecutively, i thought it must be red's turn. it was not, however, and five times i lost my money; then i had sense enough to stop for a bit until the numbers began to fascinate me, and i picked nineteen, being my age. a lot of people may say i was old enough to know better, but it is so easy to make remarks of that kind, and until they find something a little less stale, they will never do any good. i stood by the table at first, and then sat down and made up my mind to get my money back. i tried everything in turn, but luck was dead against me, and ward once or twice said he wished i would win something. in the end i lost nearly six pounds, and went back to my rooms a sorrowful man. before i went into my bedder i looked at my cheque-book, and it gave me no satisfaction. i had borrowed four pounds from ward, and i wrote him a cheque for the amount, and laying it on the table beside me, i sat thinking. my door was wide open, and i must have been nearly asleep, for i did not see any one come into my room, and a hand falling on my shoulder surprised me. i looked up and saw ward standing by my side. "sorry to wake you up," he said, "but i felt like coming to see you." he saw the cheque made out to him, and taking it from the table he tore it into bits. "you have wasted a penny," i said, for i could not help guessing what he meant. "i don't want to take your money," he replied, "and for heaven's sake don't make me." he was most desperately in earnest, but the mere fact that i should have taken his without a thought of returning it, settled the little argument which followed. "i can't help gambling," he said, "but i wish to goodness you wouldn't." "but only a few days ago you sneered at me for not backing a horse," i retorted, for though it was very good of him, i felt he was treating me like an infant. "i never asked you to," he said, "and i should like to have one friend who doesn't bet or play cards or anything." "there's collier," i suggested. "he is different," ward answered, and i suppose i wanted him to say something like that. we talked for an hour, at least ward talked and i listened, but during the years to come i always remembered what he said about himself on that night. chapter vii the inn at sampford i do not suppose that my waking thoughts could be called valuable, for my habit is to lie in bed and wonder vaguely what time it is, and if you start the day in that way and write it solemnly on paper you may just as well keep a diary of what you had for luncheon and where you had tea and all that kind of twaddle, which people write because blotting paper is provided on the opposite page. but on the morning following my conversation with ward i woke up with the sort of feeling which ought to have been of value to some one, because it was such a mixture that i could not stay in bed. it was the kind of sensation with which i wake when i am going to cross the channel, only it did not make me rush to my window to see how much wind there was. nothing i have been told is easier in this life than to make a mountain out of a molehill, but in my short experience it is the wretched little molehills which upset me and not the great big things which sweep me away with them. i would rather have to fight one mountain than two molehills any day, you get so much more sympathy after the struggle. but i must admit that it is not always easy to tell when people will sympathize with you, for i remember that my brother was once in a railway accident, and though he got nothing more than a slight jolt he was considered a hero for a long time, while, a few days later, i sat upon a pin and hurt myself quite badly, but was told by my nurse not to be silly. during that morning i had a most disagreeable experience. for the first time in my life i was conscious that i had done something for which there was not the least shadow of an excuse, and i found myself trying to guess what my feelings would have been had i been a winner instead of a loser at roulette. there is nothing very profitable in trying to imagine what would have happened if things had turned out differently, at the best it is a waste of time, but all the same it is a game which i, and others i know, play very often. i came to the conclusion that had i won i should have been rather pleased with myself, it is so easy to excuse oneself for winning money, while losing it seems to be foolishly immoral. i made no resolutions for the future, because on the few occasions i have tried to fortify myself in that way, something has occurred to upset me, and mr. sandyman, who was my housemaster at cliborough and very wise, told me once that the weaker the man the more frequent his resolutions. he did not believe so much in pledges and promises as in a boy's honour; if a boy had not a sense of honour no promise on earth could be of any real use to him. i wished that i had mr. sandyman to advise me, but if i had been able to go to him i do not suppose i should have gone, for although i was ashamed of myself, i did not think that i had committed any great offence. i had just been a fool, and with that decision from which, odd as it may seem, i derived great satisfaction, i passed on to the next thing which was bothering me. i think it was solomon who said there was safety in a multitude of counsellors, and i wonder what he would have said about a multitude of friends, some of whom could not bear the sight of the others. ward, hated murray, and foster hated ward, collier said he hated dennison, and dennison said collier looked more like a pig than a human being. lambert confided to me that there was hardly a man at st. cuthbert's whom he would care to introduce to his sister, but as he said the same thing to ward, dennison and collier, leaving each of them with the impression that he was the one man who was considered worthy of an introduction, it was no use to take any notice of lambert. i condoled with him on having such a remarkably exclusive sister, but he did not take my sympathy in the proper spirit. my friends were most certainly getting out of hand. in st. cuthbert's, murray was the most sensible of the lot, because he enjoyed himself in a steady sort of way, saw the humorous side of everything and went to bed in decent time. i knew just where i was with murray, he was always glad to see me in his rooms, and he kept his opinions about ward and dennison to himself, unless i simply pumped them out of him. no one who did not object to fat men because they were fat could help liking collier, he was so comfortable and peaceful, and lambert, with his magnificent opinion of himself, which he expressed frequently in a half-comical, half-serious fashion, was to me more like a man on the stage than an ordinary undergraduate. from morning to night lambert was self-conscious, even at the wine, when he was sitting on the floor with webb, he did not forget to shoot down his cuffs. i have already said that dennison played the piano, he was also considered a wit, and fired off things which lambert said were epigrams, but collier, who was full of curious information, declared that most of them were adapted from the book of proverbs. however that may be, dennison had a reputation as a conversationalist, which meant that he wanted to talk all the time. he bored me terribly. but the man who really worried me was ward. at first i had thought that he merely wanted to amuse himself, and did not care what he did as long as he got some fun out of it. he did not seem to trouble what men he knew if they were useful to him, and having come to that conclusion about him, i felt that as far as he and i were concerned there was nothing else to bother about. it was not any wonder to me that foster, who only knew him slightly, disliked him most vigorously, but when ward came, asking me to take my money back and showing all the best side of his nature, he gave me more to think about than i wanted. an entirely different man had appeared, acknowledging himself a gambler, and not pretending to be sorry--for which i liked him--but with qualities which i had never suspected. so occupied was i in wondering how i could persuade foster to change his opinion of ward that i forgot the day was sunday, and that i had intended to go to morning chapel and write some letters at the union. it was nearly twelve o'clock when foster came into my rooms and said he had been waiting for me at oriel until he was tired of doing nothing. he seemed to be rather angry, but soon cooled down when he saw me hurrying up to get ready, and even proposed that we should give up our walk and just lounge round the parks. but i did not feel as if lounging would do for me, and i told him that i knew a splendid little inn about six miles off, where we could get luncheon. he did not need much persuasion, and we went down brasenose lane and the high as if we had never lounged in our lives. but before we got to the turning to iffley we had begun to walk at a speed which did not altogether prevent conversation. i think i must have been setting the pace, because i had a great deal to say to fred, and did not know exactly how to begin. he was the greatest friend i had, and i wanted him to like ward, but i knew that when once he had made up his mind about people he very seldom changed it. he had liked nearly everybody at cliborough, but when he disliked anybody there was something rather huge in the way he had nothing to do with them. and he had a habit, which would have annoyed me in any one else, of being nearly always right. it was such a complete change for him to come from cliborough, where he was easily the most important boy in the school, to oxford, where he was practically nobody at all, that i wondered how he would like it. so many freshers who have been important at school think they can bring their importance with them, but they make the very greatest mistake. a fresher who thinks a lot of himself, and lets other men know that he does, is not likely to do anything but get in his own way. foster never had put on any side, but he had been accustomed to manage things at cliborough, and i asked him how he liked being nobody again, as he had been when he first went to school. he did not answer me at once, and i had a suspicion that he did not care about the change, but i was wrong. "i like it," he said at last; "there is no bother and fuss, and i like beginning again and being sworn at when i miss the ball. i want to get my blue most awfully, but i don't suppose i have got the ghost of a chance; i never pass at the right time, and everybody here seems to me to be always off-side." i assured him that he must have a chance for his blue or he would not have played so often. "they look more and more sick with me every time," he answered, "and each match i play in i expect to be the last. the only thing which riles me is that you never know what they think about you, and the fellow who writes the oxford notes for _the globe_ said last week that the 'varsity xv. must be badly off if they could not find a better three-quarter than the cliborough fresher, or some rot of that kind. all the men at oriel who know about things are either cricket or soccer blues, so i don't hear much about rugger there, though every one is nice enough and wants me to get into the xv." "doesn't adamson ever speak to you?" i asked, for he was captain of the 'varsity xv. "yes, but it is generally to tell me not to do something. he is an 'internatter,' you see, and i don't think he ever forgets it, he seems to me to stick on more side than any one i have ever met. most of the men are all right, but adamson is a first-class bounder." "he swore at me pretty freely in the freshers' match," i said. "i heard him," foster returned, "but although you played abominably then, you are really much better than sykes of merton, who has been playing back for the 'varsity lately. he does the most awful things." "he can't be worse than i am. i now play three-quarters and am thinking of chucking the game altogether. it is such a horrid grind." "don't be an idiot, they are bound to spot you here sooner or later," foster said, but he knew as well as i did that i could never stop playing any game just because it was too much trouble. "i have made an idiot of myself, already," i replied; and then i told him all that had been happening at st. cuthbert's during the last few days. i made out myself a bigger fool than i really had been, because i wanted to show him that ward was a much better fellow than he thought. "you have a real gift for getting into rows," he said, when i had finished; "you seem to have got all the dons on your track already." "that doesn't worry me," i answered. "i have only got to work and keep quiet, and the subby will think i am as like a machine as he is." "and you have made up your mind to work?" "i mean to do a reasonable amount," i replied cautiously. "it is most awfully difficult to work. i have done precious little, and i went fast asleep at a lecture the other morning." "what was it about?" "logic." "oh, that's nothing," i assured him. "i started cutting my logic lectures altogether until i got dropped on. i didn't understand a word the man was saying. there is heaps of time to work, mods are nearly a year and a half off. what do you think of ward, after the thing that happened last night?" i had to plunge right at it, for foster had not said a word after i had told him ward wanted to give me back my money. "don't let us talk about ward," foster answered, "you know i don't like him." "i knew you didn't like him," i corrected, for i thought that what i had said ought to make a difference. "you seem to be egging me on to swear at you, so that you may laugh." "oh, skittles," i exclaimed. "you know perfectly well that you can't afford to gamble." "that has nothing to do with it, because i am not going to gamble, jack ward himself asked me not to play roulette." "but ward belongs to a gambling set----" "i suppose he can please himself about that," i retorted, and it was not altogether wise of me. "and you will always be hearing racing 'shop,' and how much somebody won, nobody ever talks about their losses until they are stone-broke." "how do you know?" i asked. "your father told me," was the answer, and instead of having got him into a hole i was badly scored off. "everybody has something nasty in him somewhere, balzac said so, and he was the sort of chap who knew; if we were all perfect this wouldn't be earth," i said. "by jove, you have been thinking a lot," foster replied, and he stood still in the road and laughed until i was very annoyed, for i have heard other people make remarks of that kind without any one else smiling. "it is no use talking seriously to you," i said. "platitudes are not your line," he answered, and we were as far off settling about ward as ever. i returned, however, to the main question with energy, for it seemed to me to be most important that these two men should not hate each other, if they were to be my friends. the gods did not endow me with tact, but they gave me so much courage that in a short time i can make any situation either very much better or very much worse. my mother once took in a paper which contained a tact problem every week, and she asked my sister and me to write down solutions and see if they were right; mine were wrong five times consecutively, so i gave up that competition, though in a negative sort of way i should have been of assistance to any competitor. i remember one of these wonderful problems was, 'at an evening party a tells b that c looks like a criminal. shortly afterwards a finds out that c is b's husband, what ought a to do?' i said a ought to go and tell b that he liked criminals; but the answer was, 'a should do nothing.' i think it was that problem which persuaded me that i was wasting my time, i thought it too stupid for words. i explained to foster how difficult it would be for me if he would not change his opinion of ward, and i talked so much that he said i had persuaded him that ward was all right, but i had a kind of feeling that he said it for the sake of peace. the day was very warm for november, and at the end of six miles foster was not so inclined to resist my avalanche of words as he was when we left oxford. but i knew that having once said he would try to be friends with ward, i could rely upon him. what he could not understand was the reason why i was so anxious for him to try, why in short i liked ward, but i could not explain that; for if you once start explaining why you are friends with a man it seems to me to be half-way towards making excuses for yourself, and should you begin doing that you had better not have any friends, since those who know you the best will like you the least. i have a faculty for liking a large number of people, but if i had to give reasons why i liked most of them i should be terribly puzzled. you cannot, it seems to me, reduce friendship to a formula, or if you can you would knock all the fun out of it. this was my second visit to the little inn at sampford, and as soon as we got there i interviewed the landlord and engaged the sitting-room on the ground floor. foster threw himself upon the sofa and picked up the book in which visitors write their names and exercise their humour, but i was so hot that i opened the french windows which led into the garden and went out. only a fortnight before the garden had been full enough of flowers to satisfy me, but the wind and rain had beaten down everything, and in spite of the sun it looked bare and desolate. i walked across the lawn to a little arbour and surprised two belated beanfeasters and their ladies. in appearance the men were aggressive, their hats were on the backs of their heads, and enormous chrysanthemums bulged from their buttonholes, and must, i should think, have been a source of constant irritation to their chins. the girls giggled when they saw me, and one of the men asked me what i wanted. i told him i was looking for a comfortable place in which to sit down and that he seemed to have found it first. the girls giggled again and the men swore; it was a most commonplace scene. i went back across the lawn and was just going to join foster, when i heard a tremendous burst of laughter from the room above ours. there was only one man who could laugh like that and he was jack ward. at that moment i wished him anywhere, for i guessed quite rightly that he had driven over to sampford with some men whose luncheon would not consist of cold beef and beer. i hoped to goodness we should get away without foster seeing them, so i began to eat without saying anything, except that there was a most vile noise up-stairs. i need not have troubled to say so much since foster was not deaf. i ate my luncheon hurriedly and gulped down my beer so fast that something went wrong with my wind-pipe. to the accompaniment of my coughs and peals of laughter from the room above, fred sat eating with a comical expression of misery upon his face. "rowdy brutes," he said, and pointed to the ceiling. i tried to answer, but failed. "i should think they will get kicked out in a minute," he continued. "aren't you going to have any pickles?" "the room's so horribly stuffy," i managed to say; "i vote we go when you are ready." "we've only just come. i haven't nearly done yet, and i am going to have a smoke when i've finished." i resigned myself to the situation and seized the pickles; there was only one left and that was an onion. the noise increased and a huge piece of bread fell on the lawn in front of our window. "bloods always throw bread at each other, don't they?" he asked. "i don't suppose they are any worse than anybody else," i answered; "there is not much harm in a bread pellet." "that thing out there is half a loaf," he returned, "and at any rate they make a fairly bad row," which were statements i could not deny. we heard a man go heavily up-stairs and knock at the door. he was received with clamorous approval, but after a little conversation the noise ceased and there was a most refreshing calm. i had hopes that nothing more was going to happen, so i sat down by the fire and lit a cigarette. for ten minutes fred and i were not interrupted, but i had already recognized the voices of bunny langham and dennison, and i might have guessed that there was not likely to be much peace. our windows were wide open, and presently i began to hear a kind of choked laughter going on at the window above. what was happening i did not know, but i suspected that some fresh game had begun and i wanted very much to know what it was. i did not, however, wish them to see me nor was i anxious for fred to see them, so i suggested that we should start back to oxford. fred agreed to this, and getting up from his chair he walked out into the garden. no sooner was he on the lawn than i saw him jump like a hare and put his hand up to his neck. at the same moment the beanfeasters rushed out of their arbour and fairly went for him. while this happened i was standing at the window wondering how i could persuade him to come back into the room, but as soon as i saw these two aggressive-looking men, not to mention their ladies, talking to him in most bellicose language, i went out. one of them at once caught hold of me by the coat and spoke so fast and strangely that i did not altogether understand what he was saying. he mentioned the name of susan a great many times, and when he had finished tugging at my coat i asked him if there was anything the matter with the lady. "look at 'er," he said; "just look at 'er. i'm a respectable married man, married, last thursday as ever was, and i'll 'ave compensation for this as sure as my name's tom 'arrison." i did not want to hear any more of his autobiography, so i looked at the lady pointed out as susan. i couldn't see much of her face because she had her hand over it, but i did not think they were an ill-assorted couple. "has she been stung by a wasp?" i asked. "a blue-bag----" "look 'ere," the man interrupted and caught me again by the coat, "none of your bloomin' innocence. you spied us out in that 'ere arbour, and 'ave been peppering us with peas for the last ever so long, and one of you 'as 'it susan sock in the eye. enough to make 'er an object for a fortnight, and us newly married. where, i should like to know, do i come in?" and i had great difficulty in wriggling his hand away from my coat. the man made me angry, and i told him i hadn't the least notion where he came in, but if he thought we were big enough babies to use peashooters he was jolly well mistaken. i looked round at foster and found that he was being talked at by the remaining couple, who also looked as if they were newly married. i heard the word bella, and saw the lady so called endeavouring to draw foster's attention to a mark on her arm. susan stood in the middle of the lawn and wept; i felt quite sorry for her, but the other three were really an intolerable nuisance. tom harrison declared it was worth two pounds any day, that susan's beauty was spoilt, and that everybody would say they had been fighting already. i smiled when he said "already," and for a moment i thought he was going to hit me. he thought better of it, however, and i concluded that if he had intended to fight he would have begun then, so i turned my back upon him and looked at the window up-stairs. there was not a sound coming from the room, and as i turned again to attend to harrison i heard hoots of laughter, and a dog-cart passed along the road which skirted the garden. as it went by i saw jack ward stand up on the back of the cart and look over the hedge. when he saw what was happening he leant forward to speak to bunny langham, who was driving, and as they passed out of sight i thought that he was trying to get hold of the reins. the men went on talking; susan wept steadily, and bella said her arm was visibly swelling, and that she must have been hit by something far more dangerous than a pea. they were not by any means interesting and i was glad to see the landlord coming from the house to join us. he created the diversion of which we were badly in need, and tom harrison became more eloquent than ever. but the landlord, as soon as he could make himself heard, was most thoroughly on the side of peace; he flourished his arms and declared, until i was weary, that a mistake had been made. "these are not the gentlemen who shot at you. do they look like gentlemen who would use pea-shooters?" i did not know what a man ought to look like who would not use a peashooter, but i did my best. "these are two nice quiet gentlemen," he went on; "took their food quite quiet." "and haven't paid for it yet," i interrupted; "how much is it?" "that will be a matter of half-a-crown each," he said, and i paid him. in the meantime bella, who ought to have been watched, had walked into our sitting-room and found the visitors' book. she returned triumphantly. "i know one of their names, and that will be a deal more use than standing jawing here," she shouted. i looked at foster inquiringly. "i bought a blessed fountain pen yesterday and wanted to see if the thing would work," he explained; "it seems to have worked too well." "'f. l. foster, oriel college, oxford,' in writing as easy to read as the newspaper. which of you two is it that writes just like me?" foster solemnly took off his hat. "then you, i guess, will 'ear more of this," tom harrison declared; "for the tale that it ain't you is a little too 'ot for us, isn't it?" susan stopped wiping her eyes and joined in a chorus of assent. "i don't know what you expect to get," foster said. "you needn't bother about that. we know," tom harrison replied. after a little more conversation we started on our way back to oxford, and as we left the garden i heard tom harrison say, "two beers and two bottles of stout as quick as we can 'ave em; my throat's like a limekiln." and considering the amount he had said at the top of his voice, i should think it was very likely true. chapter viii luncheon with the warden our walk was certainly not a success, in fact i was very sick of it before we reached oxford, because i am no good at walking and cannot stride along at a steady pace. and it also involved me in what, if real diplomatists will pardon me, i will call diplomacy, in which art or craft, or whatever the right name of it may be, i am most unskilled. i was on the point of telling fred that i knew the party of peashooters when he, being in a much happier state of mind than he had been in the morning, began to talk about jack ward, and to say that i was very likely right about him, and that he was sure to be a nice kind of man when one got to know him. hearing this made me put off what i was going to say, and when i begin to postpone anything i am lost. second thoughts with me nearly always lead to trouble, however good they may be for other people. i think i must have taken a fatherly interest in ward, for what else it could have been which made me wish to shield him i do not know. but i had seen him stand up in the dog-cart, and i thought he had recognized me and had tried to make langham turn back, so i determined not to tell fred anything until i had found out what really happened. but i felt very uncomfortable, for i do hate keeping things dark, and when he went on to say that the pea-shooting people must have been unutterable bounders to go away and leave us in the lurch, i was again on the point of telling him that ward was one of them, only he suddenly began to sing, which gave me time to think, and frightened two children who came round a corner of the road. we were quite close to broadmoor lunatic asylum at that moment, and fred walking along with his hat in his hand might easily have been mistaken for some one else. his mood had become most cheerful, and he said that he did not suppose tom harrison would ever be heard of again, and that the whole thing had been rather fun; but he added that he should like to tell the men who had been in the room above us what he thought of them. he also told me that he had never known me so quiet, and when i continued to be silent he asked me if i was well, which annoyed me, for i am often asked that question when i do not happen to be talking, and in a lurking sort of way there seems to me to be something insulting about it. i answered that i was thinking, which was quite true, but he only laughed and said i must have changed a lot lately. i was quite tired of him before we separated in the high, and he was angry because i would not go to oriel and have tea, but i felt that the day so far had been a hopeless failure, and i wanted to see jack ward. when i got back to my rooms at st. cuthbert's my fire was nearly out and i saw two notes lying on the table, but could not find any matches to light my lamp. i felt more gloomy than ever, and i was already feeling as if i had treated fred most unfairly. i might say that my end was all right, or i might declare that i meant well, which is another way of saying that i was a fool, and of the two i think the latter is the more correct. murray had borrowed my matches and i spoke severely to him without producing any effect except amusement; whether i was thinking or angry the result seemed to be always the same--laughter, silly, idiotic chuckles. i was in a very fair rage before i got my lamp to light, and i upset a large box of matches on the floor. murray came and helped to pick them up, and he bumped my nose with his head. i felt sure that it was his fault and told him so, and he said i could jolly well pick up my own matches; so i apologized, for though my nose hurt there were a lot of matches still on the floor, and it was no use making my nose out worse than it was to spite my face. after that i read my notes, and they were not the usual invitations to breakfast, of which i had already received enough. the first was to ask me to play for the twenty against the rugger xv. in the parks on the following tuesday, and the second was from miss davenport to ask me to luncheon with the warden on the same day. these notes were more or less commands, but i neither felt very keen on playing for the xx. nor on lunching with the warden. "i shall be glad when tuesday is over," i said to murray; "i have to lunch with the warden." "i lunched there last tuesday," he returned. "what was it like?" "like no meal i have ever been at before. miss davenport talked all the time and the warden said precious little, but i was too afraid to listen to her for fear he might ask me something and i should not catch what he said. apart from saying 'yes' and 'no' and 'please' and 'thank you,' he only spoke once, and then it was the most extraordinarily long sentence i have ever heard. it began about pork, which miss davenport said was more wholesome than people imagined, it went on about the jews, and finished up with a tale about nero. he chuckled over his tale, but i didn't see much point in it, and miss davenport looked as if she had heard it before." "i know that tale, it's a chestnut; i can't remember it, but nero behaved like a beast to a lot of jews who came to see him in rome. the warden oughtn't to tell old tales and then chuckle over them; besides, nero was a brute." "i don't think that would make any difference to the warden. he terrifies me; i daren't say anything because i am sure he would remember that it was a stupid thing to say. i felt as if i was a convict, and that if i spoke i should give myself away. i can tell you it was something awful, and for all i know he may have expected me to say something." "probably not," i replied; "i should think he hears far too many people jawing. i hope he makes me feel like a convict, and then i shall behave myself all right, but a silence at a meal gives me fits." "miss davenport is never silent," murray asserted. "if she can talk about pork, you may guess she has plenty to say. the warden looks at her in a forgiving sort of way--as if he knows she is talking rot, but can't help herself." "they must be a funny pair. you don't think i shall laugh, do you?" i asked. "i didn't feel like laughing. i never thought of it in that way, but it couldn't strike you as being funny while you are there." "i don't know," i said; "i think i had better be ill on tuesday." but then i remembered i had got to play footer, and i chucked the card over to murray. "i've got to play in this thing, too. the warden kicks you out about two, so it will be all right. you simply must go. where have you been to this afternoon?" "i walked to sampford with foster, and we had a row there with two men, not much of a row. i must go and see ward." i jumped up, but the chapel bell began to ring, and i had to postpone seeing him. "i am all behind with my chapels and roll-calls," i said to murray; "this will be my twenty-first, and five weeks of the term have gone." "i kept six chapels last week," murray answered; "you will have to go hard to keep nineteen in three weeks." "i mean doing it and getting up very early in the morning. i am going to reform," and i left him at the chapel door, for he, being a scholar, sat in the seats behind all of us who were commoners or exhibitioners. after chapel, at which the regius professor of divinity preached and told us that sunday luncheon parties were very wrong, i seized ward and bore him off to his rooms, where we found dennison sitting by the fire with his legs stuck up on the mantelpiece. i wanted to see ward alone, but dennison had been at sampford, so he did not matter much, though ward with dennison never seemed to be quite the same as he was without him. dennison twisted round in his chair, and as soon as he saw me he began to talk. "you ought to have been with us this afternoon," he said, "we had a most lovely rag. bunny langham took us over to sampford in his cart, and i had a peashooter." the loveliness of the rag was too much for him, and he had to stop his account of it so that he might laugh. i looked at ward, and although he did not appear to be very amused, he showed no signs of knowing that foster and i had been at sampford. "after lunch," dennison went on, "i discovered some people in an arbour, the bill and coo business, and i fairly peppered them; i am no end of a shot with a peashooter." "you missed them about a dozen times," ward put in. "those were sighting shots, you must get your range, and they were about as far off as my shooter will carry; but i got them out of the place at last, and another fellow, oxford written all over him, walked bang into them. i gave him one on the neck and then we bolted. it was a pity we couldn't stop and see what happened." "we ought to have stopped," ward declared and disappeared into his bedroom. "i can tell you what happened," i said, and i lifted dennison's legs off the mantelpiece and stood between him and the fire. i had been angry before dennison described foster as having oxford written all over him, but the cheek of labelling fred as if he was some tailor's dummy made me furious. dennison looked at me and then shouted for ward. "marten can tell us what happened after we went, come and hear it." "wait a second. i am going to dine with bunny at the sceptre and am changing." in a minute he appeared and went on dressing. "i think you are the meanest lot of brutes unhung," i began, for i had been given time to think of something which would make dennison see at once that this joke was not such a good one after all. "foster of oriel was one of the men you bolted from, and i was the other, and the thing isn't ended yet, for they got foster's name. you hit one woman in the eye; do you think that very funny?" "sheer bad luck," dennison said, but he did not look quite as unruffled and smug as usual. ward stood with his tie in his hand and did not say a word. i knew already that he had wanted to go back when he saw that there was a row, and since he had neither recognized foster nor me my wrath was concentrated upon dennison. "you may call it what you like," i continued, "but if you get up a row and then haven't the pluck to see it out i call it a dirty thing to do." i thought that must be enough to rouse dennison, but he actually smiled at me and told me to go on. "what do you think?" i asked ward. "of course i did not recognize you and foster, but when i saw those people had buttoned on to the wrong man i said we ought to go back. i wish that we had gone back," he answered. "what did they do?" dennison inquired. "they found out foster's name, and one of them, an awful man called tom harrison, says he is going to get compensation from him because you hit susan in the eye with a pea and hadn't the decency to stay there and own up to it. there's the dinner bell, and i'm about sick of you fellows." "i hit susan in the eye," dennison said reflectively. "was susan tom harrison's inamorata?" he asked. "talk english and i may answer you. it doesn't matter a row of pins who susan was as long as she has a black eye," i replied. "it is evidently no good speaking to you until you have calmed down. you remind me of a damp squib, all fuss and no result. i am going to dinner," dennison said, and went out of the room without looking at either ward or myself. "i shall do something awful to that brute before i have finished with him. he makes me mad," i said, and ward walked across the room to me. "i am most horribly sorry about this," he began, "and i will come back straight from the sceptre and see you. be in at nine o'clock." "you didn't shoot at those people, did you?" i asked. "no; but well, you see, dennison is better than i am at getting in for a row, and i am better at getting out of it." "he's a low-down hound," i asserted, and after promising to be in at nine o'clock i seized my gown and went away. as i went into the hall i met collier, and during dinner i expressed my opinion of dennison very freely. there are times at oxford when you regret most tremendously that you have left school, and this was one of them. "a fellow like that would be kicked at any decent school," i said. "he was kicked at charbury until he managed to become a sort of blood. he played racquets very well," collier added, as if by way of an excuse. "why do we put up with him?" i asked viciously, for i could see him making lambert and webb shout with laughter at the table opposite me. "i don't know," collier answered, "i suppose it's his smile. what part of a fowl do you think this is? it looks to me like the neck." he turned it over several times and then called a servant. "please take this back, and say i have to be very careful what i eat. i keep a list, and this isn't on it. i never saw that joint before," he added to me, and lost all interest in dennison. i thought it a pity that collier took so much trouble over what he ate; the sight of that unusual joint made him quite silent and inattentive during the rest of the meal. i went to his rooms after dinner, as i felt sleepy, and he never did anything on sunday except sleep, eat, and go to chapel. his room was full of tinted literature, but i never saw him read it, and i believe he bought _the sporting times_ on saturdays so that he could give it to any man who attacked him with conversation on his day of rest. his table was covered by a most miscellaneous dessert, and i asked him if he expected a lot of men. "not a soul," he replied, and sank into a chair by the fire. "i have this every sunday night, because my people pay my common-room bill, and i have to pay everything else out of my allowance. they told me to do myself well, but after this term i expect they will see that this odd sort of arrangement won't work. i can feed a regiment on almonds and raisins without it costing me a sou. help yourself to coffee, stick the dish of anchovy toast down between us, and if you want to read there are three sunday papers and a crowd of old magazines." i sat by the fire and read four short stories to pass the time. dennison poked his head into the room and withdrew it when he saw me. i congratulated myself upon that little incident, for i felt that if he understood how i hated the sight of him something would have been gained. at nine o'clock i left collier and went to my rooms to wait for ward. i did not expect him to be punctual, because i guessed that a dinner given by bunny langham would be difficult to leave. he turned up, however, in about half-an-hour, and said he was jolly glad to get away from the sceptre. "bunny's all right," he said, "but some of his friends are too much--even for me." i replied that bunny was all wrong, and said why i thought so. "you don't know him," ward explained; "he would never leave any one in a hole if he thought for a second. he's the most good-natured, weak kind of man on earth, but he would never do the wrong thing. he goes straight over a precious difficult country, for he hasn't got any more will than a rabbit and is as blind as a bat. he will be in trouble to the end of his days, but he will never make any one ashamed of him." i thought this was rather a glorified conception of the bunny i knew, so i said nothing. "you must see that he is a good sort," ward said. "everybody's a good sort," i answered impatiently. "collier calls the fellow with the green-baize apron who collects the boots a good sort, and some man i met at home, who talked about emperors and kings as if they were all his cousins, declared that the sultan of morocco was the best sort he had ever met--when one got to know him." "i don't wonder you are sick," he returned. "i should be if any one had done to me what we did to you and foster this afternoon. it looks pretty rotten on the face of it, and i am as sorry as blazes that you had to have a row with those men." "i'm not sick about the row," i answered; "that would have been fun if they hadn't got foster's name." ward lay back in his chair, and tried to blow rings of smoke from his cigarette. "then you are just angry because you think we ought to have come back," he said. "no, i'm not," i replied, and i felt horribly uncomfortable. he looked most thoroughly puzzled. "what on earth do you mean?" he asked. i got up and walked about the room before i spoke. "it's this way," i began. "i wanted you and foster to like each other, because he is the greatest friend i have, and i like you. and when i had been saying what a good fellow you were, you go and make a most infernal row in a pub on sunday afternoon and then bolt. i saw you in that confounded cart, and i ought to have told foster that i knew you were the fellow who bolted. but i didn't." ward sat staring in front of him, and did not speak for some time. "i don't think i could ever be friends with foster," he said at last; "he hated me at sight; but it is deucedly good of you all the same. i will write him a note and tell him i was the man. i was going to do that, anyhow." "you weren't the man," i asserted; "it was that little brute, dennison." "he doesn't count," ward said. i was disposed to agree with him on that point, but i thought that he and i had better go round and see foster in the morning, instead of writing a note. he did not like this at first, but after some talking he said that he would come, and on the next morning we went round to oriel. we made foster look a most awful idiot, but that could not be helped. i know that if two men came to me simply bulging with apologies, i should look for the nearest window. fred hardly said anything but "all right" and "for goodness' sake don't say a word more about it," but it showed that ward was not as bad as he thought him. i stayed behind after ward had gone so that i might put things a little more straight, but fred would not listen to another word. "you were in a vile temper yesterday afternoon, and now i know the cause. that's enough, so shut up. you seem to have become a kind of guardian to ward," and then he stopped suddenly, for it struck him that he had said one of those things which funny people say, and he would never have done that on purpose. i assured him that i knew he had said it accidentally, but it stopped us talking about ward, because, when you hate puns, it is most discomforting to make one suddenly. i made a pun once--i can still remember it, because if i had performed this feat intentionally i should have deserved all i got. what i did get was a dig in the ribs from collier and the remark, "you are a wag," and then i had to repeat it to his three cousins, one of whom was deaf and none of whom understood it, though they all laughed. it was a latin pun. i am one of those people, oliver cromwell was another, to whom important things happened on a certain day. tuesday was my day, i forget which his was, but it does not matter, because it is to be found in histories and almanacs. my day is not a matter of interest to anybody, but all the same i was born on a tuesday, and things which i have had special reason to remember or regret have generally happened to me--so my mother says--on the same day. and it was on a tuesday that i lunched with the warden and began a curious sort of friendship with him. i suppose that i ought not to talk of a friendship between a man like the warden, who was a mighty man of learning, and myself, but after all he gave me one of his books, and wrote in it, "to my young friend and quondam companion." "quondam" was rather a pity, perhaps; it sounds pedantic, and the warden was no pedant, unless he wanted to snub people. i went to his luncheon, and, having neuralgia, said nothing until he told me that he knew mr. prettyman, who was one of the masters at cliborough. if the warden knew prettyman i guessed that he had also heard something about me, and i thought i might as well stick up for myself as far as possible, so i said that mr. prettyman was the sort of man who, when you had lost a thing, always asked you where you had put it. he had on one occasion actually done this to me, and annoyed me very much. the warden took no notice of my remark, and i was left to my neuralgia until the end of the meal. the other men who were there talked a lot; one of them said what he thought of irving in _hamlet_, and another criticized the paintings of watts; the warden kept his opinions to himself, and at two o'clock asked us what we were going to do in the afternoon. all of us were bent on active employment, but just as i was leaving the dining-room, he called me back and asked me if i would go for a walk with him at three o'clock on the following thursday afternoon. i was too confused to remember what i said, and i only recollect that i left his house feeling as if something very awful was going to happen. i changed to play for the xx. against the xv. in a kind of daymare, if there is a state of mind which can be so described, and i had a good deal to say to murray, as we walked down to the parks together, about my luck. murray laughed all the way from st. cuthbert's to keble; he kept on breaking out into small cackles, which, of all the bad ways of laughing, must be the worst. i started to play footer that afternoon without troubling to think how i should play. i could see myself marching slowly along the woodstock road with the warden, and however badly i played did not seem to matter much, for there was something far more awful to come. the xv. began to press at once, and i, as full-back, had plenty to do. what i did was reckless; i simply did not care what happened, and everything i tried seemed to come off. everybody who plays games has an occasional day when things get twisted round, and it is easier to do right than wrong. those are the days for which we live in hope, and one of mine came on that tuesday. i knew the whole thing was a fluke, and i told murray and foster so after the game, but they both said that i had given sykes of merton, who was playing back for the xv., something to think about. during the next day, visions of my blue floated before me, and the prospect of walking with the warden lost its terrors, until i went round to see fred on thursday morning. i wanted him to give me some hints, but i am sorry so say he saw only the humorous side of my engagement, and was very exasperating when he might have been extremely useful. chapter ix a surprise when i left my rooms to walk with the warden, i imagined that every one i met was laughing at me, and being intensely on the alert for insults, i was very displeased with the butler when he came to the door, and surveyed me. "what can you want with the warden?" was written plainly over his face. i have never met a man who could be more gravely condescending than the warden's butler, and i know several first-class cricketers, two headmasters, a popular novelist, and a rising politician aged twenty-four. i should have enjoyed telling that man what i thought of him, but a doorstep is a poor place for an altercation, unless it is with a cabman, and i saw the warden advancing upon me clad in a cloak, and carrying a most useful umbrella, which must have been rolled up by himself. the appearance of the warden might have surprised any one, but it could have impressed nobody. you had to know that he was a warden, and wrote books about religion and philosophy, before you could feel afraid of him. if he was a precisian in the choice of words, he certainly was not one in the matter of dress. "i think," he said, with just a glance at me to see if i was the right man, "that we will enter the parks by the gates opposite to keble college; we shall be more or less interrupted by the noisy, if necessary, shouts of football players, but we shall escape the authoritative note of the bicycle bell." there wasn't much that i could say in answer to this, so i walked down the broad in silence, and tried in vain to keep step with my companion. before we had reached wadham his shuffle had got upon my nerves, and i wished furiously that he would say something to me. he seemed to have tucked his head into his neck, and to have retired into the world of contemplation. as we entered the parks i was seized with a wild desire to run away. i had not uttered a word, and i had arrived at a state of mind which prompted me to give a terrific yell, just to see what would happen next. when i feel like that i must speak at least, so i said that it looked as if it might rain. it is not likely that i should have made such a remark if i could have thought of any other, and it had the merit of not being startling and also of being true. but if i had given the yell which i wished to give, i could not have produced a greater effect upon the warden. i think that he had forgotten my existence, and for a moment he could not remember why i was with him. he poked his head forward, and looked at me until i regretted my effort at conversation, and was dreadfully afraid i should have to repeat it; a remark about the weather in some way or other seems to lose all its sparkle when it is repeated. the warden, however, had heard what i said, and when he had detached himself from whatever he was thinking about, he answered me. "i am not one of those who pretend to any extraordinary knowledge of weather symptoms," he began, and he stood in the middle of the path, while a gardener leant on his spade and watched us; "indeed, i have often noticed that those who make the greatest pretensions of that kind are themselves most frequently mistaken. in fact, my friend dr. marshall, who wrote the meteorological reports for _the times_ newspaper, was frequently himself in doubt whether or no to take out an umbrella for a walk." i did not venture to interrupt him again for some time, and my next outbreak was quite unpremeditated. we were passing a college rugger match, and a pass which was palpably forward escaped the notice of the referee. i joined in the cry of "forward" which was raised, and the warden stopped once more and actually smiled. on this occasion i had forgotten all about him, and my shout probably surprised him as much as me. "i am sorry," i said to him, "but i really couldn't help it." "there is no occasion to express or even to feel regret," he answered, and his eyes twinkled delightfully; "if youth lost its spontaneity it would at one and the same moment lose its charm. did your cry refer to this?" he pointed with his umbrella to a scrimmage which was taking place a few yards away from us. "some one threw the ball forward, which he is not allowed to do," i explained, and a man was hurled into touch close to the spot where we were standing. "the game of football which i believe bears the honoured name of rugby appeals, or it seems to me to appeal, to the more violent of the emotions. do you play this game, which strikes the eye of the observant, but not initiated, as the relic of an age in which brute force rather than science was the aim of the athlete?" he walked on as he finished speaking, and i told him that i played rugby football and liked it. "i like nearly every game," i added. he glanced at me quickly, and after we had walked a little way he began again. "the excellent lord chesterfield in his _letters_ stated that it was very disagreeable to seem reserved, and very dangerous not to be so; most of my young friends impress me with the fact that they have learned that maxim too well. but you on the contrary----" he waved his umbrella and did not finish the sentence. "there is no harm in liking games," i answered; "if i did not take heaps of exercise i should never be well, or able to read." "heaps of exercise," he repeated, and looked oddly at me. "i mean a fearful lot of exercise," i explained. "you did not quote 'mens sana in corpore sano,' for which i have to thank you, even if your use of the english language affords reasonable grounds for protest. heaps of mud, heaps of rubbish, but not, i think, heaps of exercise." "heaps of money," i ventured to suggest, but he shook his head sadly. "we were talking of athletics," he said, "which represent to me the most sweeping epidemic of the century. do not let athletics spread their deadly, if in one sense empurpling, pall over your university life. oxford has many gifts for those who are willing to receive them; do not, my friend, be content with the least which she can give. the maxim of mr. browning, that the grasp of a man should exceed his reach, if not an ennobling maxim, must not be forgotten entirely." i walked by his side in silence, for i knew that the warden did not often give advice to an undergraduate. his language even seemed to have become less carefully chosen, and i felt that he intended to be not only human but kind, for there was no special reason why he should talk to me unless he wished. he did not speak again until we reached st. cuthbert's, but when we had reached the back quadrangle he stopped, and after poking the ground with his umbrella, said-- "i would do nothing willingly to lessen your enthusiasm, you have, i believe, been endowed liberally with that most exhilarating virtue; i would only suggest to you that your enthusiasm need not of necessity be expended solely upon athletics. i hope that we shall be able to enjoy very many walks together." i thrust out my hand, but he hesitated; i forgot that i had nearly made him shout with pain a few weeks before, but he, as far as i know, never forgot anything. he trusted me, however, and i treated him very gently. as soon as the warden had disappeared into his house i heard a bellow of derisive laughter at a window above me, and looking up i saw dennison standing there; but at that moment i hated him even more than i did usually, and i walked off to see jack ward without even saying what i thought of him. jack was having a bath when i got to his rooms, and while he was dressing he told me how he had been spending the afternoon. i never knew what he might do next--he flew off at tangents so often--but i was surprised to hear how he had been employing himself. "perhaps you will think me a fool," he began, "but that tom harrison affair gave me the jumps, and i couldn't wait to see if foster was going to be tackled. so i rode over to sampford, and the man said that harrison lived in a village a few miles off. i had lunch at sampford and then went on, and, to cut it short, the whole thing is settled." "you paid?" "not very much; and tom said i was the first gentleman he had ever known come from oxford--you must pay for a remark like that. he described us as 'bloomin' 'aughty,' and 'not enough brass to buy a moke.' do you know that you are playing for the 'varsity on saturday against blackheath? i want to go up to town, so i shall come and see you play." i thought that he was trying to prevent me from thanking him, and i did not really believe that i was going to play until he took his oath that i was. then we had tea, and i thanked him; for if there is one thing in the world of which i will not be baulked it is thanking people. i hate doing it so much, that it has got to be done. jack, however, did not pretend to listen to what i said, and after i had finished we talked about dennison; both of us were sick to death of him, but when you are always meeting a man in other people's rooms, and he won't see that you don't like him, it is not very easy to get rid of him; for when you are a fresher you can't choose your friends so easily as you can when your first year is over. after dinner fred came round to tell me that we were both playing against blackheath, and as jack came in as well, i said that i would get another man to play whist. i went to murray, because i was most anxious that he should be friends with jack; but i did not tell him that jack was one of the four, or i am sure that he would not have come. i liked both murray and jack, and i thought that when i got them together each would see what a nice man the other was, for i was again in the mood when everything seems to be easy. but i cannot say that my efforts were successful; their politeness knocked every spark of cheeriness out of the game, and we played in dreadful silence, which may be all right for very good players, but it does not suit me in the least. when murray looked at his watch and said that he must be going, i felt quite relieved, and i decided then that i would stop trying to make murray and jack like each other, for the process was too painful and slow for me. after he had gone i told foster what ward had been doing, and it was really quite funny to see how confused they were. fred said how good it was of ward to have taken so much bother about nothing, which was not quite what he meant, but it did very well; and ward mumbled something in reply, which neither of us could hear. altogether they managed it most successfully, and when fred went away ward said that he would see him to the lodge. i found out afterwards that he stopped me going with fred, so that he might tell him nothing would have happened if he had not seen tom harrison; he was the kind of man who never tried to get more credit than he deserved, unless it was from oxford tradesmen. playing against blackheath on the rectory field before a large crowd of people was good fun, and at the end of the game i thought that i had managed to escape without making a very pitiable exhibition of myself. but on the following monday the sporting papers criticized me most unpleasantly. "marten was obviously nervous, and did not seem to settle down until the game was lost." "as full-back marten had much to learn; his tackling was good, but his kicking left much to be desired, and he seldom found touch." i turned from _the sportsman_ and _sporting life_ to _the daily telegraph_, and found that i had shown "more pluck than judgment." i felt that sykes of merton must be having an enjoyable morning, and even the fact that the critics unanimously praised foster was of little assistance to me. my chance had come, and i had not taken it; there could not have been a more miserable man in oxford, and for a whole solid week i never cut a lecture or did anything of which even mr. edwardes could disapprove. sykes reappeared in the 'varsity team, and foster declared that the whole thing was a swindle; but he was more prejudiced in my favour than i was myself. the last match of the term at oxford, and the one previous to the 'varsity match, was against the old cliburians, and the o. c.s having had a disastrous season adamson, who always played centre three-quarters with foster, did not play, but put a man from queen's in his place. this man, whose name was pott, had been laid up all the term, and two or three people said it was lucky for foster that pott had not been able to play before. i played back for the o. c.s, and the game was enough to make any cambridge man who saw it stand on his head with delight. the 'varsity could do nothing right; the passing broke down time after time, and the forwards got impatient and kicked too hard. i thought foster was the one man on the side who played decently, but five minutes before the end, when we were leading by a goal to nothing, pott made a very good run and got a try in the corner. it seemed to me that this was the only thing he did during the whole game, and it was my fault that he got the try, for i went for him a second too late and he fell over the line, but the place-kick went crooked, and we won by a goal to a try. adamson, who was touch-judging, said what he thought about the 'varsity team, and he could be the most uncomplimentary man in europe when he liked. his temper was awful, and it did not seem to be improved by the use of expletives. this game was played on a saturday, and on the following wednesday week we had to play the 'varsity match at queen's club. the cambridge team was published in the papers on the monday, but some one told me that our committee were not meeting until the monday evening. this did not interest me much, for apart from wanting to see that fred had got his blue, and i thought he was a certainty, i did not mind who else was chosen. sykes had played better against the o. c.s than he had ever done before, and even fred said that he was afraid my chance had gone for this year. after dinner on monday evening i was sitting in my rooms with murray, and although it was not nine o'clock, i was wondering how soon i could go to bed, when ward suddenly burst in, fairly bubbling over with excitement. he turned me right out of my chair, and hitting me violently on the back, said he had never been so awfully glad in all his life. my first impression was that he had been made glad by wine, and i told him to clear out if he could not behave himself, which made him catch hold of me and dance me round the room. by the time we had finished i found that dennison, collier, lambert, webb and a host of other people had come to my rooms, and at last i discovered that i had got my blue. for a moment i did not believe it, but i managed to push ward into a corner, and told him i would never speak to him again if it was not true. then he swore that he had seen the names of the xv. to play against cambridge stuck up in the window of howell's shop in the turl, and the first name he saw was g. marten (st. cuthbert's), back. "and foster, of course?" i said. then jack ward's face fell. "no, they've gone mad," he answered; "it's that man potts, of queen's." men buzzed about congratulating me, and one part of me felt most tremendously glad, and the other part most outrageously sorry. i said a lot of things about the committee, and everybody except ward and murray thought i had gone mad. the college clock struck nine, and old tom's nightly warning began to sound over the city. i seized a cap and bolted down-stairs, leaving my rooms full of astonished men. but fred foster was the only man i wanted to see, and by making a tremendous rush for oriel i got there before the gates were closed. i cannot describe how i was feeling that evening, but i knew that fred was infinitely better at footer than i was, and in my wildest moments i had never imagined that i should be put in the xv. while he was left out of it. i found him sitting in his room alone, but directly he saw me he jumped up and began to talk. "i came to st. cuthbert's to congratulate you," he began. "it is a confounded swindle," i interrupted. "but there was such a row in your rooms that i couldn't face it." "i have never been so sick about anything in my life," i said; and he looked so miserable that in spite of the comfortable sensation of having got my blue i meant it. "it was a vile knock for me, but i don't mind half so much now one of us is in. your people will be most awfully glad." "they will think the committee are mad to leave you out and put me in. it upsets things altogether." "pott's in his fourth year, and i must have another shot, that's all," he said. "you are bound to get your cricket blue," i declared. "when a man begins to miss getting in as i have done, he very often keeps on doing it," and he mentioned the names of two or three men who, with any luck, would have played both cricket and footer against cambridge, but were never chosen. "don't bother about me," he went on, "but get yourself as fit as possible, and play like blazes at queen's club; you will be doing me a good turn if you play well, because at present they have got an idea up here that cliborough fellows can't play footer. i heard adamson saying so." i expressed my opinion of adamson and went back to college, for i ought not to have been out after nine o'clock, because my gating would not finish. but i must say that when the subby sent for me, and i explained what had happened, he congratulated me on getting my blue, and said that under such exceptional circumstances he would excuse my forgetfulness. for the next few days i got up and went to bed very early; i ran round the parks before breakfast, which took me some time and was a most dreary occupation, and i kicked a ball about nearly every day. all of my people went up to town for the match, and fred and i joined them at the langham on the tuesday night. my mother was dreadfully sorry for fred, and nina seemed to have forgotten that she was nearly grown-up, and gave herself no airs at all. i think that fred, who forgave swindles very quickly, found some consolation in the fact that he was going to watch the match with nina, which would have amused me had i not been so anxious about the morrow. there cannot be a more cheerless spot in london than the queen's club on a foggy december afternoon, but when i arrived there and found that we had got to play in semi-darkness my nervousness almost disappeared. after being photographed, and running about the ground to stretch our legs, we began, and for some time i should not think a full-back ever had less to do than i had. the game settled down into one long scrimmage, and apart from making a few kicks, which were neither good nor bad, i was almost a spectator, and at half-time i was, in comparison with every one else, quite disgustingly clean. we played towards the pavilion during the second half, and before ten minutes had passed i was covered with mud, if not with glory. the cambridge three-quarters got the ball, and after a round of passing one of them got a try right behind our posts. adamson promptly told me that it was my fault, but as a matter of fact pott had slipped up at a critical moment and left his man unmarked, so i did not get much chance of preventing the try. after this cambridge pressed us hard, and i had to fall on the ball continually, which is a dismal performance until one gets warmed up to it. pott's knee had given way, and though he stayed on the ground and limped about, the cambridge forwards seemed to be always rushing past him and hurling me to the ground. luck, however, was on our side, and though they were often on the point of scoring nothing really happened, and at last our forwards got the ball down to the other end of the ground. i hoped for a little peace, but the man who plays full-back and expects such a thing is an idiot. only a few minutes were left when the cambridge three-quarters got off again, and, pott being useless, two men came at top speed for me. their centre had the ball, and had only to throw it to the wing man for a try to be a certainty. the wing man was an international and about the fastest three-quarter in scotland, so i tried a little device, which was bad football, though in this case it came off. my only chance was for the centre man to lose his head, and he lost it quite beautifully; if he had only gone on himself instead of trying to pass there was nobody to stop him, for i had made up my mind to prevent the fast man getting the ball whatever happened. i ran in between them, and the centre passed right into my hands; at the same moment the wing man slipped up, and i was going for the cambridge line as fast as i could. no one being near me i think that i made one of the fastest runs of my life, but not having been blessed with speed i had to pass at last, and i happened to make quite a good shot, for one of our halves got the ball and ran in behind the posts. adamson kicked the goal all right, and the game ended in a draw directly afterwards. i don't mind saying that as i walked off the ground i should have been glad if there had been less fog; i had suffered so much after the cambridge try, that i should have been pleased if everybody had seen the finish; but after all fred had managed to discover what had happened, and if there had not been a fog, i expect i should not have tried to intercept that pass, for it would have looked quite awful if i had not happened to do it. all kinds of people congratulated me, and adamson was good enough to acknowledge that i had atoned for my previous mistake; but i could not help wondering what he would have said if the cambridge man had not happened to make such a bad pass. there was a condescension about adamson which roused my worst passions, for of all the blues i have seen he was the only one who ever took an insane delight in himself, and unfortunately he belonged to a college which so seldom had a blue, that when they did get one they almost worshipped him. after the game was over i went back to the langham, for fred and i had arranged to go to a theatre with jack ward; but i have only the vaguest idea of the performance i watched. i had slept badly the night before, and now that the match was over, nothing could keep me awake, so i had to be given up as hopeless, though fred gave me an occasional dig with his elbow just to keep me from snoring. by the time the play was over i was properly awake again, and so satisfied with myself, that when i met dennison going out of the theatre i was even glad to see him. "ward told me you were coming here," he said. "what are you going to do now?" "going home, i suppose," i answered; but i cannot say that i cared much where i went. "let's go to the parma, there is sure to be a rag on there," he said to jack, and after some discussion we walked down shaftesbury avenue. i think the air of the town must have got into dennison's head, for i had not walked far before i was in more than my usual state of rage with him. he ordered us about most abominably, and seemed to think that i was sure to lose my way unless i kept close to him. as a matter of fact, neither fred nor i knew london well, but i resented being treated like an infant, and if dennison only looked after us out of kindness, i did not see why he should do it at the top of his voice. i had an inexplicable feeling that it was the duty of every one to know something about london, and although i should not have recognized piccadilly circus when i saw it, i was quite prepared to put that down to the fog; for if dennison had not taken so much for granted, i should never willingly have given myself away to him. when we reached the parma i was very thirsty, but there were so many people in the place that it was impossible to get near the bar. we were jolted about by men who, having nothing else to say, shouted "good old cambridge!" and "now then, oxford!" the pandemonium was deafening, and jack said to me that the whole thing wasn't good enough, and unless you happened to feel like shoving into people and then pretending that you were very sorry he was quite right. a man standing on the steps at the top of the room began to make a speech until somebody shoved him down, and his top-hat, having been knocked off, was kicked about by everybody who could get near it. men whom i never remembered having seen before, shook me warmly by the hand and treated me as if i was their greatest friend, but none of them could get me anything to drink. this scene was subsequently described as disgraceful, but it was really very dull, and after a few more minutes spent in trying to make my voice heard in the noise, the lights were turned out. the word "johnnys" ran round the place, and there was a big rush for the door leading into piccadilly circus. fortunately i got out at once, and i found myself marching clown piccadilly in the second row of a procession. foster was next to me, though how he got there i cannot conceive, and ward and dennison were in the front row. we sang as we walked, and people cleared out of our way. i heard one man who met us say "poor fools!" and the fellow who was with him answered "we did that kind of thing years ago, didn't we?" outside the st. john's we came to a dead stop, and the men in front of me began arguing with an enormous man who stood at the entrance. "no one else is to be admitted to-night," i heard the giant say. "but it is not closing time," some one answered. "these are my orders, gentlemen," he said, and it was really rather nice of him to address us as he did. ward did not say a word, but tried quite amicably to get past the giant. it was a kind of goliath and david business anyhow, but whatever chance ward had of getting into the restaurant ended abruptly; a bevy of policemen who seemed to drop out of the skies simply pounced upon him, and if he had been guilty of some real crime he could not have been treated more severely. it was my first experience of policemen, and unless some one had very kindly caught hold of me, my first impulse was to go for the men who had seized ward. "you had better keep quiet, or you will be taken to the station as well," one policeman said to me, but i went on talking until some one i did not know touched me on the arm. "was the man they collared a friend of yours?" he asked. "yes, and it is a most wretched swindle," i said. "i don't think he did anything to speak of," foster added. "i was just coming out of the door as it happened," our friend said, "and i have never seen a more unfair thing in my life. if you will come to the police-station to-morrow to give evidence, i will come too. you had better go now and see if you can do anything for him." we assured him that we would turn up the next morning, and then foster and i made our way to the police-station. i cannot say that the inspector, or whoever the official was who talked to us, took much notice of what we said, but we found a more sympathetic man outside the station who asked us if we wanted to bail out our friend. the official had told us that jack ward would be quite comfortable during the night, but when i saw another person brought in by the police we doubted this statement very much, and we discussed things with our sympathetic friend, who was a shabby-looking man when he happened to get near the light, and he gave us much advice in exchange for half-a-sovereign. i gave him the half-sovereign, though what prompted me to do so i cannot remember, but i had met so many aggressive people during that evening that a kind man appealed to me strongly. he was, i heard afterwards, a professional bailer-out, and i do not think he could have been a very good one, for although fred and i went about with him for over an hour, and rang up various people who treated us with unvarying rudeness, in the end we had to leave jack ward where he was. it was no easy matter to escape from my people in the morning, but we got to the place all right, and soon after we got there jack ward appeared, and was charged with creating a disturbance in piccadilly. policemen gave evidence, and the man who had told us that he would come and speak up for ward turned out to be a barrister, and did not appear to be in the least afraid of the magistrate. his evidence was very different to that of the police, and i thought jack ward, who looked as if he had been having a dreadful time, was bound to get off. when my turn came to kiss the book i was in a terrible state of nervousness, and the magistrate asked me my name twice, and where i lived at least three times. i am sure he must have been deaf, for i spoke plainly enough, but i thought him a most disagreeable man. after bothering me until i really felt quite unwell, he asked me how many drinks i had seen jack ward have, and when i answered "none," he said very angrily, "i shall not want to ask you any more questions." he might just as well have told me that he did not believe a word i said. in the end ward was bound over to keep the peace for a month, and the magistrate said what he thought of the disturbance which had been made. he supposed undergraduates to be a far more vicious lot than they really are, for at the very worst we were only extremely noisy and very foolish, and jack ward was just the victim of horribly bad luck. i was glad to get away from the police-court, and i am not searching for such an experience as this again, but principally we were sorry for ward, who said he had never spent such a night in his life. however he was very cheerful about it, and took the view that it might have happened to any one. after luncheon foster and i had to start on tour with the 'varsity xv. in wales, and i was exceedingly glad that adamson had to stay in town to play for the south against the north, or fred would not have come. on that tour i played very badly and fred very well, which is what some people would call the irony of fate. but i must say in excuse for myself that more difficult people to get hold of than those swansea, newport and cardiff three-quarters i cannot conceive, and i had no end of chances of trying to collar them. how many of those chances i took can be guessed by any one who is curious enough to look up records and see the lamentable results of those three matches. chapter x my maiden speech as soon as the 'varsity football tour was finished, i went home and fred foster came with me. any exultation i might have been inclined to show over my blue was completely checked by the way i played on the tour, and i was very glad when we got away from wales and the sarcastic remarks of the welsh newspapers. as a matter of curiosity it may be satisfactory to find out what famous oxford teams of former years think of the one you happen to be in, but it was exceedingly disagreeable of the welsh papers to suggest that we should not like to hear the opinions of these heroes, and one sporting reporter went out of his way to be nasty to me. "when i saw marten at back and remember the brilliant exponents of the game who have filled his position in previous dark blue fifteens, i really cannot refrain from smiling. but it is a pity all the same." if i could have got hold of that fellow i think i might have curtailed the length of his smile, but foster gave me a little satisfaction by saying that if a man was ass enough to write about "exponents of the game," he was probably paid a penny a line for what he wrote, and had sacrificed me for the sake of threepence. we had a very good time during our first "vac." i think that nina expected me to come back from oxford with a very fine equipment of airs; in fact i know that she did for she told me so, but i was in a humble mood and gave her no chances to squash me, and she and fred got on splendidly together. my first term had taught me that i did not know in the least what i wanted, which was an upsetting lesson for any one to learn who had always done what came next without bothering about the consequences. this result had been brought about by the warden and dennison, the one had in his curious way tried to urge me on, the other had sickened me of men who rag from morning to night, and i felt bothered for several days in succession. then, however, i stopped worrying myself and regained my normal spirits, to the annoyance of my father who was at that time inveighing against russia and the ritualistic vicar of our parish, and had a lot to say about the thin end of the wedge. he told me that i must take more interest in politics, and he made both fred and me promise that we would speak at debating societies during our first year. but when i recollected the discussions i had listened to at our college debating society i could not remember a single one at which i could have said anything to the point; how could i know whether "it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," or what could i say about marriage being a failure? there was, indeed, only one man at st. cuthbert's who could possibly know anything about marriage, and he had a wife and three children, but from the appearance of the lady i do not think that he was likely to give us his honest opinion. i wrote to jack ward but did not get an answer, and when we got back to oxford i found that he had been staying with a mining magnate whose name i could not pronounce. he had been gambling every night, i forget how much he won in a week, but it is of no consequence as he lost all of it and a lot more before he had finished. during this term he became a complete blood, and was constantly dining at wine clubs or with somebody like bunny langham. he joined the mohocks, and men who did not know him, and thought that our wine club made far too much noise and was a nuisance to the college, said that he would get sent down at the end of his first year for being ploughed in pass moderations. i, however, saw a good deal of him at odd times, and the fact that he absolutely refused to have anything more to do with dennison than he could help delighted me. when jack had no use for any one he had a very expressive way of letting them know it, and dennison at last was so offended that he invaded my rooms one afternoon when i was changing after footer and couldn't escape from him. "you don't see much of ward now, do you?" he began, as he placed himself upon my bed. "i see him every day," i answered. "i can't understand why you care to do it." "well, i do care to do it; you are sitting on my socks, do you mind getting up?" "you ought to hear what most of the freshers are saying about the side ward is putting on, it isn't as if he had any good reason for sticking on side." "what do you think is a good reason for sticking on side?" i asked. "ward can't do anything; you are a blue already, and i shall probably get my racquet blue, but of course that's got nothing to do with it." "then i shouldn't say anything about it," i answered, and putting on my coat i went into my sitter. "don't be a fool," he said as he followed me, "you stick so tremendously close to rotten old-fashioned ideas. i am not exactly committing a crime in not liking a man whom you profess to like." "i have never professed to like any one in my life if i didn't like him," i returned, and instead of getting angry with me, he laughed and sat down in my biggest arm-chair. it was not his habit to have two quarrels going on at the same time, and when he wished to be amiable you had to work hard before you removed his smile. we had tea together, and i did work hard, but he refused to be offended, and told me that i was far too good a sort to be wrapped up in old prejudices, which were the laughing-stock of everybody who really thought about them. oxford, he said, was the place for a good time and not for airing ridiculous fads which were all right at school, where there was nothing else to do but pretend to like a fellow for ever because you had happened to like him for a few weeks. and he also told me that being a blue, i ought to take my proper position in the college, and not to go about with men who were no use whatever. in return i told him some beautifully plain things, but when a man has the terrific impudence of dennison, he makes me too angry to be coherent. i let him know, however, that i intended to choose my own friends and that i thought a blue, if he was also a bounder, might do his college more harm than good. to which he replied that if a man was a bounder he found it exceedingly difficult to become a blue. when dennison went away i rushed off to see murray, and although he did not pretend to like jack, he agreed with me that ten wards in a college would not make it as unpleasant a place as one dennison. after this attempt to get me on his side against jack, dennison left me more or less alone, but he smiled upon me whenever he saw me, and to webb, lambert and a man called learoyd, who were at that time his particular friends, i believe that he described me as a lunatic who might be of use in the future. i was very energetic during this term, and at the same time very quiet. the weather was so bad that astronomical people said that the sun had got spots upon it or had gone wrong somehow; at any rate we hardly ever saw it, and we lived in a deluge of rain. the torpids had to be postponed, nearly every footer match was scratched, and the people who had been talking about water-famines for the last two years held their peace. oxford seemed to be a most cheerless place, and collier slept nearly the whole term. however, i most strenuously did labour, but i should never have stuck to it had not murray helped me, and the result was that after we had been up five weeks i found myself in high favour with mr. gilbert edwardes. it is a dreadful thing to please your tutor if you do not happen to like him, because he asks you to breakfast by way of showing his pleasure, and at meals i could not put up with mr. edwardes. i sat next him at one breakfast, and he never ate anything except a piece of dry toast, and he talked about patent foods. i never saw a man who looked more as if he needed a really big meal of beef and plum-pudding; but he was an authority on diet, and told me that food if too nutritious was very bad for the brain. he could not, i thought, have imagined that our brains were worth much; for i must say that though he did not eat himself he gave us every chance of doing so, and if we had been the torpid, who breakfast and dine hugely, he could not have provided us with more food. murray, who was one of many at this meal, seemed to be very interested in what mr. edwardes said about diet, and i told him afterwards that he was an arch-humbug; but it turned out that he had been bothered all his life--at least he said so--by indigestion, and that at wellingham he had lived on some peculiar biscuit for nearly a fortnight, which recalled to my mind what ward had said to me about him. i played in all the 'varsity rugger matches which were not scratched, and we finished up by beating the wellingham nomads after a muddy and desperate struggle. murray was playing for the nomads and foster for the 'varsity, and so many wellingham people came round to murray's rooms after the match that i had to hold a kind of overflow meeting in my rooms, after the manner of political gatherings. murray was in great spirits until everybody had gone, and then he said he had got a most frightful attack of indigestion. so i let him talk it off. it was curious that i had known him so long without ever having got him on the subject of health; but he told me that when he came up to oxford he made up his mind to forget all about his ailments and eat anything. i told him that he had better stick to that resolution, because i was sure that his best way was never even to think about himself, but that advice was not altogether unselfish. after he had spent a solid half-hour in telling me what pains he suffered, he seemed so much better that i was compelled to add that whenever he felt most awfully bad he had better come and talk to me. i did not say that from conceit but out of sympathy, and when he laughed i told him that if he thought it was amusing for me to hear about his pains and spasms he was jolly well mistaken. "my father has talked about his liver for the last ten years," i said, by way of proving that whatever information he gave me about himself was bound to be stale. "then you will have one some day," murray answered, and i imagined that he looked at me as if in the future we could have a royal time nursing our dyspepsia together. but i was not going to be a twin dyspeptic with anybody. "i hope i have got one now," i returned, "but i am not going on the roof to shout about it. every one ought to keep their liver dark, and then the vile thing wouldn't be a nuisance to every one else." he only laughed again. i am afraid he had read a lot of medical books and knew far too much about the colour of things, but i do really believe that i did him some good, for apart from seeing him put extraordinary pieces of paper on his tongue and look very concerned when they revealed whatever secret they have to reveal, he never talked intimately to me again about his complaints, and as time went on he laughed at himself, which was very wholesome of him. six weeks of the term had passed before i thought of fulfilling the promise i made to my father, and when the time drew near for me to speak at our college debating society, if i meant to do so, i became extremely nervous. there was only one more meeting of the society during that term, and the subject for debate was, "the modern novel has a depressing and decaying influence upon the mind of the british nation." lambert, who spoke very fluently and not at all to the point, was booked to speak first at this debate, and any one who knew him could see his magnificent style in the way the motion was drawn up. he revelled in alliteration, and i should think that he preferred subjects which were more general than particular, for he had on one occasion come hopelessly to grief at a debate on french politics, and had to hide his confusion by saying that no one could be expected to take an interest in a latin nation, which made some people think that he was more stupid than he really was. i resolved to support the modern novel, not because i knew much about it, but because i did not intend to be on the same side as lambert, and i went to the union and listened to a debate in which two men from cambridge spoke and one man from london. speaking seemed to be easy to these people, but perhaps the presence of the london man--he was very distinguished--acted as a check to orators who were not quite sure of themselves. at any rate the distinguished man made a great impression, he deplored the spread of taste among the lower classes, and he was very sad and eloquent about organized excursions which he said consisted chiefly of meals. to my mind he went on deploring far too long, for if anybody does remember rome by what he had for dinner there, and forgets everything about venice except his tea, his temporary absence from england is not exactly a disaster, and the italians are glad to have him. craddock of balliol, who spoke before the man from london, was crushed for dealing with the subject in a frivolous manner, but i was not persuaded that a serious debate about english tourists would make them any less humorous or plentiful. that debate did me good in one way, for i was so angry with this man of distinction that i wished i could have told him what i thought, and for three consecutive mornings i addressed an imaginary audience while i was having my bath. but if my remarks had been made at the union i am afraid they would have caused a tumult, they were more suited to the house of commons, where, if the worst happens, you have the consolation of being led out by a dignified official, and can read about your departure in the newspapers of the following morning. i was so worried about my speech that i mentioned it to several men, and most of them said that they would come to the debate, which was the last thing i wanted them to do. i had, however, to go through with it, so i consoled myself by the thought that i couldn't be duller than some of the people whom i had heard speaking at our debates; but when i went into the common room and found a larger crowd of men there than i had ever seen at a previous meeting, i wished that i had never come near the place. before lambert spoke we had to go through a lot of private business, which consisted chiefly of attempts by the college wags to be funny. some men cultivate the special form of humour which shines at private business, but on this occasion all our wags were either absent or silent, and the president and secretary of the debating society had a very peaceful evening. when lambert got up to pulverize the modern novel a great many men, who had only come in for a rag, left the room, but dennison, webb and some others who knew that i intended to speak, remained, and i made up my mind that they should wait a very long time if they meant to hear me. there was not a trace of nervousness about lambert; he shot his cuffs, stroked his upper lip with one finger, and was really rather a comical figure, though i should think that every one was not so much amused at the things he said as at his magnificent manner while saying them, for he had nothing new to say about the influence of popular fiction. he referred to authors who draw their inspiration from the bible in terms of lordly condescension, and then, changing his manner suddenly, he spoke of the rise and fall of stratford-upon-avon in such mournful tones that any one who did not know him might have imagined that he was on the verge of tears. no speech of his, however, was complete without a peroration, and on this evening he surpassed himself. "you," he began, "who buy books without a thought of what you are buying, who are guided in your taste for fiction by the advertisements and buy a novel with as little care as you would buy a pair of scissors, who think, if you ever think, and i have already said that you do not, that because there are fifty thousand tasteless people in the world there is no reason why you should not swell that crowd, you are responsible for the decay of the novel. traditions are dying, helped to their death by prize competitions and personal paragraphs, and oxford is the home of tradition, for oxford was invented before eton. we care no longer for what is best but for what is most talked about, in our fiction we look for scandals and not for literature, and unless there is a reaction the man who can blush will become a curiosity, fit only for exhibition on the music hall stage or in the zoological gardens. it is a serious matter. the philistines must be met and routed, we know that of old this was their usual fate, it seems to have been the chief reason for their existence. for my part i think a day ill-spent in which i have not read a few pages of fielding or thackeray. i have the most kindly feelings towards dickens, jane austen and george eliot, and when i am tired i write little things myself." he sat down and looked blandly in front of him; if he had been less pleased with himself he would not have been anything like so amusing. a senior man called ransome got up to defend the modern novel, and the debate at once became serious. in about five minutes ransome would have made most men feel crushed and unhappy, but lambert only spread out his legs and shut his eyes. ransome was not only a good speaker but also one of the cleverest men in the 'varsity, and he scored time after time without disturbing lambert's equanimity. i think that lambert's enormous and somnolent bulk must have annoyed ransome, for he went on to make an attack which was virulently sarcastic. in his speech lambert had been foolish enough to say nothing in favour of modern novels, he had taken it for granted that all of them were bad, and ransome fastening on this accused him of never having heard of george meredith and thomas hardy, and he finished by appealing to us not to be guided in our tastes and opinions by a man whose assumptions were based on tremendous ignorance. after ransome had finished lambert woke up, which was silly of him, but i must admit that he looked exactly as if he had been roused from a deep sleep. a number of men spoke, and most of them said something which i had intended to say, until there was very little of my speech left which could sound original. as each man sat down, dennison and webb had the impertinence to shout "marten," but they were always called to order by the president, who was in no hurry to hear my maiden effort. collier, who had not come to hear me from inclination but a sense of duty, dozed peacefully in a corner, a number of men recorded their votes and left the room, the president yawned prodigiously, and the secretary looked as if he had got a headache. if i intended to speak before lambert replied to all the criticisms passed upon him, my time had come. i got up as quietly as i could, but i was greeted with so much applause that i felt quite embarrassed. jack ward had come in from dining somewhere, and when he saw dennison and webb clapping because they expected to be amused, he resolved to make more row than they did. i could not complain of my reception, but why i received it is not worth discussing. however the mere sight of dennison made me determined not to make a fool of myself and i got rid of my first sentence without a hitch, and then i was all right for some time because the walls of my bedder had heard my speech very often and i knew it well. jack ward kept on applauding violently, he meant well but he did it in the most awkward places, and he made me forget one thing which foster had provided. dennison laughed a little, but he had to wait before he got an opportunity of trying to make me appear especially ridiculous. "we read too much and think too little," i said, and this was the opening of a sentence which had caused me a lot of trouble until murray helped me to put it right, but dennison saw his chance and interrupted me by saying, "we talk too much and think too little, is what you mean," which was an exasperating remark when i had very nearly finished without any bother. so i turned round and told him that i could say what i liked without asking him. the president shouted "order," but he looked too sleepy to care much what happened. "at any rate i suppose you cribbed it from last week's _spectator_, and i know it was 'talk too much,' because i saw it." "if mr. marten thinks he can improve upon anything taken from the _spectator_ he is at perfect liberty to do so," the president said very sarcastically, and i felt badly scored off. "it's all very well," i said to him, "but these interruptions have made me forget where i have got to." "about the bottom of your second cuff, i should think," dennison called out, and i could not stand that libel, so i addressed the rest of my speech to him. it was, at any rate, fluent, and although the president tried to stop me i had a merry if short innings before i finished. dennison was too much for me, he never lost his temper while i was so angry that i forget exactly what happened, but when i met the president in the quad on the following morning and apologized to him, he was kind enough to say that he hoped i should speak again during the next term, although as he would be reading hard he was afraid that he would not have the pleasure of hearing me. he was a curious man, and i could not help wondering whether he would have wished me to speak if he had not been too busy to listen, but i did not care to risk asking him that question. the lent term at oxford is rather a dull one for men who do not row, run, or play soccer. in my time golfers were thought dull whether they played golf or only talked about it. i did run in our college sports because collier said i wouldn't, and collier ran because i said he couldn't, the result was that we competed in a half-mile handicap in which he received the munificent start of eighty-five yards, while i had to worry through the whole distance with the exception of twenty yards. collier bet me five shillings that he would defeat me in that race, and i thought i had found an easy way of making a little money, but a half-mile is a long distance for two men without much wind, and when i caught collier up about two hundred yards from the finish we agreed to cancel our bet and walk to the pavilion. collier could not speak without gasping for a quarter of an hour, and then he expressed the determination of retiring permanently from the running path. chapter xi a cricket match at burtington the summer term at oxford would be even more pleasant than it is if it did not start in april and finish when the summer is just beginning. i do not wish to say anything about weather, but without taking an interest in the abnormal quantities of rain or wanting to know why the sun shines so seldom, i do think that if the success of a term depends largely upon an english may, it is apt to be very limited. i have been told so often by quite truthful men that there are other people besides undergraduates to be considered in oxford, that i have never felt so convinced about anything, except that queen anne is dead; but all the same it seems to me that the undergraduate is not given a chance of being comfortably warm for any length of time. and if the authorities who fix the terms, or if they like it better, the academical year, would understand that an undergraduate is a far nicer man when he is comfortable, they might be inclined to cease from compelling him to play cricket when it is impossible to think of anything but the biting wind. for my own part i am certain that i have never wanted to break rules or windows when the sun shines, but some men, when they become depressed by the weather, turn their thoughts to throwing things about, and there are so many windows in a quad that wherever you throw you seem to hit one of them. the only window i smashed was not entirely my fault, for ward ducked his head just as a tennis-ball was going to hit it; the subby, however, who was trying to instil logic into a lot of pass "mods" men, was annoyed by broken glass falling into his lecture-room. this was a bad beginning to the summer term, but had it not rained for nearly two days i should have been playing cricket that morning, and if ward's head had happened to be in front of the subby's lecture-room i should not have been there to throw at it. i tried to explain this to the subby, but there is a certain kind of reasoning which does not make much impression on either dons or schoolmasters. i asked him if he thought any man who was booked to play cricket all day could sit down at once and work when he heard that his match was scratched, and he answered, "undoubtedly." the subby was a nice enough man in some ways, but in others he was simply hopeless. he was not so absolutely unapproachable as mr. edwardes, for although you had got to imagine for all you were worth you could think of him as an "undergrad," but when murray and i tried to persuade ourselves that mr. edwardes had once been only twenty years old we wasted our time, and murray told me that i was always trying to do impossible things. oxford, however, is a good place when you are only playing at summer, and it is really splendid if you are lucky enough to have a fine may and early june. i went back there full of enthusiasm, i meant to do a hundred things, but i am afraid my programme was a little too full; to carry it out successfully i required the co-operation of the subby and mr. edwardes, and no one but an enthusiast, or a fool, would have thought he was likely to get it. my experiences with mr. edwardes during my second term had been placidly uneventful, but they had been gained by very great effort on my part, and they did not seem to have been worth the effort, since my tutor was almost as great an iceberg at the end of the term as he had been at the beginning. he could not thaw, but i never found out that until i had spent many unsuccessful interviews with him. i thought after going through one term without offending him that i was what golfers, i believe, would call "one up," and i felt that it would be an easy matter to increase my score, but i made a great mistake. mr. edwardes did not realize in the least that cricket is a very important and tiring game. i told him frankly that i wanted to enjoy myself during my first summer term, and that if my work was neglected a little i hoped he would understand the reason. he failed to understand it, and instead of being pleased with my candour, he took up a sort of pouncing attitude. he was fairly on the look-out, and when a don gets into that state it is not likely he is going to watch for nothing. in the freshers' match foster and i were on opposite sides, which seemed to me a very poor kind of arrangement even before we began, and what i thought of it after the match was over is not worth saying. the weather on the first day of the game was never intended for cricket, and i have very rarely seen a nose glow quite so gorgeously as the umpire who no-balled me twice in my first over. i actually began the bowling, though i think the reason for this honour must have been that cross of magdalen, who was secretary to the 'varsity xi. and captained our side, knew my name. foster and henderson began the batting, and my first ball which was supposed to be directed at foster's wicket was a most abominable wide, the second and third he hit to the boundary, the fourth was a no-ball, and i really forget what happened after that, but i know that it was the sort of over which seemed as if it would never end. i had not been no-balled before, and this unexpected misfortune made my bowling quite comically bad. cross kept me on for seven overs, because as i heard him say afterwards he thought the beginning was too bad to be true. foster made and henderson , i got one wicket for runs, but the man i got out was not supposed to be a batsman, and he confided to me as we went back to the pavilion that his highest score for his school during the last season had been . this information on the top of my inglorious performance was really rather trying; he might, i thought, have kept it to himself, but he had made and was unduly elated. their side made , and our two innings only totalled ; i went in last, with the exception of cross, and made such furiously ineffective efforts to hit some leg-breaks, that rushden of new college, who was a most serious cricketer and captain of the 'varsity xi., was compelled to laugh. but i did land one ball into the shrubbery, which was the only moment during the match when i felt that cricket in a cold wind was worth playing. after it was all over, however, i was delighted that fred had started so well, and it did not surprise me at all when i saw that my name was not down to play for the sixteen freshmen against the 'varsity xi.; in fact i should have been very surprised if rushden had not made up his mind about me. both fred and henderson did well in this second trial match and were chosen to play for the varsity against the m.c.c., while i went back to college cricket and lived upon what reputation i had brought from cliborough for quite three weeks. i could not get any wickets however much i tried until we played pembroke, who were not exactly a strong batting side, and to make things easier for me they had their three best men away. after this match i got my college colours, but i am afraid that it is doubtful if i deserved them. jack ward played for the college xi., but his best scores were made for the st. cuthbert's busters, who played villages round oxford, and were not very depressed if they were beaten. collier, lambert and dennison also played for the busters, and a kind of truce had been patched up between jack and dennison, because jack said that it was too much trouble to keep up a quarrel with any one whom he was always meeting, and dennison was at that time so occupied with other schemes that he treated jack as if he was his dearest friend. some senior men in the college were getting very dissatisfied with the state of it, for they said that it was all right to have an occasional rag if we had anything to rag about; but as we did not seem able to row, play footer or cricket, we had better keep quiet. they did nothing except talk, and dennison played up to them with all his might; he had got his half-blue for racquets, and they, not knowing him as well as jack, collier and i did, thought that he was really keen on the college. but, as a matter of fact, he howled with laughter when our torpid went down six places, and said that if men were fools enough to row they deserved to be laughed at, whatever happened to them. no one wants to belong to a college which can do nothing but howl at night, since the greatest slackers in the 'varsity howl the loudest. dennison worked hard for popularity among senior men, but he cared nothing for the college, and several of the freshers knew that if he got a set round him who intended to manage the place, st. cuthbert's was doomed as far as athletics were concerned. he was made for some college which is in the habit of having only one blue every ten years or so, and may possibly treat him as if he is a very fine specimen when they have got him. we could not help doing well in the schools, because we always had scholars who took firsts with beautiful regularity; but no one thought very much about it, since it was a thing to which every one in the 'varsity was accustomed. even fred foster told me that it was a pity st. cuthbert's was going downhill so fast; but apart from being angry there was nothing for me to do, except wait. our dons, taken in the mass, wanted us to work and be quiet; they did not care what happened to our eight or our eleven, and when a man got his blue he was generally told that he must not allow it to interfere with his reading. unless dons meet undergraduates half-way a college is bound, sooner or later, to suffer; but a little humanity can do wondrous things. during my first year the warden was the only don who was kind to me, and though i liked him so much that i forgave him for not appreciating the difference between bumping and being bumped, i must confess that his kindness was of a peculiar kind. st. cuthbert's, in the opinion of the 'varsity, had begun to go down rapidly, and we got very little sympathy from anybody outside the college. the outlook was gloomy enough, for i was bound to have rows with mr. edwardes as long as i had anything to do with him, and if i could have been of any use in trying to improve things, i knew that unless some new dons came i should have to spend most of my time in looking after myself. i wished that fred had come to st. cuthbert's, for murray was too quiet to do anything, collier was too sleepy, and jack ward seemed to be as happy-go-lucky as i was. it looked as if dennison was bound to win in the long run, for he was a thousand times cleverer at getting what he wanted than any of us, and he had the great advantage of knowing what he did want. his aim, i knew, was to be the leader of a set who gambled and yelled and played games which he thought were fit for bloods to play. slackness during the day and liveliness at night were briefly his programme, and though it is all very well to be lively at night, it seemed to some of us that if we were to sink to the bottom of the river and care nothing for the reputation of the college, we were in for a very bad time. by nature both jack ward and i were cheerful, and if it had not been for hating dennison i don't think that i should have wanted to check my cheerfulness. as it was, i had a vague sort of feeling that what dennison liked must be wrong. i saw dennison as seldom as i could, but jack ward came to me one morning when there was no college match, and when i had nothing to do which could not conveniently be put off, to ask me to play for the busters. somebody had scratched at the last moment, and even if i had not wanted to play i should have found a difficulty in resisting jack. we drove seven miles to a village called burlington, and had great difficulty in finding the wicket when we arrived, but our driver had been there before, and insisted on us getting out by a field which looked as if it might produce a bountiful crop of hay. lambert--who had talked a lot about being asked to play for his county--pretended to be very disgusted, and strode about as if he owned the whole place; we had to be very rude to him, so that we might prevent him from hurting the feelings of the burlington men. in the middle of the field a small space had been mown, and the pitch itself, apart from a few holes, was not at all bad, but bagshaw, who was captaining the busters, decided at once that he should keep wicket because he did not want to stand up to his knees in grass. the captain of the burtington team was the local publican, a hearty man who told us in the same breath that he was very glad to see us, and that he had played cricket for thirty years, boy and man. his name was plumb, and i liked him very much; he played in both braces and a belt, because he told us belts were ticklish things and braces sometimes burst. i answered that it was always well to be on the safe side, and we had quite a confidential talk, until lambert and dennison came up and interrupted us. lambert began to complain about the long grass, and i was afraid mr. plumb might be offended, but i expect he had seen a good many people like lambert, and he only smiled compassionately at him. "you see it's like this," he said, "this damp, not to call it a wet spring, has made this yer grass grow, and what i say is that weather that is good for farmers up to june is bad for us cricketers. but, bless me, there's nothing to complain of here--i've played cricket in some funny places if you like, and many a dap on the side of the head i've had in my time." "this man," dennison remarked, pointing at me, "is a very fast bowler." mr. plumb shut one eye and looked at me with interest. "then," he said, "i think you had better bowl up the hill; i have seen them kick a bit at the other end, nothing to speak of, but bill higgs got his nose cut open come next saturday three weeks; he's a fast bowler if you like, i've seen spofforth and i've seen mold, but for pace give me bill higgs." "is he playing to-day?" lambert asked as unconcernedly as he could. "oh yes, he's playing, he's the terror of the neighbourhood. there he is, the tall man, he's our policeman when he's not playing cricket. my eye, his arms are like tree-trunks," and mr. plumb left us and walked over to talk to bill higgs, but i am not at all sure that he did not wink at me before he went. "you didn't score much there," i said to dennison. "cricket isn't good enough in these outlandish holes," he answered, and seized collier to tell him about bill higgs. lambert went off hastily to get a drink, and was not seen again until bagshaw had won the toss and decided to go in. we began our innings with lambert and collier, and bagshaw could not have chosen a funnier pair. there was some difficulty in getting them ready, for collier had left his pads behind, and we had a desperate job to find any which were large enough to fit him, while lambert was so engaged in persuading us that higgs on a bumping wicket was nothing to a man who had been asked to play for his county that at one time he had lost both his bat and his gloves. before they started collier insisted on tossing to see who should have first ball, and when he won lambert said it was of no consequence as he had always meant to have the first ball. the burtington xi. waited patiently, and threw catches to each other with extraordinary violence, but although mr. plumb had announced that higgs would begin the bowling, the terror of the neighbourhood had not allowed us to see how fast he bowled. there was an air of mystery about higgs, which the nine of us who were not at the wickets found very entertaining, though dennison, who was in next, looked anxious. when our batsmen had got to the wickets it seemed as if the game would never begin, for lambert took guard three times and looked round the ground so often to see where the fielders were placed that two or three of the burtington men from sheer weariness began to turn somersaults. higgs stood with the ball in his hand and talked to collier, he knew that he was a great man and was quite unmoved by lambert's little tricks. at last there was no excuse for waiting any longer, and the umpire, after lambert had refused to have a trial ball, which i suppose he thought would have been an undignified thing for him to do, called "play." the mystery was solved immediately, higgs bowled very fast underhand, the kind of ball which is correctly termed a "sneak," but unfortunately for lambert the first one was straight and his bat was still in the air when his middle stump was knocked to the ground. the burtington xi. seemed to me to take this beginning as a matter-of-course, and started throwing catches to each other without even troubling to applaud higgs. lambert walked very slowly from the wickets, and when he got back to us he was smiling in his most magnificently contemptuous manner. "i thought you asked me to play cricket," he said to bagshaw. "i keep a special bat for that sort of bowling, and i did not want to smash this one." he sat down on the grass, but we were all so suffocated by laughter that none of us could condole with him, and if any one had ventured to say "bad luck," i am sure lambert would have treated him with scorn. dennison had two balls which did not bowl him, but higgs made no mistake with the next one, and the burlington men played catch once more. in the end we managed to make , though hardly any of the runs were made off higgs, and twelve of them came from two balls which were lost quite close to the wickets. nine of the burtington men made runs, for collier bowled very straight until he got hopelessly out of breath, and then bagshaw, who laughed all the time collier was bowling, would not take him off, though the wretched man was panting like a grampus. "this last fellow is sure to be a 'sitter,'" bagshaw said, "here is collier's chance to bowl right through an innings, i don't suppose he has ever done it before." but collier, who was searching after breath and not troubling about records, was indignant with bagshaw, and when lambert, who said that the sun was in his eyes, missed two catches off consecutive balls, collier said something to him at the end of the over which disturbed the harmony of our xi. for several minutes. unfortunately the last burtington batsman was more of a wag than a "sitter," he was the funny man of the team, and was so delighted with his own wit that bagshaw said it would be a shame not to let him enjoy himself. "every village team has its funny man," he said, "and we are jolly lucky to get him in last." i am sure bagshaw was what is called a good sportsman, but he was too kind to be a good captain. i thought sam jenks was a harmless idiot when he came in with only one pad, and that on the wrong leg, but by the time he had fooled us out of eight or nine runs i was simply sick to death of him. lambert stated in a loud voice that it was not cricket, and collier, who was most completely disorganized both in body and temper, retorted that if it had been cricket lambert would not have been playing; while sam, who in some ways was not such an ass as he tried to make out, played the next ball slowly to lambert at short leg, and ran down the pitch exhorting him to throw it at collier's head as soon as he got hold of it. possibly this advice, combined with a natural inability to stoop quickly, made lambert even slower than usual in picking up the ball, but when he did pick it up he threw it violently at the wicket to which sam was running. there was some doubt whether he threw at sam or at the wickets, but he missed whatever he intended to hit and the ball went yards away into the long grass, where it remained until four runs had been made and burtington had won the match. immediately afterwards sam fell over his wickets in trying to make a stylish stroke with one leg poised in the air, and an excursion of burtingtonians, headed by mr. plumb, sallied forth and carried him shoulder-high to the tent, where he was given much refreshment. one or two men on our side tried to persuade bagshaw that there was plenty of time left to make as many runs as we wanted and to get the burtington men out again, but when mr. plumb was told what we were talking about he came out of the tent and joined us. he was inclined to be elated, and seizing bagshaw by the arm said he should like to have a word with him. they walked away from the rest of us, and, as a friend of mr. plumb's, i went with them. "cricket is cricket, that's what i say, sir," mr. plumb began, and bagshaw, whose manners were perfectly splendid, assented without a smile. "but in this yer little village there are what the parson calls local considerations, which i as captain of this team have got to consider." bagshaw inquired quite patiently what these considerations were. "well, it's like this, i keep the reindeer, and the parson he's a teetotaller, not one of those stumping men who think because they drink nothing nobody else ought to, but what i should call broad-minded for a man who drinks nothing but water. now what the parson says to me is this: 'you give these young gentlemen luncheon for which they pays half-a-crown ahead, and it's worth it, and my missis drives up in the pony-cart at five and gives everybody tea.' it's like a bargain, you understand." bagshaw understood most thoroughly and tried to stop the flow of mr. plumb's conversation, but that excellent captain talked on for another five minutes, until two of our men who knew bagshaw better than i did, took upon themselves to walk to the wickets. then mr. plumb began to collect his men, which seemed to be a difficult matter, and it was half-past four before we began again. at five o'clock tea was ready and the game was interrupted for so long that we gave up all thoughts of winning it, but i heard afterwards from the parson himself that as a general rule only the batting side had tea and the other xi. had to take their chance of getting some. i believe we should have won that match if mr. plumb had captained our side, but the busters were generally beaten, which possibly accounted for the fact that most of the villages round oxford said they were a splendid eleven. no team which contained lambert could help being splendid, but as regards cricket we were the most futile side it is possible to imagine, and bagshaw, who was a really good sort, was also exactly the right man to captain it. in our second innings lambert made nine runs, which was not a great score for a man who said he had been asked to play for his county, but was unfortunately enough to make him very pleased with himself, and when he got into that state of mind he was a dangerous man, for he always wanted to do something which was better left undone. on this occasion he persuaded jack ward that a little dinner at the reindeer would be the most sporting way of finishing the evening, and i have never seen any one support a suggestion more heartily than mr. plumb did this one of lambert's. he had a couple of beautiful ducklings waiting to be cooked, some lamb which would be wasted upon any one but real gentlemen, and some port which would make our hair curl. collier listened to this and thought it too good to miss, so he backed up lambert, and ward, who did not seem enthusiastic over the hair-curling port, said he would stay if i would. there were good reasons why i should not stay and i mentioned them one by one, but although in the lump they ought to have been enough to stop me, when mentioned singly they did not seem to be very important. ward, however, saw that i did not want to stay, and he was on the point of chucking up the whole thing when dennison said to mr. plumb, "you see, some of us are frightened to death of the dons; it is a fairly rotten state to be in, because we daren't call our lives our own." that remark was directed at me, and if i had been sensible i should have taken no notice of it, but unluckily i am one of those wretched people who hate to hear that i am frightened of anybody or anything, and for dennison to tell mr. plumb such silly nonsense made me furious. of course i said that i would stay, and i saw dennison wink at lambert; the brute was for ever scoring off me, he had a most unrighteous way of getting what he wanted. for some reason or other bagshaw was always very decent to me, and when he heard that ward, dennison, collier, lambert and i were going to finish the evening at the reindeer he asked me to come home in the brake, but that gibe of dennison's was heavy upon me and i had determined to stick to my promise and do whatever came my way. i did not expect that the evening was going to be anything but a rowdy one, for when lambert did undertake a thing he went at it most zealously. first of all he got ward to wire and ask bunny langham to drive over about ten o'clock and fetch us all back, and then he asked four or five of the most comical people in the burtington team to come to the reindeer after dinner and help at a smoking concert. all of the burtington team came and a number of their friends, in fact i should think that nearly all the labourers in the village were entertained by us during the evening. mr. plumb began by being very pleased, and the evening ended in what local newspapers call "harmony," which is the most polite way of saying that any one sang who liked and that the discord was something terrible. i sang a solo, the first and last time i have ever done such a thing, but i was rapturously applauded by an audience who were more kind and thirsty than critical. my song was "tom bowling," at least ward said it was more like "tom bowling" than anything else. at half-past ten bunny langham had not come, and by some means or other it was necessary that we should reach oxford before twelve o'clock. dennison suggested that we should have a "go-as-you-please" contest back to st. cuthbert's, but collier was not disposed to enter for a race in which he was bound to be last, and told us that if we were fools enough to go seven miles in an hour and a half, he would trouble us to rout up some don when we got back to college and say that he had been taken seriously unwell in burlington, but hoped to be better in the morning. a man, who called himself a veterinary surgeon, but was described by mr. plumb as a cow-doctor, said he would give collier a certificate of ill-health; i do not remember from what disease he was supposed to be suffering. the idea, however, of rushing seven miles as hard as we could was crushed by lambert, who was in a kind of "coach and four" mood and very abusive. he secured mr. plumb and having pushed him into a corner stated that he required a pair of horses and a wagonette, but mr. plumb was not in a condition to be addressed in terms of authority. his sense of importance had been increasing as the evening went on, and from being a most innocently amusing man he had become an obstinate and bibulous publican. he would have nothing to say to lambert and declared that getting to oxford was our business and that we ought to have thought about it before. the best thing to do with such a man was to leave him to the remorse of the following morning, but lambert had an insane desire to talk and, i must admit, a forcible way of talking. there seemed to be a reasonable chance of a row, for mr. plumb wasn't without supporters who were as tired of us as we were of them, but jack ward managed to get hold of the cow-doctor and persuaded him to find some vehicle to help us on our way. as soon as mr. plumb heard of this he declared that the cow-doctor was taking the bread out of his mouth, but ward told him if that was the case he ought to have another drink, and after having it he became comatose and unobstructive. finally we started from the reindeer at eleven o'clock in a light farm-cart, ward and dennison sitting on the seat with the driver, while collier, lambert and i sat on the floor of the conveyance. lambert, when not singing bacchanalian songs, complained of the indignity and discomfort of this performance, but i, having taken the precaution of propping myself against collier, who was accustomed to being used as a cushion and very kind about it, was more sleepy than uncomfortable. besides, men who begin to think of being dignified towards midnight are a nuisance, so i told lambert he was a speechless idiot, which statement i found to be positively untrue. we had reached the outskirts of oxford, and even lambert had passed from the state of song and abuse to that of sleep, when the cart was drawn up with such a jerk that my head collided with collier's, and i heard ward say-- "why, bunny, what the blazes are you doing here at this time of night?" and bunny answered with no unnecessary length, "walking." "but why?" ward said. "exercise. any room for another pig in the bottom of that cart?" "jump up, quick," ward answered, "it is a quarter to twelve, and jolly lucky there is a moon or i should have missed you." bunny said that he was not going to hurry for any one, and wasted two or three valuable minutes before we got him safely into the cart. he was in an exceedingly bad temper, and it was only by dint of innumerable questions that we found that he had actually started to drive to burtington and that something disastrous had happened on the journey. the exact nature of that disaster none of us ever discovered, but what bunny wished us to believe was that he went to sleep and was driven into by a furniture van, and since he had been kind enough to start to burtington we should have been a complete set of bounders if we had not suppressed dennison when he said that no one was likely to believe such a tale as that. anybody with a grain of decency could see that bunny had been having a very bad time, and though we all thanked him tremendously when we got out at st. cuthbert's, and told the driver to take him on to christchurch as fast as he could, he just sat in the bottom of the cart and said nothing. "i am afraid bunny's ill," ward said to me as soon as we got into college, and we blamed ourselves for not seeing him to "the house," though had we done so we could not have got back to st. cuthbert's until a quarter-past twelve. on the following morning ward went round to see bunny and found him drinking beer with his breakfast, which was a thing he never dared to do unless he felt aggressively well. ward lunched with me and said that bunny was all right except that his feelings were in a state of disorder. "there is only one thing he is conceited about and that is his driving," ward explained, "and last night he was driving a cob which a baby in arms could steer. well, bunny got upset, and is so ashamed of himself that he is angry with everybody else. he will be all right by dinner-time if he is left alone." chapter xii the use and abuse of an essay the day following the burtington match was a very peaceful one, but the evening brought with it a disturbance which was altogether unexpected. i was engaged at nine o'clock to read an essay to mr. edwardes, and i had been so energetic that i had written it two days before, which made me feel virtuous. the subject of the essay was "impressions of roman society as gathered from cicero's letters," and i had taken more than ordinary trouble over it, for it was the sort of question which i could not answer without definite knowledge. i went to murray's rooms after dinner, and i remember telling him that i believed i had written something which would persuade my tutor that i had at least made an attempt to satisfy him. and murray, who was always trying to keep me out of rows and giving me help when i was in them, read a little of it, and said that it was ever so much longer than the one he had written. as length meant work, i was very satisfied with this remark of his, and i went off to mr. edwardes with a feeling that he might be mildly pleased. he greeted me coldly and sat down by the side of the table, with his back almost turned to me; we did not even exchange our opinions about the weather, and he was evidently as anxious for me to begin as i was to finish. my opening sentence was stamped by my own style. if i say that no one else would have written it, i only wish to record that no one else would have thought it worth while; i will not quote it, because when i tried to read this essay a year after i had written it, i was struck by the fact that it was altogether too florid for every-day use. mr. edwardes objected strongly to phrases which seemed to me beautifully rounded, and i gave them up slowly as one of my most cherished possessions. i could not share his feelings about them at that time, whatever i may think of them now, and they formed a part of a scheme to make my essays less dull, and what i was fain to think even a little amusing. but apart from my opening sentence i had in this essay deprived myself of the pleasure of ornate phrasing and been as solid as possible. i had, however, taken great pains over my first words. i wished them to convey to mr. edwardes that i could still annoy him if i liked, and afterwards i intended to show him that though this power remained to me i was too kind to use it. these were not perhaps the reasons why i was compelled to write essays, and i doubt whether he would ever have discovered my scheme even if i had read him what i had written. and i never did read it, for after i had finished the first sentence and deprived it of much of its effect by getting the stops mixed up, which made me want to read it over again, he turned round in his chair so quickly that he bumped his arm against the table, and if he had not been a don i should have asked him if he had hurt himself. but as my efforts to please dons by inquiring after their health had not been successful, i went on reading until mr. edwardes stood up, and feeling then that something had gone hopelessly wrong, i stopped to look at him. i could see that he was exceedingly angry, but why in the world he had become so suddenly afflicted i had not an idea. "i do not require to hear any more of that. you may go," he said, and he actually pointed to the door. "but--" i began---- "you may go," he repeated, and since he looked as if he would continue pointing towards the door until i obeyed him, i collected the pages on which i had spent so much labour and walked slowly out of the room. i was too surprised to say anything more, and i did not even feel like banging the door. the only thought which occurred to me was that there must have been something very improper in that cherished sentence, but if my tutor imagined that i took any pleasure in indecencies, or would write them consciously, i felt that he was a very silly man. i stopped on the stairs and began reading my essay again; there was simply nothing in the beginning of it which could offend the most inquisitive and conscientious mrs. grundy. it might have bored any one, but the person who could have blushed at it had not yet been born. i was most completely puzzled, and when i went back to my rooms and laid my rejected essay upon the table, i felt as if the only literature i wished to see again was the commination service. it had often been my fate to displease masters and dons, but it was a new experience for me to be turned out of a room without knowing in the least why i was expected to go. i came to the unsatisfying conclusion that edwardes had gone mad, and i determined to see murray so that i might tell him what had happened; but before i had finished writing a note which had to be written, both murray and foster came into my rooms. "foster has got something to tell you," murray said. "not half as much as i have got to tell you," i answered. "i will bet you a shilling you think it more important, and you can decide yourself," murray replied. i crammed my note into an envelope and looked at fred, who was gazing, rather stupidly i thought, at a photo of nina which she had sent me a few days before. "how many did you make against surrey this afternoon?" i asked him. murray began to laugh, which suggested to me that i was asking an awkward question. "was it another blob?" i inquired. "i made a hundred and two," foster said, and looked quickly at me and then again at that wretched photo. i expect he was very anxious not to seem too pleased with himself, but there was no reason why i should not be as pleased as i liked, and for a minute i forgot all about mr. edwardes. i told fred that he was simply a certainty for his blue, and murray again seemed to be amused. "i have got it," fred said quietly, and he stepped away from me, fearing that my delight might be painful to him. there is an extraordinarily small choice of things to do when you are very delighted; just talking seemed to be hopelessly futile, and even shouting was not satisfactory. but i had to do something, so i opened a bottle of port, which i knew both fred and murray disliked, and made them drink some of it. after murray had tasted his and congratulated fred again, he put his glass down by the large bowl which i had bought on my first expedition to the shops of oxford, and presently fears of dyspepsia gripped him so furiously that he emptied the wine into the bowl, when he thought i was not looking. it was ' port given me by my father, and if he had seen murray getting rid of it in this way i am sure that there would have been trouble; but i, not being oppressed by a knowledge of vintages, just filled murray's glass up again and kept an eye on him to see what he would do with it. i might, however, have spared myself the trouble, for he had no intention of pretending to drink two glasses, though he told me afterwards that some curious impulse had compelled him to get rid of one, and he had decided that it would be safer in the bowl than elsewhere. in fact, he wished me to believe that he had done this as a compliment to foster, but i could not follow his line of reasoning. i sat and talked for a long time about the rottenness of the cambridge bowling--which, by the way, i had never seen--and the runs fred was sure to make in the 'varsity match, until he tried very hard to stop me saying anything more about cricket, and murray set me going on another subject when he remarked that it had not taken me long to read my essay. "edwardes has gone completely cracked," i stated. fred had often heard me express a similar opinion about masters at cliborough, and was not inclined to think seriously of edwardes' condition, but murray had curiosity enough to ask me what had happened. "you saw the beginning of my essay," i said to him, "and there was nothing in it which could offend a baby in arms, was there?" murray said that as far as he knew i had been most modest, and he added, quite unnecessarily, that the only criticism he had to make upon it was that i had been asked to give cicero's impression of roman society, and had preferred my own. i was not going to set myself up against cicero even to please murray, so i took no notice of his remark, and went on with my grievance very slowly, for a grievance does not get proper treatment if you spring it upon people; they just say "what a confounded swindle," and go on talking about their own affairs. i had been badly treated, and i intended to make the most of it, so i did not mind being a bore if i could extract a little surprise and sympathy from fred and murray. "i took a lot of trouble over this essay, i changed my style----" "the first sentence was fairly magnificent; it reminded me of lambert walking across the quad," murray interrupted me by saying. "i wrote that sentence on purpose so that edwardes might enjoy the contrast afterwards." "there aren't many men who would have thought of that," fred said, and, as he was trying to rot me, i agreed with him quite seriously, and added that i thought it was very kind of me to think so much about edwardes. "but didn't he like the contrast?" murray asked, and i thought the way he looked at fred, as if something was amusing him, was fairly hard upon me. "he would have liked it," i said emphatically, "if i had ever given him a chance. i mean if he had ever given me one." "what do you mean?" fred asked, and i could see that it was time for me to come to the point of my tale. "after i had read a sentence and a half, edwardes hopped out of his chair, glared at me and said he wanted to hear no more. he then kicked me out of the room, and what i want to know is the reason why he did it; and if you two fellows can tell me that instead of grinning like two chinese idols, you will be of some use." the recital of my ill-treatment had made me annoyed with both fred and murray. neither of them said anything for a moment, but both of them were, i regret to say, amused. they missed the serious injustice of my story altogether, and though there was some excuse for fred, who must have found it difficult to think of anything except his blue, there was no reason why murray should not do or say something to show how sorry he was for me. "he couldn't have turned you out of the room for that," was all he said. "i tell you he did, and he was angry, very angry. the man has gone utterly and hopelessly cracked; it is just my luck to get a lunatic for a tutor," i replied, forgetting for the instant that murray also had a share in edwardes. "he was sane enough yesterday," murray said. "perhaps he is one of those fellows who is affected by the sun," foster put in. "there has been precious little sun to-day," murray, who was in a most aggravating mood, declared. "i never said anything to him, but just began to read my essay, and then he jumped on me. i shall complain to the warden and see what he has to say about it. i like the warden," i added, by way of showing murray that i could appreciate a reasonable don when i found one. fred said that the whole thing was extraordinarily queer, and that there must be some explanation of it; but murray, after being quiet for a minute, began to fidget like a man who has been puzzling over an acrostic, and is beginning to discover what it is all about. my people used to do acrostics, and, when they were completely defeated, i did not mind being in the same room with them; but, as soon as they got some clue, my father fairly ramped around seeking books which he could not find, or asking me for information which i could not give him. he had the acrostic mania quite badly. "i can tell you why edwardes kicked you out; at least i believe i can," he said at last. "well, let us have it quick," i answered. "in the common-room the night before last you said that you were going to town to-day and that you wouldn't be able to read your essay to edwardes." "i was going up to see a dentist, and he wrote that he couldn't see me," i replied. "and dennison heard you say that you were going?" "the silly fool tried to make out that i was manufacturing the dentist story. he simply makes me sick, but i don't see what he can have to do with this." "did you see either dennison or learoyd in hall to-night?" "they weren't there, because i heard webb asking collier whether he had seen them." "i've never heard of learoyd," foster said, and considering that he had just got his blue i am afraid he must have spent a very dull time, for he was accustomed to see me in trouble, and might reasonably have been annoyed to find that even on this special evening i was in my usual state. however, he did not seem to mind very much. "learoyd is dennison's latest discovery," i said; "but he has been found by the wrong man." "he is an exhibitioner and edwardes is his tutor," murray added; "and this afternoon about six o'clock i met dennison coming out of here and learoyd was waiting at the bottom of the staircase." "what on earth was dennison doing in here?" i asked. "you aren't much good at guessing," murray answered; "but i should say that having heard that you were not going to read your essay to edwardes, and learoyd not having done one to read, dennison told him he would borrow yours. i heard you tell ward that it was just like your luck to have written an essay when you wouldn't be able to read it, and dennison must have heard you say the same thing." "do you mean that learoyd had been reading out my stuff two or three hours before i went to edwardes?" i asked, for port always makes my head feel stuffy however little i drink, and i wanted everything put quite clearly before me. "i should say so," murray replied. my next remarks do not matter, but as soon as i had passed the explosive state i said, "that all comes from altering my style, and if i hadn't edwardes must have known that it was my essay." "confound your style," foster replied, "it seems to me that this is likely to land you in a very fair row unless we do something at once. what sort of man is learoyd?" "i hardly knew him until this term, and when i didn't know him i rather liked him, but he has been about a lot with dennison, and seems to be going to the bad as hard as he can be pushed," i answered. "that's true enough," murray said; "learoyd was one of the nicest men up here until this term, and then dennison took a fancy to him and the idiot has chucked up working and spends his time trying to be a blood. i know his people, and have tried all i know to persuade him that he will never make a successful blood--he isn't made for one--but i have done no good. marten isn't in it with learoyd for rows with edwardes, and the worst of it is that if his exhibition was taken away it would be serious. his people are most frightfully hard up." "that makes the whole thing a thousand times more complicated," i replied, "i can't give a man away who is in a hole already. i had better sit still and see what happens." "i should think you had better go and see learoyd," foster said, "he can't be in a bigger hole than you are." he got up to go, and i said that i should wire to my people in the morning and tell them he had got his blue, but he told me that they knew already, and asked me if i had heard that nina was coming up during the next week to see the last nights of the eights. "i had a letter from her last night," he continued, "and she said that mrs. marten was going to write to you." "who is coming up with her?" i asked, and i felt that if i never wrote to nina, there was no reason why she should not write to me. "she is going to stay at the rudolf with the faulkners. they are coming next monday morning," and having told me this, which he knew i should not like, he was kind enough to go away before i told him again what i thought of mrs. faulkner. for when fred had been staying with me at home the faulkners were a fertile source of dispute between us. the faulkners had plenty of money, nothing to do, and no children; they entertained a great deal, and had a mania for taking people up, as it is called. i am almost certain that mrs faulkner tried to take me up once, but unfortunately i was expected to run in double harness with a fellow who wore a yellow tie and was no use at anything except talking. i put up with him for nearly the whole of an afternoon, until he told me that an ordinary dahlia, over which he was gushing, reminded him of the sun rising over the hellespont, and that was altogether too much for me. i left him and offended mrs. faulkner by telling her what i thought of him, and she told my mother that it was such a pity that i was so _gauche_. it took me a long time to forgive her for saying that, and i wished nina was coming to oxford with some one who did not bother my mother with her opinions. i sat and pondered over this visit for some time, while murray kept on telling me that learoyd would be in bed if i did not hurry over to see him. but what good i could get out of seeing him i could not understand, and murray became quite abusive before i started. i knew learoyd only in the most casual way, and i had never been in his rooms in my life, so i should not have been disappointed if he had been out. i found him, however, sitting by himself, and my first impression was that he was either very sleepy or very sad, but whatever was the matter with him he could hardly have wanted to see me. he was good enough, however, to say he was glad that i had come. the conversation flagged for two or three minutes until he roused himself suddenly. "i have got the most vile attack of the blues to-night," he said, "and somehow or other i can't shake them off." he seized a decanter of whisky and began pouring some of it into a glass, and then i did one of those things which i do impulsively and which are occasionally right. i put my hand on his arm and said, "that stuff will only put them off until to-morrow morning." he looked at me for a moment and sat down again. "why does every one preach to me?" he asked. "i shouldn't have thought you were that sort, though you are a friend of dick murray's." he was not angry, but just hopelessly tired of everything, and he looked so wretched that i felt really sorry for him. "i don't preach," i answered, "though if i could remember half the things which have been fired off at me they would make a mighty fine sermon. when people take any notice of me they think that i want looking after and they begin to do it, the others leave me alone and say that i shall come to a bad end." he was evidently feeling so miserable about everything that i thought he might like to hear these dismal prophecies about my future. i even thought they might cheer him up, and make him see that we were in the same boat. but i made a mistake, for he was annoyed at the idea that my future could possibly be as great a failure as his. "you wouldn't say these things if you really thought you were in a hopeless muddle. i have gone through it all this term, and i know. i have tried to laugh, and i have drunk until i didn't care what happened, but it is all no use. i have made a mess of everything, and there is no one to blame except myself. and then this utterly idiotic row comes on the top of everything." he sat looking in front of him, and did not seem to remember that i was in the room, and the thought passed through my mind that i should be glad to wring dennison's neck. i asked him twice what row he was talking about before he spoke. "hasn't dennison told you?" he asked. "i left him about an hour ago, and he said he would go and see you. i thought that was what you had come here for, though of course nothing can be done." "i haven't seen dennison," i said, and added, "i never do if i can help it," for learoyd's statement that nothing could be done had given me no satisfaction. "you said that you had done an essay for edwardes which you weren't going to read. i hadn't done mine, so dennison said you wouldn't mind me using yours. he got it, and i went to edwardes at six o'clock to read it, but as soon as i started he began to jump about as if something was stinging him, and after i had read about half a page he kicked me out of the room." "the man is mad after all," i said. "no, he isn't, i wish he was," learoyd continued. "this is what happened: collier stayed in his rooms this afternoon to do his essay, but went to sleep, and never woke up until it was too late to do it, and then he remembered that you had one which wanted using so he read it to edwardes at five o'clock. i wish to goodness he hadn't put it back in your rooms." this was too much for me, and although learoyd looked as miserable as ever, i had to laugh. "you wouldn't be so amused if you were in for the row i am," he said, "they will probably take away my exhibition." "i am in for exactly the same row," i answered. "i tried to read that essay to edwardes after dinner, and he looked as if he was going to have a fit. i was out of the room in no time." then learoyd and i just sat for two or three minutes and laughed until he felt ever so much better. "what are we to do next?" he asked. "after all, it was your essay." "it was no wonder edwardes jumped about," i said, "i thought he was mad." "so did i, until i saw collier. but what are we to do?" "you say you are in a fairly tight hole," i replied. "yes," he said, "i have been in for row after row all this term." "then i won't claim this wretched essay, and it can't matter to collier, because he hasn't got anything which the dons can take away." "what do you mean?" he asked. "why, collier has got to tell edwardes he borrowed the thing, and i shall sit tight, so they will naturally think it is yours." "i can't stand that," he replied. "why not?" i asked. "they won't do anything desperate to me, and of course collier won't mind at all." i talked until i thought that learoyd saw how much better my arrangement was than anything he could suggest, and although he would not promise to do what i proposed, i thought that i had arranged everything when i left him. but learoyd was not the sort of man who would get out of a row by sacrificing any one else, and on the following morning both he and collier went to edwardes and told him exactly what had happened. it was very nice of them to do it, but it deprived me of the comfortable feeling of having done learoyd a really good turn, and brought me to the ground again rather too abruptly to please me. so having been kicked out of the room for nothing, i went at once to edwardes and tried to convey to him, as one man would to another, that i would forget his treatment of me if he would let off collier and learoyd, but especially learoyd, as lightly as possible. that mission of mine, however, was a mistake. mr. edwardes said he was not in a position to bargain with any undergraduate, and that he had no doubt that should the dons require my assistance in managing the college they would ask me to help them. after i had left him i should think he must have regretted saying such sarcastic things, for learoyd only got a final warning that his exhibition would be taken away at the end of the term unless he worked properly, and nothing whatever happened to collier. but i am afraid edwardes never gave me the credit for my essay which i felt that i deserved. chapter xiii nina comes to oxford there can be few men in oxford who do not enjoy themselves during eights' week, and i imagine that the only miserable people to be found are those who happen to be in an eight which is bumped several times during the week. if any one is so misguided that he wants to make a study of depression i should advise him to take a seat on the barge of a college which has a very bad eight, and if he waits until the boat comes back to the barge he will see some of the most unsmiling faces in the world. rowing is a most serious form of sport, and no one can wonder that a crew which has been bumped is unable to look very cheerful. it seems to me that a rowing man deserves a lot of credit even if he rows very badly; indeed i am not sure that the man who rows the worst does not deserve the most credit, for he has gone through the same drudgery as the rest of the crew, and has probably been sworn at a thousand times more often. i should be very surprised if a rowing man at the end of so much forcible criticism and strenuous labour could smile when his boat is bumped. i know that if i had ever been in a boat which had been bumped, and the only reason why i have not been is because i have never rowed in a bumping race, i should want to hit somebody over the head with my oar or denounce the cox. coxes, indeed, have told me that although they have never seen my first wish put into practice, my second is such an ordinary occurrence that the cox who has not suffered from it must be either deaf or a genius. and if a reasonable man cannot help being sorry for an eight which has toiled many weeks only to be bumped, i think he ought to be far more sorry for the cox, whose cool appearance when the rest of his crew are hot and angry, is in itself an aggravation. i must say, however, that the only cox i ever knew well could not have failed to deserve all he ever heard, he was one of those pretentious little people who can only be described by the word "perky," and his side was simply terrific. but all the same, if a very small man goes up to oxford and guesses that it will be his fate to steer slow eights during the time he is there, i should advise him to start a society for the protection of coxes, and elect himself the first president. he will not do the slightest good, but he will get some fun from being president, and he will also be able to choose colours for the society and wear a gorgeous tie, if there is any combination of colours which has not already been annexed, and there can't be many left to choose from. it is the easiest thing in the world to start clubs if all you want to get out of them is a remarkable tie and hatband, and i knew a man--by sight--who started three clubs in two years. the first he called "the roysterers," and they were supposed to dine twice a term in waistcoats decorated with r.d.c. buttons; the second he named "the oddfish," a club which was intended to be eccentric, and from the extraordinary colours they adopted i should think they were aptly named. their chief function was drinking, and although i never went to any of their carousals i believe they discharged it thoroughly. the third club which this energetic man founded was not given up to eating and drinking, but devoted itself to the discussion of moral and artistic subjects. they called themselves "the bumble-bees," though i never could understand the reason why they chose such a name, unless it was, as murray suggested, that after they had touched a thing there was no sweetness left in it. i should not like to say how many more clubs this man would have started had he been given the opportunity, but he was sent down at the end of his second year, and i have met him since in florence wearing a bumble-bee tie and oddfish ribbon round his straw-hat. i regret to say that he belonged to st. cuthbert's, and he was really a nuisance, because there was so strong a feeling against these miscellaneous colours during my first summer term that nearly all the men who could do anything respectably wore black bands on their straw-hats, and the effect was most dismal. dennison heard that my sister was coming up for eights' week, and he told me calmly that he should like to meet her. i may have imagined that he considered this an act of condescension on his part, for i cannot pretend that i was always fair to him. i distrusted him so thoroughly that i never believed a word he said, and the only possible way for peace between us was for each of us to leave the other alone. but this way did not suit him, for i suppose that i knew too many men to be left out entirely from his consideration, and it seems to me that it is more annoying for a man to be friendly when you want to have nothing to do with him, than it is for anybody to take no notice of you when you would be glad to be his friend. i did not, however, mean to let nina meet dennison, for i never knew whom she might like or dislike, and it would have been a most horrible complication if she had fallen a victim to dennison's smile. so i told him that nina would not be in oxford for more than two or three days, and that i did not know her plans, which was true enough as far as it went, and must have been enough for him to understand what i meant. although i was useless in a boat, i was always most vigorously excited during eights' week. three years before i went to oxford st. cuthbert's had been head of the river, but we had by slow degrees dwindled down to fifth, and in spite of one or two men who assured me that we had a much better eight than we were thought to have, i knew that we were more likely to go down than up. still i am sorry for the man who does not feel his nerves tingle at the prospect of a race, and you tingle all the more if you do not expect to be beaten, so i tried to forget the general opinion about our eight and to imagine that the boat in front of us was going to have an anxious time. brasenose was head of the river, and after them came new college, magdalen, and christ church; we were fifth, and i took no interest in the boat behind us, though i did know that it was trinity. so keen was i that i resolved to run with our boat if i could get any one to run with me, and i asked quite half-a-dozen men before i found somebody who was not looking after his own or somebody else's sisters. the man who said he would run with me was jack ward, and he surprised me very much when he told me that he would far rather see some of the racing than sit on a barge with a crowd of ladies, and he even consented to run all the first three nights and then help me to look after nina when she came up. he knew, i expect, that i was not likely to run very far, and that there was no danger of his being left somewhere near iffley to walk up by himself. i have a feeling that if i had to sit in a boat and hear the seconds counted out before the starting-gun is fired that my first stroke would be a most terrific crab. even standing on the bank is nervous enough work, and what it must be like for those who have got to row i cannot imagine. i kept moving about so much before the start that ward told me i should be tired before i began to run, but i am unable to keep still when things are going to happen, and just before the last gun went i had an inspiration and moved up to the place from which christ church started. by this means i kept up for quite a long way, but it would be untrue to say i enjoyed myself. we began to gain on christ church at once, and were very soon within half-a-length of them, but i had no breath to use for shouting, and not having a rattle i could make no row at all; moreover i am an erratic runner, so whenever i looked at the boats i kicked or ran into somebody, and i could not retort when they said things to me. i pounded along as far as the long bridges, which was really quite a long way, and when i stopped i was sure that we should catch christ church. i stood away from the path and tried to persuade myself that i was not feeling very unwell, but i waited until the crowds with the other boats had passed by, and then i walked as fast as i could up the towing-path. i even ran once, for a short way, because i wanted to get back before all the excitement had stopped on our barge. i felt certain that we were going head of the river, and that comfortable sensation seemed to improve my wind, but it took me some time to get up the towing-path. the first disconcerting thing i saw were a lot of people cheering frantically on what i thought was the trinity barge, but i did not know all the barges properly, and i came to the conclusion that whoever had told me that this one belonged to trinity could not have spoken the truth. so i forced my way up the path until i got opposite to our barge, and there i found jack ward looking very purple in the face. "did we catch them?" i asked, and i thought that all our men who were waiting to be punted across to the barge might have made a little more noise. "catch what?" he said. "why, the house of course," i answered, for it was not very likely we should catch any one else. "trinity caught us," he replied, and as the punt came over at that moment he gave a huge shove and managed to get into it. i looked across the river and saw a very silent crowd on our barge, so i decided it was no place for me and walked solidly to the end of the towing-path and went home over folly bridge. it was a long way round, and i cannot imagine any one going back to st. cuthbert's by such a route if he felt happy. when i saw jack ward at dinner i said that i should not run any more, and he replied that i was a fairly poor sort of sportsman; so i did run on both friday and saturday, and on saturday night st. cuthbert's was eighth on the river instead of fifth, and as we could find no other excuse we said that our crew was stale, but i am afraid the truth was that they were fairly fast for about half the course and then went to pieces. i had not told nina that our eight was a bad one, and what she would say i did not care to think, for she never paid any attention to excuses, and was rather inclined to consider that i was insulting her personally when i was connected with anything which was not successful. at any rate i was thankful that we were still a long way above oriel, for i knew that nina would never understand that oriel had given themselves up, more or less, to cricket and soccer, and were not very afflicted by the fact that their boat was nearly bottom of the river. i was sure that when fred explained things to her she would say, "but why don't you row as well, i should hate to have my college at the bottom?" and this was almost exactly what happened. fred made an effort to get out of it by saying that oriel was only a small college and could not be expected to be good at everything, but nina evidently thought that it was large enough to have eight men who could row, and she was not inclined to be pleased with either fred or me when we went to the rudolf and lunched with mrs. faulkner on the monday. it was characteristic of mr. faulkner that he had not been able to come to oxford, and his chief function in life, as far as i ever discovered it, was to get out of accompanying his wife on her countless expeditions. "it seems stupid coming up here to see st. cuthbert's bumped and oriel nearly last on the river. i understood from godfrey that st. cuthbert's had a great reputation for rowing," nina said. i avoided fred's eye, for i thought that he might be amused, and to turn the conversation away from a dangerous subject, i took upon myself to make what seemed to me a wise remark. "there are other things to see in oxford besides the bumping races," i answered. nina sniffed very audibly, but mrs. faulkner hastened to the rescue. "i think godfrey is quite right," she said; "it is disappointing to find that the colleges in which we are especially interested are so unlucky, but nina hasn't seen oxford before, and i am sure she will be delighted with it;" and nina, who really could be quite nice when she liked, forgave fred and me for the iniquities of our eights, and answered that she was longing to go out. of course mrs. faulkner fell to my lot, and while we walked down the broad it pleased her to talk about nina and to make me say that she was very pretty. i did think that nina was not bad-looking, but she was my sister and i should as soon have thought of saying that she was wonderfully pretty, as i should of declaring that there was a striking resemblance between the apollo belvedere and myself, and my imagination has never carried me as far as that. as i was not saying much about nina mrs. faulkner tried to make me talk about myself, but i interrupted her. "this is st. cuthbert's," i said; "shall we go in?" she looked at me and smiled. "you are really rather extraordinary, godfrey; if any one tries to flatter you, you shut up like a hedgehog. i am sure you have improved immensely and i am beginning to like you very much," she declared. i simply detested her at that moment, for when people make remarks like that i feel as if some one was pouring cold water down my spine, and as i meant to show nina round st. cuthbert's i managed to change companions in the lodge, and left fred to listen to the improvements in himself, which mrs. faulkner, with her great gift for romance, was sure to say that she had discovered. as soon as i got nina into the big st. cuthbert's quad she forgot that she had started by almost quarrelling with me. i was born, unfortunately, without a keen eye for beautiful things, and even when i see something which i like to look at again and again, some scene which gives you a peaceful feeling or a picture which helps you to forget that there is anything ugly in the world, i cannot express myself. when i like anybody i want to tell them so, but once when i saw a splendid sunset in bavaria and said, "how simply ripping," my father told me not to make a fool of myself, and somehow or other i felt that he was right. so i was very glad that i had to show nina the beauties of st. cuthbert's while it was her duty to admire them. she had never been inside an oxford quadrangle before, and though i think any one with two eyes and a grain of common-sense would say that oxford is beautiful, i must admit that nina saw st. cuthbert's for the first time under the most favourable circumstances possible. she looked at the old walls and the flower-boxes which were outside nearly all the windows, and did not talk any nonsense about them; even the creepers seemed to be greener than usual in the sunlight of the afternoon. in the chapel somebody was playing the organ, which may have been a meretricious effect, but it pleased nina, and that was all i cared about. the whole college was most wonderfully peaceful, no one could imagine that the quadrangle had ever been made hideous by bacchanalian yells. and i felt proud of it, which was quite a new sensation to me, and i suppose it was nina's delight that made me see things differently. i took her to my rooms, which seemed to be small and gloomy enough after the hall and the quadrangle, but she said that they were far more comfortable than she had expected them to be, and she sat down in the most comfortable of my easy-chairs and looked as if she intended to stop for ever. i suggested to her that we should go down to the river and see oriel struggling in the second division, but she decided that one dose of racing would be enough for her, and said that fred could take mrs. faulkner to the river if she wanted to go. she had not been so fond of my society for a long time, and for quite ten minutes, with the aid of cherries, we got on splendidly together. then the conversation languished and i began to show her things which she did not want to see; it is so very hard to please anybody who does not pretend to like things which they do not like. nina began to hum at last, and if there is one noise which i detest it is humming. to make matters worse her tune was one i especially disliked, but as i was her host i made a gallant attempt not to listen to it. so i whistled, and i expect we had nearly reached a crisis when mrs. faulkner and fred appeared. i was very fond indeed of nina, and i am sure that she would have been indignant if any one had told her that she was not fond of me, but when we had not seen each other for some time and were left alone together we often irritated each other. it was a terrible nuisance, but it is no use denying that i was glad to see mrs. faulkner again, and if any one had told me that such a thing was possible when i left her at the lodge i should have denounced him with many words. i could see that fred had not been enjoying himself, and while mrs. faulkner and nina were discussing loudly what they should do next, he told me that he had been asked a perfect fusillade of questions none of which he could answer. "how old is that fig-tree in your garden?" he asked thoughtlessly, and mrs. faulkner's attention was turned upon me. "what fig-tree?" i asked. fred tittered audibly, and mrs. faulkner seemed to forget that only a short time before she had discovered an immense improvement in me. "do you mean to say that you live close to that beautiful fig-tree and don't even know of its existence?" she demanded. "oh yes, i know about it," i answered; "it has stuff put round to keep it warm in the winter, but i have never asked how old it is. you see the dons more or less monopolize our gardens, so you can't expect us to know much about them." "notices are put up to say that certain parts of them are reserved for the dons of the college, aren't they?" foster said, and he laughed again, but i said nothing. "i shall tell nina the tale if you don't," he added. "i should like to hear something amusing," nina said, as if there was not the slightest chance of her wish being gratified. "it's not very funny," i began, for i had a feeling that mrs. faulkner would not like this tale. "well, anything's better than nothing," nina declared wisely, and so, to pacify her, i continued. "these notices annoyed some men, so they dug a hole and bought a large sort of milk-pail arrangement to fit into it and a box of sardines. then we filled the pail with water and put in the sardines, and jack ward put up a little notice, 'this fishing is reserved for the dons of the college. licences may be obtained at the lodge.' the dons should not be so greedy about the garden," i added, because mrs. faulkner looked very disgusted. "did you really make a large hole in that beautiful turf?" she asked at once. "you began in the third person, but i expect you and this mr. ward did it; you ought to have been rusticated, or whatever the word is." "we were never found out, and the dons didn't mind; they thought it not a bad joke of its kind," i answered. "then their sense of humour must have become perverted," she replied. "i think mr. ward must have a very bad influence over you." nina laughed and said she insisted upon meeting jack. "i sincerely hope you won't do anything of the kind," mrs. faulkner stated. "the dons must know what is best for the undergraduates, and such tricks are very unbecoming; i am sure my husband always admitted this when he was at cambridge." it was hardly fair to pull in mr. faulkner, so i said that i would get some tea, which put an end to the discussion, for i did not think it wise to say that i had asked jack to meet nina at luncheon on the following day. by the time we had finished tea fred was tired of mrs. faulkner, and he slipped off with nina in a way which was really too clever to be very nice. mrs. faulkner, however, was quite amiable, and she smiled on me steadily from the beginning of the broad walk to the end of it, which as a feat of endurance i feel it my duty to mention. when we got down to the river the band was playing on the 'varsity barge, and mrs. faulkner really began to enjoy herself. the flags flying from all the barges pleased her, and the smartness of the ladies made her compare the scene to church parade on a june morning in hyde park. i knew nothing about church parades and very little about hyde park, but i said that i thought this must beat anything in london. then i got a chair for her and looked round to find nina and fred, but as i could not see them anywhere, i said that i must go and hunt for them. mrs. faulkner, however, had no intention of letting me go, and i had to be a kind of baedeker for over half-an-hour. i was not a very good baedeker, i confess, but i had found out that one way to make things uncomfortable with this lady was not to answer every question she asked, so i supplied her with a good deal of information which i sincerely hope she never passed on to any one else. unfortunately our barge is near the 'varsity's, and during the races a string of little flags fly from the 'varsity barge to show the order of the colleges on the river. i knew them well enough down to ours, and i even knew the ninth and tenth, but when mrs. faulkner wanted to know the whole lot, i had to use my imagination. i know that i said hertford twice and i finished up with all souls, who only have about three undergraduates, so if they had rowed at all they would have been several men short. "i should like to write the colleges down if i had a pencil," she said; "you rattle them off so fast. didn't you say that one flag belonged to the university, but the university flag is surely dark blue?" and then i had to explain that university was a college and not the whole place, and she replied that she knew so much more about cambridge than oxford, and complained that our colleges had very confusing names. "oriel!" she said scornfully, "it reminds me of a window, and then you have no originality. exeter, worcester, lincoln, why they are just names of towns, you can find them all in bradshaw." "well, at any rate bradshaw's got nothing to do with it," i replied. "these colleges are hundreds of years old, and bradshaw's a chicken compared with them." "what dreadful slang. fancy calling bradshaw a chicken!" she exclaimed. "besides, you have a college called keble, and my father knew dr. keble, so that _can't_ be hundreds of years old. no, cambridge have chosen their names better than oxford." "sidney sussex," i said, for i thought it necessary to make some reply; "it's more like the name of one of ouida's heroes than a college." she shook her head gently. "i can't get over your colleges sounding like railway-stations," she answered. "you must blame the bishops who founded them and not bradshaw or me," i replied, for i was getting very tired. "some one told me keble is built of red-brick," she said. "red-brick is so bright," i answered, but i wanted to say something quite different, and at last a dim noise which quickly developed into a tremendous roar told us that the boats were coming. brasenose paddled home first, and not one of the next six boats were in any danger of being caught. it was reserved for us and merton to give the people on the barges some excitement, but when i saw merton pressing us fearfully i wished that i was not hemmed in by a crowd of ladies. i yelled tremendously because i could not help myself, and mrs. faulkner, after saying something which i did not catch, put her hands over her ears. but shouting was useless. the abominable thing happened right in front of our barge, and when i saw our cox's hand go up to show that all was over, it was a very bad moment indeed. "poor st. cuthbert's, how very unfortunate they are," i heard a girl say; and some one else answered, "yes, it's quite pathetic, so different from what one used to expect from them, but i am told that they are not the college they were." that remark made me feel furious, and it was not until mrs. faulkner pulled my coat violently that i remembered that she was sitting close to me. "did you make a bump?" i heard her asking me. "no, merton bumped us. we shall soon be sandwich boat," i answered, for i spoke without thinking. "sandwich boat, my dear godfrey, is this a picnic?" she returned, and i did not know whether she was serious or only trying to be funny. "there's not much picnic about it," i replied; "we've gone down four places in four nights." "but what is a sandwich boat. they don't have such things at cambridge." "they do, at any rate my cousin rowed eight times in four nights and nearly died after it. a sandwich boat is bottom of one division and top of the other, so it has got to row in both; it's got nothing to do with ham. shall we go?" every one was leaving the barges, but mrs. faulkner remained in her chair. "isn't that girl in mauve a perfect dream?" she said to me, but i pretended not to hear. i had to wait for several minutes while dresses and the people who wore them were criticized, and i am sure that nothing but the national anthem or force could have stirred mrs. faulkner from her seat. we found nina and fred waiting for us, and nina said she had been having a splendid time on the oriel barge. but i could think of nothing except that we were not the college we used to be, and i left fred to talk to both mrs. faulkner and nina. chapter xiv guide, host and nurse when i got back to my rooms after leaving mrs. faulkner and nina i found a note from owen asking me to go and see him at once. since he had, until then, avoided me in every possible way i guessed that something serious had happened, and when i got to his rooms in lomax street, i found him in bed with a cough which ought to have frightened his landlady instead of making her in a very bad temper. he was, however, more worried about the interruption to his reading than anxious about himself, and he said flatly that he could not afford to have a doctor. i tried to cheer him up--but you can't cheer up a man with a cough--and i told him i would come to him whenever he wanted me, and made him promise he would send for me if i could do anything for him. he did not seem to have a single friend in oxford, and the loneliness of the man made me feel absolutely wretched. i went to a very confidential chemist who knew nearly every man who had ever been at oxford, and everything under the sun, and explained to him what sort of cough owen had. he understood instantly, and said that he would send a mixture which worked miracles, but i could not get owen off my mind at once, and when jack ward came in very late to see me i sat up talking to him until a most unrighteous hour, with the result that i lay in bed the next morning until i was perfectly tired of my scout coming to call me. a letter from my mother was on my table in which she said that i was on no account to allow nina to interrupt my reading, but i had only just finished breakfast, when mrs. faulkner and nina came into my rooms. mrs. faulkner fixed her eyes on the tea-pot and said nothing; nina, however, asked if everybody in oxford breakfasted at eleven o'clock. i had not expected them, and was consequently a little flurried; the truth is that i was not properly dressed, which handicapped my movements considerably. decency compelled me to keep my legs under the table, until i could slip into my bedder. i was not in a condition to treat visitors who goaded at my laziness with any courage; tact was the only thing possible. in my agitation i did not notice that nina had put on the clock quite twenty minutes, and when she asked me if i was going to sit in front of the marmalade for the rest of the day, i had to reply that i thought it was rather a good place to sit. i had managed to hide myself behind the table-cloth when i stood up to wish them good-morning, but i simply did not dare to move again. mrs. faulkner fluttered round the room looking at photographs; the bare knees of the rugger xv. compelled her to say that she did not think them at all nice. i put my legs farther under the table and felt like blushing. she began to suspect that i was hiding something, and i am afraid she was the sort of woman who did not understand, until she had discovered them, that there are some things which had better remain hidden. she tried little tricks to entice me from my seat, and even came and examined the table-cloth, which was ordinary enough, though she said it was a beautiful one. i did not see how a white table-cloth could be beautiful, but i clutched it most fervently and her ruse failed. she then asked me if a plate which had cost elevenpence-farthing was wedgwood, and asked me to take it off the wall so that she might see the mark on the back. i told her i had bought it at the japanese shop and mentioned the sum it cost, but she declared that i had got a bargain and she must have it down. i replied that it was a fixture, though i meant that i was, and that no one had ever been known to find a bargain in a japanese shop. then she grew plaintive; "i think you might please me in this, godfrey," she said. the time had come for me to take nina into my confidence. mrs. faulkner's eyes were fixed on the plate and her back was turned to me; i poked out one leg tentatively and nina understood. there was one splendid thing about nina, you could always rely upon her in a crisis. she took up a chair at once and said that she would get the plate down; she added that unless i sat still after meals i might have very bad indigestion, but that was too much for mrs. faulkner. "i shouldn't think godfrey has had indigestion in his life," she said. "i don't believe he has ever heard of pepsine. he is in a disgracefully bad temper; there is nothing else the matter with him as far as i can see." "he was a very delicate child," nina answered, "and has always been quite disgracefully spoilt. he never does anything which he doesn't like." i felt that nina was over-playing her part, but i could not defend myself. "it is so nice having nina here to do things for me," i said meekly; "and i hope you don't mind me treating you as if you are a relation," i added to mrs. faulkner. "i do mind very much; nothing is an excuse for being lazy and ill-natured. i was brought up in the old school, i suppose," she answered, and i wished to goodness she had never left it. nina got up on the chair and pretended that she could not reach the plate. "now if you stood up here you could reach it," she said, turning round to mrs. faulkner. "but godfrey will surely not allow me to do that," she replied. "i always said that you were taller than nina," i could not help remarking, for nina prided herself on being about three inches taller than she was; and she had said all sorts of things about me. "i wonder if i could reach the plate," mrs. faulkner said. "it would be rather a sporting thing to try," i answered. "nina couldn't reach it." "i think not," she returned; "i might fall over backwards." and she sat down carefully in my biggest arm-chair. my scout came in to clear away breakfast, and the situation was desperate. i picked up a piece of toast hastily and told him to come back in half-an-hour. mrs. faulkner had taken her seat behind me, and i could only turn with difficulty to talk to her; while nina's enthusiasm on my behalf seemed to have waned since her plot to get mrs. faulkner on the chair had failed. if i had only dressed the lower part of myself properly instead of the top part it would not have mattered so much, but as it was a collar and a st. cuthbert's xi. tie were superfluous when other more necessary garments were lacking. i was on the point of throwing myself upon the mercy of mrs. faulkner and of explaining to her that a lot of men i knew wore very short pyjama trousers and no socks in the mornings if they intended to read, when murray burst into my rooms and almost asked me why i had cut a lecture before he saw that i had visitors. i introduced him, and in the same breath declared that he would be delighted to show his rooms. i was becoming reckless, and did not care if he thought me mad. i went on to say that he had some splendid prints which mrs. faulkner would like to see, and nina was kind enough to ask him if he would mind very much if they invaded his rooms. he saw that something odd was happening; but mrs. faulkner was looking at me, and i could make only one sign to him. i reached as far as i could under the table and having kicked off a bedroom slipper, i stuck out enough toes to tell him as much as he wanted to know. "will you come?" he asked mrs. faulkner. "i am afraid i have only one print; but i should like you to see my rooms." mrs. faulkner said that she would be delighted. "let us all go," she added; "i am sure godfrey has been sitting long enough at that table." "i will be with you in two minutes," i answered. murray stood aside for them to go out, and closed the door behind him, and i fairly bolted into my bedroom. but in two minutes i was dressed and able to go to murray's rooms, armed with the most beautiful suggestions for spending the day. "will your digestion really allow you to walk about so soon?" mrs. faulkner asked. "he never has anything the matter with him," murray said, with all the thoughtlessness of a dyspeptic. "he used to eat huge lunches, and then play footer; there's not much wrong with a man like that." "you don't know what i have suffered in secret," i replied; and nina now that i was clothed again turned upon me and said, "have you known him all these years and not found that out, mrs. faulkner?" "there is a good deal about godfrey that i don't quite understand," was the answer, and since i could not wonder at that, i begged to be allowed to take her wherever she wished to go. we strolled about oxford until lunch-time, and i answered every question asked me, and most of my answers were accurate. for i had been careful enough to take an oxford guide-book to bed with me, and had not entirely wasted the early morning. in fact mrs. faulkner's visit forced me to see that i knew very little about oxford. my guide-book knowledge was so condensed that it was more satisfying than satisfactory, and if i had been asked what i charged per hour, i should have had no right to be angry. however, i did march mrs. faulkner and nina round some of the sights of the place. i showed them the bodleian, all souls, shelley's memorial, and finally brought them to a shady seat in addison's walk. i had been compelled to hurry for two reasons; in the first place we had not very much time, and secondly, my knowledge was not proof against the string of questions which only want of breath could stop mrs. faulkner from asking. i should imagine that a large number of men never find out how great their ignorance of oxford is until they have to show people round it, and i candidly confess that on this day i was ashamed of myself. i was more at home in addison's walk than in any other place to which i had taken them, for it was in the open air, and also there was something about addison and steele and gay which made me like them. the coffee-houses at which they met must have had some mysterious attraction for me, i think, and led me on to read what they had written. i should have liked to have sir roger de coverley for my uncle, and i cannot imagine a nicer man to have a day's fishing with than will wimble. i hated pope as much as i liked addison, and though mrs. faulkner said he was a great satirist, i thought of him only as a man who wrote most disagreeable things about his friends. "it is necessary to separate the man from his work, if you are to be a good critic," mrs. faulkner said, and though this remark may be true enough i did not answer it, for nina was looking extremely bored by the conversation we had been having about addison. "we may as well go to oriel and find fred," i suggested, and nina got up at once. "unfortunately the art of satire is dead, drowned by exaggeration," mrs. faulkner said as we went through the cloisters. "i think it's a better death than it deserves, don't you, nina?" i replied. "i know nothing whatever about it," she answered. "abuse has taken the place of satire," mrs. faulkner continued. "and a jolly good job, too," i said, for nina's face of disgust made me forget to whom i was talking; "it is those sly digs in the ribs which make me ill." "my dear godfrey, what dreadful slang you use. a few minutes ago you surprised me by being interested in english literature, and now you talk as if there had never been such a thing." "you surprised me, too," i said, for i felt as if i had concealed enough for one day. "how? do tell me," mrs. faulkner said quickly. "i should not have thought that you cared about addison or any of those old people," i answered, but i began to wish i had been more cautious. "why not?" "oh, i don't know." "but, why not?" "well, i thought you were more modern." "i don't know what you mean," she said. "i am sure i don't," i answered; and as we passed long wall street i managed to get on the far side of nina, and to beseech her to say something. "i insist on you telling me what you mean," i heard mrs. faulkner say, but before i could even think of my answer nina had come to my rescue by declaring that she admired the hat of a girl who was walking in front of us. it was a flower-garden hat, and looked more like an advertisement for somebody's seeds than a decent covering for the head. nina's remark, however, turned mrs. faulkner's attention away from me, and we listened to a lecture on taste until we were safely in oriel. but fred was not forthcoming, and mrs. faulkner promptly decided that he was working. comparisons, in which i took no kind of interest, were drawn between his industry and my laziness. i endured them in silence, though i could have given fred away had i liked, for his cap and gown were both in his rooms, and i knew that he was more probably batting in a net than taking notes at a lecture. after looking round oriel, mrs. faulkner and nina went back to the rudolf, and i said that i must go to st. cuthbert's and see that their luncheon had not been forgotten. mrs. faulkner smiled at me sorrowfully when i left her, and i believe she intended me to believe that i had hurt her feelings very much. if i live to threescore years and ten i shall not understand mrs. faulkner. i felt very bothered that morning, for nina and mrs. faulkner would not be in a good temper at the same time; but i met dennison in the quad, who introduced me to his mother, two sisters, two cousins and an aunt. he looked quite tired, and asked me to luncheon, but unless he had engaged the biggest room at the sceptre i should think he must have been glad when i refused. he was, however, most palpably short of men. i had hardly got rid of dennison when i ran into lambert, escorting four more ladies with prodigiously long names; i think he must have found them at the theatre, and he looked more pleased with himself than ever. when i got back to my rooms i felt quite thankful that my party had not reached an unwieldy size, and i had not to wait long before mrs. faulkner, nina and fred all arrived together. it is no use trying to give a luncheon party in a very small room, which was not built for parties of any kind, unless every one is prepared to be thoroughly uncomfortable. you have got to put dishes wherever they will go and worry through as best you can. i had taken quite a lot of trouble over the food, and the size of the room was not my fault. my scout had made many subtle dispositions of furniture, but the fact remained that the table was not made to hold five people, unless the whole lot were really good sorts. so i was delighted to find that mrs. faulkner was in her amiable mood and to hear her say that she was prepared for anything, though had i not been so sure that she would be inconvenienced, not to say squashed, before she finished, i am not sure that i should have accepted this reckless mood as much of a compliment. the table was so crowded that it was not easy to see how many people were expected to sit at it, and i was not surprised when nina suggested that we should begin luncheon. i pretended not to hear what she said, and poked my head into a cupboard in the vain hope that i might find something which i did not know i had lost. mrs. faulkner, however, ranged herself by the table and counted the napkins. "five," i heard her say, and i withdrew my head from the cupboard and whispered "jack ward" to nina. "five," mrs. faulkner repeated and looked at nina, fred and me, as if she was holding a roll-call. "who's the fifth?" fred asked; "at any rate, i vote we begin." at that moment i heard some one rushing up-stairs several steps at a time. outside my door he stopped to get some breath, and when i introduced him to mrs. faulkner and nina he was so apologetic for being late that it was quite difficult for me to stop him. i must say that mrs. faulkner tried to adapt herself to the spirit of this luncheon. there was not much shyness about jack ward, and in a very few minutes mrs. faulkner was fairly beaming upon him. she found out that she knew his cousins, and jack, who would say anything to please any lady, declared that he had often heard of her. as he asked me afterwards what her name was, i had to tell him that he was a regular humbug, but he said that he was sure that she was the kind of lady who liked to think she was never forgotten, and it was a pity to miss a harmless chance of making her feel pleased. at first i think jack made her almost too pleased, and later on there was rather a distinct reaction. she was not content with discovering his cousins, but also found out that his father was what she called a most generous benefactor. "the sort of man who does so much good quietly, so unlike those noisy, discomforting people who will give something if somebody will give something else. charity ought not to be limited by conditions," i heard her say. "i don't think my father exactly throws his money about," jack said. "i am sure he doesn't," mrs. faulkner agreed readily. "i mean that if he gives a lot away he expects to make a lot besides. he is a business man, you see," jack returned. "business men are the backbone of england," mrs. faulkner said at once. "but they aren't heroes or anybody of that kind," jack answered. mrs. faulkner shook her head sorrowfully. "you young men are all alike, you will never allow your parents to have any virtues." i was on the point of breaking a silence which had been extraordinarily prolonged, but jack got ahead of me. "i know every one is always saying that," he began, "but i don't think it is true. if you praised my father for being generous he would simply laugh at you. he isn't built that way, you see, and he would think anybody a fool who gave a tremendous lot without hoping to get something back. it is a matter of business with him and he is honest enough to admit it." "you do allow that he is honest," mrs. faulkner put in. "of course," jack replied quite good-temperedly, "only no one cares to brag about their relations unless they want to be called a snob or a bore. it wouldn't do, you see, for a man to go about declaring that he had an uncle who was miles ahead of everybody else's uncle, or an aunt who could give a start to any other aunt in the world." "it depends upon what sort of start the aunt gave," nina, who had been talking to fred, remarked, and i knew by her smile that she intended this for humour; but fred did not hear what she said, or i expect he would have laughed. sometimes he was very weak with nina. "i am to believe then," mrs. faulkner said, "that all of you are very proud of your parents, only it is what you call bad form to admit it." jack gave a great laugh which made everything rattle on the table, and mrs. faulkner, being unaccustomed to him, looked surprised. "why is it such a joke?" she asked. "i am sorry," jack replied; "i laugh sometimes quite unexpectedly, in my bath and places like that. i think my nerves must be wrong." "cigarettes," mrs. faulkner declared. "i think i shall write to the papers about the university man of the day; i don't understand him in the least," and i unfortunately caught fred's eye and smiled. her statement seemed to account for so much unnecessary correspondence. "do," jack answered, "and foster, godfrey and i will answer it." "there wouldn't be much to write, which any one who hasn't been at cambridge or here would believe," fred said. "why not?" mrs. faulkner asked. "because they wouldn't understand that a great many men amuse themselves in odd ways and yet are not complete idiots. if you saw us dancing round a bonfire you might think we were all mad, but we aren't a bit." "i shouldn't choose a bonfire to dance round," mrs. faulkner said. "that's just it," fred replied; "but it's very good sport when you happen to like it." the college messenger came into the room with a note for me which was marked "urgent," and i asked if i might read it. jack ward was the only man who ever wanted me in a hurry, and so confident was i in the infallibility of my chemist that i was not thinking of owen. when i had finished reading the note i found that the conversation had taken a more lively turn. "it is so fortunate i brought something fit to wear," mrs. faulkner was saying. "i have only got four tickets, i wish i had got one for you," fred said to jack ward, and then i remembered that fred had promised to get tickets for the brasenose ball which was taking place that evening. "you can have mine," i told jack ward. "of course i can't do that," jack answered; "i expect i can get one all right, if i may join you." nina, who was nothing if not expeditious, said that he had better go at once and see if he could get a ticket, but i stopped him by repeating that he could have mine. "it won't be used unless you take it," i added. every one except fred, who saw that something had happened, led me to believe that i was very disagreeable and foolish. "we arranged last night that we should go if fred could get the tickets," nina said, and then by way of propitiating me she told me that i knew how well i danced. "you will spoil nina's evening," mrs. faulkner declared, and nina, i must say, was pouting most magnificently. "why can't you come?" she asked. "has it got anything to do with that wretched note?" "not another row?" jack ward put in most inconsiderately. "fred never said anything about it till too late," i answered; "he kept the whole thing so dark." "i knew before luncheon," nina replied, as if she had settled me completely. i managed to let fred know that i wanted him to read the note, and having opened the oxford "mag" no one saw that he had got the letter inside the pages. for a minute i persuaded jack steadfastly to take my ticket and he refused with determination. if it had not been that nina was upset very easily, and mrs. faulkner had been known to have hysteria without giving any one a moment's notice, i would have brandished the note in their faces instead of standing first on one leg and then on the other and looking a most hopeless fool. i did not know what to say next, when fred put down the magazine and joined us by the window. "if you can't well manage to come to-night," he said, "and it was most awfully stupid of me not to tell you at once that we were going, i am sure ward will have this ticket," and he pulled it out of his pocket and simply made jack take it. "i don't really think i can go, though i will turn up if i can," i said, and fred made the most of my promise and talked so much that before i had to say anything else i found that he had persuaded mrs. faulkner and nina to go down to the river and watch oriel rowing in the earlier division. i went with them as far as the college lodge and then i disappeared, for the note which i had received upset all my hopes of enjoying myself for the rest of the day. the first part of it was from owen, who said he was feeling dreadfully ill, but the second part was written by his landlady, and she seemed to be in a terrible temper. as far as i could make out owen was very much worse and still refused to have a doctor. "he says," his landlady wrote, "that if i send for a physician he won't pay him and i was up last night five times and who is going to stand it cough he coughs something awful and what's going to happen i don't know i expect he's got typhoid fever or something horrible." she did not use any stops, but that might have been because she was in a hurry; clearly, however, she was very angry, and there was only one thing for me to do. i went round to lomax street as fast as i could, and i had no sooner got inside the house then i heard owen coughing. i found his landlady in the state her letter had suggested i should find her, she was infinitely more sorry for herself than she was for owen, and since he was too ill for her to get any satisfaction from visiting her grievance upon him she started off upon me. "you are his friend," she said as she met me in the passage, "and you ought to have been here before. i was just doing myself up before putting on my bonnet to go out and report this case." "to whom were you going to report it?" i asked, for i felt very much as if i should like to know. "you can report it now, i put all responsibility upon you," she stated loudly, and she took me up-stairs and announced me in a voice which would have shaken the nerves of a strong man. i could not put up with her any longer and i told her abruptly to go. she went energetically, her shoulders protesting against my rudeness, and she marched down the stairs with as much noise as she could make without hurting her feet. i am glad that there are very few landladies left, at least in oxford, who look upon any illness as an opportunity for showing how nasty they can be. i simply hated that woman, and before i had done with her i was weak enough to tell her so. i was defeated in that battle of plain speaking. to me, unaccustomed to illness, owen looked as bad as anyone could look, and apart from his cough and his temperature he had got all sorts of worries on his mind which he wanted me to hear. i listened to what he said without interrupting him, but i was impressed with the fact that i must creep about a sick-room, and i am afraid i was ostentatiously quiet. his troubles had to do with the expenses of his illness, and he beseeched me not to send for a doctor or a nurse. i tried to set his mind at rest, but i failed; he saw that i thought him very ill, and when i moved round the room on tiptoe he asked me to make as much noise as i liked. i was no use as a sick nurse, and my efforts to make the room look fit to live in, though meant splendidly, seemed to me to make the place more uncomfortable and cheerless than ever. i promised faithfully that i would stay with him during the night, but he could not make me say that i would not see a doctor, and as soon as i could i went off and got a man whom i had once met at a smoking conceit. this doctor was a bustling little man who did not sympathize with nonsense, and i had to explain a lot of things before i made him understand that this was a peculiar case. "what is the good of you sitting up all night, even if it is necessary," he said to me as we walked from his house to lomax street; "you would certainly go to sleep and do more harm than good." "owen has a fairly bad cough," i answered. "if it is bad enough to keep you awake he ought to have a proper nurse." "he doesn't want to have a proper nurse, he is rather hard up," i said. "pish," was his only answer, but when he got to owen's rooms i should think he must have known that i had spoken the truth. i got leave from the subby to stay with owen during the night, but i cannot say that i was a successful nurse. i took some books with me because i thought it would be a good opportunity to do some reading, but of course i went to sleep, and woke up with a snort which would have made me unpopular in any dormitory in the world. owen was so much worse in the morning that he had to be moved out of his wretched lodgings into a place where he would be properly looked after. i went back to st. cuthbert's about eleven o'clock in a state of horrible depression. i had promised to pay all the expenses of this illness, and how i was to do it i had not an idea. the year was nearly over and my funds were exceedingly low, but i could not help making owen believe that i had more money than i knew how to spend. outside st. cuthbert's i met mrs. faulkner and nina, and while mrs. faulkner was commenting upon my dejected appearance nina told me frankly that i looked dirty. "i have been up all night," i said, for there was no longer any reason why i should not explain what had happened. "we were not in bed until four o'clock," nina answered proudly. "what have you been doing?" mrs. faulkner asked. "i have been nursing a man who is ill," i replied. "infectious?" mrs. faulkner asked breathlessly. "pneumonia, double pneumonia, i believe," i answered. "and you heard about it yesterday afternoon?" nina said. "yes." "then why didn't you tell us?" mrs. faulkner asked. "fred and nina have been quarrelling about you, and i have said the most awful things. you really might have more consideration." "i thought it would spoil your dance if i told you; i didn't know what was the matter with the man." "you are a dear, godfrey," nina said, and she linked her arm in mine. "i am an idiot if you want to call me any names," i replied. "you were always that," nina said in the manner which is called playful; "we are just going to see mr. ward, who is perfectly charming; won't you come with us?" "i am going to have a bath, and then i must see fred." nina looked displeased. "what's the matter with fred?" i asked. "he's as perfect as usual," nina answered, and swung her parasol to show that she was not interested in him. "we are blocking the street, and you nearly hit a man in the eye with that thing," i said. "you will be in a better temper when you are cleaner," nina retorted. "we go down at . ," mrs. faulkner said as we went into the lodge; "we are going on some river, the one that isn't deep, in a punt with mr. ward, and he is taking luncheon for us. do you think it is quite safe, godfrey?" "quite, if nina doesn't try to punt," i answered. "must we go away this afternoon?" nina asked. "my dear, i have three, if not four, people arriving to-night," mrs. faulkner replied. "i will be at the station to see you off," i said, for even if they wanted me i did not feel like punting on the cherwell. i pointed out jack ward's rooms to nina, and had walked half-way across the quad when mrs. faulkner called me back. "i hope your friend is better?" she asked. "he has only just begun to be ill," i answered. chapter xv mishaps after i had been to my rooms and had a bath i went round to oriel to see fred, but he was not in his rooms, so i left a note to tell him that he must come to luncheon with me. then i rushed back to st. cuthbert's and went to hear mr. edwardes lecturing. i missed the beginning of the lecture, and i might just as well have stayed away altogether, for mr. edwardes asked me to speak to him at the end of it, though what he meant was that he was going to speak while i was to listen. grave things were happening, at least i thought them grave, and mr. edwardes had nothing whatever to do with them. while he talked to me i was trying by a process of mental arithmetic to discover how much money i had to my credit in the bank; the voice which i heard seemed to me to belong to bygone ages, and i was so worried by actual and present facts that i could not screw up a vestige of interest in antiquities. i know that it was always my fate to arouse either the irony or the anger of my tutor, for to other men he was far more pleasant than he was to me, but i could not help thinking of him as representative of a system which could never influence me in the least. he soon discovered that i was paying no attention to him, and i suppose that i must have got most vigorously on his nerves, for he really became quite humanly angry, i must have been nearer to an understanding with him at that moment than i had ever been. but when his rage abated, his lips snapped and the thunderbolts ceased. he went on too long and became sarcastic again, as if ashamed of being properly angry, and i left him with the usual hopeless feeling that we should never understand each other. i went into the common room as i was crossing the quad, and before i had been there two minutes dennison came in with lambert and two or three other men of their set. no one else was in the room except murray, who was reading, and absolutely refused to talk to me about edwardes, so i turned over various papers until dennison asked me if i did not think our eight was quite the most comically bad boat i had ever seen. "the whole college is going to the deuce," i answered. "you look as if you were up late last night, and have got a fair old head on this morning," dennison declared. "i haven't been to bed at all, if you want to know," i said. "going to the deuce with the rest of the college, well, you have the consolation of being quite the most amusing man in it." i think i was fool enough to say that i was not amusing. "not consciously," dennison replied, "but i get more fun from you than from anybody, and when you are in a serious mood you are the most comic man i know. he's delicious, isn't he, lambert?" "if you can't see the funny side of our eight, you must be a madman," lambert said to me. "we used to be head of the river, and now we can't row for sour apples," dennison chuckled, "the thing's a perfect pantomime." "and you are the stupidest clown in it," i said suddenly, for although i did not want to lose my temper the "sour apples" expression, on the top of being told that i had "a fair old head," compelled me to say something. "one to marten," lambert said, as he stalked about the room; they were a most trying lot to have anything to do with. everything they said was just the thing that made me want to get away from them, and dennison had told me once that he considered conversation a very fine art. it would have been wise of me to have gone away without waiting for dennison's attempts to get level with me, but i felt like staying where i was. "poor old fellow," dennison groaned, "he sits up all night, and then his conscience smites him and his head aches, and he thinks the college is going to the deuce and is to be saved from perdition by his being rude. what you want, old chap, is a sedlitz powder; go and have one, and you won't be so gloomy, you may even smile when you see our eight bumped to-night." "you laugh and jeer at our boat when it goes down, but i'll bet you would be the first to kick up a row if we ever make any bumps again, though you don't care whether we go to the bottom of the river and stop there," i answered. "i don't see that it matters," lambert put in, "and i would much rather be bottom than bottom but one or even two, there's something dignified about being absolutely last." "take a sedlitz powder and become a philosopher," dennison suggested. "i always thought your philosophy was founded on something confoundedly odd," i returned, "and now i know all about it." "i suppose you think that very witty," he replied, and he almost lost his temper, "but though i may not be much of a philosopher i am a first-rate doctor, so when a man wants medicine i tell him so." "thanks," i said. "you are on the wrong track," he went on, beginning to smile again, "the wretched school-boy notion of being sick to death when you are beaten at anything is all humbug here, the thing to do is to laugh whatever happens, and to-day you look as if you hadn't a laugh left in you." "that's sitting up all night," lambert said, "you can't laugh all day and night." then i told them that if they wanted to see the college perfectly useless at everything they must be the biggest fools in oxford, and i appealed to murray to support me, because dennison never spoke to him if he could help doing so. "it is much easier to laugh than it is to row," was all murray said, and he went out of the room at once. "that man's the most complete prig in the 'varsity," dennison declared, "and as long as a college has a lot of men like him in it nothing else matters. we don't want smugs here." "murray," i said solidly, "is neither a prig nor a smug, and as you have never said half-a-dozen words to him you can't possibly know anything about him." "a smug is always labelled," he answered, "and that man looks one from his hat to his boots, don't you think so, lambert?" of course lambert thought so, and i, having already said much more than i intended, was just going to say a lot more, when a whole crowd of men came into the room and saved me from the impossible task of making dennison believe that he could make a mistake. i went back to my rooms and found fred waiting for me, but from the way i banged my note-book on the table and threw my gown into a corner, i should not think that he expected me to be very pleasant. fred, however, understood me, and it seems to me that i have always been very lucky in having one friend who never tried to make out that i was in a good temper when i was in a bad one. some people when they suspect that you are angry ask silly little questions just to find out if their suspicious are true, but fred always left me alone. he simply took no notice of me at all, and though that was very annoying, it was not half as bad as a string of questions or a lot of stupid remarks about things which i did not want to hear. i banged about the room tremendously, but fred went on reading _the sportsman_ and waited for me to become fit to speak to. at last i threw myself into a chair close to him. "for goodness' sake stop reading that blessed paper," i said; "why i take the wretched thing i don't know, who cares whether kent beats lancashire or whether cambridge makes four hundred against the m.c.c." "you and i do," fred answered, and tossed _the sportsman_ on to the table. "i have been waiting here for half-an-hour to hear what has happened, but you seem to be in such an infernally bad temper that i should think i had better go. there is a very fair chance of a row if i stay here, for i can't stand much to-day," he went on, when i had picked up the paper to see who had made the runs for cambridge. "what's wrong with you?" i asked. "everything." "did you have a good ball?" "perfectly rotten." "did nina get plenty of partners?" "crowds." "and you didn't feel like going on the 'cher' this morning?" "i have had two pros bowling to me," he answered, "i was bowled about a dozen times. besides i wasn't asked to go on the 'cher.'" "nina and mrs. faulkner said all sorts of things about me last night?" "who told you so?" "they did." "sometimes nina's temper isn't any better than yours," he said. "what happened to you? how's owen?" "owen is very bad," i answered, and while we had lunch i told him what i had been doing. "in a few hours i have made a fool of myself three times," i said, "i've promised to pay for owen, and i have had rows with both edwardes and dennison. this college is going to blazes, and it is men like edwardes, who is a great lump of ice, and dennison, who just wants to be a blood in his own miserable little way, who will be responsible. edwardes never cares what happens, and dennison is collecting a set round him who can do nothing but wear waistcoats, eat and drink. you have all the luck in belonging to a college where men don't become bloods by drinking hard, and where everybody takes an interest in the place. st. cuthbert's will never get a decent fresher to come to it if we don't do something to make it alive again." fred stretched himself and yawned, all the life seemed to have gone out of him in some way. "you wouldn't like to belong to a college which has been something and is on the road to be nothing," i said. "it takes a lot to ruin a college," he answered; "every one knows that st. cuthbert's is a good enough place, and one man like dennison won't make much difference." "won't he? you don't know him as well as i do. he'd ruin the bank of england if he could be the only director for a year." "but there are heaps of other men besides him." "no one seems to care; we just live on our reputation, and when dennison is no longer a fresher he will wreck the whole place, he is clever enough to do it." "you are in a villainous temper and exaggerate everything," fred said. "you know that oriel is all right, and you don't care what happens to us," i retorted, and then fred woke up and we very nearly had a terrific row. the remembrance of this day still makes me feel uncomfortable, and i am quite certain that fred was the only man in oxford who could have put up with me. i simply walked from quarrel to quarrel, and i seemed to want each one to be more violent than the last. now i come to think of it, it is possible that dennison's advice was sound; i must certainly have needed something which i did not take, but after all i think a long sleep was probably what i wanted. at any rate i was a most unpleasant companion, and fred told me afterwards that he had not known me for so many years, without finding out that i could be thoroughly unreasonable when i had a really bad day. undoubtedly that day was a very bad one, and when any one stays up all night i advise him to go to bed during the next day, just to save trouble. we had arrived at a state of silence, for i had nothing left to say, and fred refused to say anything, when jack ward strolled into the room, as if he had nothing more than usual to do, and had just come to waste his time and mine. he must have tried to make what is called a dramatic entry, for most people who were in his condition would have hurried up for all they were worth. he was wet through from head to foot, his collar hung round his neck like a dirty rag, and his whole appearance reminded me of a scarecrow which has suffered dreadfully from the weather. "what has happened?" i asked at once, for he walked straight up to an empty bottle and shook his head mournfully. "nothing," he answered, "except that your sister fell into the 'cher' and i hauled her out, and mrs. what's-her-name shrieked and had hysterics. they are all right now, but as soon as i got your sister to the bank, i had to throw water over the other lady; i began by sprinkling her face, but as she rather liked that i had to give her a regular good dose, and then she opened her eyes and said her dress was spoilt. i must have some hot whisky, or i shall catch cold." we besieged jack with questions, but we did not get much satisfaction from his replies. "it was all my fault," he said. "i thought i could teach your sister to punt, and she fell in and i pulled her out. i have told you that before." "nina can swim," i said. "there wasn't much time to think about that, besides, she had a long dress on. i am afraid we made rather a sensation when i got a cab for them down at magdalen." "we must go round at once," i said to fred. "i don't think it is much good doing that," jack went on. "i am awfully sorry that it happened, because mrs. faulkner was annoyed at first, and that was bad enough, but just before i left it suddenly occurred to her that i was very plucky and ought to be thanked, which was much worse. she says they are both going to bed until it is time for them to get up and catch the train. in that way she hopes to avoid the most serious consequences. your sister thinks it rather a good joke; i hope she won't catch a bad cold." "you had better go and change," i said, and i asked fred if he would come to the rudolf, but he said that it was no use for him to go if mrs. faulkner and nina were in bed, and that he would meet me at the station. then i said something to jack about it being awfully good of him to have jumped into the "cher" to fish nina out, but i was very glad when he asked me to shut up, for fred was looking more gloomy than ever, and i am sure that he, having seen nina swimming heaps of times, thought the whole thing was thoroughly stupid. i did not quite know what to think about it, but i wished most sincerely that nina had never tried to punt. fred walked with me for a short way down the broad, but stopped by balliol, and said he was going in to see a man. "this affair is a horrid nuisance," i remarked. "nina wouldn't drown very easily," he returned. "but she had a long dress on," and of this remark fred took no notice. "i don't think i shall come down to the station," he said; "will you wish mrs. faulkner and nina good-bye from me?" "no, i won't," i replied, and we stared at each other so hard that we were nearly run over by a cab; "you must come, do come to please me." "you do such a precious lot to make me want to please you," he retorted, and he looked most desperately down on his luck. "do forget all about this afternoon. i didn't mean one word i said." "you said a precious lot. i'll come all right, but they won't want to see me," and he walked off before i could tell him that they had better want to see him, or i would have even another row. when i got to the rudolf i sent up a card to nina on which i wrote something which at the moment i thought funny. but she did not seem to see the humour of it, for she sent me down an angry little note in which she told me to go away and meet her at four o'clock. i went away sorrowfully, for there was a sense of importance about that note which told me that nina was not going to tumble into the cher for nothing, and i knew i should hear more than enough about it before long. but i did not think that i should be made to suffer until i got to the station. but when your luck is dead out it is wise to be prepared for anything. i strolled aimlessly down the corn-market, and having nothing whatever to do, i turned into the union to read the papers, or write a letter to my brother, or do anything to pass the time. i stood in the hall for some minutes looking at, but not reading, the telegrams; i was trying to remember whether it was my turn to write to my brother or his to write to me, and two or three men who found me planted in front of the telegrams shoved me a little, so i moved away and met a man whom i knew. "halloa, marten," he said, "i've just seen the pluckiest thing; that man ward, you know him, fairly saved a girl's life. she fell out of a punt on the cher, a pretty girl too. ward's a lucky brute, you ought to have been there." "i've heard all about it," i answered. "but it only happened an hour ago." "ward told me, he didn't think much of it." "well, you should have seen him, i tell you he did it splendidly; i always thought he was a friend of yours, but you don't look very keen. however, it's something to talk about," he said, as he strolled off to find some one who would suit him better than i did. i drifted from the hall to one of the smoking-rooms, where i sat down next to a big, bearded man, who was wearing a most extraordinary wide pair of trousers, and who looked as if he would discourage the attempts of any one who wanted to talk. he looked at me over the top of _the times_, and having had the courage to sit next to him, i felt that if he would only look at other men as he did at me i should get all the protection i required. i read in the aimless way which makes me turn the paper over frequently in the futile hope of finding something interesting, and i could not help knowing that my neighbour's eyes were far oftener on me than on _the times_. but i had no intention of leaving him, for we were members of a defensive alliance, though he knew nothing about it; two or three men i knew walked through the room and left me alone; i was, i thought, in an almost impregnable position and i closed my eyes, but before i had passed from the stage of wondering whether i should snore if i went to sleep, i felt a touch on my arm, and found learoyd standing by me. "go away," i said sleepily, "i am very tired." he leant over my chair and began to whisper; his back unfortunately was turned to my ally, or i think i could have stopped him. "do you know," he began, "that your sister has been nearly drowned in the cher, and ward jumped in after her? everybody says he saved her life and will get a medal." "who's everybody?" i asked, and i heard a noise, which was more like a grunt than anything else, from the chair behind learoyd. "pratt told me, and i knew it must have been your sister because i saw ward start out of the college with her and some one else. it was your sister, wasn't it?" "yes," i answered, and my friend in the wide trousers got up and walked by us. "i am awfully glad it was your sister now that i have told pratt so," learoyd said. "he told me that he didn't think it could have been, because you didn't tell him." "i never tell an ass like pratt anything," i replied, "he would die if he hadn't got something to talk about." "i am very glad she wasn't drowned." "you are only glad she fell in," i could not help saying. he looked rather bothered for a minute. "no, i didn't mean that, only pratt isn't the man to tell anything which isn't true, he's such a gossip," he answered. "i suppose every one is bound to know all about it. i shouldn't wonder if it isn't in the papers this evening," i said, as i got out of my chair. "it is sure to be," learoyd replied cheerfully. "jack ward will have to pretend not to like it." "he won't like it," i said, and i gave learoyd my paper to read and made my escape into the garden. i sat down as far away from every one as i could and asked a waiter to bring me some tea, and for quite five minutes i was not molested. it was very early for tea, and the waiter was talkative when he came back. "going down to the river this afternoon, sir?" he said, as i fumbled in my pockets for some money. "no," i replied. "nearly a sad accident on the cherwell this morning i heard some gentleman saying. a gentleman from st. cuthbert's college saved a young lady from drowning; he ought to marry the young lady, i say," he concluded with a waggish shake of the head, and he began to grope in his pockets for sixpence. "don't bother about the change," i said, "you're a humorist." "a what, sir?" "a humorist," i answered so loudly that nearly every one in the garden looked round. "i am a bit of a comic, thank you, sir. i sings a bit and acts a bit when i get the chance. but people ought to be more careful when they go boating, many a good life's been lost by drowning, leaving sorrow behind it." "some one is calling you," i said desperately, and just then i saw pratt come into the garden and fix his eyes on me. i rose hurriedly, and leaving my tea bolted for the door which leads into castle street. i turned round when i reached the door and saw the waiter tapping his forehead with one finger and talking to pratt. it was not difficult to guess what he was saying. i did not know what to do next, so i walked very slowly to the station and stood in front of the book-stall. business unfortunately was slack when i arrived and one of the boys would not leave me alone, he offered me so many papers that in sheer desperation i bought several; i told him that i would have two shillings' worth, and left the selection of them to him. then i walked off to a seat at the end of the platform to do a little thinking, but before i had really got settled i saw fred walking towards me with his head somewhere near the second button of his waistcoat. i shouted to him, and after we had sat on the bench for quite a minute without speaking we both began to laugh at the same time, until a porter and a ticket-collector came to see what was happening. the porter was a burly man with a cheerful countenance, and he seemed so pleased to see any one enjoying themselves that he came close to us, but the ticket-collector stood afar off. "nice weather, gentlemen," he said, and having agreed with him we began to laugh again. "i've not 'eard a good joke for many a fine day, you seem to be a-enjoying of yourselves, my missis 'as got the mumps," and he took off his cap and scratched his head. fred said that mumps were very painful. "nearly what you call a tragedy on the river to-day, seemingly," he went on, and i groaned aloud, but fred, who had no idea what was coming, asked him what had happened. "it's like this," he began, "one of my mates, who 'as a brother what belongs to one of them boat-'ouses where they let out most anything to anybody what'll pay for it, 'eard in 'is dinner 'our as 'ow a young woman would 'ave gone to 'er death only 'er young man 'opped into the river and saved 'er life. that's what my mate told me, but 'e's a bit of a liar." i jumped up from the seat before he had time to tell us anything more, and pushing a shilling into his hand said that the ticket-collector was beckoning to him. he was so surprised that he had not enough breath to thank me, but he was kind enough to go away. when he thought i was not looking i saw him tapping his forehead and grinning like that abominable waiter in the union. after two or three minutes of peace the ticket-collector thought he might as well try his luck with us, and began to stroll casually in our direction, but just as he was going to begin a conversation i seized fred by the arm, and having fled to the end of the platform, we sat down on a luggage-barrow. "i should have hit that man," i said, "i can't stand any more," and then i told him what i had been through since i had left him. "it isn't half as comic as you seem to think," i finished up, "every blessed man i know in the 'varsity will talk to me about it. nina can swim as well as you can, and i shall tell her what i think of her." "don't get into another rage," fred replied; "i shouldn't say anything nasty to her if i were you, she didn't fall into the cher on purpose. what is that huge great bundle of papers you are hugging?" "they are for mrs. faulkner to read on the way down, to show that i don't bear her any malice. i wish i had never seen her." fred took the bundle, and as he looked through the papers he gave way to such unrighteous laughter that the barrow tipped up, and he, i, and all the papers were scattered about the platform. i hurt myself and told him so rudely, but he laughed at nothing that afternoon, and as soon as he had picked up the papers he went back to the barrow and proceeded to chuckle to himself until i had to ask whether he had gone mad. "for mrs. faulkner," he said, and really he was enough to annoy any one. "why shouldn't i give her what i like?" i asked. "she won't thank you for this lot," he answered. "_cricket, the sportsman, the sporting life, the pink 'un, a life of w. g. grace, the topical times, pick-me-up, the pelican_,--by jove she will have something to tell your people when she gets home." "it's that boy at the bookstall," i said, "let's go and change some of them, though i believe you have only picked out the ones which mrs faulkner wouldn't read. i let the boy choose what he liked." we made the bundle look as respectable as we could, and started down the platform, but before we got to the bookstall we saw mrs. faulkner, nina and jack ward. "oh, here you are at last," nina said, "if it hadn't been for mr. ward i don't know what we should have done with our luggage." "if it hadn't been for mr. ward we should not only have lost our luggage but yourself, my dear," mrs. faulkner exclaimed, and she put her hand on nina's arm. "i am sure we are horribly obliged to you, jack," i said, for i had to say something. "i hope you won't catch cold," fred said to nina. "thanks, i think i shall be all right now," she answered. "it is the terrible nervous shock which may be disastrous," mrs. faulkner remarked. "won't you have some tea?" i asked, and it seemed to me that i was always asking mrs. faulkner to have tea when i didn't know what to do with her. "we should miss the train, it goes in twelve minutes," she replied. we stood on the platform for an interminable time trying to talk, but neither mrs. faulkner nor nina seemed to take any interest in fred and me, and i must say that jack looked terribly uncomfortable at all the things which were said to him. just before the train was due, however, nina took my arm and drew me away from the others, and i hoped that she was going to tell me something pleasant, but her first words banished that idea. "i want you to ask mr. ward to stay with us in july," she said. "i shall do nothing of the kind," i answered. "he jumped into the river to save me." "you can swim all right." "but he didn't know that." "mrs. faulkner makes me ill. i think you might stop her making such a fuss; she has made jack feel uncomfortable, and fred never says a word. i think you are treating fred jolly badly," i said. "i suppose he will be down in july," she replied, rather disagreeably. "of course he will." "and you won't ask mr. ward?" "for goodness' sake, nina, don't be stupid," i answered, "and let me ask what friends i like." "i shall get mother to ask him if you don't." before i had time to reply the train came into the station, and fred, jack and i had to work hard to get a compartment to suit mrs. faulkner. it took some time to get her properly settled, and after she had thanked jack once more and wished us all good-bye, nina came to the carriage-window and said that i was not to forget what she told me. "are those papers for us?" she called out as the train started. i took off my hat and pretended not to hear, for i had completely forgotten to change them, but before i could stop him jack had taken the bundle out of my hand, and by means of running much faster than i thought possible he got the whole lot into the carriage. "i felt such a fool on that platform that i never remembered anything," he said, when he came back. "i wish you had forgotten how to run," i replied, and when fred told him why i had kept my bundle to myself we managed to talk about the way mrs. faulkner would criticize my taste until we separated. chapter xvi the schemes of dennison my life for several days after nina went away was just what i expected it would be. everybody i knew wanted to be told about the accident, and congratulated me on her narrow escape. i was gloriously rude to several men, but nothing i could do was really any good. the first man at whom i let myself go was dennison, and in this i made a very great mistake, because in letting him know that i was sick of the whole business i gave him a chance which he did not miss. he went round finding men who had not seen me, and persuaded them to come to me and say how sorry they had been to hear of the accident, and how glad they were that jack ward had saved nina, and a lot of other desperate twaddle. finally, dennison having worked this joke most diligently, decided that a dinner must be given in jack's honour, and when he met me in the quad on sunday and told me about it i refused flatly to go. "of course you will come," he said, "it would be a disgrace to the college if we didn't do something to celebrate ward's pluck and your sister's escape." "it is a disgrace to the college to make a wretched fuss about nothing," i replied. "you are the only man who thinks that. next thursday night, half-past seven, at the sceptre," he said, and walked off. ward and i had been avoiding each other ever since the wednesday night, when he having first of all been to brasenose because they were head of the river and lively, came to see me afterwards and talked very stupidly. i was in bed, and he woke me up to talk to me for over half-an-hour about love. any one would have been angry, and though i tried to be polite, because he had jumped into the cher, i told him to go away several times before he went. i had never thought it possible that i could have so much trouble about nina. i suppose he knew that he had made an idiot of himself that evening, for if there is any time when it is decent to wake a man up and talk to him about wonderful subjects, i am sure it can never be after a huge celebration at brasenose. i didn't know much about love, but i thought that there must be the wrong and the right kind, and that jack had made a bad start. so we kept out of each other's way as much as possible, and i did not know that he hated the idea of this dinner even more than i did. we might together have done something to stop it, but we had no chance unless we combined. i thought jack wanted to be fêted, and in consequence i felt absolutely savage with him, while he told me afterwards that he was simply dragged into the thing by dennison. however, i am not altogether sorry that the dinner took place, for though neither jack nor i were anything like wily enough to score off dennison, we got some rare fun out of him before that evening finished. collier, lambert and learoyd all came to tell me that i must go to the dinner before i could be persuaded to have anything to do with it, and it was really comical to hear why each of them was so keen on the affair. collier gloried openly in the fact that it would be a huge feed, and said he was glad dennison had engaged rodoski to play the fiddle because music gave him a better appetite, and he advised me strongly not to miss such a good chance of enjoying myself, and thought me mad to hesitate. lambert said that dennison had asked him to propose ward's health, and that he hoped his speech--though quite unprepared--would not be unworthy of the evening. "the dinner itself will be nothing, just like any other kind of dinner, but don't you miss it," he concluded, and i felt sure that he had already got his speech in his pocket. learoyd begged me not to stay away from a jolly good rag. "if we can't row, we can rag," he said, and when i told him that i was sick to death of ragging, he took such a serious view of my case that i promised that i would go so that i could get rid of him. there were about fourteen men at the dinner-party, including ward, dennison, lambert, learoyd, collier, webb, and bunny langham, and since dennison had taken a free hand in arranging everything, it was a tremendous affair. i never doubted that his idea was to make ward and me look as foolish as possible, for he was the kind of man who was never really contented unless he was trying to make some one feel uncomfortable. the whole thing, i knew, was an elaborate joke at our expense, but i was not going to starve because nina had fallen into the "cher" and jack had pulled her out, so i set to work to enjoy myself, though i had to sit next to dennison. in fact, having once got to the sceptre, i think i made more row than any one at dinner, and this must have disappointed dennison, who started by saying those half sweet and half bitter things to me, which i never know how to answer, but which make me long to put the man who says them under the table. so i talked and shouted loud enough to drown dennison's remarks, for it would never have done to put him out of sight during the dinner. i suppose that being unable to get any fun out of me, and having collier, who did not like to speak much at meals, on the other side of him, he must have found some fresh amusement, for he became very quiet as the evening went on, and there was only one thing which ever made him silent and that was the kind of thing which makes most people talk. he was, however, capable of asking lambert to propose the toast of the evening, but nothing would make lambert stir before some one had proposed the royal toasts, which dennison had forgotten; and three or four men who did not want any one to talk except themselves shouted, "no speeches," until bunny langham got up and surprised every one by making them laugh. he did not stick to his subject very much, but he managed to make everything he said ramble round in an odd sort of way to an apology for dennison's forgetfulness, and if only he had been sitting on the other side of me i should not have been compelled to shout during the whole of dinner, for i believe he would have been able to help me in answering the gibing remarks which had been made to me. dennison smiled across the table at langham, but his smile looked as if it had been glued on to his face, and if i had been in his place i should have thrown something solid, like a pine-apple, at bunny. my penance, however, was to come, and when lambert at last got up to finish off the business of making fools of jack ward and me, i thought of pretending that my nose had begun to bleed and of hurrying out of the room, only it seemed to be rather a weak thing to do. so i just sat there and imagined that everybody was looking at me, which made me feel most uncomfortably hot. lambert admitted afterwards that he was in his very best form that evening, and i think he must have been, for i never heard anybody talk such a lot of nonsense in all my life. i looked at jack ward once, and he was evidently having a very bad time, but every one else except collier, who was sleepy, seemed to think that lambert was amusing. he referred to jack in a patronizing way as "our young hero," and said that my mind had been so completely upset by this brave deed that for some days i had been a cause of considerable anxiety to my friends. when he made that remark i took a very ripe pear from a dish in front of me, but learoyd persuaded me not to throw it. i couldn't have missed lambert, and i think he deserved to be mobbed, but he saw what was happening and i think it made him forget some of the things he was going to say about me. at the end of his speech he actually began to recite a piece of poetry of his own, though the first line was about the brave deserving the fair and sounded like somebody else's, which was a way his poems had. he had arranged for slow music to be turned on while he did this, and there was such a general feeling against the combination that he had to sit down before he had finished. bunny langham, who was a member of the horace club, and disliked any poems made in oxford except those which he wrote himself, led the hubbub, and after we had drunk jack's health there was such a noise that he escaped having to reply. when any one shouted for him, as they did fitfully for some time, their voices were always drowned in the general cheerfulness of the evening, and he finally came round from the other side of the table and sat down by me. "you have been making a most awful row," he said. "self-defence," i answered, "i didn't want to hear anything which dennison said." "a most rotten evening, the proggins will come in a few minutes if he is within shouting distance. they have been trying to get us out for the last quarter of an hour." "several men seem to have gone already." we talked for some minutes, and then a waiter came in and said the proctor was coming down "the high," so we all bolted as hard as we could. instead of turning down the turl, i saw dennison run down the high, with lambert pursuing him and telling him to stop. but dennison had been careful during the last part of the evening, and had arrived at the state when any one shouting at him made him run all the faster, while lambert, excited by oratory and the after-effects of it, declared very loudly that he would catch dennison if he had to run a mile. "dennison thinks that the proggins and all his bulldogs are after him," bunny langham said; "the whole thing was only a trick to get us out before anything happened." "they can catch me if they like," ward replied, "i can't run to-night." so the three of us walked back to st. cuthbert's, and bunny complained bitterly that he could not come in and wait until lambert and dennison turned up. the first man to come into college after us was collier, who said he had been dodging round the radcliffe for a quarter of an hour, and soon afterwards learoyd and webb strolled in and pretended that they had been sitting under the table in the sceptre, but they looked exceedingly warm. we all went to ward's rooms, which were a kind of club for any men he knew and very often used when he was not even in them, to wait for dennison and lambert; but we had to stay until nearly twelve o'clock before either of them came, and then there was a tremendous thumping on the door, and dennison, in a most exhausted condition, tottered in and nearly collapsed in the porter's arms. it was some time before he had breath enough to walk across to ward's rooms, but when we had got him settled in an arm-chair he began to feel better. "at any rate i did the brute," he said, "that bulldog will remember me for the rest of his life." i should have given the whole thing away by laughing if i had said anything, and i moved to the window so that i could put my head outside if i really had to laugh, while collier, who had been scored off by dennison very often, began to ask him questions. he had not to ask many, because when dennison once began to talk, he told us everything without needing much encouragement. "that big bull-dog has had his eye on me for ages," he said, "ever since i dodged him one night last term in the corn, and i know that he has been saying that he would catch me some day." he stopped for a minute, being still rather breathless, and collier asked him where he had been. "directly i went out of the sceptre he started off after me, and i made up my mind i would give him the deuce of a time before i had done with him, so i ran like blazes down the high, and when i turned round by magdalen to see if he was coming i saw the brute in the distance. so off i went again, and when we got to the running-ground i heard him panting and swearing and shouting a hundred yards away. i let him get a bit closer and then went on towards iffley; but i got a most horrible stitch, so i went as hard as i could for a bit, and then climbed over a gate and sat down under a hedge. i waited until he had gone past, and then came back to college. it is the easiest thing in the world to score off a bull-dog, they are simply the stupidest men in the world." "he must have got a long way past iffley by now," collier said. "i don't care where he is, but i shall have to look out that he doesn't get level with me," dennison replied. "you will always have to wear a cap and gown now," learoyd remarked. but dennison took no notice of this advice. "where's lambert?" he asked; "everybody else seems to be here except him and that fool, bunny langham." "we don't know, he has not come in yet," collier answered, and at that moment there was a rap at the door, and as soon as lambert got into the porch i put my head out of the window and told him to come up to ward's rooms. as he walked across the quad i saw that he had been having a rough time of it, for his clothes did not look as immaculate as usual. he was carrying an overcoat over his arm, and his shirt and collar had given way so badly that the first thing he did when he got into the room was to go to a looking-glass, and see how he could improve the appearance of things. a lot of men asked him where he had been, but he had forgotten that any of us had seen him start after dennison, and he answered that he had just been for a stroll. "i like to have a walk by myself after a noise," he added; "the heat of that room made me feel absolutely ill." then ward could not restrain himself any longer, and told dennison that we all knew lambert had been running after him, and that there had been no proctor and bull-dogs in the high. "coming suddenly out of a hot room into the open air always affects me," lambert said. "i made up my mind i would catch dennison if i ran until my legs gave way." "it's all a silly lie," dennison exclaimed; "i was chased by the big bull-dog; i should have seen that shirt, which was white when you started." "i had on an overcoat," was lambert's reply. "did you go to iffley?" collier asked. "iffley? good heavens, no, i never went any further than magdalen bridge." there was such a shout of laughter that i believe i should have thought anybody else except dennison had been rotted enough. "then i _was_ chased by a bull-dog!" he said emphatically. "you weren't chased by any one after i stopped, for i sat on the bridge for quite ten minutes, and then i thought i would come home by long wall street, the high being rather exposed at night. i made an unfortunate choice." he shot his cuffs down, but they were terribly limp, and he looked at them with disgust. "what happened?" ward asked. "i met the proggins, and having got my wind i charged right past him. then i ran round by the racquet courts, and finally hid in a garden by keble. i ought not to have done that, because the bull-dogs know me, and i found them waiting outside when i came in. it is all your fault for running away when i told you to stop," he said to dennison. "i expect you were hiding in the garden at the same time dennison was hiding from you behind a hedge in the iffley road," collier said, and the idea pleased lambert so much that he took off his tie and went to the looking-glass again. but he soon made up his mind that no tie, however beautifully tied, had a chance with a collar which looked like a piece of moderately white blotting-paper, so he stalked out of the room without wishing any one good-night, though he did wave his tie in jack ward's direction as he went, and since it was very late i followed him. during the rest of the term i hardly saw anything of fred, as he was playing cricket for the 'varsity, and whenever i tried to see him i nearly always failed. i did not try much, for i did not see why he wanted to avoid me, and i thought he was treating me very badly. besides, my people were bothering me a lot during the last few days of the term, and i didn't see any use in telling fred that my mother wanted jack ward to come down to worcestershire during the summer. as a matter-of-fact i was in an awkward position, for my mother had written to jack ward to thank him for pulling nina out of the "cher," and to say that she would be very glad if he could come down sometime to stay with us. but i thought jack ward would not come unless i asked him myself, and that rotten jumble he talked about love on my bed, and a sort of feeling that fred would not like him to come kept me from saying anything to him. jack only told me that my mother had written to him, and i heard from her that she had asked him to stay, so i had some time to think of what i had better do, and the more i thought the more bothered i became. i had one idea which pleased me for a quarter of an hour; it was that jack should come while nina was away, but as soon as i thought of the temper nina would be in when she found out this little plan i abandoned it quickly. another idea, which did not please me for so long, was that i should tell jack that my people simply hated any one who flirted, but that seemed both to be taking a good deal for granted and to be rather hard on nina; besides, it reminded me unpleasantly of those advertisements for servants which end up, "no followers allowed," and which, i should think, are a great waste of money. in addition to this bother which i manufactured more or less for myself, i had another trouble which did not worry so much because i understood it better. mrs. faulkner had told my mother, quite privately, that i was in her opinion doing very little work at oxford, and my mother was not as disturbed at this as her informant thought she ought to have been. at least i suppose that must have been the reason why mrs. faulkner told my father the same tale, and even took the trouble to show him some of the papers which were in that wretched parcel. i could not expect him to approve of all those papers, and i did not dare to tell him that i had not chosen them myself, because he would then have accused me of laziness and extravagance and a whole host of unpleasant things, so i accepted his rebukes with a contrite spirit and wrote and told him, quite truthfully, that i read very serious papers nearly every week. but when you have been fairly caught buying a host of sporting and theatrical literature, it isn't much good trying to persuade your father that it was a fluke. i sent him _the spectator_ soon afterwards, but he never acknowledged it, and my mother in her next letter drew my attention to the fact that he had subscribed to this review for the last seven years. my luck was very bad just then, i seemed unable to do anything right. there was only one thing which cheered me up, and it was that owen had got over the worst part of his illness. but i could not even think of this without being bothered, for when a man is ill you don't mind promising to do anything, and it is only when he is getting better that you begin to realize how much you have promised. it was certain that i must pay the expenses of his illness, and it was equally certain that i should not have enough money to pay my college bills as well; the whole thing made me very pensive. murray was in my rooms one night just before the end of the term, and i was talking over my difficulties, for he was always hard-up himself and not likely to offer to lend me anything, when a note was brought in from fred, and the first thing which fell out of the envelope was a cheque for fifty pounds. i did not know what to think of that, but the note upset me altogether. "dear godfrey," fred wrote, "you told me some time ago that you were hard up, so i am sending you a cheque in case you want it. my people have just sent me more money than i shall use this year, and you can pay me back when you like. i am afraid i shan't be able to come down to you after the 'varsity match, as i have promised to go with a reading party to cornwall for two months. i believe the only thing to do down there is to play golf, which isn't much fun, but henderson is coming, and we shall try to get some cricket. please remember me to your people. yours ever, f. f. "p.s. i suppose you won't come down to cornwall; the men are all right, five of them." now fred had spent nearly all his school-holidays with me, and since we had been at oxford he had been down for both vacs, so for him to write and say calmly that he had made arrangements to go on a wretched reading party and then to ask me in a postscript to join it, made me want to go to oriel at once and speak to him. but, fortunately, it was nearly eleven o'clock and i could not get out of college, so as murray had gone back to his room i went along the passage to work off some of my agitation on him. murray, however, was one of those annoying men who know exactly when they have had enough of anybody, and i found his oak sported. i beat upon it for some time without any result, and having told murray my opinion of him in a voice loud enough to penetrate almost anything, i went back to my own rooms and sat down to write to fred. in the course of an hour i wrote and tore up several letters. some of them i intended to be dignified, some of them were abusive; in some i kept the cheque, but in most of them i sent it back; in one i enclosed it with the words, "you will find the cheque you were good enough to offer me;" that was the first i wrote, for i was quite incapable of even thanking him until the labours of the imposition which i had set myself began to tell upon me. i had just torn up the seventh letter, and after a desperate struggle whether i should begin the eighth "dear fred" or "dear foster" had compromised matters by writing "dear f. f.," when jade ward began to yell my name down in the quad, and i went to the window at once and told him to shut up. for the warden's house was in the back quad, and although i was pleased to think the warden my friend i knew he always slept with his window open, because he had told me so in a very great outburst of confidence, and i did not want my wretched name to break in upon his night's rest. i had not got so many dons on my side that i could afford to make the warden angry; besides, i really liked him, and he was always nice to me, though he did tell the bishop in the easter vac that, until i lost a certain exuberance of animal spirits, any credit i did to the college would be more physical than intellectual. but i did not bear him any grudge for that, because he could not help using long phrases, and if he had just said that i liked athletics i should have been rather pleased, which was what he really meant, only the bishop did not think so. i shoved the fragments of my letters into a drawer, and when jack ward came in i said i was going to bed. the sight of him reminded me of nina, and to think of nina gave me a headache. i had never imagined it possible that i should find it difficult to manage her, and here she was at the bottom of all my troubles. as i stood in my room and looked at jack sitting in my most comfortable chair, the reason why fred had written that note suddenly occurred to me. of course she was the reason, and leaving jack to amuse himself i sat down and wrote another note; but when i read it through it seemed as hopeless as the others, so i tore it up, and having no more note-paper i decided to see fred in the morning. then i went into my bedroom and began to undress noisily, so that jack might know what i was doing, but he gave a huge snore just as i was ready to go to bed and i had to throw a cushion at his head. "turn the lamp out, when you go," i said, and i got into bed. i left the door partly open, because my room wanted all the air it could get, and i heard him waking up slowly and stretching himself. after that he attacked a soda-water syphon until it gave a protesting gurgle. "i've found the whisky, but you don't seem to have any soda," he called to me, but i pretended that i was asleep. however, he ransacked my cupboard until he found another syphon, and then he came and sat on my bed. i told him i was very tired, because i had not forgotten the last time he had invaded me in this way, and two doses of talking about love would be a trial to any man. "i wanted to talk to you, only you were so busy, and then i went to sleep," he began. "well, cut it short, it must be nearly one o'clock." "your people have asked me to stay with them in the vac, and i want to know what time would suit you best." he had cut it far too short to suit me, and i asked him not to sit on my foot, which he was not sitting upon, so that i could think for a moment. then i turned my face to the wall. but i brought myself round pretty quickly, and felt very displeased with jack. things were much worse than i thought they were, if he could throw away all decency and simply insist on coming. had i wanted him i should have asked him. "i had a letter from mrs. marten this morning, asking me to settle the time with you," he said. "any time will suit me," i answered, "except that i may go away with a reading party, and i am afraid you will find it most awfully slow." "i shan't find it slow," he asserted with conviction. "there's nothing much to do except loll about," i said. "that will suit me down to the ground," he said, and i turned over once more. it isn't much good talking to a man who confesses that he likes lolling about; but i thought i would make things out as bad as possible. "we do nothing but slack down there," i said; "there's not much cricket, and we only keep one fat cob, which is a sort of horse-of-all-work." "got a river?" "a sort of glorified brook." "and a boat?" i had to say that we had a boat, but i explained that it was very old. "that's all right," he said most cheerfully, and i believe he would have been pleased if i had told him that we lived in a barn with several holes in the roof. he was beginning to think it was time for him to go to bed, when i heard somebody else blunder into my sitter, and in a moment lambert appeared at the door. now lambert, who was only gorgeous by day, frequently became aggressive at night, and i told him to clear out jolly quickly. but instead of doing what he was wanted to he lit a huge cigar, and began smoking the thing in my bedder. he also made a number of stupid remarks about my personal appearance, and though i hate getting out of bed when once i am comfortable i really could not put up with the man, for he compared me to several people, ancient and modern, who suffered from various defects. jack ward told him several forcible things, but he went on insulting me, and then cackled as if he had made a joke. so at last i hopped out of bed, and he, escaping from my bedder, continued to cackle in the next room; i just stopped to put on a pair of shoes, and then i went after him; he ran down the dark staircase as hard as he could, and i, anxious to give him one kick, for the sake of honour, pursued him. both of us got safely to the bottom of the stairs, and i fairly raced him across the back quad, but just as we were going into the front one lambert stopped suddenly and doubled back, while i was running so furiously that i did not turn quickly enough, and before i could follow him i saw another man standing in front of me with a little straggly beard and great big spectacles. we looked at each other, and then i gave up thinking about lambert and walked back to my rooms; there was a horrid wind, and i shivered in my pyjamas as i went back to my staircase. lambert seemed to have disappeared altogether, but i met jack striking matches and groping his way down. "did you catch him?" he asked. "just like my luck," i answered. "i met the subby." "what's he doing at this time of night?" "that's what he will ask me to-morrow if he recognized me. there wasn't much light." "he ought to have been in bed." "i don't believe dons ever go to bed," i replied. "give me a match, so that i can get up without breaking my neck." the next morning lambert came round while i was at breakfast. he was full of apologies and hopes that the subby had not recognized me. "he told me that he sleeps so badly, that he often gets up in the middle of the night and takes a walk," he said, without the slightest regard for truth. "then there is no reason why i shouldn't take a run if i like," i replied. "but you were shouting," he said, as if he wished i had not been. "i'm a somnambulist, only i somnambulate faster than most people." "i'm afraid that won't wash," he said, and he started striding up and down my room until he found he was always coming to a wall, and then he stopped in front of the looking-glass, and stared earnestly at himself. "can't we think of anything better than that?" he asked. "doesn't your own face help you?" i asked, and he turned round slowly. "one of my front teeth has got a chip off it," he said. "by jove!" i answered, for lambert both the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning, was too much for me. "but about the subby?" "he hasn't sent for me yet. just poke your head out of the door and yell for clarkson; yell, don't think you are singing." he did yell, and i had breakfast cleared away. "i am afraid he must have seen you if you saw him," he went on, and the bulk of the man seemed to cover up all my mantelpiece. "get out of the light, i want some matches," i said. "perhaps he saw you." "no, i caught a glimpse of his beard coming round the corner." "i wish men wouldn't come and talk rot to me in the middle of the night." "i have apologized for that; of course i shall tell the subby it was my fault." "you are a big enough fool to do anything," i retorted, but he only smiled at me, and after helping himself to a cigarette he went away. about half-past ten i got a wretched notice from the subby to say he wished to see me at one o'clock, and i decided to stay in my rooms to work, and not to go round to oriel until the afternoon. my work however, was sadly interrupted, for as soon as i had really settled down, and i settle down slowly, dennison came in to condole with me about my bad luck, but when i told him that i had got to go to the subby i caught him grinning, which exasperated me. so he soon disappeared, and then jack ward came, and after he had gone i went and had a talk with murray. i have never known a morning go so quickly. i had scarcely looked at the subby's notice when i got it, for i only read the time i was to go to him, and then shoved the card into my pocket; but at one o'clock i went off to see him, wondering how i could explain matters best. on my way across the front quad i met lambert and dennison lounging about arm-in-arm; they wished me luck, and i told them to go to blazes. i simply hate men who can't stand without propping themselves up, the one against the other. i knocked at the subby's door without having made up my mind why i had been running about in pyjamas at one o'clock in the morning; the somnambulist tale did all right to annoy lambert, but i was not such an idiot as to try it on a don. i had to knock twice before he told me to come in, and when he saw me he only said "good-morning." so i said "good-morning" and waited. "what is it?" he asked, when he discovered that i did not want to go to some impossible place because my teeth ached, or my great-aunt wanted me. "you sent for me," i said. "no," and he shook his head until a lock of hair fell over his forehead. "at one o'clock." "i didn't send for you." "i have the notice in my pocket," and i took it out and looked at it. then i saw that some one had been scratching at the top of the card, but they had done it very neatly. "some one has been having a joke with you," he said, and he smiled as if he thought it a better joke than i did. "they will be watching for me to come out," i said, and i took my courage in my two hands. "i suppose they will," he answered, "but i don't want to know their names." "i didn't mean that," i replied. "what did you mean?" he asked, and i thought he was behaving splendidly. "i wish you would ask me to lunch if you aren't engaged," i said, "and then they will have to wait for longer than they bargained." "of course," he answered, "they certainly deserve to wait." i enjoyed that meal very much, the subby only wanted knowing a little and then he became quite a good sort, and i think he was amused at a fresher calmly asking himself to luncheon with him, but it ought to have shown that i had a certain amount of confidence in him, for even i could not have asked myself to a meal with mr. edwardes. i doubt, however, if he ever thought of it in that light, for he had been subby for five rather troubled years, and had so much to do with dealing with men who did things they ought not to have done, that he could have had no time to wonder why they did them. we began by condemning practical jokes, which was very tactful of him; he said that he knew only one good practical joke, and that was played upon himself, but he would not tell me what it was though i promised that i would never try it on anybody. then we talked about all sorts of things, until i had been with him nearly an hour, and the conversation was inclined to droop. "do you sleep very badly?" i asked, because i had heard several dodges for getting rid of insomnia, and i should like to have done something for him. he blinked at me for an instant, and i think he was wondering what i was driving at, for i suppose it would not do for a subby to sleep too soundly. "i am thankful to say i have never been troubled with sleeplessness," he said, and he looked rather drowsy at that moment. "some men do tell the most awful lies," i meant to say to myself, but somehow or other i said it much louder than i intended. but he took no notice, and after thanking him very much i left him, feeling that i had another ally; but it is never prudent to reckon upon a man who has to look after the conduct of the college, he gets worried and then does not understand things quite right. lambert's head was poking out of learoyd's window as i went back through the front quad, and thinking that i might as well get this thing finished off at once, i ran up-stairs and found dennison and him in possession of learoyd's rooms. "much of a row?" dennison said, with a kind of sickly sarcastic smile which meant that he had scored off me pretty badly. "row?" i asked. "was the subby furious?" "i have been lunching with him," i answered; "i hope your lunch was not spoilt by waiting for me to come out." they did not know what to say to this, so dennison went on smiling and lambert stroked his upper lip with one finger. "you were nicely scored off," dennison said at last. "i had a jolly good lunch," i replied. "dennison doesn't make a bad subby, and i imitate his writing pretty well," lambert said. "the subby himself must decide that, when he finds out who was ass enough to buy a beard like his." this reduced them to silence again, until lambert said that he did not see how anybody could find out. "the subby is much more wide-awake than you think. i wouldn't care to be in dennison's place, he has just done the one thing which dons can't stand. however, the subby is a rare good sort, and i shouldn't wonder if he let the thing drop, especially as it is the end of term," i said. "you looked fairly sick this morning," dennison remarked, but he was more vicious and less smiling than he had been at the beginning. "you took me in all right," i acknowledged, "and i hope you won't hear any more about it." "what did you tell the subby?" he asked. "not much," and if he was fool enough to think that there was any chance of the subby trying to find out anything, i thought i had better leave him to his doubts, so i went round to my rooms, and having got a straw-hat, i started off to see fred; and fortunately i found him at oriel trying to make his cricket-bag hold more things than it was meant to hold. he did not look particularly pleased to see me, but i have never yet met a man who can pack and be in a good temper at the same time. "where are you off to?" i asked, for there were still some days before the end of the term. "i am going to brighton to-night with henderson." "how did you manage to get leave?" "we have both been seedy, and rushden wanted us to go before we play surrey again. in my last three innings i've made seven runs, and i should think rushden begins to wish he had never given me my blue. i don't feel as if i should ever make another run." "your dons must be good sorts," i said. "they're all right," he answered, and he sat down in a chair by the window and looked so unlike himself that i knelt down on the floor and took everything out of the bag. then i packed my best, which must have been worse than anybody else's except fred's, and when i had finished, though the bag still bulged and was not a thing to be proud of, it did not bulge so very badly; at any rate fred said it would do, but when i looked at him again i forgot entirely that i had intended to be angry with him. "what's the matter?" i asked. "nothing to speak of. i've had a cold and a headache, and just rotten little things like that. brighton will cure me," but he didn't speak as if he cared whether it did or not. "you've got to come to us directly that reading party is over or i won't have this cheque, and if i don't take the cheque i shall be in an awful hole," i said, for i can't lead up to things. "i would very much rather not come," he answered. "why?" "oh, i don't know," he said, and then he got up and gave the bag a kick which, landing on a bat, hurt his toe. "you're the best fellow in the world, godfrey, but you don't understand." "there is something odd the matter with you, or you wouldn't say that. we don't say things like that to each other." "won't you come down to cornwall?" "no, i won't." "is ward going to stay with you?" "my people have asked him." "and is he going?" "he seems to think he is. i told him the boat was rotten and the cob fat, and that there was nothing on earth to do," i added most stupidly, but i had no idea then that any one could really be troubled by things which had never affected me in the least. "and he is going all the same," fred said, and he did not look a bit more cheerful. so i sat forward in my chair and talked to him. it does not matter what i said, but i kept clear of nina, and told him my people would be desperately sick with him, which made him uncomfortable, because he and my mother liked each other very much. i also told him that he was treating me badly; but i soon had to drop that, because he did not seem to think that it would make any difference how he behaved to me. however, i stirred him up, and if ever a man wanted stirring up he did; so at last he promised that he would come to us in september and stay until the end of the vac, if he was wanted. i told him that if no one else wanted him i always should; but this remark did not appear to cheer him up at all, and i began to think he must be bilious. i know that whenever i had a cold at one of my private schools, the wife of the head-master always said it came from eating too much. but she was a curious woman with a large imagination, and when i wouldn't eat boiled rice and rhubarb-jam she told me that it was rice that made the niggers such fine men; this, however, did not have the effect upon me which she desired, for i was only eight years old, and had got an idea that if i agreed to eat rice i should become black. that lady has made me think ever since that from whatever cause an illness comes it is never from over-eating. so i soon rejected the theory of fred being bilious, though any reason for his unfitness except nina would have been welcome. after a few minutes spent in the unsatisfactory pursuit of finding out that my batting average for st. cuthbert's was . , which i discovered not for my own gratification but to please fred, henderson came in, looking more freckled than ever and not in the least ill. "you have got to come to cornwall with us, hasn't he?" he said at once. "the brute won't come," fred said. "you will have to; you know all the men, and they all want you to come. we will have a rare good time--only fred and hawkins have to work hard, the rest of us are not going to do much." "i have to work all the vac," i said sorrowfully, and fred, who had smiled at my average, began to laugh once more, and he really seemed to be much more cheerful when i saw him and henderson off at the station, than he had been earlier in the afternoon. the last few days of the term were terribly dull, because some of us had to do collections, and my papers did not altogether please mr. edwardes. i promised again that i would do a lot of work in the vac; but jack ward arranged that he would come down and stay with us directly after the 'varsity match was over, and i could not be expected to allow him to loll in a boat and play the fool without restraint. i had not been at home in june for years, and june is the month in which to see my mother's garden. everything went swimmingly for a day or two; fred made a lot of runs against sussex, and henderson--whose blue was very uncertain--made seventy-six. i was enormously pleased, and suggested at dinner that we should all go up to town to see fred play in the 'varsity match. my father and mother were rather delighted with the idea, and said they would go if nina cared to come with us. "it's the middle of the season," i said promptly, for i suppose i was getting artful. "i would rather not go," nina said decidedly, "but do take godfrey up with you." "i shan't leave you here by yourself," my mother answered. "it's a pity miss read has gone," i put in, and nina looked very savagely across the table at me. "you had better go up by yourself," my father said. "don't you want to see fred playing in his first 'varsity match--you came up in december to see me play?" i asked nina. but she simply went on eating her fish as if i had not spoken, and i wished again that miss read had not left us. chapter xvii the professor and his son there is not much room for a feud in a small family, and, thank goodness, i did not belong to a large one. collier had five brothers and four sisters, some of whom were never on speaking terms with the others except at christmas or a birthday when, from habit, they declared a truce. "the truce is no good," collier said to me when he told me about it, "because the only thing which happens is that they change sides. i believe they pick up." "what happens to you?" i asked. "oh, i'm neutral, a sort of referee, and have a worse time than anybody," he replied, and i was glad that fate had not decreed that i should be born into the collier family. i am sure that had i been able to find any one else to talk to, i should have left nina alone after she had refused to go to the 'varsity match. it would have been a great effort, but i thought that nina was going out of her way to be particularly horrid, and she liked talking as much as i did. silence, an air of offended dignity, the sort of not-angry-but-very-sorry business, would have been a heavy punishment for her if i could only have inflicted it, but when my father and mother were engaged there was often nobody, except nina, to ask to do anything. so after wasting one beautiful afternoon i decided that the best thing i could do was to come to a plain understanding with her. fortified by my idea, but at the same time rather nervous, because i knew that unless you are a master and the other person happens to be a boy it is much easier to talk about a plain understanding than to arrive at it, i strolled on to the lawn, and after taking a circuitous route i sat down by nina. i had got her at a disadvantage because she was reading a book which my mother had said was good for her, and if i sat there long enough and bounced a tennis-ball up and down in front of me i knew she was bound to talk. for some reason or other i did not feel like beginning, and this disinclination did not come from chivalry, but i must confess from fear, nina being armed with all sorts of weapons which if i had possessed i should not have known how to use. "you seem to be very busy," she said after i had bounced my ball up and down two hundred and eleven times without missing it. i took no notice of that remark except to count out loud. "twelve, thirteen, fourteen" i went on carefully, and when i was half-way through fifteen she threw her hat at the ball and, by a miracle, hit it. "you are as big a baby now as you were ten years ago," she said. "i only wish you were," i answered, and threw the ball away from me. "so that i might everlastingly fetch and carry for you and fred," she replied quickly. "that isn't true," i retorted; "at least if it is true of me it isn't of fred. he always treats you well." "you will talk to me about fred until i shall positively hate him." "i want to talk about him now," i said. "of course you do, he is your favourite topic of conversation," and really i believe she knew that if she attacked me i should forget to talk about fred. "you don't seem to see what a friend he is of mine," i answered. "if i liked all the friends of every one i know, i should never have any time to do anything else." "you forget that i happen to be your brother," i said, but i might have known better than to make such a remark, for she seemed to think it was amusing. "sometimes you are quite delicious," she returned, and i began to feel that we were as far off a plain understanding as we had ever been. "look here, nina, you are beginning to give yourself airs, and it is time some one told you," i began desperately. "you will be known as a nice girl gone wrong; you were nice once, and now you talk as if you know a lot of people and try to make out you are about twice as old as you really are. it won't do, it really won't; what's the good of pretending things, it's such a waste of time?" she looked away from me when i had finished, and i had not the vaguest idea how she would reply, but at any rate she did not laugh. "you are really serious for once," she said half questioningly. "i often try to be serious, only no one ever suspects it," i answered, unable to keep myself out of it. "but you are always one-sided." i very nearly said that i had only spoken for her good, but managed to stop myself, because no one ever believes you when you say it. besides, it would have annoyed her, so i was silent. "you see you have not got much older, and i have. i couldn't bounce a ball up and down two hundred and thirteen times now." again i used abstinence and stopped myself from telling her that she could never have done it, for she was quite solemn, and i thought we were getting at something. i hoped, too, that we should get it quickly, for a tired feeling was creeping over me. "you are only eighteen," i said. "i am nineteen next week," she answered, and i knew that she meant this both as a rebuke and a reminder. "that's not very old." "it's old enough for me to know that you and i will never quarrel about trifles," she said. "then will you come to the 'varsity match?" i asked. "you don't think the 'varsity match a trifle, do you?" "i'm not going to sit here and quibble; you're too clever altogether," i said, and i got up and wondered in which direction there was most to do, but nina stood up, too, and put her hand through my arm. "let us go for a walk by the river before dinner," she said, and after asking what good she thought that would do i went. "my dear godfrey, you are simply splendid," she went on, "the dearest old bungler i know. you remind me of the faulkners' ostrich, which goes on tapping at the window when it has been opened and there is nothing to tap at." i did not know what she meant, and if that ostrich had not been rather a friend of mine i should have been insulted. as it was i did not feel pleased. "you will spend your life running your head against brick walls," she continued. "i am not going down to the river if you are going to preach to me," but we were already half-way there. "what about the 'varsity match?" "you don't understand things, godfrey." "fred has told me that already," i said sulkily. "oh, has he?" she replied, and i saw that i had stumbled upon something which made her think. we sat down by the river and did not speak to each other for a long time, and when nina broke the silence her mood had changed completely. she cajoled me; i think that must have been what she did, and i was weak enough to like it. it was so nice to have me home again; we were going to have a splendid time together, we always had been together; mrs. faulkner said oxford spoiled so many men at first, it made them prigs; but there was no chance of me becoming a prig, i was just the best sort of brother in the world, because when i did meddle in other people's business i hated doing it, and did it all wrong; in the future she would try to do everything to please me, for she was never happy unless i was. as regards my digestion, i certainly must have resembled the faulkners' ostrich, for i swallowed all this; and when we had walked back home i felt as if my attempt to come to an understanding had not been a failure. when, however, i thought over what she had said i was not so pleased, for i began to see that if the summer was to be splendid and i was not to be called a prig i must give up the idea of taking her to the 'varsity match. in fact, in ten minutes i had come to the conclusion that i had been made a fool of, but no one could expect me to begin the thing all over again. i made a resolution then, which is worth recording because i kept it, that i would never tackle nina again about my friends; she was too much for me, i acknowledged to myself, and apart from determining that she should at least behave decently to fred, i made up my mind to keep clear of things which seemed altogether out of my line. it was arranged finally that i should go alone to town for the 'varsity match, and should bring jack ward back with me. my mother said i must stay with the bishop, and if she had not wanted me to go very much i think i should have found a number of reasons why i had better stay with him at some other time. for though the bishop in the country had made himself quite pleasant, i had a sort of feeling that he had his eye on me and that this visit would be one of inspection. my reluctance was apparent to nina, and one evening she mentioned it before dinner. "i don't see what there is to be afraid of. think of him as an uncle," she said. "i am not afraid of a hundred bishops," i answered. "then you needn't be nervous about going to stay with half one, because he's only a suffragan." "you shouldn't speak of your uncle in that way, nina," my mother said. "it makes no difference whether he is an archbishop or a curate, but i won't have him spoken of as if he is a fraction." "godfrey used to hate him, at any rate," she replied, simply to create a diversion. "i am sure he didn't," and my mother's eyes turned questioningly upon me. "i did rather bar him at one time until he was decent in the summer, he used to think himself so funny," i explained. "i wish you would talk english," my father said. "dinner is already a quarter of an hour late, i am going into the dining-room." he marched off quickly and nina began to laugh, but i think she must also have been a little ashamed of herself. "i am a scapegoat for everybody," i said to her; "for you, the cook, and the gardener's boy, whose whistle is always mistaken for mine." "never mind," she answered, "you don't look very depressed." "it isn't fair, all the same; you don't play the game," and as my mother had already gone into the dining-room to sit rebukefully at a foodless table i followed her. these solemn waitings, which did not happen unfrequently, were comical to me, and since my father never could understand why nina and i were amused at them, he had generally forgotten his original grievance before dinner began. when i got to london i could not help being struck by the difference between a bishop at work and a bishop at play. the chief impression i got of my uncle was of a man most strenuously at labour; if he wanted to lecture me he never had time to do it, and nearly the first thing he said was that i was to do exactly as i liked, and he gave me a latch-key so that i might feel that i was a bother to nobody. he was so extraordinarily kind and simple that i wondered how on earth it was that i had really hated him at one time, for i had hated him quite honestly, and i came to the conclusion that as soon as he had ceased to be a pompous humorist he had become a very nice man. at any rate he no longer made jokes, and i never had been able to think them good ones, because those which i remembered had been nearly always directed at me. the 'varsity match was a complete failure owing to the weather, and was never likely to be finished. fred made fifteen in the one oxford innings, and as the whole side made under a hundred, he didn't do so badly. but i think cambridge might have won if the game had been played out, so when it poured with rain on the third day, i did not mind very much, apart from the fact that lord's in wet weather is a terribly dismal place. i went back about one o'clock to my uncle's house and having found a huge london directory, i hunted for the name of owen. i soon found an address in victoria street, which seemed to be the one for which i was looking. "professor of gymnastics, boxing and fencing" was pretty well bound to be right, and in the afternoon i started off to find owen. i wanted to ask him to come and stay with us as soon as jack ward had gone, and i had already told my mother about his illness, though i had never mentioned the life-saving tale. i had often wanted to ask my father what really happened, only having made a promise, i had got to stick to it, and i wished i had never been fool enough to make it; it seemed to be making a lot of fuss about nothing. but, if i could persuade owen to come, the whole thing would have to be cleared up, and i thought being in the country would do him so much good, that the professor would make him come whether he wanted to or not. i did not know quite what my father would say when he heard all about owen, for in some ways he belonged to what, i believe, is called "the old school," and clung tenaciously to the belief that there was not a radical yet born who did not work night and day for the destruction of the british empire. we never talked politics at home, though sometimes we listened to a lecture. but, as owen said that he would never have lived if it had not been for my father, they ought, i imagined, to have a sort of friendly feeling for each other, though i cannot say that i felt any great confidence in this idea. i relied more on the fact that as soon as you had removed the crust from my father, you found a huge lot of kindness underneath it. he liked to complain, and some people, who knew him very slightly, thought he liked nothing else, but they were most hopelessly wrong. my chief recollection of that walk along victoria street is that my umbrella was constantly bumping into other umbrellas; i must have tried to walk too fast, and the result was that by the time i reached the professor's, i was hot and splashed, and my umbrella had a large rent in it. the door of the house was open, and i saw a notice hanging on the side of the wall which told me to walk up-stairs. what i was to do when i had walked up-stairs puzzled me, so i went back into the street, and having rung a bell as a sort of announcement that some one was coming, i went up slowly. the house seemed to be full of stuffiness and gloom, so much so that had i been unable to find either the professor or his son, i should not have been at all sorry. i was, however, met on the first landing by a servant who must have been cleaning a grate when i interrupted her. her hair was straying over her face, and as she stood waiting for me to explain my business, she tried to arrange it properly, but she only succeeded in putting two large streaks of black upon her nose and forehead. "i want to see professor owen," i said untruthfully. "'e's porely this afternoon." "never mind," i replied quickly, "is mr. owen in--his son?" "'e don't live 'ere, 'e lives at west-'am with 'is ornt." "would you give me his address, i won't interrupt the professor if he is not well?" "who may you be, i don't remember your fice?" "i know mr. owen at oxford, i have never been here before." she laughed for a moment and then said she should have to ask the professor for the address, but just as i was going to say i would write and ask him to forward my letter, a door opened on my right, and an enormous man in a blue pair of trousers and a flannel shirt came out into the passage. "this gent wants mr. 'ubert's address," the servant said, and disappeared very quickly up another flight of stairs. "are you the professor?" i asked. "that's me." i held out my hand, but the passage was dark and his attempt to get hold of it went wide. "will you come into my room? business, i suppose?" i said it was business, and walked into a small sitting-room, which seemed to be furnished principally with a table, a big arm-chair, and empty bottles. "i'm cleaning up a bit to-day, you must excuse the bottles," he said, and put his hands on the table. i would have excused everything if only the room had not been so dreadfully close, and i stood while the professor looked at the bottles and finally picked one up and put it down again in the same place. then, as if the exertion was too much for him, he sank with a thud into the chair. "you aren't well, i am afraid." "no," he answered, "not at all well; damp heat always affects my head." i sat down on a box labelled "soda-water" and looked at him. my first impression of him had been one of huge strength, my second was one of flabbiness, and no one could help guessing the reason. everything about him was huge except his eyes, and they might have been had i been able to see what they were like, but all i could see was the puffiness beneath them, and that was enough to make me wish i had never come. i stared at him for some time, but he did not speak, and at last he began to breathe so heavily that i had to interrupt him. "i say, professor," i began, and he jumped up and began to rub his eyes. then he sat down again and putting his elbows on his knees looked at me as if he was trying to remember what brought me there. "this is my afternoon off," he said; "i have no pupils until to-morrow at ten o'clock, and then i give a fencing-lesson to the honourable mr. bostock. perhaps you know him?" i said that i did not, and i thought the professor was a snob. "what can i do for you? fencing or boxing? i trained ted tucker years ago--you remember ted tucker, the bermondsey bantam as they called him? my eye, he was a hot 'un with his fists." i had never heard of ted tucker, and said so. "you don't seem to know anybody," he replied, and for the life of me i could not help laughing. "look here, young man, i'm not going to be laughed at. i may have my little weakness, but i keep my self-respect, and i'd like you to remember that, if you can remember anything. who are you, i've asked you that before, and where did you come from?" he glared angrily in my direction and i did not like the look of him at all. "i came to see your son," i answered; "i don't want to fence or box, but his address." his manner changed at once. "are you from oxford?" he asked. "yes." "and you call on my afternoon off, that's most unlucky." he talked all right but his legs were uncertain, and when he stood up he found the mantelpiece useful. "rheumatism, i'm a martyr to it," he said. "very painful," i remarked, and got off my soda-water case. "don't get up, it's passing off. if you're from oxford, i must put on a coat and collar. would you oblige me with your name?" "godfrey marten," i said. "colonel marten's son? here, sit in this chair. i must put on two coats," and he made a most gurgly kind of sound which must have meant that he was amused with himself. then he looked towards the door as if wondering whether he could reach it. "please don't put on anything for me," i said, and i took his arm and directed him back to the chair. "your father saved my life, and you're the very image of him. it's enough to upset an old man like me," and without the slightest warning tears began to roll down his checks. "cheer up," i said, for i felt very uncomfortable. "and you'll go and tell him that you found me--that you called on my afternoon off." "i shan't," i said stoutly. "and you've been a good friend to hubert." "that's nothing; i want his address in west ham." "don't say it's nothing, no deed of kindness was yet cast away in this world of sin," and two more tears began to roll. "stop that kind of thing, i simply can't stand it. pull yourself together," i said, "and if you will give me his address i'll go." "don't go, you must stay and have a cup of tea. the colonel, i hope he's well?" "he's all right; you write to him still, don't you?" "no, i never write to him." "hubert told me you did." "he made a mistake. the colonel and i quarrelled, but you must never say a word. i was treated badly, but i don't bear anybody any grudge, leastways not to the man who saved my life. hasn't he ever told you about it?" "never." "that's like him, but he will never want to hear my name again; i should take it as a favour if you will not mention it." "why shouldn't i?" i asked. he stood up again and was ever so much better. "i was misunderstood," he said. "how did you ever know anything about me?" "the gymnasium instructor at cliborough is my brother-in-law. he was in the old regiment. he told me about you." "he taught me fencing," i said, and added, "but why did you want hubert to see me?" "you do want to get to the bottom of things; would you like some tea?" i did not want any tea, but i asked if i might open the window, and then i took my case across the room and got some air. "it's right for every man to have one ambition," he said, in the way which made me loathe him. "what's yours?" i asked promptly. "that hubert shall be a gentleman, that's why i wanted him to know you, only he's so shy----" "good gracious!" was all i could exclaim, and it did not express my astonishment in the least. "you'd have done very well for my job if he'd only buttoned on to you." "he is not the kind of man to 'button on.'" "don't you teach your grandfather to suck eggs," he said angrily. "i like your impudence, but i'm busted if i can put up with it," but before i could answer him he was apologizing and shaking my hand most vigorously. at that moment hubert opened the door, and both saw and heard what was happening. the professor turned round quickly and forgot to drop my hand, with the result that i was pulled from my soda-water case on to the floor. "i thought," he gasped, "it was old ally sloper." i managed to escape from him and to stand up. hubert, however, did not say anything, but began to brush my coat with his hand. "who is ally sloper?" i asked, for i began to think that the professor, who was looking ashamed of himself, was a lunatic. "he's mr. king, the man who helps me at oxford, he dresses rather funnily," hubert explained. "he bothers me when i am not well," the professor added, but he did not seem certain what line to take and kept his back turned to both of us. "if you would only be well, he wouldn't bother you," hubert said at once. "i am better than i used to be. you know how the weather upsets me, i haven't had an afternoon off for six weeks. ask emily," and when he turned round the tears were once more rolling down his cheeks, and i was desperately afraid that i was in for a regular scene. "you are nearly all right now," i said, "and i must be going if hubert will walk a little way with me." he took my hand again and held it. "you will not think very badly of an old man who has served his country," he said. "no, but i do think you ought to be----" and then i stopped. "what?" "it's no business of mine." "you are the son of the man who saved my life." "oh don't," i replied, and a tear dropping plump on the back of my hand settled me. "i was going to say ashamed of yourself." "to think that any one should say that in the presence of my son," he said, and dropped my hand. "i have said it a hundred times, but no one else has ever had the pluck to," hubert put in. "kick a worm when he doesn't turn," he said confusedly. "that's all rot," i answered, and something compelled me to walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder. "you aren't a worm, and i wouldn't dare to kick you. wouldn't dare, do you see; you're a fine, big chap, why in heaven's name don't you pull yourself together? i don't know much about it, but i'll bet it's worth it. a man like you oughtn't to go crying like a baby." "no sympathy," he moaned. "rot," i said again. "i shall tell my uncle about you, he'll be a jolly useful friend." "what's he?" "a parson." "two pennuth of tea and a tract. no thanks," he shook his head decidedly. "he's not that kind. a man isn't bound to be an ass because he is a parson." "you seem to have kind of taken charge of me," he said. "i don't mean any harm," and then, for it was no time for facts, i added, "i like you, you are an awfully good sort, really." "me and the parson uncle," he said, and he gave a hoarse chuckle. "we should do well in double harness. i'd pull his head off in about ten minutes." "may i ask him to call on you?" "you'd better see what hubert says. i'm only a dummy." "a good big dummy," i answered, with the intention of taking myself off pleasantly. "oh, be rude. trample on me, call me names," and then swelling out his chest and glaring at me, he added, "hit me." "i shouldn't care to risk it," i returned, and asked hubert, who had been walking aimlessly round the room, if he was ready. we left at last, and were pursued down-stairs by volleys of apologies. i had to stop twice and shout back that i was not offended and that i forgave everything, though from the way i had talked to him it struck me that he had about as much to forgive as i had. we walked towards victoria without speaking, and when i did try to talk i was most horribly hoarse, i must have fairly shouted at the professor. "my father's often like that after an afternoon off," owen said presently. "he's first angry and then apologetic, and in the end he's most horribly ashamed of himself. wednesday afternoon is his worst time, and i generally try to be with him and then he's all right, but i got stopped to-day. he comes down to my aunt's on sundays, though he hates it." "i believe he would like my uncle, he wouldn't jaw and cant." "do as you like. i've never thanked you, except in letters, for seeing me through that illness." "how are you now?" "all right; i feel as if i have been ill, that's all." "you've got to come down to worcestershire," i said; "a fortnight there will do you more good than years of west ham." "i can't do that," he answered at once. we turned into victoria station and sat down on a bench. for some minutes i listened to his objections and answered them; in all my life i do not think i have ever been quite so sorry for any one, though i had sense enough not to tell him so. i felt rather a brute when i left him; it seemed to me that i had been having a most splendid time without knowing it, while he had been having a very wretched one, but i can't keep on feeling a brute long enough for it to do me any good, if feeling a brute ever does any good. i overcame all owen's objections, and i made him promise to come to worcestershire, but as soon as i had time to think about it i wondered what on earth i should do with him when i had got him. i could count on my mother as an ally. i did not altogether know what my father would think, and nina, as far as i was concerned, was represented by x in a problem to which no one had ever found an answer which was anything like right. the first thing to do, however, was to go for the bishop, and i think i can say that i went for him at some length. i didn't explain well, or he was very stupid, because he got dreadfully mixed up before he got the facts of the case clearly, and i can't say that he seemed altogether pleased when i told him that i had as good as promised that he would be a friend to the professor. "as it is, i am rushed off my legs. who was it you said he had trained?" "ted tucker." i had brought that in as a piece of local colour or whatever it is called, just to liven things up a bit, but i am afraid it was a mistake. "you see, i don't know anything about prize-fighters. i did box once, but that's years ago." "why, you're the very man," i exclaimed. "he'd love you; he's not a bit more like a prize-fighter than he is like a professor, he's more like a sort of prehistoric man in blue trousers and a shirt." but prehistoric men did not seem to appeal to my uncle any more than prize-fighters. he looked very sombre indeed, so much so that i was quite impressed, but i had taken this job in hand and really had to see it through. so i talked, and i won in the way all my few triumphs have been won, by talking until the other man wanted to go to bed. "i like your enthusiasm, godfrey," he said at last, "and i wouldn't check it for the world. i will do all i possibly can, both with the professor and with your people. but you can't persuade me that your father will like the son of a man, who has been dismissed from the army for some cause, to come down and stay with you." "don't you tell that to anybody else," i said. "owen only told me this afternoon, he's only just found it out himself." "are you going to tell your father all this?" "everything except that the professor gets drunk now, and you're going to stop that," i added cheerfully. "oh, am i?" he answered, "i can't help wishing that it had not rained this afternoon and that you had been safely at lord's." "well you can't say that i've wasted my time." "you have got your hands too full, considering that you have promised to work this summer. don't forget you have got to work, we don't want any fourth in mods," and then he wished me good-night, and on the next day i went home with jack ward, who had a most astounding lot of luggage. i am not going to describe my first summer vac at any length, because if i once began i should not have any idea when to stop, it was the kind of time which made gloomy people cheerful and cheerful people gloomy; silly, ridiculous things happened, and mrs. faulkner was at the bottom of most of them. she even found a niece for me, but that came to nothing, for the niece was a very nice girl and in a week we understood each other beautifully. she stayed a month with the faulkners and thought of me as a brother, which was most satisfactory; sometimes, however, she treated me like one and then i was not so pleased. jack ward and nina, in my opinion, behaved none too well; but my father liked jack and my mother did not say much about him, which explains the whole thing. he was always ready to do anything, and his only fault in my father's eyes was that he was never in time for breakfast. i was chiefly engaged during his visit in paving the way for owen's. i told my mother everything and wanted to tackle my father at once, but she said i must wait for a favourable opportunity. i waited a whole week, and it had a most depressing effect on me, so i just walked into his study at last and got it over. it happened to be a damp day, during which he had felt two twinges of lumbago, but he forgot those twinges before he had done with me. i bore everything he said silently, because when he is in a furious rage in the beginning he tails off wonderfully at the end. it seemed that he had a very low opinion of the professor, and he declared emphatically that he was not going to have his house made into a sanatorium. i listened to a crowd of disagreeable facts about my new friend, and my father declared that even the sight of his son would give him an attack of gout. "it is true," he said, "that i did save his life, and he had, as far as that went, cause to be grateful, and he wasn't grateful but a disgrace to the regiment. i want to forget all about the man and then you rake him up again, and you say that stupid uncle of yours, who plays cricket when he ought to be writing sermons, is going to be a friend to him. it's more than i can or will put up with," and he banged _the nineteenth century_ down on his writing-table so violently that he upset a vase of roses and some of the water went into his ink-pot. after that he was incoherent for a minute, and i, not knowing what to say, remarked that the bishop could not be expected to write sermons during his holidays. "a bishop ought always to be writing sermons," was his only answer, and i guessed that his rage had reached its climax. i tried to lower the flood on his table by means of my pocket-handkerchief, and waited. "what sort of a fellow is this son who pushes himself upon you in this way? it's monstrous." "he's quiet and all right, and he has never pushed himself at all. i made him promise to come; he didn't want to, only it's his chance to get well and he must take it. you would have done the same thing." "what's he like?" "he's not exactly like any one else i know at oxford, but----" "of course he isn't." "i was going to say no one could possibly dislike him." "i suppose he will have to come, but i want you to understand that in future i insist on knowing whom you want to ask here before you ask them. i am exceedingly annoyed, i shall go and see your mother." i went with him, as when i am about i generally manage to absorb most of his anger, but after a few outbursts my mother soothed him, and in the end he even gave a grim sort of smile when i said that unless he had saved the professor there would have been no bother about his son. "don't call that man a professor," he said, "he's a humbug, he always was and always will be, and if it wasn't that i am sorry for a son who has such a father i wouldn't be talked over by you. but you have given your uncle something to think about," and that idea sent him smiling to the window. one most splendid thing happened while jack ward was staying with us, for just before he was going away nina fell into the river again and jack was superb enough idiot to repeat his previous performance and jump in after her. i met them trying to get into the house by a back way, and from the look of them i saw that they were feeling rather silly. it is all very well to fall into one river, but when you start going overboard anywhere the thing becomes comical, and they fell from their high position as rescued and rescuer and had to put up with a good deal of wit, as we understood it at home. i didn't say much, because nina was better than i was at saying things, but whenever i saw her i gave way to fits of silent laughter. i can't think how i thought of that dodge, it was so extraordinarily successful and so far above my average efforts, and as soon as i saw that it was working properly, i did not mind being called anything she liked. and my father, being particularly well just then, helped me by what, i was determined to believe, were very humorous remarks. jack did not hear many of them, but the few he did hear must have upset him a little, for he tried to explain himself by saying that he would jump into anything to save a kitten, which from the look of nina did not seem to satisfy her much. in the end i don't believe she was as sorry for jack to go as i was. she could not stand being a family joke, and i, having suffered in that way many times, could have sympathized with her if i had not thought that it was much the best thing which could happen. i felt dull after jack went, for he was the sort of man who does brighten up a place, and he was never by any chance bored; besides, i was wondering how i could make owen enjoy himself, because the only thing i knew about him was that he did not care for any exercise except walking, and i hoped that he would be reasonable about the distances he wanted to go. however, the day before he was to come, miss read arrived, which was an idea of my mother's, and a very good one. miss read had been nina's governess for eight years, and she knew all of us better than we knew ourselves. she was a kind of tonic when any of us were depressed, and a cooling draught when we were angry; in my case she had seldom been a tonic, but all the same when she had left us at easter i was very sorry. she was the only person i have ever seen of whom nina was really afraid. i am sure she could have told some funny tales if she had felt inclined. she was supposed to be coming to see nina, who was going to paris in a few weeks to be "finished," but i am sure that my mother thought owen would like her, and that she would like him. and as it happened, they were both botanists and butterfly-catchers, at least miss read knew a lot about butterflies, though her time for catching them had gone by, and they were always doing things together. worcestershire must certainly be a better place than west ham for a botanist, and after owen had got used to us i believe he enjoyed himself. we worked together in the mornings, which pleased my father, and he let my mother give him as much medicine as she wanted to, which pleased her, and i feeling virtuous after reading every morning for nearly four hours, was very pleased with myself. but he was in a mortal terror of nina, though she really never gave him any cause to be, and made the most valiant efforts to learn the latin names of plants. miss read and he made excursions and grubbed about in hedges, and nina and i often met them at some place to have tea. it wasn't very exciting, for i had always to carry the kettle and the things to eat; but the sun shone most of the time, which was really a blessing, because on wet days owen persuaded me to work in the afternoons as well as the mornings, and that was more than i had ever thought of doing in a vac. i suppose owen was what is generally called a smug, but he was not one by choice but by compulsion, which is the best kind i should think. he was so totally different from any other kind of friend i have ever had that i sometimes caught myself wondering whether i really liked him. but i could always satisfy myself about that, for there was one thing about him which no one could help liking; he was most tremendously clever and never tried to make out that he was, and having already seen plenty of people who were about as clever as i was, and who talked as if they were solomon and solon rolled into one, i was grateful to him. we got on very well together, though we had not got a single thing in common, except that we both liked sunshine; and that can't be said to be much, for i have only met one man in england who did not like the sun, and he had been affected, permanently, by too much of it. men get blamed freely enough for putting on side about playing cricket and football well, and they deserve all they get, but the men who put on intellectual side ought, i think, to be spoken to more severely, because they get worse as they get older, while the first sort of side generally dies an early death. owen was a kind of encyclopaedia, who did not air or advertise himself, and i thought him a very rare specimen. athletics meant no more to him than botany or butterflies meant to me, but when he went away my father said emphatically that it was refreshing to think oxford turned out some men who took interest in useful things. i did not answer that remark, because he did not really know very much about oxford, and his occasional hobby was that the country was being ruined by too many games. "a very well-conducted young man," he said of owen, "always up in the morning, and always ready to go to bed at night." "he looked much better when he went away than when he came," my mother said; "i hope we shall see him down here again." "i think he means to make a name for himself," miss read added; "he knows exactly what he wants." nina yawned, and although i thought my father need not have described owen as a well-conducted young man, i was thankful that his visit had passed off so well, and i said nothing. after owen had gone away we had a fellow to stay with us out of my brother's regiment. he was home on sick-leave, but had quite recovered from whatever had been the matter with him, and was as full of bounce as a tennis-ball. mrs. faulkner loved him and wanted nina to follow her example, as far as i could make out, for she gave a dance and a moonlight supper party on the river. mr. faulkner, who was always more or less semi-detached, disappeared before the supper-party, which he told me was a midsummer madness. "there will be a mist and the food will be damp and horrid, and everybody will be wanting foot-warmers and hot-water bottles before they have done, you had better put on your thickest clothes and borrow my fur overcoat," he said to me. and he was a true prophet, for nina caught a violent cold in her head, which checked and really put a stop to a more violent flirtation. nina went to paris a few days after fred came to us, and we all agreed that she would enjoy herself there, though i do not believe that any of us really thought she would. as a matter-of-fact she was so home-sick that my mother would have gone to fetch her back if it had not been for miss read, who was blessed with much courage and common-sense. mrs. faulkner tried her hardest to persuade my mother to bring nina home again, and she came to our house and wept so much that i thought she was sure to win. but miss read met tears with arguments, until mrs. faulkner stopped crying, and having lost her temper, forgot that miss read had not only been nina's governess, but was also one of my mother's greatest friends. so nina stayed in paris, and i wrote to her twice a week for a fortnight, but after that she began sending me messages in other people's letters, and i was sorry for her no longer. chapter xviii the energy of jack ward after nina went to paris fred spent most of his time in trying to be cheerful, but for some days he looked as if he had lost something and expected to find it round the next corner. i was very patient, though i do not believe he understood how often i wanted to argue with him. by the end of the vac, however, he had forgotten to be gloomy, and i hoped that oxford would cure him altogether, for he had a good chance of getting his rugger blue, and he had got to read; besides, i have never been able to see that perpetual gloom is of any use to anybody. i went back to st. cuthbert's full of desperate resolutions. i wanted to make every one in the college understand that it was the slackest place in oxford, and having done that i wished to find the men who would make it keener. the scheme was a gigantic one for me to take up; it needed tact, and i went at it so vigorously that in a few days i had offended some men and had succeeded in making others look upon me as a freak. dennison told me that i had a bee in my bonnet. if he had said that i was mad i should not have minded, but those horrid little expressions of his always tried me very much, and i am bound to confess that my first efforts to rouse the college met with more ridicule than success. very few men seemed to care what happened to us, and nearly everybody pretended that our eight would rise again, and our footer teams cease to be laughed at, though no one tried to make them any better. dennison wrote a skit called "the decline and fall of st. cuthbert's"; and some artist, who thought that my nose was as big as my arm, made a drawing of me in which i was trying to carry the college on my back, and was so overburdened by the weight of it that nothing but my nose prevented me from being crushed to the ground. it was very funny and also very unfair in more ways than one, because i did not start my crusade with any idea of becoming important, and i have no feature which is superlatively large. this skit of dennison's really settled me for a time, but i did stir up one or two men whom i had never expected to do anything. jack ward stopped driving about with bunny langham, and began to play footer, and collier actually went down to the river every afternoon. physical incapability prevented him from rowing well, but he persuaded several other men, who did not suffer as he did, to go through the same drudgery, and for self-sacrifice i thought he was hard to beat, because he was quite a comical sight in a boat. what good did come from my first crusade was due chiefly to him; a kind of revivalist spirit was upon him, and many unsuspecting freshers who had only thought of the river as a place to avoid, were unable to resist his entreaties. the dons heard of my crusade, and i know that mr. edwardes did not like it, but i had two of them on my side, and the others did not take any active measures against me. mr. edwardes took the trouble to tell me that i was mistaken in thinking that the reputation of st. cuthbert's depended upon athletics, and i answered that i had never supposed anything of the kind, but that i thought a college which was slack about other things would end by being slack in the schools. this reply of mine surprised him so much that he told me that any campaign to be successful must be managed by the right people, and i agreed with him cordially, for although i knew that plenty of men would have worried everybody out of their slackness much more successfully than i could, i was not going to tell him so. the bursar supported me soundly, and we had a new don at the beginning of my second year who took a most invigorating interest in the college. he was known to us as "the bradder," and though his real name was bradfield it was seldom used, and as far as we were concerned he could have done quite well without it. i had become so accustomed to aged dons that i could not understand him at first, he was so very young. he was also reported to be very clever, but i was so impressed by his youthfulness that it took me some time to believe that he would ever count for much. i ought, however, to have known that the bradder was not the kind of man who would allow himself to become a nonentity, for he was full of energy and determination. i was never able to find out how the dons heard of my scheme, but they find out most things by some extraordinary means, and the bradder spoke to me very encouragingly about it, though he looked at me as if i amused him in some odd sort of way. he also asked me to breakfast, which i thought was carrying kindness a little too far. i anticipated the usual thing--a crowd of men with large appetites, and a host who abstained from food in his efforts to provide conversation; but when i went to the bradder's rooms i found that i was in for a _tête-à-tête_, and my opinion of the other kind of breakfast rose considerably. as a don i was not in the least nervous of him, but as a host i thought he might be overwhelming. that he ever lived through this meal without laughing was a marvel, for when i was sitting opposite to him my nervousness vanished, and i told him exactly what i thought about every subject he suggested, and it was not until i had left him that it occurred to me that i had been talking nearly all the time, and that he had said very little. i determined that he was a most thoroughly good sort, but the idea of his being a don struck me as being absurd. i put him on my side with the warden and the bursar, and thought that mr. edwardes was in a hopeless minority of one in persecuting me, for i looked upon the subby as a man who had been born to be neutral. i do not suppose that i should ever have started my first crusade if i had known that it was going to cause the mildest of sensations. as far as i had thought about it at all, i had imagined that everybody in st. cuthbert's would be glad to see the college take its usual place again, and certainly i had no idea that i should be violently supported and opposed. the captains of everything were in favour of less slackness, but dennison and all his set said that an oxford college was not a public school, and talked a lot of nonsense about the iniquity of compulsory games. no further proof is needed to show how unfair they were, for a man must be mad to dream of compulsory games at oxford, and such an idea never entered my head. but all this talking made me wish that i had never said or done anything, and before long i was heartily tired of the whole thing, for my own affairs became rather more than i could manage. at the beginning of the term i had moved into larger rooms, and i was elected to both vincent's and the st. cuthbert's wine club. murray advised me not to join the wine club, because i was an exhibitioner, and the dons would be sure to fix their eyes steadfastly upon me if i did. but jack ward was very anxious for me to join, and every other member, except dennison, who was only elected when i was, spoke to me about it. so i became one of the twelve mohocks, which only meant that i could give a guest a good dinner three or four times a term, and after that take him to the rooms of the club where there was a big dessert, and old rodoski, who was concealed in the bedder, unless some one asked him to show himself, provided music. when we had finished with rodoski we went out of college and played pool, and then we came back and played cards. there was not much harm about the whole thing, and occasionally it was quite dull, but some of our dons had got hold of the idea that a mohock must be a rowdy and riotous person. mr. edwardes was one of them, and i found out very soon that he considered that i ought not to have joined the club. i did not, however, feel in the least like resigning, for though there were one or two members who took delight in nothing which was not an orgie, they were generally suppressed before they made much noise. a club of this kind depends a good deal upon its president, and we had a man who thought far too much of the reputation of the mohocks to insult his guests by a common pandemonium. my position with mr. edwardes had become a critical one when i broke my collar-bone playing against richmond, and suddenly ceased to be a culprit and became an invalid. at the time i was very sick at my footer ending so abruptly, but my accident was really a stroke of good luck, for i feel certain that i should have been turned out of the 'varsity fifteen anyhow. an irish international named hogan had come up who was, i thought, a really good full-back, and each time i was asked to play for the 'varsity i expected to be my last. but as soon as there was no chance of my playing against cambridge i got no end of sympathy, and nearly all the team told me that my absence weakened the side, though previously some of them had said the same thing about my presence. my accident settled the question of who was to be the 'varsity back quite conveniently; it also made me give up all thoughts of my crusade, and gave me plenty of time to read. i should not think anybody's collar-bone has ever been broken at such an opportune moment. fred played against cambridge, but our forwards were hopelessly beaten, and no one distinguished himself for us except hogan, who lost two teeth and covered himself with glory. at the end of the lent term both fred and i got seconds in moderations; mine was not a good second and fred's was almost a first, so what would have happened if fred had been smashed up instead of me is not worth inquiring, for there is no doubt that i did more work than he did. murray got a first, which was what everybody expected; he was one of the few men i have ever seen who read logic because he liked it. i cannot say that mr. edwardes was very pleased about my second, for he had told me i should be lucky to get a third, and in my case i believe he would rather have been a truthful prophet than a moderately successful tutor. when i asked him if i might read history for my final examinations he was doubtful if i was not seeking a degree by the least fatiguing way, but the bradder was a history tutor, and although i had found out that he was a very strenuous man, i meant to work with him. so after many warnings against idleness i was allowed to do as i wanted, and mr. edwardes got rid of me, which must have pleased him very much. i do not think that any one else ever upset him so completely as i did, and i have never been able to find out why he disapproved of me to such an extent, unless it was that until i got accustomed to him i thought him funny, and when i think anybody or anything funny i have to laugh. no one else laughed at mr. edwardes except me, and i should not have done so if i could have helped it, but an unintentionally comic don causes a lot of trouble. mr. grace, the senior history don in st. cuthbert's, was more like a very benevolent parent than a tutor. perhaps he was rather old for his work, but he was so extraordinarily peaceful that you could not help liking him, and i had a vague feeling that he was my grandfather. the change from mr. edwardes to him was like going to bed in a choppy sea and waking up in a punt on the cherwell. i can't explain the feeling i had for him, but he seemed to be surrounded by a homely atmosphere, and he reminded me of hot-water bottles and well-aired beds without making me feel stuffy. you worked for him because it struck you as being hopelessly unfair to annoy him if you could help it. he was a most pleasant old gentleman, and a very convenient tutor to have in a summer term. the bradder, however, to whom i had also to read essays, scoffed when i told him that i had two years and a term before my examinations, and generally speaking allowed me to see that he was going to stand no nonsense. if he had been less of a sportsman i should have thought him more inconvenient, for i never found an excuse which he considered a reasonable one, and after i had done two very short essays for him he let me understand that i must do more work if i wanted him to be pleasant. "look here, marten, it won't do," he said to me when i had read my second essay to him, which even surprised me by its early closing. "this could not have taken you a quarter of an hour to write, and you have read it in five minutes." i had tried to lengthen my essay by stopping to discuss any point which might make him talk, but he knew all about that time-worn device, and had told me to finish reading before we discussed anything, and when i had finished there did not seem much to discuss. "it's the summer term, and i read very fast," i said, because he was waiting for me to say something. "don't," he answered; "poor excuses are worse than none. when i began to read history, i wrote telegrams instead of essays, and i tried to make my tutor talk so that he should fill up the time, just as you have done. but i found out in a month that history is not a joke, and that my tutor was not a fool. you have got to read seriously, whatever else you may do; we may as well understand each other from the start." i gathered up my essay slowly, for he had, as he spoke, scattered what there was of it over the table. "it would be better to use a note-book than any odd piece of paper that happens to come your way," he said, and added, "if you are slack about your work, you may end by being slack at other things." "so you have been talking to mr. edwardes about me," i said, and i was annoyed. "perhaps it would be truer to say that mr. edwardes has been talking to me about you," he answered. "you will probably like history very much if you will only give yourself a chance; don't think a fourth is any good to you--or me." "i'm only just through mods," i replied, "you do go at a fearful rate." "you will have to be bustled until you get interested," he answered, "and i will bustle you all right, you can trust me to do that." i expect that the bradder knew that i should not care about being bustled by him, and the result of his conversation with me was that he got a great deal of essay out of me with very little trouble to himself, though i thought that he was mistaken in making me start at such a furious pace, and i asked him, without any effect, if he had ever heard of men being overtrained. although no one expected our eight to make any bumps, i think they astonished everybody by going down four places, and as we were being bumped by colleges which were generally in danger of being bottom of the river, a wholesome feeling spread over most of us that as a joke our rowing was nearly played out. we began to talk about what we would do next year, but jack ward was so disgusted with everything that he suddenly determined that he had wasted nearly two years, and meant to make up for lost time by doing everything with all his might. i thought these terrific resolutions came from a row he had with dennison about cards, a disagreeable row in which dennison said such nasty things that had i been jack, i should have picked him up and dropped him out of the window; but by some extraordinary means jack kept his temper until he told him to shut up, and that ended the whole thing, for dennison knew when it was wise to be silent. i did not think much of jack's resolutions, for he had been doing no work for such a long time and with such perfect success, that a complete change was more than i was able to grasp. every one in st. cuthbert's was supposed to read for honours in some school or other, and jack, having scrambled through pass "mods," had for a year pretended to read law. i never saw him doing it, but he had a most effective way of fooling dons, and, as far as his work was concerned, he never seemed to be worried. when, however, he came to me three weeks before the end of the term, and told me he was going to give up law and read history, i thought he was seeking trouble. "you will have to work if you have anything to do with the bradder," i told him. "for the last ten minutes i have been trying to make you understand that i want to work," he answered, but still i did not believe him. "all your law will be wasted," i said. "i don't know any, so that's all right." "but the dons won't let you change." "i can manage them; the history people won't want me, but the law people will be glad to get rid of me, i have sounded them already." "you will end by reading theology," i said. he gave a great laugh and said he didn't know where he should end, and that all he wanted to do was to work. but he spoke of working as if it was a new sort of game, and i thought his desire to try it would vanish as quickly as it had come, so i was surprised when he tackled the bradder, and persuaded him that history was the only subject in which he could ever take a decent class. without the consent of anybody, he stopped going to the lectures to which he was supposed to go, and came to my rooms at all hours of the day to borrow books and read them. apparently he had become a kind of free-lance, having shaken off his old tutors and not having got any new ones, but he read through a short history of england three times in a week because he said he wanted a good solid ground-work to build upon. perhaps the bradder asked that he might be left alone, for certainly no one bothered him and he bothered nobody with the exception of me. i admit that i found him a very great nuisance, for i had been compelled to read during the last two terms, and i had not been smitten with any enthusiasm for an examination which was in the far distance. in fact i wanted to slack, and i did not see why jack should choose my rooms to work in. the mere sight of him annoyed me; he took his coat off and turned up his shirt-sleeves to read, and whenever i made the slightest noise he told me to be quiet. i impressed upon him most earnestly that he could go anywhere he liked or didn't like, but he had settled upon me, and nothing i did could make him go or lose his temper. after a few days i got quite accustomed to him, and i believe that i should have missed him if he had not come to annoy me, but he showed no signs of slackening off, and i was watching for them every day. we were within a few days of the end of term before i believed that jack had any serious intentions of changing his manner of living, and then he explained the whole thing to me. "i have worked for a solid fortnight," he said to me, "and if i can go on for a fortnight i can go on for two years. i didn't want to explain anything until i knew whether it was any good, for i have never worked before in my life and i didn't know what it was like. my father has suddenly got very sick with me, and says i have got to read or go down altogether; besides i am tired of doing nothing, and there are enough slackers in the college without me. we have got to pull this place together somehow." he threw himself into an arm-chair and picked up _the ordeal of richard feverel_. "george meredith," he said, "i tried him once," and he shook his head. "try him again." "i shan't have time, you are always coming out in unexpected places. i should have thought you would have liked a good sporting novel, i can't understand meredith." "the bradder told me to read this." "the bradder's an idiot; you be careful, or you'll write stuff which the examiners won't trouble to read. an examiner doesn't like any other style except his own." "how do you know?" i asked. "i guess from the look of them, they must get so horribly tired; facts are what i mean to give them, piles of dates and things like that. just let 'em know what i know at once and no rot about it." "you have got to write essays, not answer questions like a sunday-school class," i said, and yawned. "the bradder will have to teach me all about essays, but i am going to stick to plain english, no going round corners for me. i mean to row next year, and i am going to be coached in the vac; if i don't get into the college eight next summer, i----" "aren't you going to do a lot?" i interrupted him by asking. "i have always done a lot; hunting three times a week is a lot when you play footer and cards as well. we will read after dinner for three hours." i yawned again, for i had had very little fun for some time, and i felt as if a little relaxation would do me good. an irish m.p. was coming to speak during that evening about the advantages of home rule, and although i thought home rule meant the disruption of the empire and many other things, i wanted to hear what this man had to say, and to see if anything exciting happened. the bradder had told me that there was a good deal to be said in favour of home rule, but i put him down as a radical and did not take any notice of him. the first thing i can ever remember about politics was my father saying that radicals talked nothing but nonsense, and that had remained with me and was mixed up with the things which i most truly believed. the bradder, however, made me think that radicals were not bound to be hopeless persons. i don't know how he did it, but i think it was by telling me that i was one at heart. i never thought half so badly of them after that. but if what i must apologize for calling my politics were rather wobbly just then, ten thousand bradders could not make me a home ruler, and had i not known that other things happen at political meetings in oxford besides the ordinary programme, i might have been content to stay in college and go on being dull and peaceable. as it was i thought that jack and i had earned something in the way of excitement, and after a good deal of persuasion he started with me, but when we got to the meeting the place was packed with an audience which, from the noise, seemed to consist largely of undergraduates singing "rule britannia." we talked eloquently to the men at the doors, without getting past them. one of them told me that they had already admitted far too many of our kind, and then added that there was no room for anybody else whatever kind he might be, so we went over to bunny langham's rooms, which--for he was not living in college--were opposite the hall in which the m.p. was speaking. there were more than half-a-dozen men in bunny's rooms when we got to them, and i found out that he had been scattering invitations broadcast during the afternoon. a lot of other men came in soon afterwards, but nobody did anything more extraordinary than sing out of tune until the meeting had finished. i was sitting by the window looking down on the people who had been in the hall, and nearly everybody had gone out of st. aldgate's when bunny came up to me and said he thought he should make a short speech. he went away and came back with a horn, which he blew so lustily that in two or three minutes he had collected a small crowd in front of the house. "they are not enough," he said, and he blew on his horn until i should think fifty or sixty people were standing in the street. then he put his head out of the window and shouted, "silence. i will, if you will permit me, say a few words to you on burning questions of the day." the crowd was almost entirely made up of loafers from the town, and they received him with loud cries of approval. "fellow-citizens of oxford," he began, and was told at once to speak up, and asked if his mother knew he was out and other ancient questions, which interrupted but did not discourage him. "fellow-citizens of oxford," he repeated, "who have assembled in your thousands----" his next words were drowned by a rude man, with a blatant voice, telling him that he was a blooming liar. "fellow-citizens and burgesses of oxford, who have assembled in your thousands to hear--" bunny began once more, but the rude man shouted that he was not at a concert, and when he wanted to listen to the same thing over and over again he was not too shy to say so. "i shall have to ask you to remove that gentleman, he is mistaking me for one of his unfortunate family," bunny shouted back, and was told to go on and not mind tom briggs. it was not possible, however, for him to make himself heard, and instead of continuing his speech he and tom briggs talked to each other, until some one behind me threw a banana at tom and knocked his hat off. at the same moment i saw the proctor and his bull-dogs coming down the street, and in a minute we had turned out all the lights in the room and gone up-stairs. there we stayed until we heard the proctor leave the house. "that's a bit of luck," said jack, as we sat down again. "i can't make out what the deuce has happened," bunny answered, "he must have spotted the house." "perhaps he didn't want to catch us; after all we were not doing much," some man, whose experience of proctors must have been limited, said. we got back to the room and heard a tremendous booing in the street, for the crowd, deprived of their fun, were letting the proctor know what they thought of him. "that's splendid," bunny said, "it's a real score if he doesn't send for us in the morning. if he does he will be sick to death with me, i've been progged three times already this term. pull the curtains and let's light up again." "it's about time we went," jack said; "has the crowd gone?" i looked out of the window and told him there were only a few people left in the street, but just as we were going there was a knock at the door and a man came into the room. "halloa, marsden," bunny said; "i am afraid we have been making rather a row in here, perhaps you put a towel round your head and went on reading. didn't you tell me you tied cloths over your ears when you wanted to be quiet?" "it's not much of a joke having rooms in the same house with you," marsden answered, and looked very solemn. "don't say that," bunny answered. "have a drink, i'm generally as quiet as a lamb." marsden sat on the table and refused to drink. "it's no joke being in the same house with you," he said again, and began to laugh. "i'm not going to set fire to the place or blow it up," bunny replied. "but the house becomes infested with proctors." "did you see the 'proggins?'" "he came into my room and progged both carslake and me. he said we were disturbing the peace of the town." "he didn't, did he?" bunny exclaimed, and then went off into such fits of laughter that for some time he could do nothing but cough and choke. "he couldn't have chosen a funnier man. a sneeze is about the biggest row you have ever made in your life. didn't you tell him you had nothing to do with the rag?" he asked at last. "i left you to do that; he wouldn't listen to me, he seemed to be in a hurry to get it over," marsden said. "was he carter of queen's, or the other man?" "carter." "i'll be at queen's at nine o'clock to-morrow, so you and carslake needn't bother to go; carter knows me. i am awfully sorry he has been shoving himself into your rooms; the worst of this place is, there is no privacy, carter just goes where he pleases," and bunny rang the bell and told his servant that he wanted a hansom in the morning at ten minutes to nine. there were only a few of us left in his rooms, but every one said they would be at queen's to meet him, though he told us not to make fools of ourselves. "i asked carter the last time i went to him to let me off a shilling because he had kept my cab waiting, and he fined me double for impertinence. i should think this would cost about two pounds, and i've got about thirty sixpences up-stairs, he shall have all those," he continued. "i'll have some fun for my money, so you fellows had better let me see it through by myself, i made the speech and blew the horn," but as we had all been in the affair we couldn't back out of it because we had been caught. i walked as far as st. cuthbert's with a new college man, who thought we should have to pay more than two pounds. "carter will be so precious sick at being hooted in the street, we shan't get off under a fiver each," he said, and when i got back to college i went up to jack's rooms to wait and see what he thought we should have to pay. i was nearly asleep when jack came in. "phillips says we shall have to pay a fiver each, what do you think?" i said, without turning round, and instead of answering me jack went straight into his bedder and seemed to be washing himself vigorously. "what are you doing?" i shouted, but jack went on washing, so i shut up asking questions. in a few minutes he came back into the room, and stood in front of me with a candle held up in front of his face. his lips were swollen, and there was a great cut, which kept on bleeding, over his right eyebrow. "i look nice, don't i?" he said. "i've had a fight with a man who told me that his name was briggs." by degrees i got the whole tale out of him, but it is no fun trying to talk when a great coal-heaving man has hit you in the mouth with his fist. jack had come home by himself, and as he was turning out of the high by b.n.c. tom briggs, who had followed him all the way, charged into him. then there was a little conversation, and briggs called jack something especially horrid, and gave him a shove at the same time, so jack hit him on the nose. after this there was a rough-and-tumble, until that most inquisitive man carter and his bull-dogs came up and caught jack. what happened to briggs he did not know. "you mustn't tell carter that you were at bunny's," i said, after i had blamed myself, until jack was tired, for having persuaded him to start to that wretched meeting. "that's a trifle compared with this," he answered, and he was right. there was a huge row, and it ended in jack being sent down for the rest of the term. a man, who had been lurking about somewhere, said that he saw jack hit briggs first, which was true as far as it went, but hard luck on jack all the same. bunny wanted to have a procession to the station when jack went away, but he absolutely refused to have any fuss whatever, and altogether took his luck like a sportsman. if i had only waited for him, or never bothered him to go out at all, this would never have happened, and tired as i have often been of myself, i do not think i have ever felt more utterly wretched than i was during the last few days of that term when i, who ought really to have been in jack's place, was still in oxford, and jack was with his very angry people. i went to the warden and told him that jack would never have gone out of college that night if it hadn't been for me, but all he said was that the proctor had taken a serious view of the case, and he would not have anybody in the college brawling in the streets. i also wrote to jack's people and told them that the whole thing was my fault, but his father's answer was very short and disagreeable; he had entirely lost his temper. dennison and his friends made the most of this misfortune, and i suppose it was natural that they should think it a comical finish to jack's attempts at working. for the rest of the term i did not care what happened to anybody or anything. i was thoroughly sick with my luck, and when you are born with a faculty for disobeying rules and offending authorities and have trampled upon your inclinations for a long year without any result except disaster, it is enough to make you think that fighting nature is a perfectly absurd thing to do. it was very fortunate that the term was nearly over, for i had a mad idea that the best way to make up to jack for getting him sent down was to get sent down myself; but the bradder, who knew how foolish i could be, nipped my demonstrations in the bud, and gave me some of the straightest advice i have ever listened to. he was very rude indeed. one of the few good things about this term was that fred batted splendidly, he was not successful afterwards against cambridge, but we had every reason for thinking that they were an exceptionally strong eleven. i bowled faster than ever, and a little straighter than the year before; i was said to be the fastest bowler at oxford, and i heard two men saying in vincent's that their idea of bliss was my bowling on a good wicket. but when i lowered a newspaper and showed myself they pretended that it was a joke. chapter xix the warden and the bradder of all penalties, sending a man down from the 'varsity for a short time seems to me the most unfair. for some people treat the culprit as if he was almost a criminal, while others are glad to see him and aren't in the least annoyed. had i been sent down from oxford i am sure my father would have stormed and told me that i was going to that universal rubbish-heap, called "the dogs," while my mother would have been very hurt and very kind; but i know one man who went home unexpectedly and was told by his father that if he had not been sent down he would have missed the best "shoot" of the year. in some cases the penalty is nothing, and in other cases it is far too heavy. from the little i knew of jack's people i did not expect that they would be as unpleasant as they were, for as far as i could see he had not done anything which was much of a disgrace to anybody. unfortunately, however, he went home at an unlucky moment, for his father was mixed up with the stock exchange, and there was a slump or something equally disagreeable in the city. jack wrote to me: "i have often seen my father in a bad temper, but i have never seen him keep it up for so long before. there is a large bear syndicate formed in the city, and my father is a bull, and fumes like one. i am very useful if he would only see it, because he can work his rage off on me, and that is a great relief to everybody else. but it is no use thinking of what is to happen next; he has told me that i am going to start to canada in a month, and australia in a fortnight, but wherever i go i am to have only £ besides my passage-money--he does the thing thoroughly. the last scheme, announced at breakfast this morning, is that i am going to greece, to a quarry which has something to do with either marble or cement; i didn't listen much, because i shall probably be booked for siberia before night. anywhere but back to oxford is really his idea, and the more often he changes the place the better. meanwhile i flaunt history books before him. i left _taswell langmead_ on the lawn, because it is the fattest book i have got, and it looks so like one of the stock exchange books that i knew he would look at it. he did and growled, but he put it back on the chair, which rather surprised me, for i expected him to launch forth on the uselessness of me reading such things. if i sit tight for a bit and don't get ready to go anywhere, perhaps i shall get back to oxford after all." i knew nothing about the stock exchange, but i sympathized very much with any one who had to live in the same house with a fuming bull. even fred agreed with me that jack was being treated unfairly, and he never spoke about him at all if he could help it. when jack and he had met during the last year at oxford, as they had often, they were so astonishingly polite to each other that had i not known the reason i should have been very amused, but as it was, i thought they were making a great fuss about something quite unimportant. to pretend not to notice a thing which is as clear as daylight is not a part which i can play with any comfort, so jack and fred fidgeted me terribly, but they had got some idea firmly fixed in their heads, with which i was wise enough not to meddle. they were both such friends of mine that i hoped they would see as quickly as possible that there was something very humorous in the way they treated each other. owen took a first in his final schools, and as soon as the list was out he wrote to me and said that he hoped to come up for a fifth year to read for a first in history. this, i thought, was tempting providence, for he had already got two firsts, and he seemed to me to be collecting them as i had once collected birds' eggs. he decided, however, to give up his plan, and accepted a mastership at a school in scotland. i must say that i was relieved at this, for i intended to take two more years before my examinations, and if he had got a first in one year i am sure that i should have heard a very great deal about him, when my father felt unwell or wished to make me feel uncomfortable. i spent most of my second summer vac in france, partly because my mother was not well, and also because an old scheme for improving my french had been revived. when fred and i had gone to oxford there had been some idea of us trying for the indian civil service, but for various reasons this was abandoned, and although fred had determined that he would go back to cliborough as a master if he could manage it, i had drifted through two years without having made up my mind what was to happen to me when i got my degree. the bishop wanted me to be a clergyman, my mother thought that if fred was going to be a school-master there was no reason why i should not be one, and although my father did not say anything he was not the man to see me finish my time at oxford and then sit down to wait for some employment to turn up. it was really no use for me to decide what i should do, for unless i showed an especial craving for some profession i knew that he would settle everything, and as i had two years before me i thought that there was no particular hurry, which is, i suppose, the dangerous state of mind of many undergraduates. i did not understand that my father's wish for me to talk french was part of any definite scheme, and for the life of me i cannot make out why he settled upon my profession and told me nothing about it, but i suppose that unless i ever become a parent there are some things which will puzzle me all my life. "one of the reasons the english are hated on the continent is because they can only speak their own language, and when they are not understood they shout," he said to me, and i am afraid i did not care much what the english were thought of on the continent; at any rate i did not see what i could do to make them more popular. "i intend that you shall at least be able to speak french properly," he went on; "you are not going to stay with us at the hotel, but live with a french family about three miles out of the town." i detested the idea and had to submit to it, but i acknowledge that i enjoyed my visit to france, though i was told that i spent too much time at the hotel. the fact was that my family lived three miles up hill from the town, and on a bicycle i could reach the sea or my people in a few minutes, but after i had bathed i had to think a lot before i started back. i was arrested twice, once for riding furiously and also for not having my name on my bicycle, accidents which my father assured me would never have happened had i been able to talk french fluently, though it was absolutely impossible that i could under any circumstances or in any language have talked as fluently as the policeman who stopped me. my french family were very nice to me, and we got on splendidly together after they discovered that i did not mind them laughing at my pronunciation. after two months, during which i had attacked the language vigorously, nina came from paris to join us. i expected that she would find my accent amusing, but i made a mistake. what my mother had once mentioned to me as her awkward age had been lived through, and after a few days i began to wonder why i had ever found it easy to be irritated with her. if things go well i generally have an attack of thinking them perfect, but all the same nina and i became better friends than we had been since i had left school, and we were together so often that nothing but a promise to talk french to her prevented my people from forbidding me to come near the hotel. on saturday afternoons, however, i stipulated that i should do and talk what i pleased, but unless i went to the casino there was not much to do on my first holiday after nina had arrived; so i persuaded her to come to a concert, have tea on the terrace, and then watch the "petits chevaux." she was ready to do anything, but my mother detested any kind of gambling, and begged me not to take her into the room in which the tables were. i could have imagined the time when to be told that something was not good for her was the surest way to make nina want it, but now she said at once that she would much rather sit on the terrace than stay in a room with a crowd of people, and after tea i left her for a few minutes while i went for a walk through the rooms. there was a crowd round each table, and not being able to see anything i was going back to nina at once when i felt some one touch me on the arm. i turned round quickly for i suspected that my pocket was being picked, though that would not have caused me any serious inconvenience, and before i could remember what i ought not to say i had exclaimed "good heavens," but if people will turn up in utterly unlikely places they ought not to be too critical of the way in which they are greeted. i should as soon have expected to see mr. edwardes at a covent garden ball as the warden in a french casino, and i had an intense and immediate desire to ask him what he was doing there. i suppressed it, however, and only shook him so violently by the hand that he winced perceptibly. "i have been guilty of watching your movements for the last four minutes," he said, as we walked towards the door leading to the terrace. "i observed you as you entered this chamber of horrors, and i was afraid that you were about to give an exhibition of your generosity." "did you think i was going to play?" i asked. "yes, if that is the right expression for an act of madness. there are, if i have observed exactly, eight chances against you, and the fool, for believe me he is a fool, who is fortunate enough to win is paid seven times his stake. the man who tries to make money in that way must be generous and a fool." "the bank must win to pay for the croupiers and keep the place going," i said. "in my opinion there is no acute necessity for the place to be kept going, as you express it. i entertain a hope that if you have ever taken part in that orgie, at which every one with the exception of the croupiers looks greedy and hungry, that you will in the future abstain from it. gambling is the meanest of all vices," he said slowly, and he tapped my arm seven times. he did not seem to be going anywhere in particular, and as i cannot bear anybody tapping at me, i thought nina might help to calm him. so i walked down the terrace and introduced her to him suddenly, for he had a reputation for bolting from strange ladies, and i thought it best to leave nothing to chance. but as soon as he saw nina the cloud disappeared from his face, and his aggressively moral mood changed. in fact i distinctly heard him say "delightful," though i am sure that he did not intend his remark to be audible. he inspected nina as if she was for sale or on show, but he so clearly approved of her that she did not seem to mind him. "won't you sit down?" she said. "only on one condition," he answered. "what is it?" "that you tell me the name of your dressmaker," but before nina could speak he had settled himself beside her, and continued: "you are not only successful in being cool but also in looking cool; now i have ten nieces, delightful girls, but they cannot take exercise without rivalling the colour of a peony. they look what i can only describe to you as full-blown." "but i have not been taking exercise," nina said. "that, i suppose, is true," he replied, and forgot promptly what he had been talking about. after a minute's silence his head began to sink forward, and i was afraid he was beginning to think hard or go to sleep, so i told nina that it was time for us to go back to the hotel; for much as i liked the warden i had no wish to watch over him while he slept on the terrace of the casino, and i thought that he might expect to find me there when he woke up. nina held out her hand to wish him good-bye, but he said that he was coming with us, and while we were walking to the hotel i left him to her, for i was debating whether i had better ask him to meet my father and mother or not. i knew that he had offended a great many people who had come to see him in oxford about their sons, and he was reported to have said that the greatest difficulty in dealing with undergraduates was the parent difficulty. "if i was dictator of oxford it should be a city of refuge for young men, and no father or mother should be allowed to enter it during twenty-four weeks of the year," was one of the things he was supposed to have said, and if my father happened to get him upon that subject i foresaw trouble. but the question settled itself, for my mother was sitting on the verandah in front of the hotel and came down the garden to meet us. i had heard the warden chuckle three times as we had walked up the road, and though i could not imagine how nina was amusing him, i thanked goodness that he seemed to be thinking about ordinary things. "i have the pleasure of knowing your brother," he said as soon as he was introduced; "he and i disagree upon every subject i have ever had the privilege of discussing with him." "i do not think my brother would ever discuss a subject with any one whom he expected to agree with. it would be hardly worth while," my mother answered, and the warden looked at her quickly. "surely the benefit arising from a discussion does not depend wholly, or i may say chiefly, from disagreement upon the subject discussed. a cabinet council, for instance, may conceivably arrive at a satisfactory and at the same time an unanimous conclusion." "my brother would not call that a discussion," my mother answered shortly, and the warden said "ah," which meant, i believe, that however the bishop defined the word discussion, it was useless to discuss anything with ladies. "you will have some tea?" my mother said, as soon as we had reached the verandah. "you will excuse me, my absence from the hotel at which i have taken a room for to-night, has already been too prolonged. you drink tea in france, madam?" "we brought our tea with us." "admirable foresight, but it remains for you to see the water boiling," and then as if he knew that he had hurt my mother's feelings and wished to make some recompense, he continued, "the bishop, madam, is a man for whom i have a most sympathetic regard, neither politics nor pageants divert him from the work he has pledged himself to do; i know of no man more fitted to be a bishop." my mother bowed slightly, and said nothing, and really it was not easy to guess from the warden's tone whether he considered any man fit to be a bishop. "we think differently on many subjects, and on one, i may say, i think with perfect truth, we have differed so widely that a little less self-restraint on the one side or on the other would have brought us to the verge of a very vulgar quarrel. the bishop preaches what is called humanity, he practises humanity, he would have a manufactory--which he would manage on a profit-sharing system--for humanity pills, and make every young man in oxford swallow two of them every morning. but there is another meaning to the word humanity which has been lost sight of in this age of upheaval, it is 'classical learning.' oxford has a duty to perform; it has something to teach in addition to the development of kindly feelings which must be taught at the mother's knee, and grow naturally if they are ever to be effective. we are attacked at oxford by many kinds of outside influence, and you know enough of young men, madam, to realize that there is no influence which appeals to them so strongly as that which is outside, what i must call, constituted authority. the bishop, in short, if i judge him with accuracy, thinks that oxford is the finest playground for the east-end of london which can be imagined by the wit of man. on this point i disagree with him entirely, not from any dislike to the people of the east-end, but from a profound conviction that young men in oxford, if they are to do their work with success, have already more than enough to occupy their minds." he leaned forward in his chair and looked hard at me; he did not apparently expect any answer to his oration, but he had touched on a subject which was near my mother's heart, and i felt so uneasy that i moved from my seat and leaned against one of the posts of the verandah. "don't you exaggerate what my brother wants?" my mother asked. "he knows too well the value of time to wish to waste that of anybody, and he loves oxford." "too well," the warden jerked out, as if he was an automatic arrangement and some one had touched a spring. "i don't think any one could love oxford too well, and i should be sorry if godfrey did not learn something from his life there which could help him to sympathize with other people." i knew that i was bound to be pulled in sooner or later, and i thought of disappearing behind my post and of leaving the warden to say what he liked. "the sympathies of your son are already as wide as those of a charity organization society, and, i venture to say, as misdirected," the warden returned, and seemed to have forgotten that i was standing in front of him, but if he was going to say things about me i decided to stay and hear them. "i find him the most pleasant companion, he has the gift of silence--meredith wrote--'who cannot talk!--but who can?'--he is also amusing, always unconsciously. i have great hopes that he may become a man who will not waste his youth in vain struggles with a ball. had i the power i would banish all balls from england for one short year, the experiment would be entertaining." "it would result in a national dyspepsia," my mother said, laughing. "godfrey would play catch with an orange," nina remarked. the warden looked up and saw me. "an orange bursts," he said. "i must return to my hotel. would you find me a conveyance, one with a coachman as unlike a furious driver as possible?" he asked, and as nina came with me he was left alone with my mother. i don't know what he said during those few minutes, but when we got back i found my mother smiling placidly, though when i had gone away i was certain that she disapproved of the warden most thoroughly. "the warden wishes you to dine with him to-night," she said to me, and without waiting for me to reply she went on to say how sorry my father would be to miss him. the warden began to express regrets at my father's absence, but forgot what he was talking about in the middle of his sentence, and finished up by telling the driver to go very slowly. as he stepped into the vehicle i had found for him, he expressed a fervent hope that it was more robust than it appeared to be. "what a funny old man!" nina exclaimed as soon as he had gone, "and what nonsense he talks. he is a dear, but he does look odd!" "he looks like a gentleman, and is one," my mother replied. "you didn't like him at first," i said to her. "i thought he spoke slightingly of your uncle and that he meant all he said, which of course was stupid of me. he was delightful after you had gone, and talked most kindly and sensibly about you, i wish your father could have heard him." but my father had gone to rouen and was not coming back until ten o'clock, and i am not sure that he would have liked the warden, so perhaps it was as well that they did not meet. my dinner was wearisome, for miss davenport, the warden's sister, was with him, and she talked while i listened. i am sorry to say she was in a very bad temper, and it seemed that the naughty warden had kept her waiting for two hours during the afternoon. she was by no means in love with france, and though i tried to soothe her i only succeeded in making her sarcastic; i thought the warden ought to have protected me, but he had known his sister longer than i had, and probably had forgotten that she could make any one suffer. he took no part in the conversation, and most obviously did not listen to it. my mother was disappointed when i told her about the dinner, but i think that she had expected the warden to give me advice as well as a meal. she had formed the highest opinion of him, and said that he was so wise that he was the only man she knew who could afford to say foolish things. but when my father heard that the foolish things were said about the bishop he did not believe in the folly of them, for he could not forget that my uncle had once played stump cricket for three hours at a stretch. when the time came for us to go back to england i could talk french without putting in one or two english words to fill up every sentence, but i did not think that dover station was the place in which to be told that i must not be satisfied until i could think in french--though what the station at dover is the proper place for, i leave to people who are cleverer than i am. i was so glad to get home again that the idea of thinking in french was quite comical. my father and i were going to shoot together, and when he is shooting he forgets all the little grievances with which he has riddled his life and he is--though it makes me blush to confess it--the best companion in the world. if he could only shoot all the year round i believe that ritualists and radicals would lose their powers of annoying him, and he might even end by admitting that our long-suffering cook makes curry which is fit to eat, and no more generous admission than that could be expected from an anglo-indian. for nearly three weeks we lived in a state of peace and contentment which none of us thought dull, but during the first week of october i had a letter from the bradder in which he said that he was on a walking tour and should be passing near our house. there was only one answer for me to give, but i gave it reluctantly, for though i liked him i thought that if he and my father once started upon politics our calm season would be interrupted abruptly. "does he shoot?" my father asked, and i said that as he was walking for amusement he would probably only stay a few hours. "we can't treat him like that; tell him to stay a week and send for his gun. for the matter of that he can have one of mine. i don't expect he will be able to hit a haystack," was his reply. so i wrote again, and to my surprise the bradder accepted the invitation and appeared a few days afterwards with no marks of the tourist upon him; for there is no mistaking people who are on walking tours, their anxiety to get on stamps itself upon their faces, and their luggage is generally on their backs or in their pockets. he told us that his companion had broken down three days before, and that he had been back to oxford to get his gun. i never remember having seen anybody who looked quite so fit as he did, and my father, who had a kind of general impression that every tutor in oxford was anaemic, seemed to be thoroughly pleased with him. thus i was lulled into a false state of security, for i had intended to warn the bradder not to speak of politics while he was with us, but as every one took a fancy to him at sight i thought that i need not trouble to say anything. there was a lot of speculation about the bradder's shooting, he shot whenever he got the ghost of a chance, but he added more to the noise than to the number of the bag. he tried to persuade my father before he started that he was the worst shot in the world, but he was not believed until he had proved that he had spoken the truth. he was, however, much happier in a bad than in a good place, and he seemed to be perfectly pleased as long as he could see an occasional bird to shoot at. my father said that he was a good sportsman, though had he not liked him he would have called him a rank bad shot. two days passed by successfully, and then the bradder discovered that there was an old abbey near us, and arranged with nina to go over and see it. why in the world any one should want to see an abbey when he could shoot at pheasants, was more than my father could understand. "the abbey will be here the next time you come, let it wait," he said at breakfast. "i should like to see it," the bradder replied; "besides, i never kill anything." "you needn't bother about that." "i have promised miss marten to go, she said she would drive me over," he replied, and any one could see that he didn't mean to shoot. "as you like," my father said, and told me to be ready in ten minutes, though we were not going to start for an hour. on the top of this we had a very disappointing day, and finished up by getting wet through, so at dinner there were many more danger signals flying than were usual in the shooting season. the bradder, however, did not notice them, or if he did he thought them ridiculous, and he amused my mother and nina very much, which under the circumstances was a grievous offence. i found myself in the position of trying to catch my tutor's eye, so that i could warn him to be careful with my father, and although i realized the comedy of the position i did not appreciate it. to make matters worse the bradder would not drink any port, and as it was a wine of which my father was proud, he had to say that he never drank any wine at all before his refusal was accepted. teetotalism in the abstract was a thing which i was encouraged to believe in, but teetotalers, who did not know when to make an exception to general rules, were not approved of at our table when ' port was before them. everything seemed to be going most hopelessly wrong, and i was so anxious to get into the drawing-room that i made several exceedingly fatuous remarks. "you talk like a radical," my father said in answer to one of them; "you want this changed and that changed, you had better go up to hyde park and take a tub with you, if you want to talk nonsense." "i probably shouldn't get two people to listen to me," i replied. "strahan told me yesterday," he went on, "that they are teaching a lot of this radical tomfoolery in oxford now; he says his son has come home stuffed with it, thinks agricultural labourers are underpaid and all the rest. is it true, bradfield?" "i should not say that the feeling at oxford is as out-and-out tory as it was, but the young radical is often a very ridiculous man," the bradder replied, and took a pear off the dish in front of him and began to peel it. "always," my father said. "not always; he may conceivably be very sane indeed." "never." the bradder was quite willing to let the subject drop, but his pear was a mistake and prevented me from suggesting that we should go. "you sympathize with this radical feeling?" my father asked him. "to some extent i share it." "i can't believe it, i really can't--why, the radicals want to ruin the army, spend no money on the navy, make magistrates of tom, dick, and harry, and top everything by letting ireland do what it likes. they are a dangerous crew." "i am not a home-ruler, though every one must admit that our way of managing ireland up to the present has not been fortunate." "but you wouldn't try experiments with a volcano?" "i would try any experiment with ireland which it wants, and which i did not think dangerous," the bradder said, and he seemed to be wholly occupied in trying to say as little as possible without appearing to be ashamed or afraid of his opinions. "so you are a radical, but not a home-ruler. well, from the look of you, i should never have thought it. you can go if you like, godfrey; i should be glad to talk to mr. bradfield for a few minutes; he is the first radical i have ever liked," and he smiled at the bradder, anticipating triumph. i did not go, and i am glad that i stayed, for both of them had to fight hard to keep their tempers, and their struggles fascinated me. from the beginning the bradder made up his mind to treat the duel lightly, but my father pressed him hard, and occasionally provoked a retort which flashed. for more than an hour they talked, and indignant servants, showing heads of expostulation, had to go away unnoticed. but the bradder met explosions with what my father called afterwards rank obstinacy, and the man who explodes is naturally angry if he cannot get some one to explode back at him. "the warden, from what i have heard of him, would not approve of your opinions," my father said at last. "he does not meddle with our politics," the bradder answered. "he's a wise man," my father returned, and the bradder laughed. "the warden talks about politicians as if they were an army of tuft-hunters, hunting for tufts which they will never find. he refuses to speak seriously about politics." "the habit of being amused at our failures or cynical about them is becoming too common." i could not help smiling at the quickness with which the warden had been toppled off his seat of wisdom, and my father pushed his chair back impatiently. "the warden is, i believe, a strong tory, and reserves his contempt for what he calls 'modern politicians.'" "i said he was a wise man," my father replied, and the warden was reinstated. "he is certainly," the bradder answered, as we went into the drawing-room. during the next day i heard from nina that the bradder had been denounced as a very dangerous man, all the more dangerous because he was so attractive. "father wants him to go," she said. "he will have to go soon, because term begins in a few days," i answered. "but why shouldn't a man be a liberal if he wants to be? we are about a hundred years behind the times down here." "and had better stay there if we want peace," i added. "are you a liberal?" "goodness knows." "i like a man who knows what he is." "you mean you like the bradder; why not say so?" "because i meant nothing of the kind. we are going to walk over to chipping norbury, if you will come with us." "i can't. i have promised to call on mrs. faulkner, who won't see me." "mrs. faulkner has been rude to mother, and has behaved very foolishly," nina said, in a way which she considered impressive and i thought humorous. so the bradder and nina went to chipping norbury without me, and he stayed for three more days, by which time even my father did not want him to go, though he talked to my mother about him as one of those misguided young men who want england to stand on its head just to see what it would look like. i found out afterwards that the bradder described my father to some one as a mixture of cayenne pepper and kindness, and, since there was no harm in it, i passed it on. "i won't have people making up these things about me," he said, but he chuckled, and i am sure he liked the cayenne pepper part of the mixture. chapter xx the hedonists fred foster's people came back from india during the summer, and he spent all the vac with them, though i tried to make him come to us for the shooting. he had, however, got an idea that nina did not want him, and nothing i could do was successful in removing it. i told him that nina had been greatly improved by paris; i did not like the expression, but i did not see why he should think it ridiculous. still, if he meant to be obstinate it was no use wasting time in writing letters at which he gibed, so i left him alone. jack ward managed to appease his father, and having done it he set out on a campaign which for thoroughness beat anything i have ever discovered. he went off at the end of july to stay with a tutor who coached him in history and rowing, and he stayed with him until the oxford term began. the tutor was a rowing blue who did not, from jack's account of him, mind how little work his pupils did as long as they were ready to go on the river, but jack assured me that he had read for four or five hours every day. to start with a history coach two years before his schools struck me as being magnificent, but jack would not hear a word against his way of spending the vac. "he may not know much history," he said to me when we got back to oxford, "but he's a rare good sort, and he says i'm a natural oar. besides, he's a sportsman." "what's that?" i asked, for i used the word "sportsman" to mean so many things. "he doesn't bother people; you can play cards if you like, and he has a billiard table. he is a nailer at cork pool." "is he?" i said, and asked no more about him, for i have a horror of nailers at any sort of pool, having once been hopelessly fleeced by some of them. "i won a pot," jack went on gaily, "in the scratch fours at wallhead regatta--i rowed in two regattas. not so bad; and now i've got to go down to the river every day and be coached by men who don't know the difference between an oar and a barge pole. well, it's all part of the game." "what's the game?" i asked. "look here, godfrey, something's happened to you. you've gone stupid; it's _your_ game. to buck st. cuthbert's up, get rid of these confounded slackers, squash them flat, and we are going to do it, you see if we don't. dennison was drunk last night or pretended to be, and he and his gang invaded a lot of freshers and then asked them all to breakfast. that crowd are no more use to a college than a headache. fancy coming to oxford to be ragged by dennison!" "it does seem rather futile." "futile!" jack exclaimed scornfully, and then proceeded to say what he called it; "but if you have given up caring what happens i shall chuck up the whole thing," he concluded. "i have not given up caring, but i have tried once and got laughed at for my trouble. i don't believe you can squash men like dennison when they once get into a college; they are like black beetles, and you can't get rid of them unless you kill them." "we can try," jack said. "i tried, and most men thought me a fool. the only thing to do is to leave them alone; but the worst of it is that we can't help meeting dennison at dinners and things. he smiled on me the other day as if i was his best friend." "he didn't smile at me." "i think he hates you; i can't get properly hated, when i try to show dennison i loathe him he smiles. there's something wrong with me somewhere." "you are too rottenly good-natured." "i never thought of that," i said. "that's it," jack declared; "i saw lambert hitting you on the back in the quad this morning." "i told him that if he did it again i should throw stubbs' charters at his head," i replied in self-defence. "but, don't you see, lambert would never hit me on the back. he is one of the most gorgeous slopers we have got, and twangs his banjo for dennison to sing what they call erotic ballads. you've not got enough dignity." "steady on," i said, for with too much of one thing and not enough of another i was beginning to think that it was about time for him to discover something of which i had the proper amount. "don't get angry," he returned, "i only meant to explain why your shot to buck the college up failed. you're too popular, that's it." i spoke plainly to him. "it's no use talking like that," he went on; "say you'll help me, and we'll have a go at squashing this ragging lot. it wouldn't matter so much if they could do anything decently, but they are the very men who ought to go and bury themselves because they won't try to do anything. let us do something first and then have a good wholesome rag, but for heaven's sake let us shut up until we have done it." jack had only just left my rooms when, as if to prove what he had said, lambert strolled in and asked me if i would let him have lunch with me. my table-cloth was laid and i couldn't tell him that i was lunching out, so i told him that murray was coming. he replied that he liked murray, and since that had failed i said that i was going to play footer and had very little time, but he answered that he would not be able to stay for more than half-an-hour. meals with lambert were apt to get less simple as they went on, for he had a habit of saying that he wanted nothing and then of demanding port with his cheese and liqueurs to save him from indigestion, but i could not get rid of him, so apart from making up my mind that his luncheon should be as short as possible, i left him alone. he read the paper for a few minutes and then asked me if i did not like his waistcoat. it looked to me like some new kind of puzzle, so i asked him if he had the answer in his pocket, but he was looking at it thoughtfully and did not answer. "nice shade, isn't it?" he said presently. i thought that there was more glare than shade about it and told him so. "it's unique," he declared, and at last i was able to agree with him. "have you called on that man thornton?" he asked, and stood up so that he could see his waistcoat and himself in the glass. "i never call on anybody. i have had a lot of freshers to meals, but i don't know thornton; he is supposed to be cracked, isn't he?" "of course he is. we've got a splendid rag on. i thought of it, and dennison is going to work it out. do you think this coat fits properly in the back? i met collier this morning and he swore it didn't." "what's the rag?" i asked. clarkson came in with a message from murray to say that he could not come to luncheon. "that's a good job," lambert remarked. "i thought you liked murray," i answered. "he would not have cared about our rag. i don't suppose collier knows when a coat fits, he's so fat that a petticoat would suit him better than a pair of trousers." "here's lunch," i said, and as soon as i had got him away from the spot where he could examine his clothes, i asked again what was going to happen. "thornton is absolutely green, dennison will be able to do exactly what he likes with him." "poor brute." "i can never make out why you pretend to hate dennison, he wouldn't mind being friends with you; besides, it makes things very disagreeable for me." "i don't pretend anything," i said. "at any rate it's very stupid of you; you are both mohocks, and ought to be friends." i thought he had come on a peace mission, so, to prevent waste of time, i said what i thought of dennison. "you make a mistake about him altogether," he said. "got any port?" "you'll get as fat as collier if you aren't careful, and it wouldn't suit you a bit," i replied, and stayed in my chair. "port doesn't make people fat," but he spoke doubtfully. "you know best, but i should advise you to be careful. what's the rag?" he shot his cuffs down and stroked his upper lip, as he always did when he was going to say anything which he thought interesting. "dennison is getting it up, which means that it will be jolly well done. he has found out that thornton knows nothing, so he is teaching him a lot. to begin with, he has invented a society called 'the hedonists,' which is supposed to get pleasure out of anything extraordinary, and he has filled up thornton with the idea that he is the very man to be president if we can get him elected." "does he believe all that?" "he believes it all right; dennison is splendid at that sort of thing. but we must make some opposition, or thornton might think it was too easy a job, so we are getting webb to stand against thornton, and dennison and i want you to propose him. we thought it would be a chance to show that you didn't mean all that rot you talked about us last year." "i meant every word of it," i replied, but lambert shook his head. "really you didn't," he said. "dennison declares that you hate smugs and prigs and the sort of men who wear red ties and baggy trousers. besides, you have fair rows with the dons yourself. you are made to enjoy yourself; that's all about it, and it is time some benefactor told you so." "i shan't have anything to do with this rag; it seems to be playing a pretty low-down game on a fresher, and if i can stop it i shall. tell dennison that from me," i replied. lambert got up and put his fingers into the pockets of his waistcoat. "don't be a fool, marten," he said sadly, "if you had thought of this yourself you would have been delighted with the idea; it's so funny." "ask jack ward to help you." "ward! between ourselves dennison and i think that ward is rather a bounder." "i'll tell him; he will be glad to hear it." "you make me ill; can't you see that this is too good to miss?" "you'd better leave this wretched lunatic alone; but if you stand there talking until you spoil the pockets of your waistcoat i shan't help you." he took his fingers from his pockets and rearranged his tie. "you disappoint me greatly," he said, and strode out of the room. our footer match that afternoon was against oriel, who play soccer better than rugger, so we beat them without much trouble. fred didn't play for them, because the captain of the 'varsity team objected to his team playing in college matches, but he watched the game and came back to tea with me afterwards. i wanted to give him a cheque for the fifty pounds i still owed him, for i had just got my year's allowance, and i thought i ought to pay him. but he would not listen to what i said, and only tore up my cheque when i gave it to him. "it's no use," he said, "you will only be short at the end of the year." that, i knew, was the truth, for economy was a thing which evaded me, however zealously i pursued it. "but i hate owing you money," i said, "and by the end of the year something may have happened." he only laughed, and told me that if i couldn't borrow money, which he did not want, from him, i must be a fool, and before i could say any more jack ward appeared. fred and he did not seem to be very pleased to see each other again, and since they always got on my nerves i went into my bedder to finish dressing. "been staying with godfrey this vac?" i heard jack ask. "no; have you?" fred answered. "rather not," jack said; "i've had no time to stay with anybody. i'm trying to become a decent oar, and reading history--it simply takes all the time i've got. i rowed a bit at school, but have never touched an oar for two years until last july." "it's rather a grind, isn't it?" fred said; but from that moment he seemed to change his opinion of jack, and if i could be a fool about some things i feel quite certain that fred had been bothering his head about nothing for a very long time, which was not very sensible of him. i don't believe that jack ever understood why fred disliked him, and after he had pulled nina out of the river the second time, i think he began to regard her solely as a safe and easy way to a humane society's medal. if fred would only have believed that there are some things which cannot stand repetition, i should have been saved a lot of trouble. when i went back to my sitter i found that the blight which had always settled upon them when they were together was disappearing quickly. they were talking quite amiably, and although i should have been glad to have said something to show that i noticed the change, i expect that it was prudent of me to be silent. for the first time, as far as i could remember, we met without wondering how soon we could separate, and i had the sort of feeling which i should think a great-grandfather must have when he is celebrating his ninetieth birthday in the presence of his not too numerous descendants. i just sat and felt placid for some time, until i woke up and told fred that we were supposed to have a mad fresher in college. "you are always getting hold of freaks," he answered, and i asked him what he meant. "you've got about half-a-dozen men here whose names look as if they have been turned hind-before; st. cuthbert's has always been a home for a peculiar brand of potentate." "potentate!" i said scornfully; "besides, colour is not everything." "prince, if you like." but i knew that he was trying to draw me on, so i said nothing. to hear me in defence of my own college was, i am sorry to say, a great pleasure to him. "do you know how this report of thornton being mad began?" jack asked. "i'm rather keen on this, and believe it can be made into a much better rag than lambert and dennison think. it may be a chance to squash them altogether." "lambert has been trying to persuade me to help," i said. "i told him i would have nothing to do with his blessed rag." "the best of the whole thing is that i don't believe thornton is a lunatic. collier says he isn't, and both learoyd and murray say he's not mad, but awfully clever or a humorist." "murray!" i exclaimed, but jack was losing the power to astonish me very much. "he's all right, i met him in learoyd's room," jack said, and began to laugh. "so thornton isn't mad after all, and you needn't talk about freaks," i told fred. "do you mind hearing about this?" jack asked him; "it will be splendid if it only comes off. it's like this: lambert and dennison are always looking out for freaks"--i wished he would not give fred such chances to grin at me--"and thornton's hair sticks up on end, and he never seems to know what he is going to do next. murray told me that he is like a very good pianist he met once, except that he can't play the piano. at any rate he's odd, and that was the reason why dennison asked him to lunch. and lambert, do you know him?" fred shook his head. "he is the kind of man who is built for processions and platforms and lord mayors' shows," jack explained; "he's gorgeous altogether." "i saw him at your smoker," fred said. "he's one of the sights of the place, and he began to talk to thornton about champagne." "he always talks about clothes or wine," i put in. "thornton pretended--at least, i'll bet he pretended--to know nothing about champagne. so lambert told him the best brand was omar khayyam of ' , and that by a stroke of luck it could still be got at a place in the high. they thought thornton swallowed that all right, so dennison told him that if he couldn't get omar khayyam he must get some rosbach of ' . after that they asked what sort of fly he used for quail; of course the man must have been simply too sick of them to say anything." "lambert never told me anything about the champagne," i said. "i expect that was because he and dennison nearly had a row about it; he swore that he thought about omar khayyam, and dennison swore that he did--a rotten sort of thing to quarrel about, anyway. i never heard of the man until yesterday. i've often heard of rosbach," he added. "what's going to happen now?" fred asked, and from some cause or other he was shaking with laughter. jack told him about the hedonists, and finished up by saying that he must go to see thornton. "what's the good of that?" i asked. "i want to see if he isn't having a huge joke all to himself; if he is we may as well help him with it." as soon as fred had gone away jack persuaded me to go with him and call on thornton. he had got hold of a scheme which murray and learoyd had started, and as its object seemed to be to score off dennison i was not going to be out of it. we found thornton sitting in an arm-chair with his feet on the mantelpiece, and jack seeing that he was alone sported the oak so that we could not be interrupted. "i should think," thornton said, as he pushed his chair back, "that i must have had over thirty men in here to-day. there were seventeen before twelve o'clock. i am thinking of putting a visitors' book in the passage, so that they can write their names and go away. are you going to back me up to-morrow night?" he asked jack. "they have persuaded you to stand?" "dennison says it would be such a bad thing for the college if this man webb got in. of course it is a great honour for a fresher, but i am used to speaking; we have a debating society at home." he spoke as if the whole thing was not in the least important, and ran his fingers through his hair until it stood straight up on end. it was the sort of hair which looked like stubble. jack was so discouraged that he did not know what to say, so i asked thornton if he expected to be elected. "there doesn't seem to be any doubt about that; there are only about thirty members, and quite half of them have promised to support me. webb of course is better known, but in some cases it does no harm to keep oneself in the background until the last moment. then i shall speak." he seemed to think that his speech would settle everything completely. i wandered round the room waiting for jack to bring forward his scheme if he could remember it, but he was sitting on the table sucking at a pipe which had no tobacco in it, so i drifted over to a book-case, and nearly the first book i saw was an edition of _omar khayyam_. this surprised me so much that i turned round to see if thornton really looked like a lunatic, but i got no satisfaction from him, for i had once seen a man who might have been his brother, and then i had been playing cricket against an asylum. he was lying back in his chair gazing at the ceiling, and i pulled _omar khayyam_ out of the case and put it on the table for jack to see. then i sat down and waited for results, but i had to make no end of signs before he would take any notice of the book, for he was in such a state of despondency that i believe he thought i was trying to talk on my fingers. at last his eye fell on the book, and after i had nodded furiously at him, he jumped off the table and stood in front of thornton. "you read _omar khayyam_?" he said, holding the book in his hand. thornton stopped staring at the ceiling and sat forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "yes," he answered; "at least, i used to until i knew it by heart." "he's a good brand of champagne," jack went on. "are you a friend of dennison's?" thornton asked, and there was a kind of hunted look in his eyes. "i'm not," i hastened to tell him, and at that moment i looked at my watch and discovered that i had already kept the bradder waiting for ten minutes, so i had to go just as things were becoming interesting. jack assured me afterwards that thornton was not mad. "but," he added, "he's very odd, and i believe he's in a mortal terror that, unless he goes on pretending to be a fool, these men will do something much worse to him than make him president of a society which doesn't exist. so i've put murray to speak to him; this will be the talk of the 'varsity, and i don't see what good there is in keeping prize idiots. i have told him to go on playing up to dennison for a bit, and then we would help him." i did not think, however, that it would be very easy to save thornton, and when collier and i went to the meeting of the hedonists on the following evening we agreed that whether he was mad or only very simple, he was sure to be in for a bad time. although dennison had moved into some of the biggest rooms in college, they were crowded when we got to them, and it was very difficult to get collier inside the door. dennison and a few other men were sitting at a table at the far end of the room, and just as we arrived a fourth-year man got up to speak. i suppose that his business was to explain why the hedonists existed. at any rate, he said that it was his duty before he, as the out-going president, broke his wand of office to remind the society that it existed for two definite objects--the pursuit of pleasure, and the suppression of vulgarity. he then went on to state that mr. wilkins, formerly of st. cuthbert's, had kindly consented to give an account of his travels in central africa. "formerly of st. cuthbert's," described wilkins correctly, for he had been sent down after one term, and since then had been living an alcoholic existence in a farm-house a few miles outside oxford. his appearance was comical, but he was really a dreadful barbarian, who thought that it was better to gain notoriety as a hard drinker than to be forgotten entirely. he began by telling us that he had never been to central africa, and hoped sincerely that he never should go. he also told us that the reason why he was addressing the society was a rumour that his aunt had met several african explorers at dinner, but he wished to say that she was no more of a lion-hunter than he was. in this way he strove desperately to be amusing, but the struggle was very painful, and i was glad when he had finished. the president then broke his wand of office, which for some obscure reason was a bulrush painted white, and thornton and webb, who had been sitting behind the table, were put up for election and called upon to speak. webb developed a stammer, and although he had his speech written on his shirt-cuff, no one could hear what he said. he was, however, received with a lot of applause, so that thornton might think the election was genuine; dennison had certainly packed the meeting with great care. thornton's speech was, in its way, almost too amusing, for i found it very hard to believe that any one who was not more or less mad could possibly make it. he spoke at a tremendous pace, sometimes talking utter nonsense, and then as if by chance saying something almost sensible. voting-papers were given to twenty-five picked men after he had finished, and thornton was elected president by fourteen votes to eleven. the meeting finished by thornton thanking everybody in a voice which sounded tearful, and then he announced that the annual dinner of the hedonists would be held at the sceptre on the following friday evening, at which the ceremonies of inauguration would be held, and he would be the only guest of the society in accordance with its ancient and honourable traditions. "don't you think he is mad?" i said to jack as i walked across the quad with him. "the only danger is that they may find out that he is rotting the whole lot of them. he overdid the thing to-night. come and see murray." we found murray waiting to hear what had happened at the meeting, and from the account we gave him he said that it could not have gone off more successfully. "if you think thornton mad when you know that he isn't, there is no reason for dennison to change his mind. besides, these men are quite certain that he is cracked, and as long as we are careful they won't suspect anything." "we shall have to be most tremendously careful," jack said, and he seemed to find the prospect oppressive. "i'll manage thornton," murray continued, "and what you men have got to do is to get asked to this dinner. we shall have to take some others into this." we sat down and chose several men who disliked the dennison gang, and who could be trusted not to give our scheme away by talking about it, and during the next few days we had to work hard. dennison and lambert, however, were so confident that this dinner was going to be the finest rag ever held in oxford that they did not mind who came to it. collier got several invitations for us, because he had a nice solid way of sitting down in a man's rooms and waiting until he was given what he wanted; but apart from jack it was not difficult for us to get to the sceptre, and at last even jack was invited. murray said that his part was to prepare thornton, and he refused to go to the dinner, because dennison might wonder why he wanted to be there. i thought that murray carried caution to extremes. i should think that there were nearly forty men at this function; but the only guest was thornton, so he began by scoring something. it was an elaborate affair; dennison as secretary of the hedonists, and two or three men who called themselves ex-presidents, wore enormous badges, and thornton's shirt was covered with orders and decorations which were supposed to have been worn by eighty-eight consecutive presidents. how any one who was sane could possibly consent to be made such a fool puzzled me altogether, and it required all jack's assurances to make me believe that we should not be scored off all along the line. after the dinner was finished dennison got up to introduce the president of the year, but all he did was to give a short biography of thornton, which for impudence was simply terrific. everything had gone so well up to then that i suppose he could not keep himself in hand any longer; but as he was bounder enough to pull thornton's people into his speech, he succeeded in disgusting several men who had been helping him in the rag. he finished up by saying that thornton would give his inaugural address, and that afterwards the historic ceremonies of the hedonists would be performed. a man with a voice which was a mixture of a street hawker's and a parish clerk's stood up and chanted, "i call upon mr. edward noel kenneth thornton to put on the purple presidential cap and to deliver his inaugural address to this ancient and historic society." the cap, which had a long black tassel, was then handed to thornton, and he put it on amidst tremendous applause. it made him look more ridiculous than ever, but he seemed to be perfectly calm when he got up and bowed solemnly in every direction. "mr. ex-presidents and fellow-members of this justly-celebrated hedonist society," he began, and every word he said could be heard plainly, "we are here to-night in obedience to custom and in pursuit of pleasure. custom is one thing and pleasure is another, but we are fortunate in belonging to a society which makes its customs pleasant, and which has such skilled hands to guide its pleasures that the word customary fails entirely to describe them." he paused for a moment, and a man near me asked what he was talking about, but webb answered quickly that he was a hopeless madman, and that the ceremonies would be the real joke. "that i, a freshman," he continued, "should be elected president of this society fills me with gratitude and even dismay, for i fear that the duties of so distinguished an office will be but inadequately performed during the coming year." loud cries of "no" followed this remark, and he went on, "you are good enough to disagree with me, and perhaps the ceremonies connected with my office may help me to fulfil my duties. i will tell you what those ceremonies are." dennison tried to stop him, but he was speaking quickly and took no notice of the interruption. "after my address has been given i put on my robes of office and ride on a mule from here to st. cuthbert's; i am to be accompanied by the band of the society, and attended by six men who will carry syphons of apollinaris water and prevent my robes from being soiled by the dust of the streets. had i known before i came here that so much honour was about to be showered upon me i do not think that i should have considered myself worthy of being your president. i forgot to say that i am provided with an umbrella." i looked at dennison, and he did not seem to be feeling very comfortable; thornton, however, had kept up the _rôle_ of a madman thoroughly, and had spoken of the ceremonies as if he was quite prepared to carry them out. some men were shouting with laughter, but jack was almost pale with anxiety, and whispered to me that he was afraid thornton would get flurried and finish his speech too soon. as soon as the laughter had stopped he went on speaking, and although he looked terribly pale and bothered, he was never at a loss for words. "i am, i have been told, the eighty-ninth man to fill this important office, and when i think of my predecessors, some of whom have doubtless passed away, i am filled with a sense of my unfitness for the post which i fill. the whole fate of this society depends upon its president; without him to guide the members in their pursuit of pleasure they would be left to drift into undignified amusements, and might even end by taking such absurd things as degrees. at all cost we must avoid banality." as if in the excitement of the moment, he swept his hands over his head and knocked off his cap. "however, my fellow hedonists, i think i may say that your last president has entered earnestly into the spirit of this society. its aim, you remember, is pleasure--not any vulgar or ordinary pleasure, but refined and exclusive amusement--that is written in the rules of the society as they were given to me, and i need not remind those who are present to-night that it is their duty to obey them." he rested his right hand on his shirt, and continued quickly, "i, at any rate, have obeyed them to the letter. i have, if i may say so, got more amusement out of this evening than i have ever had in my life, and as your eighty-ninth president i declare this magnificent society at an end." dennison, lambert, and one or two others jumped up, but thornton told them loudly not to interrupt him, and several of us shouted for him to go on with his speech. "i have had an exceedingly good dinner, and my last word must be one of sympathy with mr. dennison, who, thinking that i was a bigger fool than he was, has invented a society of which, i am sure you will all acknowledge, he is the only man worthy to be president. i hope that you will see that he performs the ceremonies which he has arranged for me." as he finished he took off all his badges and tossed them across the table to dennison. there was a good deal of noise during the concluding sentences of his speech, but the so-called hedonists were so astonished that they did nothing, and thornton very prudently did not wait to see what would happen next. dennison was in a miserable state because he was violently angry and trying to grin, and before the general hubbub had stopped, two men out of our eight, who had never forgiven him for laughing at their rowing, picked him up and carried him out of the room. in a minute dennison, with the purple cap on his head, was sitting on the donkey, and a procession had started to st. cuthbert's. when we got back to college we succeeded in taking possession of the porter who answered our knocks, and in getting both the moke and dennison into the quad. i was so engaged with the porter that i did not see whether dennison entered in state, but at any rate he had to ride round the quad two or three times, and crowds of men were there to see him do it. finally, the subby and the bradder appeared, and gave orders that the donkey should leave the college; so as soon as dennison had dismounted, his steed was handed over to its owner, who was waiting in the street. then some of us paid a call on the porter to see if he could develop a bad memory for faces, but the only thing we found out from him was that his temper was bad, and that we had known before. as i went back to my rooms i met lambert, who drew himself up in front of me as if he was on parade. "don't think," he said, "that you have heard the last of this." "we shall never hear the last of it," i answered, "we know that you played this dirty trick." "you can know what you please," i said. "i told you about thornton, and then you prepare this behind our backs." "the whole college, and nearly the whole 'varsity knew about thornton, so you needn't talk such rot to me. crowds of out-college men were here to see him come in to-night." "you arranged the whole thing." "you may think whatever you like," i replied; and he strode away with a warning that i had better look out for myself. chapter xxi one word too many the collapse of the hedonists placed me in a very curious position, for by some freak of fortune an idea spread through the 'varsity that i had been responsible for it, and whenever i went to vincent's i was always button-holed by men who asked me to tell them what had happened. it was almost as bad as nina falling into the "cher," for a tale thirty times told is as flavourless as sauce kept in an uncorked bottle. i could not say that murray was the man to explain the whole thing, for he was most extraordinarily anxious that his name should not be mentioned. i thought that he carried discretion beyond the bounds of decency, but jack said that if it had not been for him we should never have made a fool of dennison, and this was so far true that i stopped myself from making one or two forcible remarks. the immediate result of our procession was that a great many people seemed to be incoherently angry. i had interviews with both the warden and the subby, and i am sorry to say that our porter had told them that i had hit him in the ribs. i had done nothing of the kind, but it was necessary that he should be taken for a short walk, and i did put my arm through his and keep myself between him and the donkey until it was safely in the quad. i am sure that the warden understood that i would not hit any one in the ribs, and i think his annoyance was due chiefly to the fact that some one had told a reporter a lot of things which were not true, and there were accounts of the hedonists in some of the london papers. but the fact of a donkey being in our quad had got on the subby's nerves, and he gated me for a month without listening to what i had to say. he also told me that i ought to consider myself very lucky not to be sent down for the term. several other men, including dennison, were gated for a fortnight, and i had great difficulty in keeping jack from going to the subby, to ask him if he would not do something to him. it was very silly of jack to think of pushing himself into this row, but instead of thanking his stars that he had not been seen, he was furious with me when i told him to keep away from the subby; and a lot of other men in st. cuthbert's who would have been glad to help in squashing dennison, were angry because they had never been told of our plans. collier, who had not been gated, told me by way of comfort that virtue is its own reward, but if this is true, i really think that virtue is badly handicapped, and that those who practise it should get something more substantial to satisfy them. i began to think that if ever there was another attempt to do anything for the college i should be too busy to take any part in it. there was, however, one thing which cheered me during these days of bad temper, and that was a report that dennison and lambert were vowing vengeance upon me. i hoped most sincerely that they would try to do something, for i should have received them with pleasure. but their threats never came to anything, for as the days passed by and every one knew how completely they had been scored off, their desire for revenge seemed to wane. ridicule smothered them, and try as they would to live it down, their influence, as far as the college was concerned, disappeared entirely. some of the set pulled themselves up and became more or less silent, while others continued to shriek at night, and to go to the theatre for the purpose of making a row, which seems to me to be nearly the end of all things. in a week the hedonists were almost forgotten, and when the storm had blown over, murray was not so anxious that i should have all the credit of having caused it. but by that time no one cared to know who had thought of preparing thornton for the dinner, and murray treated me as if i had robbed him of something. i think he must have been working too hard, or suffering from some secret illness, for i had already told a hundred men that it was not in me to make a plot of any kind, and that if i had been responsible for this one it would never have been successful. murray's indignation came too late to have any effect, and as i thought he was quite unreasonable i made no attempt to pacify him. after things had settled down again no one could help seeing that the fall of dennison and his friends had done no end of good to the college. the men who can be only described as absolute slackers do not often get the chance of having any influence in a college, but for some reason or other dennison had become the fashion among a certain set in st. cuthbert's, and if we were ever to do anything properly again it was time for the fashion to change. there are many ways of making yourself conspicuous in oxford, and dennison chose the one which the majority of men never have been able to put up with. i think st. cuthbert's during my first two years had most unusually bad luck; we were suffering, like the agricultural interest, from years of depression, and we tobogganed down the hill instead of trying to pull ourselves to the top of it again. i suppose other colleges have their troubles, but while i was at oxford no college had such a desperate struggle as st. cuthbert's. my interviews with the bradder during the first two or three weeks of this term were most strictly business-like. i was afraid that he would speak to me of the hedonists, and as i had no intention of saying a word to him about them i never stayed with him longer than i could possibly help. dons, however, find out things without asking undergraduates, and the man who imagines that they are not troubling themselves about him is in danger of having rather a rude awakening, if he happens to be doing things which do not please them. our dons must have known all about dennison, and i believe they fixed their eyes most steadfastly upon him. at any rate, his father, who was a barrister, must have heard something, because he paid a surprise visit to oxford. there is something horribly mean about surprise visits, whatever information may be got from them, and for the first time in my life i felt a little sympathy for dennison. whether his father thought this visit successful or not i do not know, but he certainly found out a lot in a short time and came to a very definite decision. he called on dennison at ten o'clock and found him sleeping, he called again at twelve o'clock with the same result; at one o'clock he discovered him sitting at breakfast in his dressing-gown. lambert was unfortunate enough to hear some of the interview which followed, and he said that dennison's defence was very clever, but that he broke down under cross-examination. "i have never seen such a man as old dennison," i heard lambert telling some one in the common-room; "he looked like a piece of marble, and when i went in and wanted to bolt he treated me as if i was an office-boy, and said that as he believed i was a particular friend of his son's it would do me good to stay. the worst of it was that dennison wasn't very well, and was having a pick-me-up with his brekker. he wasn't in bed until four this morning, so it's no wonder he didn't look very fit." on the following afternoon dennison left oxford; he was not sent down by the dons, but had to go for the simple reason that his father said he would not let him stay any longer. his friends took him down to the station, and there was a procession of cabs and a noise, but i am sure that there was a feeling of relief in the college when he had gone. jack and i told each other that we were sorry that his end had come so suddenly, although if any one had asked me what i meant, i am sure that i could not have given any explanation. it is not very hard to guess what would have happened to him if his father had not acted as he did, and if you have to leave oxford abruptly i should think the best way is to be hurried off by your people; it must save so many explanations when you get home. what happened to dennison i cannot say; somebody said that he was going round the world or on to the stock exchange, but lambert denied both these reports, and declared that he had reformed so violently that he had become a teetotaler and intended to wear a blue riband in his button-hole. i doubted the blue riband part of the story, and if dennison ever wore one i think it would only be on boat-race day, for it takes a tremendous lot of courage to wear a badge of any kind. after dennison had disappeared, jack and i saw the bradder nearly every day. his keenness on the college increased instead of wearing off with time, and he seemed to be exactly the right kind of man to be a don. his energy was really terrific, and i received more goads than i could endure conveniently, so i passed some of them on to jack and chose those which i liked the least, not, i am afraid, the ones which jack might be inclined to receive with patience. the bradder persuaded me to join both a shakespearian and a browning society, and as i could not plunge into such things by myself i dragged jack with me. the shakespearian society was pleasant enough, but after two meetings of the browningites jack said flatly that he would not go again. some of the browning men objected to the windows being opened, and it is very difficult to keep awake in a stuffy room when you have been taking hard exercise in the afternoon. jack, at any rate, snored so loudly at the second meeting that he shocked the president, and when he woke up he interrupted a discussion by giving a very fluent lecture on the advantages of ventilation. i expect that he would have been turned out of the society if he had not resigned, and i ought not to have dragged him into it, for he was so violently bored by the whole thing that he declared he must have a little pleasure to make him forget all about it. "something in the open air," he said to me, when he came to my rooms on the morning after he had snored, and he looked at a volume of _stubbs' constitutional history_ as if he was very tired of it. i was also feeling rather dull, for i had already got through a fortnight of my gating, and to be kept in college after nine o'clock night after night is not very exciting. "a little change is what we want," jack went on, as i said nothing. "i can't do much," i answered; "i'm gated and you have got to row." "i've got a day off to-morrow; the stroke of my boat has to go to town and bow's ill." "why not have a day's hunting?" i asked. "there is a little race-meeting down below reading; you pulled me into that browning thing and it is only fair for you to come to this." "but i shan't be back in time." "it's only about twenty miles beyond reading, and there's no footer match, because i've looked to see. let's get bunny langham and have a rest, it will do us all no end of good. bunny is going in for politics--his father was president of the union, and he has got to be, if he can. i should think that there are more presidents of things in oxford than any other place in the world, unless it's cambridge; but bunny will stick some of his own poetry into his speeches, and the men at the union don't like it. you can tell him that if ever he expects to be president he must stop that game, he takes no notice of what i say about poetry. you'll come?" we looked up trains and found out that we could be back by half-past six, so i said that i would go, and jack went off to see bunny langham. as far as racing was concerned the horndeane meeting was not very interesting, for there was not a close finish in any race which i saw, but if any one has a fancy for picking up very inexpensive horses i should advise them never to miss horndeane. i was strolling about with bunny and jack after one race, and saw the winner of it brought out for sale. it fetched a hundred and sixty guineas, and jack said it was "dirt cheap." then another horse was put up, and i was surprised to hear some one bid ten guineas. such an offer seemed to me ridiculous for a race-horse, so without thinking, and just to help things on a bit, i said "eleven," and strolled on with jack; but before we had gone far some one was asking my name, and another man was asking me what i wished him to do with the horse. so many questions bothered me, and i tried to explain that i had made a mistake when i had said "eleven," but it seemed as if such mistakes did not count for much. "the horse is yours," one man said. "and he's got the temper of a fiend," the other man added, "and i should like you to find some one to take him at once." i was quite prepared to give him away if i could find any one foolish enough to have him, but bunny wouldn't hear of it, and declared we would take him back to oxford with us. "he may be a gold mine, who knows?" he said. jack laughed so much, that while i was surrounded by a lot of impatient people he was unable to help me at all, and i can tell those who have never had to suffer as i did, that to become an owner of a race-horse suddenly is a very awkward experience. my brute was called "thunderer," and the man who had got hold of him said that his name was the only good thing about him, for he roared like the sea. i wished heartily that some one would steal my horse, but every one seemed to be most distressingly anxious to keep as far away from him as possible. i suppose bunny knew all about racers, for in a few minutes he had arranged for a horse-box to be put on our train, and thunderer disappeared. i seemed to spend the remainder of the afternoon in being asked for money by people who said they had done or were going to do something for me. i found that my exalted position brought many burdens with it, and i was very glad when we left the race-course. unfortunately, however, we trusted to bunny's watch, and when we got to the station, which was on a little branch line, our train to reading had gone. there had been some bother about the horse-box, and the station-master and a number of people who took an unabating interest in me were quarrelling when we arrived. i sat down on a bench and left bunny to talk to them; i have never been so tired of anything in my life. even if the next train was punctual we had to wait for an hour, and by no chance could we reach oxford before half-past seven. we should have been annoyed in any case, but jack and i were very irritated because the mohocks were meeting that evening, and we had men dining with us. the only thing to do was to telegraph and ask some one to look after our guests until we came, but the station had no telegraph-office, and if we wanted to send a telegram we had to go down to the village. a porter assured us that we could get to the post-office in ten minutes, and that the road was quite straight. i don't know what he was thinking about, possibly of a bicycle and daylight, for the way to the village needed a lot of finding, and it took us quite half-an-hour to reach the post-office. by that time a thick fog had risen. we tried, and failed, to get any kind of vehicle to take us back to the station, so we started to run and lost our way. the natural result was that we missed another train, and the stationmaster, who must have had an especial dislike for me, had not sent on the horse-box, and was more angry than ever. of all the obstinate people in the world i think a station-master at a small station can be easily first, and our efforts to soothe him produced no effect whatever. everything he said began with "i know my business," and i have always been inclined to doubt people who try to crush me with such unnecessary information. we got away eventually, but my misfortunes were not finished. our train was very late at reading and there was no longer any chance for me to be in college by nine o'clock. jack, too, was bothered about the men whom he had asked to dinner, and bunny alone remained in a state of unruffled contentment. when the train came at last i got into a carriage with only a glance at the people in it, and tried to go to sleep, but bunny kept on talking about thunderer and had magnificent schemes for my future benefit. i regret to say that he was in what must have been a sportive mood, and asked me to choose my racing colours and my trainer. he kept up a long series of questions which i did not answer, but which prevented me from going to sleep. i opened my eyes reluctantly and saw jack slumbering in a corner, but when i looked at the man opposite to me i became most thoroughly awake. this man, as far as i remember anything about him when i got into the carriage, had his head buried in a newspaper; now he was revealed as mr. edwardes, and having wished me "good-evening," he added--quite superfluously--that he was surprised to see me. bunny with more curiosity than good manners put on his glasses to look at mr. edwardes, and i, having to say something, thought that i might as well introduce them to each other, though i took care to mumble bunny's name so that it could not be heard. mr. edwardes bowed and opened his paper again, but bunny having arrived at the fact that i was face to face with a don of some kind, thought he would try to pass the time pleasantly. considering what he had already said about race-horses nothing could have been more fatuous than his attempts to explain why i was not in oxford. he began by talking about british industries, and in a minute was saying that he thought a visit to huntley and palmer's biscuit manufactory was well worth a visit to reading. i kicked and nudged him incessantly, for the snubs which he received from mr. edwardes only seemed to encourage him. the distance between reading and oxford is happily not great, but by the time we had finished our journey i was in a state of profound discomfort, and though i had no love for mr. edwardes, i thought that bunny might have had the sense to know that if he was amusing himself he was making things more difficult for me. his explanation was that a man who looked like a frozen image was just as likely to believe that i had been inspecting huntley and palmer's manufactory as buying a race-horse, and at any rate it was a good thing to try and mix him up a little, but i can't say that i thought the explanation a good one. when we got to oxford a man from a livery-stable was waiting for thunderer, and jack and i reached st. cuthbert's just as the mohocks were coming back to college after playing pool. it was half-past ten before i could explain things to the men whom i had asked to dine with me, and when they heard that i had been buying a race-horse they thought that my excuses were good enough. the bradder was dining with the mohocks that evening, and when the out-college men had gone away he asked me to come to his rooms and have a smoke. i looked at jack, and the bradder said at once, "ask ward to come with you," and walked off across the quad. we told him exactly what we had been doing, and i think mr. edwardes would have been rather surprised to see how he laughed. "what would colonel marten say if he knew you had bought a race-horse?" he asked me. "i hope to goodness he never will know," i answered. "what are you going to do with him?" "sell him--if i can; langham's got him in the stables where he keeps his horses, and if you would like to have a look at him, i'll take you round." but the bradder shook his head. "you say mr. edwardes saw you at reading, and that you are gated, and were not in college until ten o'clock. i wish you would not do such stupid things," he said quite seriously. "it was the reaction," i replied. "from what?" "browning," i said, and the bradder did not look altogether pleased. "i am sorry you can't appreciate browning." "i can't appreciate very many things at once. besides, jack and i felt very dull." "mr. edwardes saw you, i suppose?" he asked jack. "i should think so, but i don't think he knows me by sight." "oh yes, he does," the bradder said. "both of you are bound to hear more about this." "it's very unfortunate," jack remarked; "you see there was a fog, and all sorts of unexpected things happened. it has been a real bad day," he added, as we left the room. on the following morning directly after breakfast jack and i went round to see bunny, and we found him talking to a man who looked like a groom from his head to his heels. i groaned. "sit down, sam," bunny said. "that's mr. marten, the owner of the horse you are talking about." "well, all i can say is what the guv'nor told me to say. i was to say this 'oss must leave our place this morning or there'll be trouble." "there seems to have been trouble already," bunny replied. "'e's done enough damage for twenty 'osses. kick, you should see 'im; 'e's kicked a loose box silly. our guv'nor's fairly got 'is rag out." "he must wait until i've finished breakfast. you'd better have a cigarette, sam." "no, thank you," sam answered, and looked at a cigar-box. "help yourself," bunny said. sam helped himself and remarked that he had been up since five o'clock with that blessed 'oss, and that it was thirsty work. so he helped himself again. after that he did not seem to mind so much what the guv'nor said, and told bunny that he had never met a nobleman who didn't know how to treat people properly. we talked to sam for some time, and just as bunny was finishing breakfast another man came into the room. "i had forgotten all about you," bunny said. "i'm afraid this place is rather full of smoke," and he introduced his cousin, mr. eric bruce. "i can't congratulate you on your memory," bruce replied; "you forgot i was going to stay with you last night, and you forget i want any breakfast. funny chap, augustus, isn't he?" he said to me. "your wire never came until i had gone yesterday, so i couldn't forget you were coming," bunny said, and rang the bell. "i'll tell the guv'nor you'll be round in 'alf a jiffy," sam said, and went out of the room jerkily, as if he had got a stiff leg. "what curious friends you have, augustus, and what is ''alf a jiffy'?" bruce asked. "don't be a fool," bunny answered, "and don't call me augustus." "it's better than gussy," bruce declared, and though i should have been glad to contradict him, for i disliked him at sight, there is no doubt that he was right. "is the man, who has gone, an elderly undergraduate or only a don?" bruce went on. "he's from some stables round the corner. any one with two eyes could see that." "rude as usual; my cousin's the oddest man," bruce said to jack. "like to buy a horse?" bunny asked him. "i'm ready to buy anything if i can sell it at a profit," he answered. "well, swallow your breakfast and come and have a look. you'll get your profit all right. i've never known you when you didn't." in a few minutes we all went to the stables, and bunny began haggling operations. bruce bid a "fiver" for thunderer, and was told he would fetch that for cats' meat, and then the game went on. in the end bruce said he would give fifteen guineas, and take him to london that day. i nearly seized him by the hand, and told him he was a rare good sort, which i was quite convinced he was not. the livery-stable man did not seem to care what happened as long as thunderer went away, and i must say that he made the least of his eccentricities. "that's a bit of luck," bunny said to me when the bargain was settled, "i get rid of my cousin and a horse on the same day, both real bad lots. he's our family pestilence," and he nodded at bruce's back. for jack's benefit i added up the result of my investment, and came to the conclusion that i was about eighteen-pence to the bad when i had paid for the damage thunderer had done, and all the little incidental expenses connected with him. you can't own a race-horse for nothing, and i think that i--or rather bunny--did well. i was told afterwards that bruce raffled my horse and sold fifty tickets for a sovereign each, but i am not inclined to believe that story, and at any rate i should not have known where to find fifty fools. i certainly could not have discovered them in oxford, where some people, who have never been there, make the mistake of thinking they are to be found in crowds. i believe the dons held a meeting about jack and me, for the bradder told us there was a great difference of opinion about the sort of men we were. i tried to get more out of him, but failed. however, we got off lightly, for jack was only gated for a week, while i was given a lecture by the subby, and had a week added to my term of imprisonment. the bradder also advised me to give up going to race-meetings. chapter xxii a tutorship i was beginning to forget that i had ever been the owner of a race-horse when i got a furious letter from my father. the warden had told my uncle, and my uncle lost his head and wrote to my people instead of to me. a tale of this kind always flies round at a tremendous pace, and it was difficult to make every one believe that i had never meant to buy the horse, and that as soon as i had bought him my one desire was to get rid of him. i found out afterwards that the warden only told my uncle because he thought the tale would amuse him, but apparently he expressed himself in such very curious language that he gave the impression of being annoyed. after i had soothed my people the bishop wrote to me that the turf had been the ruin of many young men, but when i thought of the part i had played upon it i came to the conclusion that i was not likely to be added to the number. my uncle referred to racing as "a fascinating and very expensive pleasure," and i assured him that i had not found it fascinating, and that my experience had cost me eighteen-pence, the cheapness of which he had to admit. i am glad that i added up my expenses, for that eighteen-pence was very useful, it was such a delightfully ridiculous sum to brandish at any one who thought that i was trotting down the road to perdition. during the rest of the term we were very quiet in st. cuthbert's. i was able to play rugger for the college in nearly every match, for my days in the 'varsity fifteen had ended. hogan was better than ever, while i had fallen away to the kind of man who blackheath ask to play for them when half their team are crocked and the other half have influenza. i did not mind, however, for our college fifteen was only beaten by trinity and keble, and our soccer team, chiefly owing to three or four freshers, was also much better than it had been for years. things were improving all round, and jack's energy was almost exhausting to those who watched it. he seemed to me to be hunting for societies to join, and he went round sampling them and finding out that they did not suit him. bunny langham succeeded in getting himself elected secretary of the union, and he told me that he was going to have several cabinet ministers down to speak in the following term, and should give them a jolly good dinner. he asked jack and me to meet them, but only one of them came, and he did not dine with bunny. his father, who was in the government and held the record for the number of speeches he had made in the house of lords, came down once and wanted to come again, but he spoke for such a tremendously long time that bunny declared that he should give up all hopes of being elected president if he ever came again. in the lent term jack rowed six in our torpid, and also told me that he thought he should try and get his blue for throwing the hammer. he had never thrown the hammer in his life, but he said that he knew what it was like and any one could throw it. i suppose that was true, but jack, when he tried, found that there were other men who could throw it a greater distance than he could, which did not trouble him in the least. he remarked that the hammer was a silly thing after all, and that he should think of something else. but the torpid occupied so much of his time and attention that he gave up seeking for a curious way in which to get his blue, and settled down to train in a most determined manner. the sight of me eating muffins for tea seemed to be almost an insult to him, i really believe that he would have liked me to train with him, though i had nothing whatever to train for. he did persuade me once to run round the parks before breakfast, but i didn't repeat the experiment, for i felt quite fit without being restless in the early morning. of course i had the torpid to breakfast, and their confidence in themselves was as great as their appetites. you can't, i think, give breakfast to a torpid and like them at the same time, and i have never acted as host to a torpid or an eight without being struck by the fact that of all men in the world i was the most supremely unimportant. occasionally jack and another man remembered that i was not very interested in the amount of work the corpus stroke did with his legs, and made as great an effort to drag me into the conversation as i made to keep in it. but the effort was very apparent on both sides, and i gave up when i heard that seven in the merton boat used his oar like a pump-handle, and that there was not a single man in the pembroke crew who pulled his own weight. this last statement compelled me to ask if pembroke hoisted a sail on their boat and waited for a favourable wind, but my question was treated with scorn, and i came to the usual conclusion that the best place to see a torpid collectively is in a boat. the confidence of our men depressed me, for i had most conscientiously played the part of host to previous torpids and eights, who had been equally confident until the racing began. after that they had either complained of their luck or their cox, and i asked jack when i got him by himself if he really thought our boat was going up. "i don't know," he replied, "we plug hard, and thinking you are bound to bump everybody is part of the game. it's no use starting to race with your tail down." the papers considered that we were bound to rise, but for two years they had been saying that and all we had done was to lose more places. i wished that i could meet some one who was not sure about the success of our boat, and at last i discovered him in lambert, who said our crew looked like a picnic party, which had gone too far out to sea, and had to plug for all they were worth to get back before night. then i defended them and felt more happy. the fact was the torpids were a sort of test case; if we went up i felt we should have fairly turned the corner, but if we went down i was afraid our fit of enthusiasm would cool rapidly. no one who was rowing in them could have been more excited than i was. the bradder noticed it and complained, but for the moment i was incapable of caring much about things which had happened, and after all there is something to be said for anybody who is really keen on one thing, if he does not make himself a very terrific bore. on the first night of the races we got a dreadfully bad start, and for two or three minutes we were in danger of being bumped. then we settled down and began to draw close to corpus, but our cox was too eager and made unsuccessful shots at them. after the second shot i could not run another yard, so perhaps a little training might have done me good, but we did catch corpus at the "cher," and that began a triumphant week. we made seven bumps, and though a lot of men said our crew showed more brute force than science, it must have been nonsense, because we went up from fourteenth to seventh, and when a boat gets fairly high in the first division there is sure to be some one in it who can row properly. the stroke of the 'varsity eight told me that the best man in our torpid was jack and i believed him very easily. "he could be made useful in the middle of a boat with a bit of coaching," he said to me. "you'll be up next year, so look out for him," i answered, and i told him that i thought jack was a splendid oar, which was no use because he only laughed. i had become so accustomed to a dismal return to college from both the eights and torpids that the change was quite delightful, and on the last day of the races we had a huge "bump" supper in hall. from that supper some of our dons stood aloof and were even said to disapprove of it, but the warden was present for the greater part of it, and the bursar and the bradder entered into the spirit of the thing with a zest which was splendid. there were also two or three more dons, who had been undergrads of st. cuthbert's, but who now belonged to other colleges, and they seemed to know that there are times when it is well to forget that you are a don. we entertained two members of each of the crews which we had bumped, and i cannot say that any of them seemed to be dispirited by their bad fortune. indeed, as the evening went on they became exceedingly lively, and some of them were inclined to swear everlasting friendship with any one who liked demonstrations. after supper we had a lot of speeches, but it was impossible to hear many of them, for everybody wanted to speak and no one to listen. i did hear the opening sentence of one speech, "gentlemen, i used to be able to row once," but i heard no more, for the next words were drowned in loud cries of "shame" and "no, no," and the don who wished to tell us his personal reminiscences just stood and smiled at us. he had been in the st. cuthbert's boat when it had been head of the river and did not mind anything. before we left the hall there were two men speaking at once at our table, it was a great chance to practise oratory. i have never been at a more convivial supper, and since we had not been given an opportunity of celebrating anything for ages it is no wonder that we made a tremendous noise. some people may wag their heads at bump suppers and call them silly, or whatever they please, but they have forgotten the joy of living, and find their chief delight in criticizing the pleasures of those who are younger and happier than themselves. i suppose they are useful in their way, but thank goodness their way is not mine. you can't expect an undergraduate to celebrate seven bumps by standing on the top of a mountain and watching a sunrise, or by some equally peaceful enjoyment. he wants noise, and he generally manages to get it. i know that i was very pleased with that evening and felt as if it had been well-spent, but when i tried to describe it to mrs. faulkner, she shrugged her shoulders and said that it was most childish, for she couldn't understand that it was very nice to let yourself go a little when there was a good reason for doing it. i believe she was one of those people who are ashamed of ever having been children, and if she lived to be a hundred years old and kept all her faculties she would never understand what a peculiar mixture makes up life at oxford. i did not tell her about the bonfire which we had in the back quad after supper, because i am sure she would have thought that either i was lying or that most of the men in st. cuthbert's were a set of lunatics. two or three dons, who could appreciate festivities, danced round the bonfire quite happily, and evidently enjoyed themselves. they were very popular; too much so possibly for their own comfort, for one of them who was, except on especial occasions, a most prim and proper person, was seized by a man, who looked upon him as his very dearest friend, and carried round the bonfire at galloping pace. after that the dons disappeared and we had a dance in the hall. i should think the band must have been as keen on exercise as we were, for the music got faster and faster as the evening went on, and it was impossible to keep time, but that did not matter. in our battels at the end of the week we were all charged half-a-crown for refreshing the band, so that they could not have gone away hungry--or thirsty. an outburst of this kind is something more than a custom honoured by time, for it clears the air and you can settle down afterwards quite easily. i had smuggled myself into the festivities which other colleges had given, but i had never enjoyed myself half as much as i did at our own. we had done something at last which was worth a bonfire, and a bonfire with no one to dance round it has never yet been lighted in an oxford quad. the bradder thought that our supper had gone off very well, although he had seen one of his fellow-dons treated too affectionately, and had rescued him. but he knew such things did not really mean anything, for you can't expect men who have just come out of strict training to behave quite like ordinary mortals. i wanted to fish during the easter vac, but my vacs were beginning to get out of hand, for make what plans i would--and i made very pleasant ones--somebody was always at work to upset them. i meant to take fred home with me and play cricket in a net if the weather was warm, and fish a little stream near us, but the bishop had found something else for me to do, and my schemes came to nothing. at the end of the term i only went home for two days, and then had to start off on a tutorship. it is no use pretending that i went without vigorous protests. i said that i had never tutored anybody in my life, and was met by the answer that everything had to have a beginning, which is such an appalling truism that it ought never to be uttered. i then stated that i was sorry for the boy who had me as a tutor, though i meant, of course, that i was sorry for myself, and my mother replied that she should miss me very much, but that she had talked the whole thing over with my father, and they both thought the experience would be good for me. what could i say to that? besides, it was too late to back out. the people, i was told, were charming, and i was to take charge of a boy aged twelve, who was home from school because he had been having measles. the boy was also charming, everybody and everything seemed to be exactly right; but i thought i saw the bishop peeping through all these descriptions, and charming is a word which has no great attractions for me, it is so comprehensive and can mean such a multitude of things. but as i had to go i went cheerfully, and i should not think that any one ever started on a tutorship knowing less than i did about the people to whom i was going. my whole stock of knowledge consisted of their name, which was leigh-tompkinson, of the place where they lived, and of the fact that the boy had been ill. i had, however, no doubt that i should be able to get on with them if they could only put up with me; they were, i was assured, friends of the bishop, and i did not think that he would urge me to go to any people whom i should not like. when i arrived at the house i was shown into a drawing-room in which there were at least eight ladies and not a single man. my reception was almost effusive. mrs. leigh-tompkinson insisted that i was cold, tired, and dying of hunger, but i had only travelled forty miles, and the day was warm. i wanted nothing except a sight of mr. leigh-tompkinson, and i had an awful feeling that there was not such a man. it struck me suddenly that no one had ever spoken of him to me, and my courage decreased. "you would like to see dick," one lady said to me, and everybody asked where he was, and nobody knew or seemed to care very much. the desire for him passed off as quickly as it had come, and in half-an-hour i was playing a four-handed game at billiards with mrs. leigh-tompkinson as a partner, and two ladies as our opponents. my partner played better than i did, and we won; we then played two other ladies, and in the middle of the second game dick came into the room. one glance at him told me that he was all right, and i should have been very glad to go away with him. he remarked to me at once that i was "at it" already, which told me a good deal. no one took any notice of him except to tell him not to fidget, and as he was not fidgeting i thought he was very amiable to receive such unnecessary orders in silence. before dinner i was able to have a few minutes alone with him, and my fears about mr. leigh-tompkinson were realized--he was dead. we also made some plans for the next day, which were never carried out. in fact, try as i would for many days, and i adopted many artifices, i could hardly ever spend more than an odd half-hour with him, there was always something which his mother thought much more important for me to do. the house was full of people, most of whom were ladies, though none of them were what i called young; but there were two men there all the time, who were the mildest beings i have ever met. i don't think either of them liked me, and i am sure i did not like them; their wildest amusement was a little, a very little golf, and their chief employment was to make themselves generally useful. everybody, with the exception of dick and me, seemed to be trying to be young again, it was a most melancholy spectacle. for some time i could not understand how mrs. leigh-tompkinson could be a friend of my uncle's, but at last a miss bentham, who was always ready to talk, told me that the house-party were having their holidays before they went back to london for the season. "in london my cousin has so much to do," she continued. "of course the season is always fatiguing, but mrs. leigh-tompkinson makes it more so by her devotion to good works." i nearly laughed aloud, and thought of saying that if she would be a little more devoted to her son she would not be wasting her time, but i suppressed myself and asked to hear more about the good works. "she gives so much away, but then she's so rich," miss bentham said. "she's devoted to your uncle, but then he's so handsome. don't you think so?" "he's fifty," i replied, without remembering to whom i was talking. "a woman is as old as she looks and a man as he feels," she said, and looked at me. i knew that i was expected to say that the bishop must be about thirty, and that she could be scarcely twenty-five, but i really could not do it. the whole place made me feel absolutely unwell. "my uncle works hard and often feels tired," i remarked after a moment. "you mustn't think we always enjoy ourselves like this. here we are quite children again, so very refreshing," but her interest in me had gone. i had been given my opportunity and had not taken it. i should have liked very much to see an interview between mrs. leigh-tompkinson in her "good works" mood and my uncle; it would have been a delightful entertainment. but i am sure that he had never seen her when she was taking her holidays, or i should have been left to play cricket and fish with fred. in spite, however, of the facts that i was always trying to fulfil the duties which were supposed to account for my presence, and that i liked dick far better than any one else in the house, i was for some time most popular with mrs. leigh-tompkinson. i was new, i suppose, for what other reason there could have been for my popularity i cannot imagine; but at any rate the reason is not worth guessing, for in a brief ten minutes i managed to fall completely out of favour. the way in which this happened was rather absurd, but it showed clearly enough what an odd kind of woman dick had for a mother. as a rule i had to play billiards after dinner, but one evening there was somebody staying in the house who persuaded mrs. leigh-tompkinson to play round games, and when i went into the drawing-room i discovered that preparations had been made for this form of dissipation. dick had been allowed to come down to take part in them, and was walking round asking everybody to begin at once; but my experience of round games is that people are generally far more anxious to stop than to begin them. each person wanted to play a different game, for by this means i fervently believe that they imagined they would get out of playing any at all. i sat down while i had the chance, feeling sure that in a few minutes i should be asked to go outside the door and stay there. i thought that i knew every game of the kind, and when dick had at last got a few people to look like beginning, i was asked if i knew "it." i had no idea that "it" meant anything out of the ordinary, and i said unblushingly that i did, whereupon mrs. leigh-tompkinson asked me to take the chair on her right hand. one of the mild men had already taken up his position on this seat, and to my sorrow he was told to move, though i had no idea that my position was in a peculiar way the place of honour. a lady, who proclaimed many times that she had never done such a thing in her life, stood in the middle of the circle and asked questions, and from the confusing answers she received i discovered promptly that i did not know what game we were playing. at last she came to me and said, "is it beautiful?" so as we were only allowed to say "yes" or "no," and the last answer had been "yes," i said "no." i shall never forget the gasp which followed. dick, i am ashamed to say, gave way to merriment, but the rest of the people looked at me as if i had committed a crime. it was not hard for me to guess that i ought to have said "yes"; the agitation had even spread to mrs. leigh-tompkinson. the second question asked me was, "is it old?" and this time i said "yes," with some fervour; but my answer again caused consternation. some one indeed declared that it was too hot for games, and in a minute the circle was broken up. then dick told me that "it" was always the left-hand neighbour of the person who was asked the question, and i saw that my answers, if true, had also been unfortunate. mrs. leigh-tompkinson went into the billiard-room at once, and i am afraid that even an immediate explanation and apology would not have been considered compensation enough for making her ridiculous. during the next two days dick and i were left very much to ourselves, and then i asked miss bentham, who was, i think, secretly pleased at my answers, to suggest that i should take him to the sea for the rest of his holidays. this request was made in the morning, and we started during the afternoon of the same day, for i had sinned past forgiveness. but unless i had played this game of "it" i should never have had time to make friends with dick, and he wanted a friend rather badly. he was lonely among a crowd of people, all of whom were ready to give him anything he asked for, except companionship. i started by being sorry for him, and ended by liking him very much; he only wanted some one to take an interest in him, and that i was able to do quite easily. after my tutorship was over mrs. leigh-tompkinson wrote to me and hoped that i should often be able to take him away with me, but she expressed no wish for me to stay with her again. at the beginning of my third summer term i was able to pay fred the money he had lent me. he protested, but i insisted, for he was captain of the 'varsity xi., and was also so popular that during the next few weeks he was bound to have plenty of opportunities for thinking of anything but economy. besides, this money had been at times a load on my conscience. economy, either practical or political, has never been a strong point of mine, but i often regretted that i had during my first two years bought a number of things which were more or less useless, because i was not compelled to pay for them at the moment. my difficulties were not overwhelming but they were a nuisance, until the bishop, who knew both oxford and me by heart, solved them by giving me a birthday present. every one, however, has not got a convenient uncle, and without his present i should, owing to the recklessness of my first two years, have been compelled to leave oxford with bills unpaid, and the prospect of a stormy interview with my father in front of me. i was so genuinely fond of oxford, and there are so many pleasant things to do there, that i should have been very sorry to leave it with anything hanging over me. fast bowlers, both good and bad, were scarce during the whole time i was up, and i was not altogether surprised when fred chose me to play in the seniors' match. in that game i succeeded in getting a few wickets, and soon afterwards i got my harlequin cap, which pleased me hugely. i am sure that had i not been such an outrageously bad batsman, fred would have liked to try me for the 'varsity, but there happened to be another man who did not bowl any worse than i did and who batted much better. so i was left to bowl for the college, and i was not altogether sorry, for if fred had yielded to his feelings and given me a trial a lot of men would have said it was a swindle. there are a number of people in oxford who spend their time in looking out for swindles, and of all things in the world they seem to be the easiest to find. in fred's case, however, i should have had a much better chance of playing if i had not been one of his greatest friends, for he was the very last man to turn his eleven into a sort of family party. our eight expected to make seven bumps, and succeeded in making five of them, with which jack, who rowed six, pretended to be discontented. but we celebrated those five bumps all right, and altogether the college was a splendid place to live in. i stayed in bed much later than usual on the morning after our second celebration, and i suppose every one else was sleepy, for i could hear clarkson calling his boy a lazy young vagabond, and that always happened when through other people's laziness the unfortunate boy could not get on with his work. "who is up?" clarkson shouted. "nobody," the boy answered. "then fetch mr. thornton's breakfast," for thornton had moved into rooms next to mine at the beginning of the term. "mr. thornton's in bed." clarkson stamped heavily. "what the deuce does he mean by being in bed? go and fetch his breakfast, and don't answer me when i give you orders." the boy hurried down the stairs, and i thought thornton had acted very unwisely in changing his rooms, for if clarkson got hold of a man of whom he could take charge he was quite certain not to miss his chance. i knew one or two men who lived in greater fear of him than of any don, and i determined to advise thornton not to be bullied. my efforts, however, were quite useless, for thornton assured me that he liked our scout and got a great deal of amusement from him. "clarkson knows exactly what is best for himself and me, and he is always clean," he said. "he treats his boy abominably," i replied. "i wonder what you would be like if you were a scout," he said, and as he obviously thought that i should only be remarkable for my failings, i gave up trying to talk to him. thornton was a great puzzle to me, for his one desire was to be left to himself, and apart from speaking at debates and belonging to various literary societies he never seemed to me to do anything. murray always lost his temper with me when i said that thornton was extraordinarily odd, and declared that he was one of the cleverest men in the college and would probably be governing some colony when we had sunk out of sight. in some moods murray was not a cheerful companion, and i could not help telling him that to be bullied by your scout is not a good preparation for governing anything. and as a matter of fact thornton became gradually so very eccentric, that even murray had to admit that if he was a genius he was one who had lost his way. after our eight had been successful jack ward was very anxious that they should go to henley, but both the bursar, who had done more to improve our rowing than anybody, and the bradder wanted them to wait for another year. "we shall have nearly the same eight next summer, and two or three good freshers are coming up," the bradder argued. "i shall be in the schools," jack replied sadly, and though the bradder turned away suddenly i saw him smiling, for jack's essays were some of the most comical things ever written. anything which resembled style he said was unwholesome, and although mr. grace talked to him like a parent and the bradder tried persuasion and abuse, he stuck to his solid way of giving information. but he confided in me that the reason was that he couldn't write a proper essay to save his life. "all i want," he exclaimed, "is a degree, and that's what these men don't understand. besides, i spell badly; it's a disease with me, and when you have got it, you may be able to think of a word, but you would be a precious fool to use it when another man has to read what you have written. so my vocabulary gets limited, and i'm going to stick to facts, and i shouldn't wonder if the examiners don't like them. they so seldom get them." i don't think he understood what a very great deal some of the history men manage to know, but, at any rate, his way of tackling the examiners was novel, and considering the disease from which he was suffering, perhaps it was also the best he could choose. so he went on learning things by heart, and put up long lists of things on his looking-glass, or any place where he was likely to see them. i saw the extraordinary word "brom" pinned on to a photograph of collier, and found out that it stood for blenheim, ramillies, oudenarde and malplaquet. "i can't help thinking that marlborough finished off with blenheim, because it is the sort of battle any one who is not even reading history has heard of," he explained, "and i have to get that idea out of my head. you will find all sorts of funny words stuck about the place. i've got 'kajakk' pinned on to a lobelia in my flower-box, because i am always leaving out anne of cleves; she never seemed to have a chance, and you must have the man's wives all right." "do you think they matter much?" i asked. "of course they do. they are guide-posts to the reign, but they would do much better if half of them were not katharines." i suggested that he should call one of them kate and another kathleen to avoid confusion, but he said that "kajakk" would pull him through all right, and that if there was any question about henry viii. he did not mean to miss is. i am certain that had he been given an opportunity, the examiners would have had a correct list of these ladies, with a brief note attached to explain why there were so many of them. soon after the eights were over, i heard that the bradder had invited my people to come up at the end of the term, and as i had never stayed up for "commem," i wrote back cheerfully, and said we would enjoy ourselves. this letter, however, was answered by my father at once, and my plans were again thrown into confusion. "i want you to leave for germany when term is over. to get even a smattering of the language you must be there nearly three months, and, unless you go immediately, you will miss all the shooting. i want you to know three modern languages well enough to get into the foreign office without any difficulty." this was the beginning of the longest letter i had ever had from him, and in many ways the nicest, but i cannot say that i wanted to spend my summer with a german family, and after consulting fred, i went to the bradder to see if he would not help me to stay in england. "i can't read history and learn german at the same time," i said to him, "and all my work will be wasted unless i do some this vac." "your father has evidently made up his mind," he said, but i think that he must have been sorry for me. "you write and tell him that i shall forget all i have been doing. he will listen to you." "german is very valuable to you." "so is history. how can i be expected to work next year when i am packed off every summer to live with a lot of people who don't want me? i get no fun." "you will like it when you get there, and for this summer you can manage to do enough history to keep up what you know. i will help you as much as i can." "why can't i be allowed for once to like a thing in the place where i want to like it?" i asked, and i nearly told him that environment was everything, but he did not like those profound statements any better than i did. i only saw the bradder really nasty to one man, and he had been fool enough to say that the reason why he cut his lectures was because the whole atmosphere of oxford was against work, which really was a sickening sort of excuse. my attempts to get help from the bradder failed, and as soon as i had worked myself up into a rage he began to laugh. so after one night at home i started to germany and my people went to oxford for "commem" on the same day, which was a most topsy-turvy state of things. nina promised to write to me, but i did not expect anything from her except postcards. i was, however, mistaken, for she wrote me a kind of "oxford day by day," which i, struggling with a strange language in a strange land, was very glad to have. i don't know whether the bradder taught her to refer to the vice-chancellor as the "vice-chuggins," but in her description of the encænia that most important gentleman was certainly not mentioned with the respect which i consider that people, who don't belong to oxford, ought to feel for him. in fact nina succeeded in catching the oxford language so badly that she told me that my father had been having "indijuggers," and i am sure that he would have had a worse attack if he had known what nina called it. i am sorry to say that she treated the encænia in a very light and airy way, though some most mightily distinguished men were receiving honorary degrees at the function. "i like the sheldonian because it is so round," she wrote to me, "but i was not impressed by the encænia. the area of the theatre was reserved for the dons, who wore what i believe you call academic dress, but they did not look as if they had room enough to be comfortable. i sat in a gallery with a lot of people, and there was a man, who somebody told me was a pro-proctor--at any rate he wore robes and looked, i thought, rather nice--to keep order. you do mix up things queerly at oxford; some of the jokes which were made were really not very funny, and mother was afraid that some one might be offended. she was quite nervous. i liked the public orator, who seemed to me to be introducing the people who were to receive honorary degrees to the vice-chuggins, and i was sorry for the university prizemen, who wore evening dress and had to read out their prize poems and things. i couldn't hear a word the public orator said, but perhaps that was because i had a man near me who made jokes all the time and a bevy of relatives kept up a chorus of giggles. mr. bradfield had to go to luncheon afterwards at all souls. i met mr. ward in the turl yesterday; he was only up for two or three hours, and i thought he said he was going to coach. i am sure he said something about coaching, and as i remembered how fond he was of horses i thought he was going for a driving tour. but it turned out that he was going to read with somebody; very silly of me. do you remember when he jumped into the 'cher'? it seems ages ago. mr. bradfield punts splendidly, we all like him very much, and father has dined with the warden, who had toothache and hardly spoke all the evening. most unfortunate. we are going to the 'varsity match, and mr. bradfield says that fred is the best bat and captain you have had for ages. i believe mother nearly fainted with delight when she heard this. mr. bradfield dances as well as you do." the next letter nina wrote was full of the bradder's perfections, but in the following one he was scarcely mentioned, and my mother, who had never seen oxford in june, was so delighted with everything that she did not tell me much about anybody. still i could not help wondering what had happened, for nina was not usually reticent without a reason. chapter xxiii our last year fred did not have the satisfaction of seeing his eleven beat cambridge, but there had not been such a close finish in a 'varsity match for nearly twenty years, and nina said the excitement was really painful. "i was quite glad when it was over," she wrote to me. "mother never spoke for quite half-an-hour, and mr. bradfield nearly ruined his hat by constantly taking it off and putting it on again. i warned him that he was spoiling it, but he said that such a finish was worth a hat. and we lost in the end; a big cambridge man hit a four and father said awful things at the top of his voice. somehow or other that seemed to relieve everybody. there was only one other cambridge man to come in, and if the big man had been bowled instead of hitting a four it would have been splendid. we waited for fred afterwards and saw him for a minute. he said that the big man had been the best cricketer at cambridge for four years, and now that he was going down oxford ought really to win next year. fred was very disappointed, but he told us that this man was a thoroughly good sort, which annoyed me because i felt as if he must be perfectly horrid." if my people could be excited at a cricket match i knew that i had missed something worth seeing, but when i tried to talk about the 'varsity match to the only member of my german family who spoke english, she thought i was explaining lawn tennis to her. i felt very sad indeed, and had to go for a long bicycle ride to shake off a vigorous attack of the blues. i suppose those months in germany must have been useful to me, yet in spite of a great amount of kindness i was very glad when they were over. i learned a great deal, i honestly believe, for i often went to a restaurant and talked politics with three professors, and that is no mean feat even if you do it in your own language. for some reason which i have never been able to understand, these men were very pleased with me; possibly they liked me because i never agreed with anything they said. i asked them to come and see us if they were ever in england, an invitation given out of joy in wishing them good-bye. the prospect of leaving the german language made me very liberal in the way of invitations to those who spoke it, and if all the people whom i asked had happened to come at the same time, they would have caused a considerable sensation in our small household. there were, however, dangers in plunging me into foreign families which my father did not discover; for i like everybody so much, when i am leaving them, that i feel certain that they are the nicest people in the world. i had not been at home for a day before i found out that something very like a mystery had attached itself to the bradder, so i went to my mother and asked her what had happened. "i meant to tell you," she answered. "my dear, he wants to marry nina, we were quite astonished." i did not think nina would have cared to hear that. "he was here for a fortnight, but we never suspected anything, nina is so very young. it only happened a week ago." "are they engaged?" "no, we thought it best that there should be no engagement for at least a year. i hope we decided right, for i must have time to think about nina being the wife of a don. i think they are very much in love with one another." "nina is not so very young." "very young to be the wife of a don," my mother replied, and i believe that she thought such a lady, to be suitable, ought to have numbered at least forty years. "the bradder would have to go out of college if he married," i said; "we shan't get such another man in a hurry," but my mother did not think this as important as i did. when i talked to nina about this new state of things she was very disappointed to find that i was not surprised. she seemed to think that i was depriving her of something due to her, but her letters had made me think that something startling was going to happen, and i was prepared for almost anything. "our engagement is not to be announced for a year," nina said. "i thought there wasn't any engagement," i answered. "there isn't, until it is announced, but we have quite made up our minds," and then she took my arm and i listened to a glorification of the bradder. "he is very fond of you," it finished up, and that is all i can remember of it. "i am glad of that, as he is my tutor and is going to be my brother-in-law," i said. "you don't seem to see how happy i am," nina answered. "i wanted to telegraph to you at once." "i am most tremendously glad you are happy. the bradder's a splendid man," i said, and added, "i should like to tell fred directly he comes next week." "yes, tell him," she replied, "but he won't mind; perhaps i oughtn't to say that, but i know that you think he will. fred's a dear, he's just like another brother." "for pity's sake don't say that to him," i exclaimed. "of course i shan't say anything to him, but he will understand all right," and i gathered that if he could not understand it was my duty to make him, which, considering how peculiarly he had behaved to jack, i did not expect to be an easy matter. but there was a difference between fred and nina, for he seemed to fall out of love as he grew older, while she fell in. i don't know enough about such things to say whether he was ever actually in the state called "in love," but i do know that he was inclined to regard nina with a jealous eye, and that i suffered many unpleasant moments in consequence. so i drove down to the station to meet him and intended to break the news to him gently, but we had such a lot of other things to talk about that i had not mentioned nina, except to say that she was well, when we met her in the drive. fred got out of the dog-cart to speak to her, and i, having totally neglected my mission, was wise enough to disappear for an hour. in that time he must have found out what had happened, for when we were left alone in the smoking-room after dinner and i was wondering whether i had better begin the gentle process, which i was sure i should muddle hopelessly, he said, "it will take me some time to get used to the idea of nina marrying a don." "i meant to tell you as we drove down, but i forgot clean all about it," i answered. "bradfield's a good sort, isn't he? it would be a most vile shame if he isn't." "he's a splendid chap." "i saw him with nina at lord's, and i got a kind of idea into my head then. he looks all right anyhow." "he is all right." fred sat and smoked for ages without saying a word, which made me uneasy. "don't you feel horribly old?" he said to me at last. "this is a kind of end to all the good time we have had here. i mean that everything will be different; i can't imagine nina being married." "she won't be for ages, and when she is it will be just the same," i answered. "the bradder's the best sort in the world, except you. let's go to bed, we have to shoot to-morrow." i stayed in fred's room, however, for a long time, and i expect some of the things we said would have amused those who can jump without regret from one state of things to another. but all the same this talk did us good, for we finished off the subject of nina's engagement at one sitting, and fred pleased me by saying that he must have been a fool to hate jack ward so violently. that told me all i wanted to know, and though he was not in very good spirits for a day or two he soon recovered, and i believe that nina and he enjoyed themselves more than they ever had since they began to wonder whether they were grown up or not. before going back to oxford fred and i went to stay with mr. sandyman, our old house-master at cliborough. i had been to cliborough several times since i left school, but my first visits made me feel almost sad. the glory of being a blue, and i could not help feeling it, was not enough compensation for the way in which i seemed to have entirely dropped out of things. i loved cliborough, and when you are fond of places or people it is horrid to see that they can get on quite well without you. you may not be forgotten, but you must necessarily cease to count for much, and it was not until i went back after having left for three years that i was quite happy there. our feelings--for fred felt as i did--may have been wrong, but no one would have them who was not fond of their school and who did not in some way or other wish to be worthy of it. sandy was as nice to us as possible, and it was quite funny to see what a hero fred was thought to be by some of the fellows in our house. i think i was regarded as a hero more or less decayed, but fred nearly reinstated me by saying that i was the fastest bowler he had ever played against, and by forgetting to add further details. we went back to oxford from cliborough, and during my last year i saw more of fred than ever, for in nearly every college men in their fourth year have to go into lodgings, and jack and i took rooms in the same house in the high as fred and henderson. fred was president of vincent's, henderson was to be captain of the 'varsity xi., and jack was immediately put into one of the trial eights and finally, rowed six in the winning boat. the shadow of approaching examinations was over all of us except henderson, who was not reading for honours, and had nothing but two papers on political economy between him and a degree. but i should not think any four men ever got on together better than we did, and the mere sight of jack was enough to make any one feel cheerful. he had fairly and squarely found himself at last, and whether he was sitting in front of piles of books or getting up and going to bed at strange times because he was in training, he was an endless delight to all of us. his methods of reading history made fred laugh so much that i thought he might possibly abandon them, but nothing would persuade him that his road to a degree was not the safest he could take. on one subject jack only opened his heart to me. he had set his mind on getting into the 'varsity eight, and his keenness was terrific. i assured him time after time that he must have a splendid chance of his blue, but i don't believe that the mere fact of getting his blue meant very much to him. he wanted to show his people and his college that he could really do something. "if i could only get into the 'varsity boat i should have done something," he said to me, "because i'm not a natural oar. i have to learn it all, and it's frightfully hard work remembering all you're told. some of you men think a fellow who rows is just a machine, but it's not so easy to become a good machine." to fred and henderson he hardly ever mentioned the river, but they knew how desperately keen he was, and when he was tried in the 'varsity boat at four, during the beginning of the lent term, we all hoped most vigorously that he would keep his place. for nearly a fortnight the same crew rowed every day, but neither the president nor the secretary had yet taken their places, and i was in a state of terror that jack would have to go when they went into the boat. the secretary, however, took his place and jack remained where he was, and a few days afterwards the president went in at seven, seven went to three, and one unfortunate man disappeared. then we openly rejoiced, and at the beginning of lent jack was told to go into training. we had a mild celebration on the evening of shrove tuesday, and bunny langham, who had been president of the union and had developed a habit of making very long speeches, for which he apologized by saying that he believed in heredity, came round and helped to make a noise. whenever he got the ghost of an opportunity he began to congratulate jack, and he required a very great deal of suppressing. for a whole week jack rowed in the boat, and then he had a sudden attack of influenza. somehow or other i had never thought it possible that he could be ill, and i have never seen any one hurry up so much to get well again. in ten days he was nearly all right, but when he was put back into the boat he said he felt miserably weak, and i think he went to work to prepare himself for a disappointment. at any rate when it came jack took his luck like a hero, for hardly anything more crushing could have happened to him just then. i must say that the president was as kind about it as any man could be; he knew what it meant to jack, and his sympathy was very real. but jack himself surprised all of us, he seemed to throw the whole thing behind him, and i never heard him complain of anything except his wretched illness. "i shall be fit next term," he said, "and if we get our boat near the head of the river again it won't be so bad after all." my last year in rooms with fred, jack and henderson was the best of four good years at oxford. everything, except jack's luck, was so exactly right, and i was most delightfully happy. the college was doing as well as we could want, and most of the dons, led i am certain by the bradder, behaved splendidly. the freshers' wine became an organized institution and ceased to be a sort of "hole and corner" entertainment, at which every one made a most horrible noise because they ought not to have made any at all. in my spare time, and i had not much, i caught myself regretting that i had ever been stupid enough to carry on long battles with mr. edwardes, it seemed to me that i might have been more peaceful, but the fact remains that he and i were not made for each other. until the time began to grow near for me to go down from oxford i never felt as strong an affection for the 'varsity as i had for cliborough. i think the reason was that oxford is such a huge place, that it took me some time to realize how splendid it is. i missed the feeling of unity which there was at cliborough, and i supplied my loss by going furiously to work in trying to make the college less slack. certainly st. cuthbert's, owing more to jack's efforts than mine, had changed very much, but in setting our minds absolutely on one thing for two years we had missed a lot, even if we had been successful in what we wanted to do. our last year, however, made up for everything, and when we came back for the summer term examinations had lost their horrors, and the only thing i regretted was that in eight short weeks my time at oxford would be over. the bradder, who watched over me like a prospective brother-in-law, encouraged me to think that i should not do very badly in the "schools," but i think he was rather agitated when henderson chose me to play for the 'varsity against the gentlemen of england, and in a very bad light i got more wickets than i ever expected to get in a first-class match. that performance gave me a good start in the 'varsity xi., and the bradder was desperately afraid that i should stop reading altogether. but fred and jack were both hard at work, and except on one evening a week henderson had to go into a separate room when he wanted to entertain his numerous friends. jack rowed in our eight, and they went up to fourth. they would have been second if they had been lucky, but as it was they intended to go to henley. i think that i was fortunate in having to struggle for my blue during my last term, for this gave me so much to think about that i escaped some of the feelings which fred had about leaving oxford. i felt that i was by no means ready to go, but i was also desperately eager to get into the xi., and that i knew would not be decided until the term was over. one leaves oxford slowly, if i may express it so; you have to come back for a _vivâ voce_, and then for your degree; there is no abrupt break as there is at school, and the fact that i was playing for the 'varsity after the term was over, helped me more than it did fred, who had played in the xi. for three years. nearly every sunday afternoon during may and june, fred and i quite solemnly went out for a walk together, and we nearly always found ourselves by the river. i believe this was because we were never tired of looking at corpus and merton from the christchurch meadows. there is no view so keenly rooted in my memory as this, nor one which i am so glad to look upon again. i don't care in the least whether it is the most beautiful in oxford or not, for it means something to me, and you can ask no more from a view than that. i can never look at it without remembering many things which were all of them very pleasant, and oxford is the place to build up memories. the term slipped by far too fast, and we found ourselves plunged into the schools. for once in my life i should have been glad not to see the sun, but the week during which we had to put on paper the results of over two years' work was most cruelly hot, and all of us were glad when it was over. it is no use guessing how you have done in honour schools, for those who think they have got a first are too often surprised when the lists come out, and unless you are going to guess something nice, it is much better to leave it alone altogether. with one consent fred, jack and i refused to talk about our chances, and set out to enjoy the few days which remained to us without being harrowed by doubts and fears. i did, however, have secret dips into a political economy book, for i thought if the examiners shared my opinion they would wonder how little of this subject i knew. i couldn't keep away from the wretched thing, try as i would, and was always reading "adam smith" and "walker" at odd moments. i think my nerves must have been upset. directly after the schools were over, jack and i had to go to a dinner which murray got up. i was ready to go to anything, but i had no idea that this was a sort of entertainment organized in honour of us until i got to it. the bradder took the chair, and i am sure that i tried to feel grateful to murray, but if you don't care much about being set on a small pedestal it is very hard to pretend that you do. i did, however, enjoy that dinner because every one was so very cheerful, and i made a speech which lasted--counting the applause--nearly ten minutes. the bradder spoke more about jack than me, which was very thoughtful of him, and jack told me afterwards that this evening almost made up for having missed his blue. the things which were said about him took him most completely by surprise, and the fact that he was really appreciated and that the college owed something to him, sent him off to henley a happier man than he had ever been in his life. my place in the eleven was in doubt until the last game before the 'varsity match, and then i bowled one of the best batsmen in england--i must add off his pads--and got three men caught in the slips. henderson gave me my blue in the pavilion at lord's and simply banged me on the back as he did it, a very unorthodox and pleasant ending to what had been a great anxiety. fred, too, was most uproariously delighted, and i should think that some of the people, who seem to think that the pavilion at lord's is a kind of cathedral, must have decided that the oxford xi. had suddenly gone mad. but i disentangled myself after a time from men who wanted to congratulate me, and started sending telegrams. i was guilty at that moment of trying to think of people to whom i could telegraph with decency, but i had wanted to play against cambridge very much. we had been beaten in all the last three matches, and as fred had never really played well at lord's, i think some men were inclined to say that he was not anything like as good a cricketer as he was supposed to be. but in this match he settled that question once and for ever. we went in first and started terribly, henderson was caught at the wicket, and another man was bowled before we had made a run. i could not have smiled at the best joke in the world. then fred and a left-hander got well set, and before we had finished our total was over . fred never gave a chance until he had made well over a hundred, and though some men told me that he was out l.b.w. at least four times, there are always plenty of people who think that they know more than the umpires. the cambridge men failed in the first innings, and i only bowled six overs, which annoyed my mother and nina, because they said that i was there to bowl. but after cambridge went in again they played an uphill game most splendidly, and my people had plenty of opportunity to see me bowl. i got four men out, and henderson was very pleased with me, but i was not a first-class bowler, though i tried hard to look like one. we had nearly two hundred runs to win, and i confess that i was afraid that i might have to go in when there were two or three runs still wanted. in the first innings my efforts as a batsman had been brief and glorious, i had received three balls, two of which i had hit to the boundary and the third i meant to go to the same place, only somebody caught it. i hoped sincerely that my part in the 'varsity match was over, but whenever a wicket fell i had a very bad moment. i did not, however, have to make that long journey from the pavilion to the wickets again, for henderson, who kept himself back in the second innings, played beautifully, and we won with some wickets in hand. i don't want to forget the wholesome thrill which i had when henderson made the winning stroke, and i am quite certain that i never shall forget it. my father and mother, too, were pleased, and i was very glad to see their delight, for i thought that i might have added more to their anxiety than to their pleasure during the last four years. in july both fred and jack came to stay with me, because in a few weeks i had to start on one of my journeys in search of a language which i did not know. i wanted jack to be with us when the history list came out, in case anything disastrous should happen. but jack had filled himself so full of facts that when the telegram from the clerk of the schools came he was delighted to find that he had got a third, and he declared that i must be a genius to have got a second, but that was only his way of expressing his surprise. the greats' list was a triumph for st. cuthbert's, murray and five other men getting firsts. fred got a second, and considering that he had been playing footer and cricket for the 'varsity so much, everybody thought that he had done most thoroughly well. cliborough was so satisfied with him that he was offered a mastership at once, which was a stroke of luck both for fred and the school. nothing remained for us to do except to take our degrees, and we arranged with henderson that we should go back together once more and take them at the same time. i think that we clung to that expedition as our last remaining link with the 'varsity. but there is a link, which those who learn to love oxford, as fred, jack and i loved her, cannot break; it is the debt which we owe to her, for we shall never be able to repay it in full. the end richard clay & sons, limited, bread street hill, e.c., and bungay, suffolk. by the same author godfrey marten: schoolboy with eight illustrations by gordon browne _in one vol., cloth, gilt edges, price s._ some press opinions the spectator:--"the book is extremely good reading from end to end; it abounds in entertaining and exciting episodes, is wholly void of sentimentality, and enforces in the most unmistakable and wholesome way the duty of straight and manly conduct." the standard:--"boys will be delighted with this faithful record of public school life. it shows up without the smallest priggishness, or the least hint of lecturing or sermonising, that side of the english public school of which we are so proud--the fine, broad standard of a gentleman that the well-bred boy sets up for himself." the daily telegraph:--"_godfrey marten, schoolboy_, may rank with the very small number of books which treat successfully of boy-life.... it is a bright, stirring story, and should find a hearty welcome." morning post:--"_godfrey marten_ will rejoice the heart of many a lad. mr. turley knows boys and writes lovingly of them. his story is vivacious, the heroes are real live ones, the style is racy and true to reality in its descriptions of masters, boys and sports, and even in its use of school slang, the book throughout is clean, wholesome and manly." the times:--"returning to mr. turley's book after a year's interval we are more than ever taken by its quiet, unassuming merits and a certain insidious charm. thinking over other school books we can recall nothing nearer to boy nature than this, nor any that has greater interest as a story." the guardian:--"the book is a wholesome one; the boys are gentlemen, the games are described with spirit, and some of the difficulties of public school life are treated in a healthy and helpful way. moreover it is written for boys rather than about them, and the author succeeds in looking at things from a boy's point of view." london: william heinemann, , bedford street, w.c. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. [illustration: tea on the lawn at the oxford union (page )] an american at oxford by john corbin author of "schoolboy life in england" _with illustrations_ boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, , by john corbin all rights reserved _published may, _ to a. f. c. preface by a curious coincidence, the day on which the last proof of this book was sent to the printer saw the publication of the will of the late cecil rhodes, providing that each of the united states is forever to be represented at oxford by two carefully selected undergraduate students. that the plan will result in any speedy realization of the ideals of the great exponent of english power in the new worlds is perhaps not to be expected. for the future of american education, on the other hand, few things could be more fortunate. native and independent as our national genius has always been, and seems likely to remain, it has always been highly assimilative. in the past, we have received much needed aliment from the german universities. for the present, the elements of which we have most need may best, as i think, be assimilated from england. whether or not americans at oxford become imbued with mr. rhodes's conceptions as to the destiny of the english peoples, they can scarcely fail to observe that oxford affords to its undergraduates a very sensibly ordered and invigorating life, a very sensibly ordered and invigorating education. this, as i have endeavored to point out in the following pages, our american universities do not now afford, nor are they likely to afford it until the social and the educational systems are more perfectly organized than they have ever been, or seem likely to be, under the dominance of german ideals. if, however, the new oxford-trained americans should ever become an important factor in our university life, the future is bright with hope. we have assimilated, or are assimilating, the best spirit of german education; and if we were to make a similar draft on the best educational spirit in england, our universities would become far superior as regards their organization and ideals, and probably also as regards what they accomplish, to any in europe. the purpose and result of an introduction of english methods would of course not be to imitate foreign custom, but to give fuller scope to our native character, so that if the american educational ideals in the end approximate the english more closely than they do at present, such a result would be merely incidental to the fact that the two countries have at bottom much the same social character and instincts. if mr. rhodes's dream is to be realized, it will probably be in some such tardy and roundabout but admirably vital manner as this. at a superficial glance the testator's intention seems to have been to send the students to oxford directly from american schools. such a course, it seems to me, could only work harm. even if the educational and residential facilities afforded at oxford were on the whole superior to those of american universities, which they are not, the difference could not compensate the student for the loss of his american university course with all it means in forming lifelong friendships among his countrymen and in assimilating the national spirit. if, however, the oxford scholarships were awarded to recent graduates of american universities, the greatest advantage might result. the student might then modify his native training so as to complete it and make it more effective. now the wording of the testament requires only that the american scholars shall "commence residence as undergraduates." this they will be able to do whatever their previous training, and in fact this is what americans at oxford have always done in the past. the most valuable a.b. leaves the field of human knowledge far from exhausted; and the methods of instruction and of examining at oxford are so different from anything we know that it has even proved worth while for the american to repeat at oxford the same studies he took in america. the executors of the will should be most vigorously urged to select the scholars from the graduates of american universities. the parts of this book that treat most intimately of oxford life were written while in residence in balliol college some six years ago. most of the rest was written quite recently in london. much of the matter in the following pages has appeared in "harper's weekly," "the bachelor of arts," "the forum," and "the atlantic monthly." it has all been carefully revised and rearranged, and much new matter added. each chapter has gained, as i hope, by being brought into its natural relation with the other chapters; and the ideas that have informed the whole are for the first time adequately stated. contents chap. page introductory i. the university and the college i. the university of colleges ii. the oxford freshman iii. a day in an oxford college iv. dinner in hall v. evening vi. the mind of the college vii. club life in the college viii. social life in the university ix. the college and the university ii. oxford out of doors i. slacking on the isis and the cherwell ii. as seen from an oxford tub iii. a little scrimmage with english rugby iv. track and field athletics v. english and american sportsmanship iii. the college as an educational force i. the passman ii. the honor schools iii. the tutor iv. reading for examinations v. the examination vi. oxford qualities and their defects vii. the university and reform viii. the university and the people iv. the history of the university and the college i. the university before the college ii. the mediÆval hall iii. the college system iv. the golden age of the mediÆval hall v. the origin of the modern undergraduate vi. the insignificance of the modern university vii. the college in america v. the problems of the american university i. the social and athletic problem ii. the administrative problem iii. the educational problem iv. the american hall appendix i. athletic training in england ii. climate and international athletics iii. an oxford final honor school list of illustrations page _tea on the lawn at the oxford union (page )_ _frontispiece_ _the hall staircase, christ church_ _magdalen tower from the bridge_ _a racing punt and punter_ _iffley lock and mill_ _the full costume of an eightsman_ _the college barges: tubbing in november floods_ _the last day of the bumping races of the summer eights ( )_ _an english rugby line-up_ _throwing in the ball_ _new college cloisters, bell tower, and chapel_ _new college gardens--showing the mediæval wall of oxford_ an american at oxford the great german historian of the united states, h. e. von holst, declares[ ] that, "in the sense attached to the word by europeans, ... there is in the united states as yet not a single university;" institutions like johns hopkins and harvard he characterizes as "hybrids of college and university." in his survey of european usage, one suspects that professor von holst failed to look beyond germany. the so-called universities of england, for example, are mere aggregations of colleges; they have not even enough of the modern scientific spirit to qualify as hybrids, having consciously and persistently refused to adopt continental standards. the higher institutions of america belong historically to the english type; they have only recently imported the scientific spirit. to the great world of graduates and undergraduates they are colleges, and should as far as possible be kept so. yet there is reason enough for calling them hybrids. in the teaching bodies of all of them the german, or so-called university, spirit is very strong, and is slowly possessing the more advanced of our recent graduates and undergraduates. let us be duly grateful. the first result of this spirit is an extraordinary quickening and diffusion of the modern ideal of scholarship, a devotion to pure science amounting almost to a passion. as to the second result, we may or may not have cause to be grateful. our most prominent educational leaders have striven consciously to make over our universities on the german plan. we are in the midst of a struggle between old and new forces, and at present the alien element has apparently the upper hand. the social ideal, which only a few years ago was virtually the same in england and america, has already been powerfully modified; and the concrete embodiment of the new scientific spirit, the so-called elective system, has transformed the peculiar educational institution of our anglo-saxon people. we have gone so far forward that it is possible to gain an excellent perspective on what we are leaving behind. in the ensuing pages i propose to present as plainly as i may the english university of colleges. i shall not hesitate to give its social life all the prominence it has in fact, devoting much space even to athletic sports. the peculiarity of the english ideal of education is that it aims to develop the moral and social virtues, no less than the mental--to train up boys to be men among men. only by understanding this is it possible to sympathize with the system of instruction, its peculiar excellences, and its almost incredible defects. in the end i hope we shall see more clearly what our colleges have inherited from the parent institutions, and shall be able to judge how far the system of collegiate education expresses the genius of english and american people. at the present juncture of political forces in america this consideration has a special importance. the success with which we exert our influence upon distant peoples will depend upon what manner of young men we train up to carry it among them. if the graduates of german institutions are prepared to establish their civilization in the imperial colonies, the fact has not yet been shown. the colleges of england have manned the british empire. footnote: [ ] _educational review_, vol. v. p. . i the university and the college i the university of colleges one of the familiar sights at oxford is the american traveler who stops over on his way from liverpool to london, and, wandering up among the walls of the twenty colleges from the great western station, asks the first undergraduate he meets which building is the university. when an oxford man is first asked this, he is pretty sure to answer that there isn't any university; but as the answer is taken as a rudeness, he soon finds it more agreeable to direct inquirers to one of the three or four single buildings, scattered hither and yon among the ubiquitous colleges, in which the few functions of the university are performed. a traveler from our middle west, where "universities" often consist of a single building, might easily set forth for london with the firm idea that the ashmolean museum or the bodleian library is oxford university. to the undergraduate the university is an abstract institution that at most examines him two or three times, "ploughs" him, or graduates him. he becomes a member of it by being admitted into one of the colleges. to be sure, he matriculates also as a student of the university; but the ceremony is important mainly as a survival from the historic past, and is memorable to him perhaps because it takes place beneath the beautiful mediæval roof of the divinity school; perhaps because he receives from the vice-chancellor a copy of the university statutes, written in mediæval latin, which it is to be his chief delight to break. except when he is in for "schools," as the examinations are called, the university fades beyond his horizon. if he says he is "reading" at oxford, he has the city in mind. he is more likely to describe himself as "up at" magdalen, balliol, or elsewhere. this english idea that a university is a mere multiplication of colleges is so firmly fixed that the very word is defined as "a collection of institutions of learning at a common centre." in the daily life of the undergraduate, in his religious observances, and in regulating his studies, the college is supreme. to an american the english college is not at first sight a wholly pleasing object. it has walls that one would take to be insurmountable if they were not crowned with shards of bottles mortared into the coping; and it has gates that seem capable of resisting a siege until one notices that they are reinforced by a _cheval-de-frise_, or a row of bent spikes like those that keep the bears in their dens at the zoo. professor von holst would certainly regard it as a hybrid between a mediæval cloister and a nursery; and one easily imagines him producing no end of evidence from its history and traditions to show that it is so. like so many english institutions, its outward and visible signs belong to the manners of forgotten ages, even while it is charged with a vigorous and very modern life. a closer view of it, i hope, will show that in spite of the barnacles of the past that cling to it--and in some measure, too, because of them--it is the expression of a very high ideal of undergraduate convenience and freedom. ii the oxford freshman when a freshman comes up to his college, he is received at the mediæval gate by a very modern porter, who lifts boxes and bags from the hansom in a most obliging manner, and is presently shown to his cloistral chambers by a friendly and urbane butler or steward. to accommodate the newcomers in the more populous colleges, a measure is resorted to so revolutionary that it shocks all american ideas of academic propriety. enough seniors--fourth and third year men--are turned out of college to make room for the freshmen. the assumption is that the upper classmen have had every opportunity to profit by the life of the college, and are prepared to flock by themselves in the town. little communities of four or five fellows who have proved congenial live together in "diggings"--that is, in some townsman's house--hard by the college gate. this arrangement makes possible closer and more intimate relationship among them than would otherwise be likely; and after three years of the very free life within those sharded walls, a cloistered year outside is usually more than advisable, in view of the final examination. it cannot be said that they leave college without regret; but i never heard a word of complaint, and it is tacitly admitted that on the whole they profit by the arrangement. the more substantial furnishings in the rooms are usually permanent, belonging to the college: each successive occupant is charged for interest on the investment and for depreciation by wear. thus the furniture is far more comfortable than in an american college room and costs the occupant less. bed and table linen, cutlery, and a few of the more personal furnishings the student brings himself. if one neglects to bring them, as i confess i did through ignorance, the deficiency is supplied by the scout, a dignitary in the employ of the college, who stands in somewhat more than the place of a servant and less than that of a parent to half a dozen fellows whose rooms are adjacent. the scout levies on the man above for sheets, on the man below for knives and forks, and on the man across the staircase for table linen. there is no call for shame on the one part or resentment on the other, for is not the scout the representative of the hospitality of the college? "when you have time, sir," he says kindly, "you will order your own linen and cutlery." how high a state of civilization is implied in this manner of receiving a freshman can be appreciated only by those who have arrived friendless at an american university. the scout is in effect a porter, "goody," and eating-club waiter rolled into one. he has frequently a liberal dash of the don, which he has acquired by extended residence at the university; for among all the shifting generations of undergraduates, only he and the don are permanent. when he reaches middle age he wears a beard if he chooses, and then he is usually taken for a don by the casual visitor. there is no harm in this; the scout plays the part _con amore_, and his long breeding enables him to sustain it to a marvel. yet for the most part the scout belongs with the world of undergraduates. he has his social clubs and his musical societies; he runs, plays cricket, and rows, and, finally, he meets the cambridge scout in the inter-varsity matches. his pay the scout receives in part from the college, but mostly from the students, who give him two to four pounds a term each, according to his deserts. all broken bread, meat, and wine are his perquisites, and tradition allows him to "bag" a fair amount of tea, coffee, and sugar. out of all this he makes a sumptuous living. i knew only one exception, and that was when four out of six men on a certain scout's staircase happened to be vegetarians, and five teetotalers. the poor fellow was in extremities for meat and in desperation for drink. there was only one more pitiable sight in college, and that was the sole student on the staircase who ate meat and drank wine; the scout bagged food and drink from him ceaselessly. at the end of one term the student left a half dozen bottles of sherry, which he had merely tasted, in his sideboard; and when he came back it was gone. "where's my sherry, betts?" he asked. "sherry, sir? you ain't got no sherry." "but i left six bottles; you had no right to more than the one that was broken." "yes, sir; but when i had taken that, sir, the 'arf dozen was broke." according to oxford traditions the student had no recourse; and be it set down to his praise, he never blamed the scout. he bemoaned the fate that bound them together in suffering, and vented his spleen on total abstinence and vegetarianism. it may be supposed that the scout's antiquity and importance makes him a bad servant; in the land of the free i fear that it would; but at oxford nothing could be more unlikely. the only mark that distinguishes the scout from any other class of waiters is that his attentions to your comfort are carried off with greater ease and dignity. it may be true that he is president of the oxford society of college servants--the bones or the hasty pudding of the scouts; that he stroked the scouts' eight in the townie's bumping races, during the long vac, and afterward rowed against the scouts' eight from cambridge; that he captained the scouts' cricket eleven; that in consequence he is a "double blue" and wears the oxford 'varsity color on his hat with no less pride than any other "blue." yet he is all the more bound, out of consideration for his own dignity, to show you every respect and attention. after the scout, the hosts of the college are the dons. as soon as the freshman is settled in his rooms, or sometimes even before, his tutor meets him and arranges for a formal presentation to the dean and master. all three are apt to show their interest in a freshman by advising him as to trying for the athletic teams, joining the college clubs and societies, and in a word as to all the concerns of undergraduate life except his studies--these come later. if a man has any particular gift, athletic or otherwise, the tutor introduces him to the men he should know, or, when this is not feasible, gives a word to the upper classmen, who take the matter into their own hands. if a freshman has no especial gift, the tutor is quite as sure to say the proper word to the fellows who have most talent for drawing out newcomers. in the first weeks of a freshman's residence he finds sundry pasteboards tucked beneath his door: the upper classman's call is never more than the formal dropping of a card. the freshman is expected to return these calls at once, and is debarred by a happy custom from leaving his card if he does not find his man. he goes again and again until he does find him. by direct introduction from the tutor or by this formality of calling, the freshman soon meets half a dozen upper classmen, generally second-year men, and in due time he receives little notes like this:-- dear smith,--come to my rooms if you can to breakfast with brown and me on wednesday at . . yours sincerely, a. robinson. at table the freshman finds other freshmen whose interests are presumably similar to his own. no one supposes for a moment that all this is done out of simple human kindness. the freshman breakfast is a conventional institution for gathering together the unlicked cubs, so that the local influences may take hold of them. the reputation of the college in general demands that it keep up a name for hospitality; and in particular the clubs and athletic teams find it of advantage to get the run of all available new material. the freshman breakfast is nothing in the world but a variation of the "running" that is given newcomers in those american colleges where fraternity life is strong, and might even be regarded as a more civilized form of the rushes and cane sprees and even hazings that used to serve with us to introduce newcomers to their seniors. many second-year breakfasts are perfunctory enough; the host has a truly british air of saying that since for better or for worse he is destined to look upon your face and abide by your deeds, he is willing to make the best of it. if you prove a "bounder," you are soon enough dropped. "_i_ shall soon be a second-year man," i once heard a freshman remark, "and then _i_ can ask freshmen to breakfast, too, and cut them afterward." the point is that every fellow is thrown in the way of meeting the men of his year. if one is neglected in the end, he has no reason to feel that it is the fault of the college. as a result of this machinery for initiating newcomers, a man usually ceases to be a freshman after a single term (two months) of residence; and it is always assumed that he does. iii a day in an oxford college when a freshman is once established in college, his life falls into a pleasantly varied routine. the day is ushered in by the scout, who bustles into the bedroom, throws aside the curtain, pours out the bath, and shouts, "half past seven, sir," in a tone that makes it impossible to forget that chapel--or if one chooses, roll-call--comes at eight. unless one keeps his six chapels or "rollers" a week, he is promptly "hauled" before the dean, who perhaps "gates" him. to be gated is to be forbidden to pass the college gate after dark, and fined a shilling for each night of confinement. to an american all this brings recollections of the paternal roof, where tardiness at breakfast meant, perhaps, the loss of dessert, and bedtime an hour earlier. i remember once, when out of training, deliberately cutting chapel to see with what mien the good dean performed his nursery duties. his calm was unruffled, his dignity unsullied. i soon came to find that the rules about rising were bowed to and indeed respected by all concerned, even while they were broken. they are distinctly more lax than those the fellows have been accustomed to in the public schools, and they are conceded to be for the best welfare of the college. breakfast comes soon after chapel, or roll-call. if a man has "kept a dirty roller," that is, has reported in pyjamas, ulster, and boots, and has turned in again, the scout puts the breakfast before the fire on a trestle built of shovel, poker, and tongs, where it remains edible until noon. if a man has a breakfast party on, the scout makes sure that he is stirring in season, and, hurrying through the other rooms on the staircase, is presently on hand for as long as he may be wanted. the usual oxford breakfast is a single course, which not infrequently consists of some one of the excellent english pork products, with an egg or kidneys. there may be two courses, in which case the first is of the no less excellent fresh fish. there are no vegetables. the breakfast is ended with toast and jam or marmalade. when one has fellows in to breakfast,--and the oxford custom of rooming alone instead of chumming makes such hospitality frequent,--his usual meal is increased by a course, say, of chicken. in any case it leads to a morning cigarette, for tobacco aids digestion, and helps fill the hour or so after meals which an englishman gives to relaxation. at ten o'clock the breakfast may be interrupted for a moment by the exit of some one bent on attending a lecture, though one apologizes for such an act as if it were scarcely good form. an appointment with one's tutor is a more legitimate excuse for leaving; but even this is always an occasion for an apology, in behalf of the tutor of course, for one is certainly not himself responsible. if a quorum is left, they manage to sit comfortably by the fire, smoking and chatting in spite of lectures and tutors, until by mutual consent they scatter to glance at the "times" and the "sportsman" in the common-room, or even to get in a bit of reading. luncheon often consists of bread and cheese and jam from the buttery, with perhaps a half pint of bitter beer; but it may, like the breakfast, come from the college kitchen. in any case it is very light, for almost immediately after it everybody scatters to field and track and river for the exercise that the english climate makes necessary and the sport that the english temperament demands. by four o'clock every one is back in college tubbed and dressed for tea, which a man serves himself in his rooms to as many fellows as he has been able to gather in on field or river. if he is eager to hear of the games he has not been able to witness, he goes to the junior common-room or to his club, where he is sure to find a dozen or so of kindred spirits representing every sport of importance. in this way he hears the minutest details of the games of the day from the players themselves; and before nightfall--such is the influence of tea--those bits of gossip which in america are known chiefly among members of a team have ramified the college. thus the function of the "bleachers" on an american field is performed with a vengeance by the easy-chairs before a common-room fire; and a man had better be kicked off the team by an american captain than have his shortcomings served up with common-room tea. the two hours between tea and dinner may be, and usually are, spent in reading. iv dinner in hall at seven o'clock the college bell rings, and in two minutes the fellows have thrown on their gowns and are seated at table, where the scouts are in readiness to serve them. as a rule a man may sit wherever he chooses; this is one of the admirable arrangements for breaking up such cliques as inevitably form in a college. but in point of fact a man usually ends by sitting in some certain quarter of the hall, where from day to day he finds much the same set of fellows. thus all the advantages of friendly intercourse are attained without any real exclusiveness. this may seem a small point; but an hour a day becomes an item in four years, especially if it is the hour when men are most disposed to be companionable. the english college hall is a miniature of memorial hall at harvard, of which it is the prototype. it has the same sombrely beautiful roof, the same richness of stained glass. it has also the same memorable and impressive canvases, though the worthies they portray are likely to be the princes and prelates of holbein instead of the soldiers, merchants, and divines of copley and gilbert stuart. the tables are of antique oak, with the shadow of centuries in its grain, and the college plate bears the names and date of the restoration. to an american the mugs he drinks his beer from seem old enough, but the englishman finds them aggressively new. they are not, however, without endearing associations, for the mugs that preceded them were last used to drink a health to king charles, and were then stamped into coin to buy food and drink for his soldiers. the one or two colleges that, for puritan principles or thrift, or both, refused to give up their old plate, are not overproud of showing it. across the end of the hall is a platform for high table, at which the dons assemble as soon as the undergraduates are well seated. on sunday night they come out in full force, and from the time the first one enters until the last is seated, the undergraduates rattle and bang the tables, until it seems as if the glass must splinter. when, as often happens, a distinguished graduate comes up,--the speaker of the commons to balliol, or the prime minister to christ church,--the enthusiasm has usually to be stopped by a gesture from the master or the dean. [illustration: the hall staircase, christ church] the dons at high table, like the british peers, mingle judicial with legislative functions. all disputes about sconces are referred to them, and their decrees are absolute. a sconce is a penalty for a breach of good manners at table, and is an institution that can be traced far back into the middle ages. the offenses that are sconcible may be summarized as punning, swearing, talking shop, and coming to hall after high table is in session. take, for instance, the case of a certain oarsman who found the dinner forms rather too rigid after his first day on sliding seats. by way of comforting himself, he remarked that the lord giveth and the lord taketh away. who is to decide whether he is guilty of profanity? the master, of course, and his assembled court of dons. the remark and the attendant circumstances are written on the back of an order-slip by the senior scholar present, and a scout is dispatched with it. imagine, then, the master presenting this question to the dons: is it profanity to refer by means of a quotation from scripture to the cuticle one loses in a college boat? suppose the dons decree that it is. the culprit has the alternative of paying a shilling to the college library, or ordering a tun of bitter beer. if he decides for beer, a second alternative confronts him: he may drink it down in one uninterrupted draft, or he may kiss the cup and send it circling the table. if he tries to floor the sconce and fails, he has to order more beer for the table; but if he succeeds, the man who sconced him has to pay the shot and order a second tun for the table. i never knew but one man to down a sconce. he did it between soup and fish, and for the rest of the evening was as drunk as ever was the restoration lord who presented the silver tankard to the college. after hall the dons go to the senior common-room for the sweet and port. at trinity they have one room for the sweet and another for port. the students, meanwhile, in certain of the colleges, may go for dessert to the college store; that is to say, to a room beneath the hall, where the fancy groceries of the college stock are displayed for sale. there are oranges from florida and tangiers, dainty maiden blush apples from new england, figs and dates from the levant, prunes and prunelles from italy, candied apricots from france, and the superb english hothouse grapes, more luscious than silenus ever crushed against his palate. there are sweets, cigarettes, and cigars. all are spread upon the tables like a venetian painting of abundance; but at either end of the room stand two oxford scouts, with account-books in their hands. a fellow takes a tangerine and, with a tap-room gesture, tilts to the scout as if to say, "here's looking toward you, landlord;" or, "i drink to your bonny blue eyes." but he is not confronted by a publican or barmaid; only a grave underling of the college bursar, who silently records "brown, orange, d.," and looks up to catch the next item. two other fellows are flipping for cigars, and the second scout is gravely watching their faces to see which way the coin has fallen, recording the outcome without a sign. some one asks, "how much are chocolate creams, higgins?" "three ha'pence for four, sir," is the answer, and the student urges three neighbors to share his penny'orth. the scout records, "jones, c. c. ½d." the minuteness of this bookkeeping is characteristic. the weekly battels (bills) always bear a charge of twopence for "salt, etc.;" and once, when i had not ordered anything during an entire day, there was an unspecified charge of a penny in the breakfast column. i asked the butler what it meant. he looked at me horrified. "why, sir, that is to keep your name on the books." no penny, i suppose, ever filled an office of greater responsibility, and i still can shudder at so narrow an escape. i asked if such elaborate bookkeeping was not very expensive. in america, i said, we should lump the charges and devote the saving to hiring a better chef. he explained that it had always been so managed; that the chef was thought very good, sir; and that by itemizing charges the young gentlemen who wished were enabled to live more cheaply. obviously, when it costs a penny merely to keep your name on the books, there is need to economize. after a quarter of an hour in the store the fellows drop off by twos and threes to read, or to take coffee in some one's room. with the coffee a glass of port is usually taken. almost all the fellows have spirits and wines, which are sold by the college as freely as any other commodity. if a man wishes a cup served in his room, he has only to say so to his scout. if one waits long enough in the store, he is almost certain to be asked to coffee and wine. the would-be host circulates the room tapping the elect on the shoulder and speaking a quiet word, as they select bones men at yale. if half a dozen men are left in the store uninvited, one of them is apt to rise to the occasion and invite the lot. it scarcely matters how unpopular a fellow may be. the willingness to loaf is the touch of nature that makes all men kin. after coffee more men fall off to their books; but the faithful are likely to spend the evening talking or playing cards--bridge, loo, napp, and whist, with the german importation of skat and the american importation of poker. in one college i knew, there was a nomadic roulette wheel that wandered from room to room pursued by the shadow of the dean, but seldom failed of an evening to gather its flock about it. v evening in the evening, when the season permits, the fellows sit out of doors after dinner, smoking and playing bowls. there is no place in which the spring comes more sweetly than in an oxford garden. the high walls are at once a trap for the first warm rays of the sun and a barrier against the winds of march. the daffodils and crocuses spring up with joy as the gardener bids; and the apple and cherry trees coddle against the warm north walls, spreading out their early buds gratefully to the mild english sun. for long, quiet hours after dinner they flaunt their beauty to the fellows smoking, and breathe their sweetness to the fellows playing bowls. "no man," exclaims the american visitor, "could live four years in these gardens of delight and not be made gentler and nobler!" perhaps! though not altogether in the way the visitor imagines. when the flush of summer is on, the loiterers loll on the lawn full length; and as they watch the insects crawl among the grass they make bets on them, just as the gravest and most reverend seniors have been known to do in america. in the windows overlooking the quadrangle are boxes of brilliant flowers, above which the smoke of a pipe comes curling out. at harvard some fellows have geraniums in their windows, but only the very rich; and when they began the custom an ancient graduate wrote one of those communications to the "crimson," saying that if men put unmanly boxes of flowers in the window, how can they expect to beat yale? flower boxes, no sand. at oxford they manage things so that anybody may have flower boxes; and their associations are by no means unmanly. this is the way they do it. in the early summer a gardener's wagon from the country draws up by the college gate, and the driver cries, "flowers! flowers for a pair of old bags, sir." _bags_ is of course the fitting term for english trousers--which don't fit; and i should like to inform that ancient graduate that the window boxes of oxford suggest the very badge of manhood. as long as the english twilight lingers, the men will sit and talk and sing to the mandolin; and i have heard of fellows sitting and talking all night, not turning in until the porter appeared to take their names at roll-call. on the eve of may day it is quite the custom to sit out, for at dawn one may go to see the pretty ceremony of heralding the may on magdalen tower. the magdalen choir boys--the sweetest songsters in all oxford--mount to the top of that most beautiful of gothic towers, and, standing among the pinnacles,--pinnacles afire with the spirituality of the middle ages, that warms all the senses with purity and beauty,--those boys, i say, on that tower and among those pinnacles, open their mouths and sing a latin song to greet the may. meantime, the fellows who have come out to listen in the street below make catcalls and blow fish horns. the song above is the survival of a romish, perhaps a druidical, custom; the racket below is the survival of a puritan protest. that is oxford in symbol! its dignity and mellowness are not so much a matter of flowering gardens and crumbling walls as of the traditions of the centuries in which the whole life of the place has deep sources; and the noblest of its institutions are fringed with survivals that run riot in the grotesque. [illustration: magdalen tower from the bridge] if a man intends to spend the evening out of college, he has to make a dash before nine o'clock; for love or for money the porter may not let an inmate out after nine. one man i knew was able to escape by guile. he had a brother in trinity whom he very much resembled, and whenever he wanted to go out, he would tilt his mortarboard forward, wrap his gown high about his neck, as it is usually worn of an evening, and bidding the porter a polite good-night, say, "charge me to my brother, hancock, if you please." the charge is the inconsiderable sum of one penny, and is the penalty of having a late guest. having profited by my experience with the similar charge for keeping my name on the college books, i never asked its why and wherefore. both are no doubt survivals of some mediæval custom, the authority of which no college employee--or don, for the matter of that--would question. such matters interest the oxford man quite as little as the question how he comes by a tonsil or a vermiform appendix. they are there, and he makes the best of them. if a fellow leaves college for an evening, it is for a foregathering at some other college, or to go to the theatre. as a rule he wears a cloth cap. a "billycock" or "bowler," as the pot hat is called, is as thoroughly frowned on now in english colleges as it was with us a dozen years ago. as for the mortarboard and gown, undergraduate opinion rather requires that they be left behind. this is largely, no doubt, because they are required by law to be worn. so far as the undergraduates are concerned, every operative statute of the university, with the exception of those relating to matriculation and graduation, refers to conduct in the streets after nightfall, and almost without exception they are honored in the breach. this is out of disregard for the vice-chancellor of the university, who is familiarly called the vice, because he serves as a warning to others for the practice of virtue. the vice makes his power felt in characteristically dark and tortuous ways. his factors are two proctors, college dons in daytime, but skulkers after nightfall, each of whom has his bulldogs, that is, scouts employed literally to spy upon the students. if these catch you without cap or gown, they cause you to be proctorized or "progged," as it is called, which involves a matter of five shillings or so. as a rule there is little danger of progging, but my first term fell in evil days. for some reason or other the chest of the university showed a deficit of sundry pounds, shillings, and pence; and as it had long ceased to need or receive regular bequests,--the finance of the institution being in the hands of the colleges,--a crisis was at hand. a more serious problem had doubtless never arisen since the great question was solved of keeping undergraduates' names on the books. the expedient of the vice-chancellor was to summon the proctors, and bid them charge their bulldogs to prog all freshmen caught at night without cap and gown. the deficit in the university chest was made up at five shillings a head. one of the vice-chancellor's rules is that no undergraduate shall enter an oxford "pub." now the only restaurant in town, queen's, is run in conjunction with a pub, and was once the favorite resort of all who were bent on breaking the monotony of an english sunday. the vice-chancellor resolved to destroy this den of sabbath-breaking, and the undergraduates resolved no less firmly to defend their stronghold. the result was a hand-to-hand fight with the bulldogs, which ended so triumphantly for the undergraduates that a dozen or more of them were sent down. in the articles of the peace that followed, it was stipulated, i was told, that so long as the restaurant was closed sunday afternoons and nights, it should never suffer from the visit of proctor or bulldog. as a result, queen's is a great scene of undergraduate foregatherings. the dinners are good enough and reasonably cheap; and as most excellent champagne is to be had at twelve shillings the bottle, the diners are not unlikely to get back to college a trifle buffy, in the oxford phrase. by an interesting survival of mediæval custom, the vice-chancellor has supreme power over the morals of the town, and any citizen who transgresses his laws is visited with summary punishment. for a tradesman or publican to assist in breaking university rules means outlawry and ruin, and for certain offenses a citizen may be punished by imprisonment. over the oxford theatre the vice-chancellor's power is absolute. in my time he was much more solicitous that the undergraduate be kept from knowledge of the omnipresent woman with a past than that dramatic art should flourish, and forbade the town to more than one excellent play of the modern school of comedy that had been seen and discussed in london by the younger sisters of the undergraduates. the woman with a present is virtually absent. time was when no oxford play was quite successful unless the undergraduates assisted at its first night, though in a way very different from that which the term denotes in france. the assistance was of the kind so generously rendered in new york and boston on the evening of an athletic contest. even to-day, just for tradition's sake, the undergraduates sometimes make a row. a lot of b. n. c. men, as the clanny sons of brazenose college call themselves, may insist that an opera stop while the troupe listen to one of their own excellent vocal performances; and i once saw a great sprinter, not unknown to yale men, rise from his seat, face the audience, and, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the soubrette, announce impressively, "do you know, i rather _like_ that girl!" the show is usually over just before eleven, and then occurs an amusing, if unseemly, scramble to get back to college before the hour strikes. a man who stays out after ten is fined threepence; after eleven the fine is sixpence. when all is said, why shouldn't one sprint for threepence? if you stay out of college after midnight, the dean makes a star chamber offense of it, fines you a "quid" or two, and like as not sends you down. this sounds a trifle worse than it is; for if you must be away, your absence can usually be arranged for. if you find yourself in the streets after twelve, you may rap on some friend's bedroom window and tell him of your plight through the iron grating. he will then spend the first half of the night in your bed and wash his hands in your bowl. with such evidence as this to support him, the scout is not apt, if sufficiently retained, to report a suspected absence. i have even known fellows to make their arrangements in advance and spend the night in town; but the ruse has its dangers, and the penalty is to be sent down for good and all. it is owing to such regulations as these that life in the english college has the name of being cloistral. just how cloistral it is in spirit no one can know who has not taken part in a rag in the quad; and this is impossible to an outsider, for at midnight all visitors are required to leave, under a heavy penalty to their host. vi the mind of the college any jubilation is a rag; but the most interesting kind, though perhaps the least frequent, takes the direction of what we call hazing. it is seldom, however, as hazing has come to be with us, a wanton outbreak. it is a deliberate expression of public opinion, and is carried on sedately by the leading men of the college. the more i saw of it, the more deeply i came to respect it as an institution. in its simplest if rarest form it merely consists in smashing up a man's room. the only affair of this kind which i saw took place in the owner's absence; and when i animadverted on the fact, i was assured that it would have turned out much worse for the man's feelings if he had been present. he was a strapping big rugbeian, who had come up with a "reputter," or reputation, as a football player, and had insisted on trying first off for the 'varsity fifteen. he had promptly been given the hoof for being slow and lazy, and when he condescended to try for the college fifteen, his services were speedily dispensed with for the same reason. as he still carried his head high, it was necessary to bring his shortcomings home to him in an unmistakable manner. brutal as i thought the proceeding, and shameful to grown men, it did him good. he became a hard-working and lowly minded athlete, and prospered. i am not prepared to say that the effect in this particular instance did not justify the means. a series of judicial raggings was much more edifying. having pulled their culprit out of bed after midnight, the upper classmen set him upon his window-seat in pyjamas, and with great solemnity appointed a judge, a counsel for the prosecution, and a counsel for the defense. of the charges against him only one or two struck home, and even these were so mingled with the nonsense of the proceedings that their sting was more or less blunted. the man had been given over to his books to the neglect of his personal appearance. it was charged that in pretending to know his subjunctives he was ministering to the vanity of the dean, who had written a latin grammar, and that by displaying familiarity with hegel he was boot-licking the master, who was a recently imported scotch philosopher. then the vital question was raised as to the culprit's personal habits. heaven defend him now from his legal defender! it was urged that as he was a student of literæ humaniores, he might be excused from an acquaintance with the scientific commodity known as h o: one might ignore anything, in fact, if only one were interested in literæ humaniores. by such means as this the face of the college is kept bright and shining. here is a round robin, addressed to the best of fellows, a member of the 'varsity shooting team and golf team. he was a scotchman by birth and by profession, and even his schoolboy days at eton had not divested him of a highland gait. "whereas, thomas rankeillor, gent, of the university of oxford, has, by means of his large feet, uncouth gait, and his unwieldy brogues, wantonly and with malice destroyed, mutilated, and otherwise injured the putting greens, tees, and golf course generally, the property of the oxford university golf club, whereof he is a member, and "whereas, , the said thomas rankeillor, etc., has by these large feet, uncouth gait, and unwieldy brogues aforesaid, raised embankments, groins, and other bunkers, hazards, and impediments, formed unnecessary roads, farm roads, bridle paths, and other roads, on the putting greens, tees, and golf course generally, aforesaid; excavated sundry and diverse reservoirs, tanks, ponds, conduits, sewers, channels, and other runnels, needlessly irrigating the putting greens, tees, and golf course generally aforesaid, and "whereas, , the said thomas rankeillor, etc., has by those large feet, uncouth gait, and unwieldy brogues aforesaid, caused landslips, thus demolishing all natural hills, bunkers, and other excrescences, and all artificial hillocks, mounds, hedges, and other hazards, "hereby we, the circumsigned, do request, petition, and otherwise entreat the aforesaid "thomas rankeillor, gent, of the university of oxford, to alter, transform, and otherwise modify his uncouth gait, carriage, and general mode of progression; to buy, purchase, or otherwise acquire boots, shoes, and all other understandings of reasonable size, weight, and material; and finally that he do cease from this time forward to wear, use, or in any way carry the aforesaid brogues. "given forth this the th day of march, ." at times rougher means are employed. at brazenose there happened to be two men by the same name, let us say, of gaylor, one of whom had made himself agreeable to the college, while the other had decidedly not. one midnight a party of roisterers hauled the unpopular gaylor out of his study, pulled off his bags, and dragged him by the heels a lap or two about the quad. this form of discipline has since been practiced in other colleges, and is called debagging. the popular gaylor was ever afterward distinguished by the name of asher, because, according to the book of judges, asher abode in his breaches. not dissimilar correctives may be employed, in extreme need, against those mightiest in authority. a favorite device is to screw the oak of an objectionable don. mr. andrew lang, himself formerly a don at merton, reports a conversation--can it have been a personal experience?--between a don standing inside a newly screwed oak and his scout, who was tendering sympathy from the staircase. "what _am_ i to do?" cried the don. "mr. muff, sir," suggested the scout, "when 'e's screwed up, sir, _'e_ sends for the blacksmith." at christ church, "the house," as it is familiarly called, much more direct and personal methods have been employed. not many years ago a censor (whose office is that of the dean at other colleges) stirred up unusual ill-will among his wards. they pulled him from his bed, dragged him into tom quad,--wolsey's quad,--and threw him bodily among the venerable carp of the mercury pond. then they gathered about in a circle, and, when he raised his head above the surface, thrust him under with their walking-sticks. something like forty of them were sent down for this, and the censor went traveling for his health. the memory of this episode was still green when the duke of marlborough gave a coming of age ball at blenheim palace, and invited over literally hundreds of his oxford friends. in other colleges the undergraduates were permitted to leave oxford for the night, but at the house the censor stipulated that they be within the gates, as usual, by midnight. this would have meant a break-neck drive of eight miles after about fifteen minutes at the ball, and was far more exasperating to the young britons than a straightforward refusal. that evening the dons sported their oaks, and carefully bolted themselves within. the night passed in so deep a silence that, for all they knew, the ghost of wolsey might have been stalking in his cherished quadrangle, the glory of building which the eighth henry so unfeelingly appropriated. as morning dawned, the common-room gossips will tell you, the dons crawled furtively out of bed, and shot their bolts to find whether they had need of the blacksmith. not a screw had been driven. the morning showed why. on the stately walls of tom quad was painted "damn the dons!" and again in capital letters, "damn the dons!" and a third time, in larger capitals, "damn the dons!" there were other inscriptions, less fit to relate; and stretching along one whole side of the quad, in huge characters, the finely antithetical sentence: "god bless the duke of marlborough." the doors of the dean's residence were smeared with red paint; and against a marble statue of the late dean liddell, the greek lexicographer, a bottle of green ink had been smashed. two hundred workmen, summoned from a neighboring building, labored two days with rice-root brushes and fuller's earth, but with so little effect that certain of the stones had to be replaced in the walls, and endless scrubbings failed to overcome the affinity between the ink and the literary liddell. the marble statue has been replaced by one of plaster. compared with the usual oxford rag, the upsetting of professor silliman's statue in the yale campus by means of a lasso dwindles into insignificance, and the painting of 'varsity stockings on john harvard, which so scandalized the undergraduates that they repaired the damage by voluntary subscriptions, might be regarded as an act of filial piety. the more i learned of oxford motives, the less anxious i was to censure the system of ragging. in an article i wrote after only a few months' stay, i spoke of it as boyish and undignified; and most americans, i feel sure, would likewise hold up the hand of public horror. yet i cannot be wholly thankful that we are not as they. to the undergraduates, ragging is a survival of the excellently efficient system of discipline in the public schools, where the older boys have charge of the manners and morals of the younger; and historically, like public school discipline, it is an inheritance from the prehistoric past. in the middle ages it was apparently the custom to hold the victim's nose literally to the grindstone. in the schools, to be sure, the sixth form take their duties with great sobriety of conscience--which is not altogether the case in college; but the difference of spirit is perhaps justifiable. for a properly authorized committee of big schoolboys to chastise a youngster who has transgressed is not unnatural, and the system that provides for it has proved successful for five centuries; but for men to adopt the same attitude towards a fellow only a year or two their junior would be preposterous. horseplay is a necessary part of the game. the end in both is the same: it is to bring each individual under the influence of the traditions and standards of the institution of which he has elected to be a part. just as the system of breakfasting freshmen is by no means as altruistic as it at first appears, the practice of ragging is by no means as brutal. it is as if the college said: we have admitted you and welcomed you, opening up the way to every avenue of enjoyment and profit, and it is for our common good, sir, that you be told of your shortcomings. the most diligent and distinguished scholar is not unlikely to be most in need of a pointed lesson in personal decorum; and the man who was not asher may be thankful all his life for the bad quarter of an hour that taught him the difference between those who do and those who do not abide in their breaches. with regard to the dons, a similar case might be made. any one who assumes an authority over grown men that is so nearly absolute should be held to strict honesty and justice of dealing. so far as i could learn, the christ church dons who were so severely dealt with were both unjust and insincere, and i came to sympathize in some measure with the undergraduates at the house, who were half humorously inclined to regard the forty outcasts as martyrs. this is not to argue that all american hazing is justifiable. in many cases, especially of late years, it has been as silly and brutal as the most puritanical moralists have declared. to steal the louisburg cross from above the door of the harvard library was vandalism if you wish--it was certainly a very stupid proceeding; and to celebrate a really notable athletic victory by mutilating the pedestal of the statue of john harvard was not only stupid, but unworthy of a true sportsman. how much better to make an end with painting 'varsity stockings on the dear old boy's bronze legs, and leave the goody to wash them off next day. what i wish to point out is that where there is vigorous public spirit, it may be more efficiently expressed by hazing than by a very nor'easter of puritan morality. a tradition of the late master of balliol, jowett, the great humanist, would seem to show that he held some such opinion. it was his custom in his declining years to walk after breakfast in the garden quad, and whenever there were evidences of a rag, even to the extent of broken windows, he would say cheerily to his _fidus achates_, "ah, hardie, the mind of the college is still vigorous; it has been expressing itself." the best possible justification of the cloistral restrictions of english college life is the facility with which the mind of the college expresses itself. it is by no means fantastic to hint that the decline of well-considered hazing in american colleges has come step by step with the breaking up of the bonds of hospitality and comradeship that used to make them well-organized social communities. i have not come to this philosophy without deep experience. on one occasion after hall, i was flown with such insolence against college restrictions that the _cheval-de-frise_ above the back gate seemed an affront to a freeborn american. though the porter's gate was still open, it was imperatively necessary to scale that roller of iron spikes. i was no sooner astride of it than a mob of townspeople gathered without, and among them a palsied beggar, who bellowed out that he would hextricate me for 'arf a crown, sir. i have seldom been in a less gratifying position; and when i had clambered back into college, i ruefully recalled the explanation my tutor had given me of the iron spikes and bottle shards,--an explanation that at the time had shaken my sides with laughter at british absurdity. my tutor had said that if the fellows were allowed to rag each other in the open streets and smash the townspeople's windows, the matter would be sure to get into the papers and set the uninitiated parent against the universities. in effect, the iron spikes and the stumps of bottles are admirable, not so much because they keep the undergraduate in, as because they keep the public out; and since the public includes all people who wish to hextricate you for 'arf a crown, sir, my mind was in a way to be reduced to that british state of illogic in which i regarded only the effect. as a last resort i carefully sounded the undergraduates as to whether they would find use for greater liberty. they were not only content with their lot, but would, i found, resent any loosening of the restrictions. to give them the liberty of london at night or even of oxford, they argued, would tend to break up the college as a social organization and thus to weaken it athletically; for at oxford they understand what we sometimes do not, that a successful cultivation of sports goes hand in hand with good comradeship and mutual loyalty. the only question remaining was of the actual moral results of the semi-cloistral life. such outbreaks of public opinion as i have described are at the worst exceptional; they are the last resort of outraged patience. the affair at christ church is unexampled in modern times. many a man of the better sort goes through his four years at the university without either experiencing or witnessing undergraduate violence. as for drinking, in spite of the fact that wine and spirits are sold to undergraduates by the college at any and all times and in any and all quantities, there seemed to be less excessive indulgence than, for instance, at harvard or at yale. and the fact that what there was took place for the most part within the college walls was in many respects most fortunate. when fellows are turned loose for their jubilations amid the vices of a city, as is usually the case with us, the consequences to their general morality are sometimes the most hideous. in an english college the men to whom immorality seems inevitable--and such are to be found in all communities--have recourse to london. but as their expeditions take place in daylight and cold blood, and are, except at great risk, cut short when the last evening train leaves paddington shortly after dinner, it is not possible to carry them off with that dazzling air of the man of the world that in america lures so many silly freshmen into dissipations for which they have no natural inclination. this little liberty is apparently of great value. the cloistral vice, which seems inevitable in the english public schools, is robbed of any shadow of palliation. a fellow who continues it is thought puerile, if nothing worse. when it exists, it is more likely to be the result of the intimate study of the ancient classics, and is then even more looked down upon by the robust briton as effeminate or decadent. the subject, usually difficult or impossible to investigate, happened to be on the surface at the time of my residence because of the sensational trial of an oxford graduate in london. i was satisfied that the general body of undergraduates was quite free of contamination. on the whole, i should say that the restrictions of college life in england are far less dangerous than the absolute freedom of life in an american college. under our system a few men profit greatly; they leave college experienced in the ways of the world and at the same time thoroughly masters of themselves. but it is a strong man--perhaps a blasphemous one--that would ask to be led into temptation. the best system of college residence, i take it, is that which develops thoroughly and spontaneously the normal social instincts, and at the same time leaves men free moral agents. in a rightly constituted fellow, in fact, the normal social life constitutes the only real freedom. those frowning college walls, which we are disposed to regard as instruments of pedagogical tyranny, are the means of nourishing the normal social life, and are thus in effect the bulwarks of a freer system than is known to american universities. vii club life in the college as a place for the general purposes of residence--eating and sleeping, work and play--the english college is clearly quite as well organized and equipped as any of the societies, clubs, or fraternities of an american university. and whereas these are in their very nature small and exclusive, the college is ample in size and is consciously and effectively inclusive; the very fact of living in it insures a well-ordered life and abundant opportunity for making friends. yet within this democratic college one finds all sorts of clubs and societies, except those whose main purpose is residential, and these are obviously not necessary. by far the larger proportion of the clubs are formed to promote the recognized undergraduate activities. no college is without athletic and debating clubs, and there are musical and literary clubs almost everywhere. membership in all of them is little more than a formal expression of the fact that a man desires to row, play cricket or football, to debate, read shakespeare, or play the fiddle. yet they are all conducted with a degree of social amenity that to an american is as surprising as it is delightful. the only distinctively social feature of the athletic clubs is the wine, which is given to celebrate the close of a successful season. a boating wine i remember was held in a severe and sombre old hall, built before columbus sailed the ocean blue. it was presided over by a knot of the dons, ancient oarsmen, whose hearts were still in the sport. they sat on the dais, like the family of a baron of the middle ages, while the undergraduates sat about the tables like faithful retainers. all the sportsmen of the college were invited, and everybody made as much noise as he could, especially one of the boating men, who went to the piano and banged out a song of triumph he had written, while we all tumbled into the chorus. one of the fellows--i have always taken it as a compliment to my presence--improvised a cheer after the manner not unknown in america, which was given with much friendly laughter. "quite jolly, isn't it!" he remarked, with the pride of authorship, "and almost as striking as your cry of 'quack, quack, quack!'" he had heard the yale men give their adaptation of the frog chorus at the athletic games between oxford and yale. about midnight the college butler passed a loving cup of mulled wine of a spicy smoothness to fill your veins with liquid joy. the recipe, i was told, had been handed down by the butlers of the college since the fourteenth century, being older than the hall in which we were drinking. i have no doubt it was the cordial chaucer calls ypocras, which seems to have brought joy to his warm old heart. after the loving cup had gone about, the fellows cleared away the tables and danced a stag. at this stage of the game the dons discreetly faded away, and the wine resolved itself into a good-natured rag in the quad that was ended only by daylight and the dean. i have seen many feasts to celebrate athletic victory and the breaking of training, but none as homelike and pleasant all through as the wine of an oxford college. the debating clubs have of necessity a distinct social element, for where there is much talk, food and drink will always be found; and with the social element there is apt to be some little exclusiveness. in balliol there are three debating clubs, and they are of course in some sense rivals. like the fraternities in an american college, they look over the freshmen each year pretty closely; and the freshmen in turn weigh the clubs. one freshman gave his verdict as follows: "the fellows in a are dull, and bathe; the fellows in b are clever, and sometimes bathe; the fellows in c are supposed to be clever." the saying is not altogether a pleasant one, but will serve to indicate the range of selection of members. in spite of social distinctions, few fellows need be excluded who care to debate or are clubable in spirit. as a system, the clubs are inclusive rather than exclusive. each club convenes at regular intervals, usually in the rooms of such members as volunteer to be hosts. the hour of meeting is directly after dinner, and while the men gather and settle down to the business of the evening, coffee, port, and tobacco are provided out of the club treasury. the debates are supposed to be carried on according to the strictest parliamentary law, and the man who transgresses is subject to a sharp rebuff. on one occasion, when the question of paying members of parliament was up, one speaker gravely argued that the united states senate was filled with politicians who were attracted by the salary. though i had already spoken, i got up to protest. the chairman sat me down with the greatest severity--amid a broad and general smile. i had neglected, i suppose, the parliamentary remark that i arose to a point of fact. a member's redress in such instances is to rag the president at the time when, according to custom, interpellations are in order; and as a rule he avails himself of this opportunity without mercy. on one occasion, a fellow got up in the strictest parliamentary manner and asked the president--a famous shot on the moors--whether it was true, as reported, that on the occasion when he lately fell over a fence three wrens and a chipping sparrow fell out of his game-bag. such ragging as the chair administers and receives may not aid greatly in rational debate, but it certainly has its value as a preparation for the shifts and formalities of parliamentary life. it is the first duty of a chairman, even the president of the oxford union, to meet his ragging with cheerfulness and a ready reply, and the first duty of all debaters is to be interesting as well as convincing. in american college debating there is little of such humor and none of such levity. the speakers are drafted to sustain or to oppose a position, often without much reference to their convictions, and are supposed to do so to the uttermost. the training is no doubt a good one, for life is largely partisan; but a man's success in the world depends almost as much on his tact and good sense as on his strenuosity. the englishman's advantage in address is sometimes offset by deficiencies of information. in a debate on home rule, one argument ran somewhat as follows: it is asserted that the irish are irresponsible and lacking in the sense of administrative justice. to refute this statement, i have only to point to america, to the great metropolis of new york. there, as is well known, politics are exclusively in the hands of irish citizens, who, denied the right of self-government--as the american colonies were denied similar freedom, i need scarcely point out with what disastrous results to the empire--the irish immigrants in america, i say, are evincing their true genius for statesmanship in their splendid organization known as tammany hall. in the better clubs, the debates are often well prepared and cogent. i remember with particular gratitude a discussion as to whether the english love of comfort was not an evidence of softening morals. the discussion was opened with a paper by a young scotchman of family and fortune. more than any other man i met he had realized the sweetness and pleasantness of oxford, and all the delights of the senses and of the mind that surround the fellows there; and the result of it was, as it has so often been with such men, a craving for the extreme opposite of all he had known, for moral earnestness and austerity. what right, he questioned, had one to buy a book which, with ever so little more effort, he might read in the bodleian, while all the poor of england are uneducated? and was it manly or in any way proper to spend so much time and interest on things that are merely agreeable? the sense of the meeting seemed to be that comfort in daily life is an evil only when it becomes an end in itself, a self-indulgence; and that a certain amount of it is necessary to fortify one for the most strenuous and earnest work in the world. i think that debate made us realize, as we never could have realized without it, to what serious end england makes the ways of her young men so pleasant; yet the more deeply i lived into the life of the university, the more deeply i questioned, as the young scotchman did, whether the line between the amenities and the austerities was not somewhat laxly drawn. the only purely social club, and therefore the only really exclusive one, is the wine club. in balliol there is a college rule against wine clubs, which seems to be due partly to a feeling against social exclusiveness, and partly perhaps to a distrust of purely convivial gatherings. the purpose of a wine club was served quite as well, however, by an organization that was ostensibly for debating. the notices of meetings were usually a parody of the notices of the meetings of genuine debating clubs, and the chief business of the secretary was to concoct them in pleasing variety. for instance, it would be _resolved_, that this house looks with disfavor upon the gradual introduction of a continental sabbath into england; or _resolved_, that this house looks with marked disfavor upon the assumption that total abstinence is a form of intemperance. on the evening when the house was defending total abstinence, our host's furniture and tea-things suffered some damage, and as i was in training, i found it advisable to leave early. as i slipped out, the president of the club, a young nobleman, who was himself at the time in training for the 'varsity trial eights, called me back and said with marked sobriety that he had just thought of something. "you are in for the mile run, aren't you? and in america you have always run the half. well, then, if you find the distance too long for you, just don't mind at all about the first part of the race, but when you get to the last part, run as you run a half mile. do it in two minutes, and you can't help beating 'em." he bade me good-night with a grave and authoritative shake of the hand. if he recalled his happy thought next morning, he was unable to avail himself of it, for i grieve to say that in the 'varsity trial race, which came only a few days later, he missed his blue by going badly to pieces on the finish. the meeting at which this occurred was exceptional. for the most part the fellows were moderate enough, and at times i suspected the wine club of being dull. certainly, we had no such fun as at the more general jubilations--a rag in the quad or a boating wine. i doubt if any one would have cared so very much to belong to the club if it had not afforded the only badge of social distinction in college, and if this had not happened to be an unusually pretty hatband. however successful a wine club may be, moreover, it is of far less consequence than similar clubs in america. in the first place, since there are one or more of them in each of the twenty colleges, the number of men who belong to them is far greater relatively, which of course means far less exclusion. in the second place, and this is more important, the fellows who do not belong are still able to enjoy the life which is common to all members of the college. in general, the social walls of oxford are like the material ones. far from being the means of undue exclusion and of the suppression of public feeling, they are the live tissues in which the vital functions of the place are performed. until well along in the nineteenth century, this life in the college was about the only life; but of late years the university has begun to feel its unity more strongly, and in social and intellectual life, as in athletics, it has become for the first time since the middle ages an organic whole. viii social life in the university the first formal organization of the life of the university was, as its name records, the oxford union, an institution of peculiar interest to americans because our universities, though starting from a point diametrically opposite, have arrived at a state of social disorganization no less pronounced than that which the union was intended to remedy. harvard, which has progressed farthest along the path of social expansion and disintegration, has already made a conscious effort to imitate the union. the adamantine spirit of yale is shaken by the problems of the sophomore societies; and it will not be many decades before other universities will be in a similar predicament. it will not be amiss, therefore, to consider what the oxford union has been and is. if americans have not clearly understood it even when attempting to imitate it, one should at least remember that it would not be easy for an oxford man to explain it thoroughly. the union was founded in , and was primarily for debating. in fact, it was the only university debating society. its members were carefully selected for their ability in discoursing on the questions of the day. in its debates gladstone, lord rosebery, the marquis of salisbury, and countless other english statesmen of recent times got their first parliamentary training. its present fame in england is largely based upon this fact; but its character has been metamorphosed. early in its history it developed social features; and though it was still exclusive in membership, little by little men of all kinds were taken in. at this stage of its development, the union was not unlike those vast political clubs in london in which any and all principles are subordinated to the kitchen and the wine cellar. the debates, though still of first-rate quality, became more and more an incident; the club was chiefly remarkable as the epitome of all the best elements of oxford life. the library was filled with men reading or working at special hobbies; the reading and smoking rooms were crowded; the lawn was daily thronged with undergraduates gossiping over a cup of tea; the telegram board, the shrine of embryo politicians watching for the results from a general election, was apt to be profaned by sporting men scanning it for the winners of the derby or the ascot. in a word, the union held the elect of oxford, intellectual, social, and sporting. this is the union remembered by the older graduates, and except for a single feature, namely, that it was still exclusive, this is the union that has inspired the projectors of the harvard union. the oxford man of the later day knows all too well that this union is no more. some years ago, responding to a democratic impulse that has been very strong of late at oxford, the union threw down all barriers; virtually any man nowadays may join it, and its members number well beyond a thousand. the result is not a social millennium. the very feature of inclusiveness that is to be most prominent in the union at harvard destroyed the character of the oxford union as a representative body. to the casual observer it still looks much as it did a dozen years ago; but its glory has departed. in any real sense of the word it is a union no more. the men who used to give it character are to be found in smaller clubs, very much like the clubs of an american university. the small university debating clubs are the russell, the palmerston, the canning, and the chatham, each of which stands for some special stripe of political thought, and each of which has a special color which--sure sign of the pride of exclusiveness--it wears in hatbands. the clubs meet periodically--often weekly--in the rooms of members. sometimes a paper is read which is followed by an informal discussion; but the usual exercise is a formal debate. time was when the best debates came off at the union, and writers of leading articles in london papers even now look to it as a political weather-vane. the debates there are still earnest and sometimes brilliant, and to have presided over them is a distinction of value in after life; but as far as i could gather, their prestige is falling before the smaller debating clubs. the main interest at the union appeared to centre in the interpellation of the president, which is carried on much as in the house of commons, though with this difference, that, following the immemorial custom, it is turned into ragging. when this is over, the major part of the audience clears out to the smoking and reading rooms. in the smaller clubs the exercises are not only serious, but--in spite of the preliminary ragging, which no function at oxford may flourish without--they are taken seriously. the clubs really include the best forensic ability of oxford. at the end of each year they give dinners, at which new and old members gather, while some prominent politician from westminster holds forth on the question of the hour. in a word, these clubs, collectively, are what the union once was--the training school of british statesmen. the university social clubs are of a newness that shocks even an american; but it would not be quite just to account for the fact by regarding them as mere offshoots, like the debating clubs, of a parent union. until the nineteenth century, there really was no university at oxford, at least in modern times. the colleges were quite independent of one another socially and in athletics, and each of them provided all the necessary instruction for its members. the social clubs which now admit members from the university at large began life as wine clubs of separate colleges, and even to-day the influence of the parent college is apt to predominate. the noteworthy fact is that in proportion as the social prestige of the union has declined, these college wine clubs, like the small debating clubs, have gained character and prestige. the oldest of these is the bullingdon, which is not quite as old, i gathered, as the institute of at harvard, and, considered as a university organization, it is of course much younger. it was originally the christ church wine club, and to-day it is dominated by the sporting element of christ church, which is the most aristocratic of oxford colleges. in former years, it is said, the club had kennels at bullingdon, and held periodic hunts there; and it is still largely composed of hunting men. to-day it justifies its name mainly by having an annual dinner beneath the heavy rafters of a mediæval barn at bullingdon. on these, as on other state occasions, the members wear a distinctive costume--no doubt a tradition from the time when men generally wore colors--which consists of a blue evening coat with white facings and brass buttons, a canary waistcoat, and a blue tie. this uniform is no doubt found in more aristocratic wardrobes than any other oxford trophy. the influence of the bullingdon is indirectly to discourage athletics, which it regards as unaristocratic and incompatible with conviviality; so that christ church, though the largest of oxford colleges and one of the wealthiest, is of secondary importance in sports. for this reason the bullingdon has suffered a partial eclipse, for the middle-class spirit which is invading oxford has given athletic sports the precedence over hunting, while expensive living and mere social exclusiveness are less the vogue. by a curious analogy, one of the oldest and most exclusive of the clubs at harvard is similarly out of sympathy with the athletic spirit. another old and prominent college wine club that has come to elect members from without is the phoenix of brazenose, the uniform of which is perhaps more beautiful than the bullingdon uniform, consisting of a peculiar dark wine-colored coat, brass buttons, and a light buff waistcoat. in general, the college wine clubs are more or less taking on a university character. the annandale club of balliol, for instance, has frequent guests from outside, and often elects them to membership out of compliment. at the formal wines the members have the privilege of inviting outside guests. the most popular and representative oxford club is vincent's, which owes its prominence to the fact that it expresses the enthusiasm of modern oxford for athletics. it was founded only a third of a century ago, but it must be remembered that inter-varsity boat races did not become usual until , nor a fixture until ; that the first inter-varsity athletic meeting came in , and the first inter-varsity football game as late as . vincent's was originally composed largely of men from university college, which was at that time a leader in sports; but later it elected many men from brazenose, then in the ascendant. when brazenose became more prominent in athletics, it gained a controlling influence in vincent's; and when it declined, as it lately did, the leadership passed on. the name vincent's came from a printer's shop, above which the club had its rooms. any second year man is eligible; in fact, until a few years ago, freshmen were often taken in. the limit of members is ninety, but as the club is always a dozen or so short of this, no good fellow is excluded for lack of a place. when a man is proposed, his name is written in a book, in which space is left for friends in the club to write their names in approval. after this, elections are in the hands of a committee. like all oxford clubs, vincent's will always, i suppose, lean towards men of some special college or group of colleges; yet it is careful to elect all clubable blues, and, in point of fact, is representative of the university at large, as, for instance, the hasty pudding club at harvard, or the senior societies at yale, to which, on the whole, it most nearly corresponds. the most democratic, as well as one of the most recent of the more purely social clubs, is the gridiron. it is a dining rather than a social club, and one may invite to his board as many guests who are not members as he chooses. any good fellow is eligible, though here, again, a man in one of the less known colleges might fail to get in from lack of acquaintances on the election committee. the union has long lost prestige before this development of small exclusive clubs. politically, socially, and even in that most essential department, the kitchen, it holds a second place. if you ask men of the kind that used to give it its character why they never go there, they will tell you, in the most considerate phrase, how the pressure of other undergraduate affairs is so great that they have not yet found time; and this is quite true. they may add that next year they intend to make the time, for they believe that one should know all kinds of men at oxford; and they are quite sincere. but next year they are more preoccupied than ever. if oxford is united socially, it is not because of the oxford union. in addition to the clubs which are mainly social, there is the usual variety of special organizations. these, as a rule, are of recent growth. the musical union has frequent meetings for practice, and gives at least one concert a year. the dramatic society, the o.u.d.s., as it is popularly called, will be seen to be a very portentous organization. in america, college men give comic operas and burlesques, usually writing both the book and the music themselves; and when they do, there is apt to be a donnybrook fair for vulnerable heads in the faculty. so well is musical nonsense adapted to the calibre of the undergraduate mind that college plays sometimes find their way to the professional stage, and to no small general favor. at oxford the vice-chancellor, who is a law to himself and to the university, has decreed that there shall be no fun and nonsense. if the absurdities of donnishness are all too fair a mark for the undergraduate wit, the vice-chancellor has found a very serviceable scapegoat. he permits the undergraduates to present the plays of shakespeare. surely shakespeare can stand the racket. the aim of the o.u.d.s. seems to be to get as many blues as possible into the cast of a shakespearean production, with the idea, perhaps, of giving oxford its full money's worth. i remember well the sensation made by the most famous of all university athletes,--a "quadruple blue," who played on four university teams, was captain of three of them, and held one world's record. the play was "the merchant of venice," and the athlete in question was the swarthy prince of morocco. upon opening the golden casket his powers of elocution rose to unexpected heights. fellows went again and again to hear him cry, "o hell! what have we here?" in one way, however, the performances of the o.u.d.s. are really noteworthy. not even the crudest acting can entirely disguise the influences of birth and environment; and few shakespearean actors have as fine a natural carriage as those companies of trained athletes. for the first time, perhaps, on any stage, the ancient roman honor more or less appeared in antonio, and there were really two gentlemen in verona. for this reason--or, what is more likely, merely because the plays are given by oxford men--the leading dramatic critics of london run up every year for the o.u.d.s. performance, and talk learnedly about it in their dignified periodicals. both the musical and the dramatic societies have an increasing social element, and the dramatic society has a house of its own. of at least one association i happened upon, i know of no american parallel. one sunday afternoon, a lot of fellows who had been lunching each other in academic peace were routed from college by a salvation army gathering that was sending up the discordant notes of puritanical piety just outside the walls. in the street near by we came upon a quiet party of undergraduates in cap and gown. they were standing in a circle, at the foot of the martyr's memorial, and were alternately singing hymns and exhorting the townspeople who gathered about. their faces were earnest and simple, their attitude erect. if they were conscious of doing an unusual thing, they did not show it. i don't remember that they moved any of us to repent the pleasantness of our ways, but i know that they filled the most careless of us with a very definite admiration. one of the fellows said that he thought them mighty plucky, and that they had the stuff at least out of which sportsmen are made. the phrase is peculiarly british, but in the undergraduate vernacular there is no higher epithet of praise. in america there are slumming societies and total abstinence leagues; but i never knew any body of men who had the courage to stand up in the highway and preach their gospel to passers-by. ix the college and the university the distinctive feature of the social organization of oxford life is said to be the colleges. fifty years ago the remark held good, but to-day it requires an extension. the distinctive feature is the duality of the social organization: a man who enters fully into undergraduate affairs takes part both in the life of the college and in the life of the university. the life of the college, in so far as it is wholesome, is open to all newcomers; it is so organized as to exert powerfully upon them the force of its best influences and traditions, and is thus in the highest degree inclusive. the life of the university, in so far as it is vigorous, is in the main open only to those who bring to it special gifts and abilities, and is therefore necessarily exclusive. in college, one freely enjoys all that is fundamental in the life of a young man--a pleasant place to sleep in and to dine in, pleasant fellows with whom to work and to play. in the university, one finds scope for his special capacities in conviviality or in things of the mind. more than any other institution, the english university thus mirrors the conditions of social life in the world at large, in which one is primarily a member of his family, and takes part in the life of the outside community in proportion as his abilities lead him. the happiest thing about all this is that it affords the freest possible interplay of social forces. as soon as a newcomer gains distinction, as he does at once if he has the capacity, he is noticed by the leading men of the college, and is thus in a way to be taken into the life of the university. from the college breakfast it is only a step to the gridiron, from the college eight to vincent's, and from the debating society to the chatham or the canning. these, like all undergraduate clubs, are in yearly need of new members, and the older men in college are only too glad to urge the just claims of the younger for good-fellowship sake, and for the general credit of their institution. even when a fellow has received all the university has to offer, he is still amenable to the duality of oxford life. in american institutions, in proportion as a man is happily clubbed, he is by the very nature of the social organization withdrawn from his college mates; but at oxford he still dines in hall, holds forth at the college debating society, plays on the college teams, and, until his final year, he lives within the college walls. first, last, and always his general life is bound up with that of the college. the prominent men thus become a medium by which every undergraduate is brought in touch with the life of the university. the news of the athletic world is reported at vincent's over afternoon tea; and at dinner time the men who have discussed it there relate it to their mates in the halls of a dozen colleges. a celebrated debater brings the news of the union or of the smaller clubs; and whatever a man's affiliations in the university, he can scarcely help bringing the report of them back with him. in an incredibly short time all undergraduate news, and the judgments upon it of those best qualified to judge, ramify the college; and men who seldom stir beyond its walls are brought closely in touch with the innermost spirit of the university life. here, again, those forbidding walls make possible a freedom of social interplay which is unknown in america. the real union of oxford, social, athletic, and intellectual, is quite apart from the so-called oxford union; it results from the nice adjustment between the general residential life of the colleges and the specialized activities of the university. the immediate effect of this union is the humble one of making the present life of the undergraduate convenient and enjoyable; but its ultimate effect is a matter of no little importance. every undergraduate, in proportion to his susceptibilities and capacities, comes under the influence of the social and intellectual traditions of oxford, which are the traditions of centuries of the best english life. in canada and australia, south africa and india, you will find the old oxonian wearing the hatband, perhaps faded and weather-stained, that at oxford denoted the thing he was most proud to stand for; and wherever you find him, you will find also the manners and standards of the university, which are quite as definite a part of him, though perhaps less conspicuous. without a large body of men animated by such traditions, it is no exaggeration to say that it would not have been possible to build up the british empire. if the people of the united states are to bear creditably the responsibilities to civilization that have lately fallen to them, or have been assumed, there is urgent need for institutions that shall similarly impose upon our young men the best traditions and influences of american life. ii oxford out of doors i slacking on the isis and the cherwell the dual development of college and university, with all its organic coördinations, exists also in the sports of oxford. the root and trunk of the athletic spirit lies in the colleges, though its highest development is found in university teams. to an american, this athletic life of the college will be found of especial interest, for it is the basis of the peculiar wholesomeness and moderation of oxford sports. if the english take their pleasures sadly, as they have been charged with doing ever since froissart hit upon the happy phrase, they are not so black a pot but that they are able to call us blacker; in the light of international contests, they have marveled at the intensity with which our sportsmen pursue the main chance. the difference here has a far deeper interest than the critic of boating or track athletics often realizes. like the songs of a nation, its sports have a definite relation to its welfare: one is tempted to say, let me rule the games of my countrymen and who will may frame their laws. at least, i hope to be pardoned if i speak with some particularity of the out-of-door life, and neglect the lofty theme of inter-varsity contests for the humbler pursuits of the common or garden undergraduate. the origin of the boating spirit is no doubt what the oxonian calls slacking, for one has to learn to paddle in a boat before he can row to advantage; and in point of fact the bumping races are supposed to have originated among parties of slackers returning at evening from up the river. if i were to try to define what a slacker is, i suppose you could answer that all oxford men are slackers; but there are depths beneath depths of _far niente_. the true slacker avoids the worry and excitement of breakfast parties and three-day cricket matches, and conserves his energies by floating and smoking for hours at a time in his favorite craft on the isis and the cherwell--or "char," as the university insists on calling it. he is a day-dreamer of day-dreamers; and despised as he is by the more strenuous oxford men, who yet stand in fear of the fascination of his vices, he is as restful a figure to an american as a negro basking on a cotton-wharf, and as appealing as a beggar steeped in italian sunlight. merely to think of his uninterrupted calm and his insatiable appetite for doing nothing is a rest to occidental nerves; and though one may never be a roustabout and loaf on a cotton-wharf, one may at any time go to oxford and play through a summer's day at slacking. before you come out, you must make the acquaintance of the o.u.h.s.--that is, the university humane society. in the winter, when there is skating, the humane society man stands by the danger spot with a life-buoy and a rope; and in the summer, when the streams swarm with pleasure-craft, he wanders everywhere, pulling slackers out of the isis and the char. in view of the fact that, metaphorically speaking at least, you can shake hands with your neighbors across either of these streams, the humane society man is not without his humors. you may get yourself a tub or a working-boat or a wherry, a rob-roy or a dinghy, for every craft that floats is known on the thames; but the favorite craft are the canadian canoe and the punt. the canoe you will be familiar with, but your ideas of a punt are probably derived from a farm-built craft you have poled about american duck-marshes--which bears about the same relationship to this slender, half-decked cedar beauty that a canal-boat bears to a racing-shell. during your first perilous lessons in punting, you will probably be in apprehension of ducking your mentor, who is lounging among the cushions in the bow. but you cannot upset the punt any more than you can discompose the englishman; the punt simply upsets you without seeming to be aware of it. and when you crawl dripping up the bank, consoled only by the fact that the humane society man was not at hand with his boat-hook to pull you out by the seat of the trousers, your mentor will gravely explain how you made your mistake. instead of bracing your feet firmly on the bottom and pushing with the pole, you were leaning on the pole and pushing with your feet. when the pole stuck in the clay bottom, of course it pulled you out of the boat. steering is a matter of long practice. when you want to throw the bow to the left, you have only to pry the stern over to the right as you are pulling the pole out of the water. to throw the bow to the right, ground the pole a foot or so wide of the boat, and then lean over and pull the boat up to it. that is not so easy, but you will learn the wrist motion in time. when all this comes like second nature, you will feel that you have become a part of the punt, or rather that the punt has taken life and become a part of you. [illustration: a racing punt and punter] a particular beauty of punting is that, more than any other sport, it brings you into personal contact, so to speak, with the landscape. in a few days you will know every inch of the bottom of the char, some of it perhaps by more intimate experience than you desire. over there, on the outer curve of the bend, the longest pole will not touch bottom. fight shy of that place. just beyond here, in the narrows, the water is so shallow that you can get the whole length of your body into every sweep. as for the shrubbery on the bank, you will soon learn these hawthorns, if only to avoid barging into them. and the magdalen chestnut, which spreads its shade so beautifully above the water just beyond, becomes quite familiar when its low-reaching branches have once caught the top of your pole and torn it from your hands. the slackers you see tied up to the bank on both sides of the char are always here after luncheon. an hour later their craft will be as thick as money-bugs on the water, and the joys of the slackers will be at height. you won't, as a rule, detect happiness in their faces, but it is always obvious in the name of the craft. one man calls his canoe "vix satis," which is the mark the university examining board uses to signify that a man's examination paper is a failure. another has "p.t.o." on his bows--the "please turn over" which an englishman places at the bottom of a card where we say "over." still another calls his canoe the "non-conformist conscience"--which, as you are expected to remark, is very easily upset. all this makes the slacker even happier than if he were so un-english as to smile his pleasure, for he has a joke ready-made on his bow, where there is no risk of any one's not seeing it. these pollard willows that line the bank are not expected to delight your eye at first sight, but as you see them day after day, they grow on you like the beauty of the bull-terrier pup that looks at you over the gunwale of the boat tied beneath them. they have been topped to make their roots strike deeper and wider into the soil, so that when the freshets come in the spring the banks will stand firm. the idea came some centuries ago from holland, but has been so thoroughly englished that the university, and, indeed, all england, would scarcely be itself without its pollard willows. and though the trees are not in themselves graceful, they make a large part of the beauty of the river scenery. the sun is never so golden as up there among their quivering leaves, and no shadow is so deep as that in the water at their feet. the bar of foam ahead of us is the overflow from the lasher--that is to say, from the still water above the weir. the word "lasher" is obsolete almost everywhere else in england, and even to the oxford mind it describes the lashing overflow rather than the _lache_ or _slack_ water above. when we "shoot the lasher," as the phrase goes, you will get a hint as to why the obsolete term still clings to this weir. those fellows beyond who have tied up three deep to the bank are waiting to see us get ducked; but it is just as easy to shoot the lasher as to upset in it; and with that swarm of slackers watching, it makes a difference which you do. we have only to get up a fair pace and run into it on a diagonal. the lashing torrent will catch our bows, but we shall be half over before it sweeps them quite around; and then it will catch the stern in turn, and whirl the bow back into the proper direction. a sudden lurching of the bow, the roaring of a torrent beneath, a dash of spray--and we are in still water again. in order to reach the inn at marston by four we must pole on. if we were true slackers, to be sure, we should have brought a spirit lamp and a basket of tea, and tied up in the first convenient nook on the bank; but these are heights of slacking to which the novice cannot aspire. just beyond here we shall have to give the thames conservancy man threepence to roll the punt around a weir. if there were ladies with us, we should have to let them walk a quarter of a mile on shore, for just above is parson's pleasure, the university bathing-hole; and these men, who would not let the yale and the cornell athletes appear in sleeveless "zephyrs," plunge into a frequented waterway without any zephyrs at all. above parson's pleasure we emerge from mesopotamia--as the pretty river bottom is called in which the char divides into several channels--and come in sight of the 'varsity cricket-ground. there is a game on against a picked eleven from the marylebone club; and every few minutes, if we waited, we might see the statuesque figures in white flannel suddenly dash after a ball or trot back and forth between the wickets. few slackers have had energy to get beyond this point; and as we pole among the meadows, the cuckoo's homely voice emphasizes the solitude, singing the same two notes it sang to shakespeare--and to chaucer before him, for the matter of that. at marston, having ordered tea of the red-cheeked housewife, it is well to ask the innkeeper for credit. he is a parisian, whose sociological principles, it is said, were the cause of his venturing across the channel--in paris, a man will even go as far as that for his opinions; and while his cheery english spouse, attended by troops of his red-cheeked boys, brings out the thin buttered bread, he will revile you. what business have you to ask an honest yeoman to lend you money? if he were to go down to oxford and ask the first gentleman he met to lend him half a crown to feed his starving family, should he get it? should he? and what right have you to come to his house--his _home_!--and demand food at his board? you are a gentleman; but what is a gentleman? a gentleman is the dregs of the idleness of centuries! then he will declaim about his plans for the renovation of the world. all this time his well-fed wife has been pouring out the tea and slicing the genoa cake; and now, with a smile of reassurance, she takes our names and college. but the innkeeper's eloquence does not flag, and it will not until you tell him with decision that you have had enough. this you are loath to do, for he has furnished you with a new ideal of happiness. the cotton-wharf negro sometimes wants leisure, the repose of the cricketer is at times rudely broken in upon, and even the slacker is liable to his ducking; but to stand up boldly against the evils of the world and to picture the new utopia while your wife averts all practical consequences, this is _otium cum dignitate_. this journey up the char, though all-popular with the undergraduate, is not the only one worth taking. we might have gone down the isis to the iffley mill and the sleepy little norman church near by. this would have taken us through the thick of the college crews training for the summer eights. but the rules of the river are so complicated that no man on earth who has not given them long hours of study can understand them; and if an eight ran into us, we should be fined a quid or two--one quid for a college eight, and two for the 'varsity. below iffley, indeed, there is as much clear punting as you could desire, and here you are in the full current of thames pleasure-boats. the towing-path skirts the water, so that when you are tired of punting you can get out and tow your craft. the stretch of river here i hold memorable as the scene of the only bit of dalliance i ever witnessed in this most sentimental of environments. a young man and a young woman had tied the painter of their punt to the middle of a paddle, and shoulder by shoulder were loitering along the river-side. twenty yards behind, three other men and a baffled chaperon were steering the punt clear of the bank, and boring one another. [illustration: iffley lock and mill] the best trip on the isis is into the backwaters. these are a mesh of tiny streams that break free from the main current above oxford and lose themselves in the broad bottom-lands. the islands they form were chosen in the dark ages as the sites of religious houses; for not only was the land fertile, but the network of deep, if tiny, streams afforded defense from the heathen, while the main channel of the thames afforded communication with the christian world. the ruins of these, or of subsequent monasteries, remain to-day brooding over a few tudor cottages and hamlets, with a mill and a bakery and an inn or two to sustain life in the occasional undergraduate who lazes by in his canoe. the most interesting of these ruins is wytham. the phrase is exact, for the entire hamlet was built from a venerable religious house shortly after the dissolution of the monasteries. you can imagine the size of wytham. if you don't watch very closely as you paddle up the sedgy backwater, you will miss it entirely, and that would be a pity, for its rude masonry, thatched roofs, and rustic garden fronts seem instinct with the atmosphere of tudor england. the very tea roses, nodding languidly over the garden wall, smell, or seem to smell, as subtly sweet as if they had been pressed for ages between the leaves of a mediæval romance. i am not quite sure that they do, though, for these ancient hamlets have strange ways of pulling the wool--a true golden fleece, to be sure--over american eyes. once at twilight i heard a knot of strolling country men and women crooning a tune which was so strangely familiar that i immediately set it down as a village version of one of the noble melodies of that golden age when english feeling found its natural vent in song. as it drew nearer, i suddenly recognized it. it was a far-away version of "mammy's little alabama coon." i have still faith, though, in a certain mediæval barmaid i chanced upon in the backwaters. the circumstances of our meeting were peculiar. as i drifted along one sunday, perched on an after-thwart of the canoe, the current swept me toward a willow that leaned over the water, and i put up my hand to fend off. i chanced to be laughing to myself at the time at the thought of a fellow who, only the day before at the lasher, had tried to do the same thing. the lasher was forcing his punt against the willow on the opposite bank, whereupon, to my heart's delight, he lazily tried to fend it off with his arms. the punt refused to be fended off, and he stooped with an amusing effect of deliberation plump into the water. he was hauled out by the o.u.h.s. man hard by. i was interrupted in these pleasant reminiscences by the roaring of waters about my ears, mingled with a boorish guffaw from one of the fellows behind me.... but i started to tell about the mediæval barmaid. making my way to a bakehouse up the stream, i hung my coat and trousers before the fire on a long baker's pole, and put my shoes inside the oven on a dough tray. my companion of the horse-laugh hung my shirt on a blossoming almond-tree, and then left for the lunch hamper. he had scarcely gone when i heard the rustle of skirts at the door. "what do you want?" i cried. "i want my dinner," was the friendly reply. it was the barmaid of a neighboring public house, in her sunday frock. when she saw me she smiled, but maintained a dignity of port that--i insist upon it--was instinct with the simple and primitive modesty of the middle ages. it was the modesty of the people before whom adam in the chester mystery play was required by the stage directions to "stand nakyd and not be ashamyd." my barmaid advised me to take off my stockings and hang them up before the fire. the advice i admit came as a shock, but on reflection i saw that it was capital. for one happy moment i lived in the broad, wholesome atmosphere of the middle ages. it was like a breath from chaucer's england. then the baker rushed into the room, in a cutaway sunday coat of the latest style. he had baked for an oxford college so long that he had become infected with the squeamish leaven of the nineteenth century. he called the girl a huzzy, and, taking her by the shoulder, hustled her into the garden, and then passed her plum pudding out to her gingerly through a crack in the door. he covered me with apologies and a bath-robe; but i did not mind either, for as the barmaid ran back to the inn she was laughing what i still insist upon believing to have been the simple joyous laughter of the middle ages. but we must hurry to get back to college in time for dinner. and even at that we shall have to stop here at magdalen bridge and give a street boy sixpence to take the punt the rest of the way. we land at the foot of the tower just as the late afternoon sun is gilding its exquisite pinnacles, and the chimes in its belfry are playing the prelude to the hour of seven. it is a melody worth all the char and the isis, with all their weirs and their willows. other mediæval chimes fill you with a delicious sorrow for the past; but when they cease, and the great bell tolls out the hour, you think only of the death of time. it leaves you sadly beneath the tower, in the musty cellarage. but the melody that the magdalen chimes utter is full of the fervid faith, the aspirations, of our fathers. it lifts you among the gilded pinnacles, or perhaps ever so little above them. ii as seen from an oxford tub to the true slacker, the college barges that line the isis are an object of aversion, for into them sooner or later every fellow who loves the water finds his way, and then there is an end of slacking. each of the barges is a grammar school of oarsmanship, where all available men are taught everything, from what thickness of leather to wear on the heels of their boating-shoes to the rhythm in rowing by which alone an eight can realize its full speed; and from the barges issues a navy of boats and boating-men more than ten times as large as that of an american university. when mr. r. c. lehmann arrived at cambridge to coach the harvard crew, he was lost in admiration of the charles river and the back bay, and in amazement at the absence of boats on them. at either yale or harvard it would be easy to give space to both of the fleets that now swarm on the slender isis and threadlike cam. we have water enough--as a congressman once remarked of our fighting navy--it is only the boats that are lacking. the lesson we have to learn of our english cousins is not so much a matter of reach and swing, outrigger and blades, as a generous and wholesome interest in boating for the sake of the boat and of the water; and it is less apparent in an oxford 'varsity eight than in the humblest tub of the humblest college. the first suggestion that i should go out to be tubbed came from the gray-bearded dean of the college, who happened at the time to be taking me to the master for formal presentation. i told him that i had tried for my class crew, and that three days on the water had convinced the coach that i was useless. he fell a pace behind, looked me over, and said that i might at least try. as this was his only advice, i did not forget it; and when my tutor, before advising me as to my studies, also urged me to row, i gave the matter some serious thought. i found subsequently that every afternoon, between luncheon and tea, the college was virtually deserted for field, track, and river; and it dawned upon me that unless i joined the general exodus i should temporarily become a hermit. still, my earlier unhappy experience in rowing was full in mind, and i set out for the barge humble in spirit, and prepared to be cursed roundly for three days, and "kicked out," or, as they say in oxford, "given the hoof," on the fourth. few memories could be so unhappy, however, as to resist the beauty of the banks of the isis. at new haven, the first impression an oarsman gets is said to be an odor so unwelcome that it is not to be endeared even by four years of the good-fellowship and companionship of a yale crew. at harvard, the charles--"our charles," as longfellow spoke of it in a poem to lowell--too often presents aspects which it would be sacrilege to dwell on. what the "royal-towered thame" and "camus, reverend sire," may have been in the classic days of english poetry it is perhaps safest not to inquire; suffice it that to-day they are--and especially the thames--all that the uninitiated imagine "our charles." nowhere does the sun stream more cheerfully through the moist gray english clouds; nowhere is the grass more green, the ivy more luxuriant, and the pollard willows and slender elms and poplars more dense in foliage. and every building, from the thatched farm-cottage in christ church meadow to the norman church at iffley, is, as it were, more native and more a part of creation than the grass and trees. the english oarsman, it is true, cannot be as conscious of all this as an american visitor. yet the love of outdoors, which has been at work for centuries in beautifying the english landscape, is not the least part of the british sporting instinct. where an american might loiter in contemplation of these woods, fields, and streams, an englishman shoots, hunts, crickets, and rows in them. when you enter the barge on the river, you feel keenly the contrast with the bare, chill boathouses of the american universities. on the centre tables are volumes of photographs of the crews and races of former years; the latest sporting papers are scattered on chairs and seats; and in one corner is a writing-table, with note-paper stamped "balliol barge, oxford." there is a shelf or two of bound "punches," and several shelves of books--"innocents abroad" and "indian summer," beside "three men in a boat" and "the dolly dialogues." on the walls are strange and occult charts of the bumping races from the year one--which, if i remember rightly, is . at the far end of the room is a sea-coal fire, above which shines the prow of a shell in which the college twice won the ladies' plate at henley. the dressing-room of the barge is sacred to the members of the eight, who at the present season are engaged in tubbing the freshmen in the hope of finding a new oar or two. at the appointed hour they appear, in eightsman blazers if it is fair, or in sou'westers if it is not--sad to relate, it usually is not--and each chooses a couple of men and leads them out to the float. meanwhile, with the rest of the candidates--freshmen, and others who in past years have failed of a place in the torpids--you lounge on easy-chairs and seats, reading or chatting, until your own turn comes to be tubbed. it is all quiet like a club, except that the men are in full athletic dress. [illustration: the full costume of an eightsman] the athletic costume is elaborate, and has been worn for a generation--since top-hats and trousers were abandoned, in fact--in more or less its present form. it consists of a cotton zephyr, flannel shorts flapping about the knees, and socks, or in winter scotch hose gartered above the calves. the sweater, which, in cold weather, is worn on the river, has a deep v neck, supplemented when the oarsman is not in action by a soft woolen scarf or cloud. over all are worn a flannel blazer and cap embroidered with the arms of the college. this uniform, with trifling variations, is used in all sports on field and river, and it is infinitely more necessary, in undergraduate opinion, than the academic cap and gown which the rules of the university require to be worn after dark. this seemingly elaborate dress is in effect the most sensible in the world, and is the best expression i know of the cheerful and familiar way in which an englishman goes about his sports. reduced to its lowest terms, it is no more than is required by comfort and decency. with the addition of sweater, scarf, blazer, and cap, it is presentable in social conversation--indeed, in the streets of the city. it is in consequence of this that an afternoon in the barge is--except for the two tubbings on the river--so much like one spent in a club. in america an oarsman wears socks and trunks which are apt to be the briefest possible. if he wears a shirt at all, it is often a mere ribbon bounding the three enormous apertures through which he thrusts his neck and shoulders. before going on the river he is likely to shiver, in spite of the collar of his sweater; and after he comes in, his first thought is necessarily of donning street clothes. there is, in consequence, practically no sociability in rowing until the crews are selected and sent to the training-table. a disciple of sartor resartus would be very likely to conclude that, until american rowing adapts itself to the english costume, it must continue to be--except for the fortunate few--the bare, unkindly sport it has always been. all this time i have had you seated in an armchair beside the sea-coal fire. now an eightsman comes into the barge with two deep-breathing freshmen, and nods us to follow him to the boat the three have just quitted. on a chair by the door as we go out are several pads, consisting of a rubber cloth faced with wool. these are _spongeo pilenes_, or so i was told, which in english are known as pontius pilates--or pontiuses for short. the eightsman will advise you to take a pontius to protect your white flannel shorts from the water on the seat; for there is always a shower threatening, unless indeed it is raining. every one knows, however, including the eightsman, that the wool is a no less important part of the pontius than the rubber: it will save you many painful impressions of the dinner form in hall. we are already on the river, and pair-oars, fours, and eights are swarming about us. "come forward," cries our coach, "ready--paddle!" and we take our place in the procession of craft that move in one another's wake down the narrow river. the coach talks pleasantly to us from time to time, and in the course of an afternoon we get a pretty good idea of what the english stroke consists in. the sun bursts through the pearl-gray clouds, and glows in golden ponds on the dense verdure of grass and trees. "eyes in the boat," shouts the stern voice of conscience; but the coach says, "see, fellows. here's a 'varsity trial eight. watch them row, and you will see what the stroke looks like. those fellows in red caps belong to the leander." their backs are certainly not all flat, and to an american eye the crew presents a ragged appearance as a whole; but a second glance shows that every back swings in one piece from the hips, and that the apparent raggedness is due to the fact that the men on the bow side swing in one line, while those on the stroke side swing in another parallel line. they sway together with absolute rhythm and ease, and the boat is set on a rigidly even keel. our coach looks them over critically, especially his three college-mates, one of whom at least he hopes will be chosen for the 'varsity eight. no doubt he aimed at a blue himself two years ago, when he came up; but blues are not for every man, even of those who row well and strongly. he watches them until they are indistinguishable amid the myriad craft in the distance. "it's jolly fine weather," he concludes pleasantly, with a familiar glance at the sky, which you are at liberty to follow. "come forward. ready--paddle!" we are presently in the barge again with the other fellows. a repetition of this experience after half an hour ends the day's work. when i tried for the freshman crew in america, i was put with seven other unfortunates into a huge clinker barge, in charge of the sophomore coxswain. on the first day i was told to mind the angle on my oar. on the second day i was told to keep my eyes in the boat, damn me! on the third day, the sophomore coxswain wrought himself into a fury, and swore at me for not keeping the proper angle. when i glanced out at my blade he yelled, "damn you, eyes in the boat!" this upset me so that i forgot thereafter to keep a flat back at the finish of the stroke. when we touched the float he jumped out, looked at my back, brought his boot against it sharply, and told me that there was no use in trying to row unless i could hold a flat back and swing my body between my knees. that night i sat on a dictionary with my feet against the footboard and tried to follow these injunctions, until my back seemed torn into fillets, but it would not come flat. i never went down to the river again, and it was two years before i summoned courage to try another sport. the bullyragging sophomore coxswain i came to know very well in later years, and found him as courteous and good-hearted as any man. to this day, if i mention our first meeting, he looks shy, and says he doesn't remember it. he says that the flat back is a discarded fetish in harvard boating circles, that even before the advent of mr. lehmann cursing and kicking were largely abandoned; and moreover (_fortissimo_) that the freshman crew he helped to curse and kick into shape was the only one in ten years that won. after a fortnight's tubbing in pair-oars, the better candidates are tubbed daily in fours, and the autumn races are on the horizon. at the end of another week the boats are finally made up, and the crews settle down to the task of "getting together." each of the fours has at least one seasoned oarsman to steady it, and is coached from the coxswain's seat by a member of the college eight. sometimes, if the november floods are not too high, the coach runs or bicycles along the towing-path, where he can see the stroke in profile. if a coach swears at his men, there is sure to have been provocation. his favorite figure of speech is sarcasm. at the end of a heart-breaking burst he will say, "now, men, get ready to _row_," or, "i say, fellows, wake up; _can't you make a difference?_" the remark of one coach is now a tradition--"all but four of you men are rowing badly, and they're rowing damned badly!" this convention of sarcasm is by no means old. one of the notable personages in eights' week is a little man who is pointed out to you as the last of the swearing coaches. _tempora mutantur._ perhaps my friend the ex-coxswain is in line for a similar distinction. when the fours are once settled in their tubs, the stroke begins to go much better, and the daily paddle is extended so as to be a real test of strength and endurance for the new men, and for the man from the torpid a brisk practice spin. even at this stage very few of the new men are "given the hoof;" the patience of the coachers is monumental. [illustration: the college barges: tubbing in november floods] the tubbing season is brought to an end with a race between the fours. where there are half a dozen fours in training, two heats of three boats each are rowed the first day, and the finals between the best two crews on the following day. the method of conducting these races is characteristic of boating on the isis and the cam. as the river is too narrow to row abreast, the crews start a definite distance apart, and row to three flags a mile or so up the river, which are exactly as far apart as the boats were at starting. at each of these flags an eightsman is stationed. in the races i saw they flourished huge dueling pistols, and when the appropriate crew passed the flag, the appropriate man let off his pistol. the crew that is first welcomed with a pistol-shot wins. these races are less exciting than the bumping races; yet they have a picturesque quality of their own, and they settle the question of superiority with much less rowing. the members of the winning four get each a pretty enough prize to remember the race by, and the torpidsman at stroke holds the "junior fours cup" for the year. the crowning event of the season of tubbing is a wine, to which are invited all boating-men in college, and the representative athletes in other sports. in balliol it is called the "morrison wine," as the races are called "morrison fours," in honor of an old balliol man, a 'varsity oar and coach, who established the fund for the prizes. the most curious thing about this affair is that it is not given, as it would be in america, at the expense of the college, or even of the men who have been tubbed, but at the expense of those who are finally chosen to row in the races. to my untutored mind the hospitality of english boating seemed a pure generosity. it made me uncomfortable at first, with the sense that i could never repay it; but i soon got over this, and basked in it as in the sun. the eightsmen devote their afternoons to coaching you because there are seats to be filled in the torpid and in the eight; they speak decently because they find that in the long run decency is more effective; and they hold the wine because they wish to honor the sport in which they have chosen to stake their reputations as athletes. in a word, where in america we row by all that is self-sacrificing and loyal, in england the welfare of boating is made to depend upon its attractiveness as a recreation and a sport; if it were not enjoyable to the normal man, nothing could force fellows into it. the relationship of the autumn tubbing and its incidental sociability to the welfare of the sport in the college and in the university seems remote enough to the american mind, for out of the score of fellows who are tubbed only three or four, on an average, go farther in the sport. yet it is typical of the whole; and it will help us in following the english boating season. throughout the year there are two converging currents of activity in boating. on the one hand, the tubs in the autumn term develop men for the torpids, which come on during the winter term; and the torpids develop men for the summer eights. on the other hand, the 'varsity trials in the autumn term develop men for the 'varsity eight, which trains and races in the winter term; and the 'varsity oarsmen, like the men who have prospered in tubs and torpids, end the season in the eights of their respective colleges. the goal of both the novice and the veteran is thus the college eight. the torpid is, so to speak, the understudy to the college eight. in order to give full swing to the new men, no member of the eight of the year before is allowed to row in it; and the leading colleges man two torpids--sometimes even three. the training here is much more serious than in the tubs; wine, spirits, and tobacco are out of order. the races, which are conducted like the celebrated may eights, are rowed in midwinter--in the second of the three oxford terms--under leaden skies, and sometimes with snow piled up along the towing-path. on the barges, instead of the crowds of ladies, gayly dressed and bent on a week of social enjoyment, one finds knots of loyal partisans who are keen on the afternoon's sport. the towing-path, too, is not so crowded as in may week; but nothing could surpass the din of pistols and rattles and shouting that accompanies the races. if the men in the torpid do not learn how to row the stroke to the finish under the excitement of a race, it is not for the lack of coaching and experience. when the torpids break training, there are many ceremonies to signalize the return to the flesh-pots: one hardly realizes that the weeks of sport and comradeship have all gone to the filling of a place or two in the college eight. all this time, while the tubs and torpids have been training up new men, the 'varsity boat club, whose home is on the shore of the isis opposite the row of college barges, has also, so to speak, been doing its tubbing. the new men for the 'varsity are chiefly those who have come to the front in the may eights of the previous year--oars of two or three seasons' standing; though occasionally men are taken directly from the eton eight, which enters yearly for the ladies' plate at henley. the new men will number ten or a dozen; and early in the autumn they are taken out in tubs. they are soon joined by as many of last year's blues as are left in oxford. the lot is divided into two eights, as evenly matched as possible, which are coached separately. these are called the trial eights, or 'varsity trials. to "get one's trials" is no mean honor. it is the _sine qua non_ of membership to the leander--admittedly the foremost boating club of the world. toward the end of the first term there is a race of two and a half miles between the two trial eights at moulsford, where the thames is wide enough to permit the two boats to race abreast. of the men who row in the trials the best ten or a dozen are selected to train for the 'varsity during the winter term. of the training of the 'varsity eight it is not necessary to speak here at length. the signal fact is that the men are so well schooled in the stroke, and so accustomed to racing, that a season of eight weeks at oxford and at putney is enough to fit them to go over the four miles and a quarter between putney and mortlake with the best possible results. the race takes place in march, just after the close of the winter term. the series of races i have mentioned gives some idea of the scheme and scope of english boating, but it is by no means exhaustive. the strength of the boating spirit gives rise to no end of casual and incidental races. chief among these are the coxswainless fours, which take place about the middle of the autumn term, while the trials are on the river. the crews are from the four or five chief boating colleges, and are made up largely from the men in the 'varsity trials. the races have no relation that i could discover to the 'varsity race; the only point is to find which college has the best four, and it is characteristic that merely for the sport of it the training of the 'varsity trials is interrupted. after the 'varsity race the members of the crew rest during what remains of the easter vacation, and then take their places in the boats of their respective colleges. here they are joined by the other trials men, the remaining members of last year's college eight, and the two or three men who have come up from the torpids. now begins the liveliest season in boating. every afternoon the river is clogged with eights rowing to iffley or to sandford, and the towing-path swarms with enthusiasts. the course in the may bumping races is a mile and a quarter long--the same as the course of the torpids--and the crews race over it every day for a week, with the exception of an intervening sunday, each going up a place or down a place in the procession daily according as it bumps or is bumped. these races, from the point of view of the expert oarsman, are far less important than the 'varsity race; yet socially they are far more prominent, and the enthusiasm they arouse among the undergraduates is incomparable. the vitality of oxford is in the colleges: the university organizations are the flowers of a very sturdy root and branch. [illustration: the last day of the bumping races of the summer eights ( )] the difference between american and english boating is that we lack the root and branches of the college system. in a university of from three to four thousand men there are, in addition to the 'varsity crew, four class crews and perhaps a few scratch crews. in england, each of the score of colleges, numbering on an average something like one hundred and fifty men apiece, mans innumerable fours, one or more eight-oared torpids, and the college eight. a simple calculation will show that with us one man in fifty to seventy goes in for the sport, while in england the proportion is one man in five to seven. the difference in spirit is as great as the difference in numbers. in america, the sole idea in athletics, as is proclaimed again and again, is to beat the rival team. no concession is made to the comfort or wholesomeness of the sport; men are induced to train by the excellent if somewhat grandiose sentiment that they owe it to the university to make every possible sacrifice of personal pleasure. our class crews, which have long ceased to represent any real class rivalry, are maintained mainly in the hope of producing 'varsity material. the result of these two systems is curiously at variance with the intention. at oxford, where rowing is very pleasant indeed, and where for the greater part of the year the main interest centres in college crews, the 'varsity reaches a high degree of perfection, and the oarsmen, without quite being aware of the fact, represent their university very creditably; while at yale, and until recently at harvard, the subsidiary crews have been comparative failures in producing material, and the 'varsity is in consequence somewhat in the position of an exotic, being kept alive merely by the stimulus of inter-varsity rivalry. the recent improvement at harvard is due to mr. rudolph c. lehmann, the celebrated cambridge and leander oar who coached the harvard crews of and , in the sportsmanlike endeavor to stimulate a broader and more expert interest in boating. his failure to bring either of the crews to victory, which to so many of us signified the utter failure of his mission, has had more than a sufficient compensation in the fact that he established at harvard something like the english boating system. anything strictly similar to the torpids and eights is of course out of the question, because we have no social basis such as the colleges afford for rivalry in boating; but the lack of colleges has in a measure been remedied by creating a factitious rivalry between improvised boating clubs, and the system of torpids and eights has been crudely imitated in the so-called graded crews. a season of preliminary racing has thus been established, on the basis of which the candidates for the 'varsity crew are now selected, so that instead of the nine months of slogging in the tank and on the river, in which the more nervous and highly organized candidates were likely to succumb and the stolid men to find a place in the boat, the eight is made up as at oxford of those who have shown to best advantage in a series of spirited races. crude as the new harvard system is as compared with the english system, it has already created a true boating spirit, and has trained a large body of men in the established stroke, placing the sport at harvard on a sounder basis than at any other american university. it has thus been of infinitely more advantage, by the potentiality of an example, than any number of victories at new london. to realize the full benefit of the system of graded crews and preliminary races, it is only necessary to supersede the arbitrary and meaningless division into clubs by organizations after the manner of english colleges which shall represent something definite in the general life of the university. iii a little scrimmage with english rugby the relationship between the colleges and the university exists in a greater or less degree in all sports. there is a series of matches among the leading colleges in cricket, and a "cup tie" in association football. these sports are almost as popular as rowing, and have many excellences which it would be pleasant to point out and profitable perhaps to emulate; but it seems best to concentrate attention on the sports which are best understood in america, such as rugby football and athletics. the workings of the college system may be most clearly seen in them, and the spirit of english sportsmanship most sympathetically appreciated. the rivalry between the association and the rugby games has made english football players quite unexpectedly sensitive to comparisons. i had scarcely set foot upon a rugby field when i was confronted with the inevitable question as to english rugby and american. i replied that from a hasty judgment the english game seemed haphazard and inconsequent. "we don't kill one another, if that's what you mean by 'inconsequent,'" my companion replied; and i soon found that a report that two players had been killed in the thanksgiving day match of the year before had never been contradicted in england. "that is the sport," my friend continued, "which caspar whitney says, in his 'sporting pilgrimage,' has improved english rugby off the face of the earth!" the many striking differences between english and american rugby arise out of the features of our game known as "possession of the ball" and "interference." in the early days of the american game, many of the most sacred english traditions were unknown, and the wording of the english rules proved in practice so far from explicit that it was not possible to discover what it meant, much less to enforce the rules. one of the traditions favored a certain comparative mildness of demeanor. the american players, on the contrary, favored a campaign of personal assault for which the general rules of the english scrummage lent marked facilities. it soon became necessary in america to line the men up in loose order facing each other, and to forbid violent personal contact until the actual running with the ball should begin. this clearly made it necessary that the sides should in turn put the ball in play, and consequently should alternately have possession of it. under this arrangement, each side is in turn organized on the offensive and the defensive. the upshot of this was that the forwards, who in the parent english game have only an incidental connection with the running of the backs, become a part of each successive play, opening up the way for the progress of the ball. according to the english code, this made our forwards off-side, so that the rule had to be changed to fit the new practice. it then appeared that if the forwards could play ahead of the ball, the backs could do so too; and here you have the second great american feature. the result of "possession" of the ball and "interference" is an elaborate and almost military code of tactics unknown in the english game. in the course of time i had unusual facilities for observing english rugby. during the morrison wine which ended the season of tubbing on the river, the captain of the balliol fifteen threw his arms about me, and besought me to play on the team. he had not a single three-quarters, he said, who could get out of his own way running. i pleaded an attack of rheumatism and ignorance of the game. he said it did not matter. "and i'm half blind," i added. "so am i," he interrupted, "but we'll both be all right in the morning." i said i referred to the fact that i was very near-sighted; but he took all excuses as a sign of resentment because he had failed to invite me to breakfast in my freshman term; he appeared to think it his duty to breakfast all possible candidates. such are the courtesies of an english captain, and such are the informalities of english training. the next morning the captain wrote me that there was a match on against merton, and asked me to come out a quarter of an hour before the rest for a little coaching. a quarter of an hour to learn to play football! in spite of the captain's predictions of the night before, i was not so sure that he was yet "all right;" so i went out to the porter's lodge and scanned the bulletin board. my name stared me in the face. i had scarcely time to take luncheon and don a pair of football shorts. the practice my coach gave me consisted in running the length of the field three or four times, passing the ball back and forth as we went. his instructions with regard to the game were equally simple. to keep in proper position i had only to watch my merton _vis-à-vis_ and take a place symmetrical with his. when the enemy heeled the ball out of the "scrummage" to their quarter-back, putting us for the moment on the defensive, i was to watch my man, and, if the ball was passed to him, to tackle him. if he passed it before i could tackle him i was still to follow him, leaving the man who took the ball to be watched by my neighbor, in order that i might be on hand if my man received it again. an american back, when his side is on the defensive, is expected to keep his eye on his _vis-à-vis_ while the ball is being snapped back; but his main duty is to follow the ball. an english back under similar circumstances is expected only to follow his man. if our side happened to heel out the ball from the scrum and one of our three-quarters began to run with it, we were on the offensive, and the other three-quarters and i were to follow at his heels, so that when he was about to be tackled--"collared," the english say--he could pass it on to us. there is, as i have said, no such thing as combined "interference" among the backs. a player who gets between the man with the ball and the enemy's goal is rankly off-side. it is not to be understood that the captain coached all this information into me. i had to buttonhole him and pump it out word by word. coaching of any sort is all but unknown on english football fields. what there is of the game is learned at school--or in the nursery! [illustration: an english rugby line-up to the left of the scrum, two half backs and six three-quarter backs face each other in pairs] when the opposing teams scattered over the field for the kick-off, i noticed with satisfaction that there was not a spectator on the grounds to embarrass me. it is so in almost all english college games--the fellows are more than likely to have sports of their own on, and anyway, what is the use in hanging round the fields where other fellows are having all the fun? on the kick-off, luckily, the ball did not come to my corner of the field, for i could scarcely have seen it, much less caught it. our side returned the kick and the "scrum" formed. the nine forwards gathered compactly in a semi-ellipse, bent their bodies together in a horizontal plane, with their heads carefully tucked beneath the mass, and leaned against the opposing mass of forwards, who were similarly placed. when the two scrums were thoroughly compacted, the umpire tossed the ball on the ground beneath the opposing sets of legs, whereupon both sides began to struggle. the scrum in action looks like a huge tortoise with a score of legs at each end, which by some unaccountable freak of nature are struggling to walk in opposite directions. the sight is certainly awe-inspiring, and it was several days before i realized that it masked no abstrusely working tactics; there is little, if anything, in it beyond the obvious grunting and shoving. the backs faced each other in pairs ranged out on the side of the scrum that afforded the broader field for running. the legs in the balliol scrum pushed harder and the bodies squirmed to more advantage, for our men had presently got the ball among their feet. they failed to hold it there, however, and it popped out into a half-back's hands. he passed it quickly to one of my companions at three-quarters, who dodged his man and ran toward the corner of the field. i followed, and just as the full-back collared him he passed the ball to me. before i had taken three rheumatic strides i had two men hanging at my back; but when they brought me down, the ball was just beyond the line. the audience arose as one man--to wit, the referee, who had been squatting on the side lines--and shouted, "played. well played!" i had achieved universal fame. during the rest of the game the balliol scrum, which was a very respectable affair of its kind, kept the ball to itself, while we backs cooled our heels. a few days later, in a game against jesus, the scrums were more evenly matched, and the ball was heeled out oftener. i soon found that my eyes were not sharp enough to follow quick passing; and when, just before half-time, a punt came in my direction, i was horrified to see the ball multiply until it looked like a flock of balloons. as luck had it, i singled out the wrong balloon to catch. jesus fell on the ball just as it bounced over the goal-line. in the second half the captain put one of the forwards in my place, and put me in the scrum. the play here was more lively, though scarcely more complex or difficult. each forward stuck his head beneath the shoulders of the two men in front of him, grasped their waists, and then heaved, until, when the ball popped out of the scrum, the word came to dissolve. there were absolutely no regular positions; the man who was in the front centre of one scrummage might be in the outskirts of the next. on some teams, i found, by inquiry, a definite order is agreed on, but this is regarded as of doubtful advantage. when the umpire or a half-back tosses the ball into the scrummage, there are, at an ultimate analysis, four things that can happen. first, the two sides may struggle back and forth, carrying the ball on the ground at their feet; this play is called a "pack." second, the stronger side may cleave the weaker, and run down the field, dribbling the ball yard by yard as they go, until either side picks it up for a run, or else drops on it and cries "down." third, one side may be able to "screw the scrum," a manoeuvre which almost rises to the altitude of a "play." the captain shouts "right!" or perhaps "left!" and then his forwards push diagonally, instead of directly, against their opponents. the result is very like what we used to call a revolving wedge, except that, since the ball is carried on the ground, the play eventuates, when successful, in a scattering rush of forwards down the field, dribbling the ball at their feet, just as when the scrum has been cloven. the fourth possibility is that the side that gets the ball amongst its eighteen legs allows it to ooze out behind, or, if its backs are worthy of confidence, purposely heels it out. thereupon results the play i have already described: one of the half-backs pounces upon it and passes it deftly to the three-quarters, who run with it down the field, if necessary passing it back and forth. in plays which involve passing or dribbling, english teams sometimes reach a very high degree of skill: few sights on the football field are more inspiring than to see a "combination" of players rush in open formation among their opponents, shifting the ball from one to another with such rapidity and accuracy as to elude all attempts to arrest it. as a whole, the game of the forwards is much more fun than that of the backs, though decidedly less attractive in the eyes of the spectators--a consideration of slight importance on an english field! [illustration: throwing in the ball] just as i began to get warmed to my new work i smashed my nose against the head of a balliol man who was dodging back into the push. the captain told me that i need not finish the game; but as it is against the english rules to substitute players and we were still far from sure of winning, i kept to my grunting and shoving. at the end of the game the captain very politely gave me the hoof. this was just what i expected and deserved; but i was surprised to find that the fellows had objected to my playing the game through with a bloody nose. they would have preferred not to be bled upon. this regard for pleasantness and convenience, which to an american is odd enough, is characteristic even of 'varsity football. the slenderness of the preliminary training of a 'varsity fifteen is incredible to any american who has not witnessed it. to sift the candidates there is a freshman match and a senior match, with perhaps one or two "squashes"--that is to say, informal games--besides. and even these tests are largely a matter of form. men are selected chiefly on their public school reputations or in consequence of good work on a college fifteen. the process of developing players, so familiar to us, is unknown. there is no coaching of any kind, as we understand the word. when a man has learned the game at his public school or in his college, he has learned it for all time, though he will, of course, improve by playing for the university. the need of concentrated practice is greatly lessened by the fact that the soft english winter allows as long a season of play as is desired. the team plays a game or two a week against the great club teams of england--blackheath, richmond, london scottish, cardiff, newport, and huddersfield--with perhaps a bit of informal kicking and punting between times. when the weather is too bad, it lays off entirely. all this does not conduce to the strenuousness of spirit americans throw into their sports. in an inter-varsity match i saw the oxford team which was fifty per cent. better allow itself to be shoved all over the field: it kept the game a tie only by the rarest good fortune. it transpired later that the gayeties of brighton, whither the team had gone to put the finishing touches on its training, had been too much for it. in an american university such laxity would be thought the lowest depth of unmanliness, but i could not see that any one at oxford really resented it; at most it was a subject for mild sarcasm. you can't expect a team to be in the push everywhere! this lack of thorough preparation is even more characteristic of the international teams--england, ireland, scotland, and wales--that yearly play for the championship of great britain. they are chosen from the most brilliant players in the leading clubs, and local jealousy makes the task of choosing most delicate. the temptation is to take a man or two impartially from each of the great fifteens. as the international teams take little or no practice as a whole, the tendency in the great games is to neglect the finer arts of dribbling and passing in combination--the arts for which each player was severally chosen--and revert to the primitive grunting and shoving. in the great games, accordingly, the team which is man for man inferior as regards the fine points may prevail by sheer strength, so that the result is liable to be most unsatisfactory. some years ago, owing to local jealousy, the welsh international had to be chosen mainly from a single club--with the result that it won the championship; and in the canny scotch team won by intentionally selecting its members, in spite of local jealousy, on the score of their familiarity with one another's play. the very rules under which the game is played are calculated to moderate the struggle. as a result of the rule against substituting, to which i have referred, any extreme of hard play in the practice games, such as lays off dozens of good american players yearly, is not likely to be encouraged. of course good men "crock," as they call it; but where an injury is practically certain to disqualify a man from the inter-varsity match, the football limp and the football patch can scarcely be regarded as the final grace of athletic manhood. willful brutality is all but unknown; the seriousness of being disqualified abets the normal english inclination to play the game like a person of sense and good feeling. the physical effect of the sport is to make men erect, lithe, and sound. and the effect on the nervous system is similar. the worried, drawn features of the american player on the eve of a great contest are unknown. an englishman could not understand how it has happened that american players have been given sulphonal during the last nights of training. english rugby is first of all a sport, an exercise that brings manly powers into play; as hamlet would say, the play's the thing. it is eminently an enjoyable pastime, pleasant to watch, and more pleasant to take part in. that our american game is past hoping for on the score of playability is by no means certain. as the historical critics of literature are fond of saying, a period of rapid development is always marked by flagrant excesses, and the development of modern american football has been of astonishing rapidity. quite often the game of one season has been radically different from the games of all preceding seasons. this cannot continue always, for the number of possible variations is obviously limited, and when the limit is reached american rugby will be, like english rugby, the same old game year in and year out. everybody, from the youngest prep. to the oldest grad., will know it and love it. the two vital points in which our game differs from the english--"possession of the ball" and "interference"--are both the occasion of vigorous handling of one's opponents. when an american player is tackled, he seldom dares to pass the ball for fear of losing possession of it, so that our rule is to tackle low and hard, in order to stop the ball sharply, and if possible to jar it out of the runner's grasp. in england, it is still fair play to grab a man by the ankle. this is partly because of the softness of the moist thick english turf; but more largely because, as passing is the rule, the tackler in nine cases out of ten aims at the ball. the result is that a man is seldom slammed to the earth as he would be in our game. it is this fact that enables the english player to go bare-kneed. the danger from interference in the american game is also considerable. when a man is blocked off, he is liable to be thrown violently upon the far from tender bosom of our november mother-earth. any one familiar with the practice of an american eleven will remember the constant cry of the coaches: "knock your man on the ground! put him out of the play!" it has been truly enough said that the american game has exaggerated the most dangerous features of the two english games--the tackling of english rugby and the "charging" or body-checking of the association game. yet this is only a partial statement of the case. these elements of possession of the ball and interference have raised our game incalculably above the english game as a martial contest. whereas english rugby has as yet advanced very little beyond its first principles of grunting and shoving, the american game has always been supreme as a school and a test of courage; and it has always tended, albeit with some excesses, toward an incomparably high degree of skill and strategy. since american football is still in a state of transition, it is only fair to judge the two games by the norm to which they are severally tending. the englishman has on the whole subordinated the elements of skill in combination to the pleasantness of the sport, while the american has somewhat sacrificed the playability of the game to his insatiate struggle for success and his inexhaustible ingenuity in achieving it. more than any other sport, rugby football indicates the divergent lines along which the two nations are developing. by preferring either game a man expresses his preference for one side of the atlantic over the other. iv track and field athletics in track and field athletics, the pleasantness and informality of english methods of training reach a climax. in america we place the welfare of our teams in the hands of a professional trainer, who, through his aide-de-camp, the undergraduate captain, is apt to make the pursuit of victory pretty much a business. every autumn newcomers are publicly informed that it is their duty to the university to train for the freshman scratch games. at oxford, i was surprised to find, there was not only no call for candidates, but no trainer to whom to apply for aid. the nearest approach to it was the groundsman at the iffley running grounds, a retired professional who stoked the boilers for the baths, rolled the cinder-path, and occasionally acted as "starter." as his "professional" reputation as a trainer was not at stake in the fortunes of the oxford team, his attitude was humbly advisory. the president of the athletic club never came near the grounds, being busy with rowing on a 'varsity trial eight, and later with playing association football for the university. to one accustomed to train not only for the glory of his alma mater but for the reputation of his trainer, the situation was uninspiring. as i might have expected, the impetus to train came from the college. i was rescued from a fit of depression by a college-mate, a german, who wanted some one to train with. at school he had run three miles in remarkable time; but later, when an officer in the german army, his horse had rolled over him at the finish of a steeple-chase, and the accident had knocked out his heart; so he was going to try to sprint. i advised him against all training, and the groundsman shook his head. yet he was set upon showing the englishmen in balliol that a german could be a sportsman. this was no idle talk, as i found later, when he fainted in the bath after a fast hundred, and failed by no one knows how little of coming to. we were soon joined by a third balliol man, a young greek poet, whose name is familiar to all who are abreast of the latest literary movement at athens. he was taking up with athletics because of his interest in the revival of the ancient glories of greece. when i asked him what distance suited him best--whether he was a sprinter or a runner--he answered with the sweet reasonableness of the hellenic nature that any distance would suit him that suited me. a motlier trio than we, i suppose, never scratched a cinder-path. yet the fellows in our college seemed almost as interested as they were amused; and we soon found that even so learned a place as balliol would have been glad to bolster its self-esteem by furnishing its quota of "running blues." what was lacking in the way of stimulus from the university was more than made up for by the spontaneous interest of the fellows in college. the rudimentary form of athletics is in meetings held by the separate colleges. these occur throughout the athletic season, namely, the autumn term and the winter term; and as hard on to a score of colleges give them, they come off pretty often. the prizes are sums of money placed with the oxford jeweler, to be spent in his shop as the winners see fit. in america, the four classes, which are the only sources of athletic life independent of the university, are so moribund socially that it never occurs to them to get out on the track for a day's sport. it is true that we sometimes hold inter-class games, but the management of these is in the hands of the university; they are inspired solely by a very conscious attempt to develop new men, and to furnish the old ones with practice in racing. the vitality of the athletic spirits in the english colleges is witnessed by the fact that an oxford college frequently meets a fit rival at cambridge in a set of dual games just for the fun of it. the only bond between the numerous college meetings and the university sports is a single event in each, called a strangers' race, which is open to all comers. the purpose of these races is precisely that of our inter-class meetings--to give all promising athletes practice in competition. as the two prizes in each strangers' race average five pounds and thirty shillings respectively, the races are pretty efficient. though the "blues" sometimes compete--cross made his record of m. - / s. for the half mile in one of them--they generally abandon them to the new men of promise. while the president and the "blues" generally are rowing and playing football, the colleges thus automatically develop new material for the team. the climax of the athletic meetings of the autumn term is the freshman sports, held on two days, with a day's interval. the friends of the various contestants make up a far larger audience than one finds at similar sports in america; and a brass band plays while the races are on. the whole thing is decidedly inspiring; and for the first time one is brought face to face with the fact that there are inter-varsity games in store. when the winter term opens, bleak and rainy, the strangers' races bring out more upper classmen. by and by the "blues" themselves appear in sweater, muffler, and blazer, and "paddle" about the track to supple their muscles and regain disused racing strides. at the end of a fortnight i noticed a middle-aged gentleman with whom the prominent athletes conferred before and after each day's work. i soon found that he was mr. c. n. jackson, a don of hertford college, who should always be remembered as the first hurdler to finish in even time. it is he who--save the mark--takes the place of our american trainers. at one of our large american universities about this time, as i afterwards learned, a very different scene was enacting. the trainer and the captain called a mass-meeting and collected a band of mott haven champions of the past to exhort the university to struggle free from athletic disgrace. though the inter-varsity games were nearly four months in the future--instead of six or seven weeks as at oxford--those ancient athletes aroused such enthusiasm that men undertook the three months of indoor training. to one used to such exhortations, the oxford indifference was as chilling as the weather we were all training in. mr. jackson seemed never to notice me; and how could i address him when he had not even asked me to save the university from disgrace? i was forced to the unheroic expedient of presenting a card of introduction. to my surprise, i found that he had been carefully watching my work from day to day, but had not felt justified in giving advice until i asked for it. even during the final period of training, everything happened so pleasantly and naturally that i had none of the nervous qualms common among american athletes. at first i thought i missed the early morning walks our teams take daily, the companionship and jollity of the training-table, and the sense that the team was making a common sacrifice for an important end. yet here, too, the college made up in a large measure for what i failed to find in the university. one of our eightsmen was training with a scrub four that was to row a crew of schoolboys at winchester; and we had a little course of training of our own. every morning we walked out for our dip to parson's pleasure, and breakfasted afterward beneath an ancient ivied window in the common room. in the pleasantness and quiet of those sunlit mornings, i began to realize that our training-table mirth, which is sometimes so boisterous, is in part at least due to intense excitement and overwrought nerves. and the notion of self-sacrifice, which appeals to us so deeply, seemed absurd where we were all training for the pleasure and wholesomeness of sport, and for the sake of a ribbon of blue. the interest the university took in our welfare became made manifest when the "first strings" were sent off to brighton for the change in climate which all english teams require before great games. some of the rest of us, who had nowhere else to go, went with them, but most of the men went home to train. the second string in the three miles stayed up at oxford for commemoration, and joined us after three consecutive nights of dancing. he said that he found he needed staying up work. every morning at brighton the president made the round of our quarter of the hotel shortly before eight o'clock, and spoiled our waking naps to rout us out for our morning's walk, which included a plunge into the channel. for breakfast, as indeed for all our meals, we had ordinary english fare, with the difference only that it was more abundant. on alternate days our training consisted in cross-country walks of ten or a dozen miles. our favorite paths led along the chalk cliffs, and commanded a lordly view of the channel. sometimes, for the sake of variety, we went by train to the devil's dyke and tramped back over the downs, now crossing golf-links and now skirting cornfields ablaze with poppies. all this walking filled our lungs with the brighton air, and by keeping our minds off our races, prevented worry. sprinters and distance men walked together, though the sprinters usually turned back a mile or two before the rest. the rate prescribed was three and a half miles an hour; but our spirits rose so high that we had trouble in keeping it below five.[ ] the training dinners furnished the really memorable hours of the day. a half-pint of "burton bitter" was a necessity, and a pint merely rations. if one preferred, he might drink burgundy _ad lib._, or scotch and soda. after trials there was champagne. when i told the fellows that in america our relaxation consists in ice-cream for sunday dinner, they set me down as a humorist. after dinner, instead of coffee and tobacco, we used to go out to the west pier, which was a miniature coney island, and amuse ourselves with the various attractions. the favorite diversion was seeing the beautiful living lady cremated. the attraction was the showman, who used to give an elaborate oration in lancashire brogue. every word of it was funny, but especially the closing sentence: "the greeks 'ad a ancient custom of porun' a liebation on the cinders of the departud, which custom, gentlemen, we omits." we used to laugh so heartily at this that the showman would join in, and even the beautiful living lady would snicker companionably, as she crawled away beneath the stage. if the reader is unable to see the fun of it, there is no help for him--except, perhaps, an english training dinner. the rest of the evenings we used to spend in strolling about among the crowd, breathing the salt air, and listening to the music. we did not lack companionship, for the oxford and cambridge cricket elevens were at brighton, and the entire cambridge athletic team. many of the cricketers, and not a few of the cambridge athletes--whom the oxford men called "cantabs," and sometimes even "tabs"--paraded the place puffing bulldog pipes. the outward relationship between the rival teams was simply that of man to man. if one knew a cambridge man he joined him, and introduced the fellows he happened to be walking with. one day the cambridge president talked frankly about training, urging us to take long walks, and inviting us to go with his men. the only reason we did not go was that our day for walking happened to be different from theirs. the days on which we did our track work we spent largely in london, at the queen's club grounds, in order to get a general sense of the track and of the conditions under which the sports were to take place. sometimes, however, we ran at preston park, on the outskirts of brighton. on the day of the inter-varsity meeting, our team came together as a whole for the first time in the dressing-rooms of the queen's club. the fellows dropped in one by one, in frock coats, top hats, and with a general holiday air. the oxford broad-jumper, who was the best man at the event in england, had been so busy playing cricket all season, and smoking his pipe with the other cricketers on the pier at brighton, that he had not had time even to send to oxford for his jumping-shoes. in borrowing a pair he explained that unless a fellow undertook the fag of thorough training, he could jump better without any practice. our weight-thrower, a freshman, had surprised himself two days previously by making better puts than either of the cambridge men had ever done; but as nobody had ever thought it worth while to coach him, he did not know how he had done it, and was naturally afraid he couldn't do it again. he showed that he was a freshman by appearing to care whether or not he did his best; but even his imagination failed to grasp the fact that the team which won was to have the privilege of meeting yale in america. as it turned out, if either of these men had taken his event, oxford, instead of cambridge, would have met yale. as i went out to start in my race, the question of half-sleeves which englishmen require in all athletic contests was settled in my mind. the numberless seasonable gowns in the stands and the innumerable top hats ranged on all sides about the course made me feel as if i were at a lawn party rather than at an athletic meeting. i suffered as a girl suffers at her first evening party, or rather as one suffers in those terrible dreams where one faces the problem of maintaining his dignity in company while clad in a smile or so. waiving the question of half-sleeves, i should have consented to run in pyjamas. in the race i had an experience which raised a question or two that still offer food for reflection. as my best distance--a half mile--was not included in the inter-varsity program, i ran in the mile as second string. there was a strong wind and the pace was pretty hot, even for the best of us, namely, the cambridge first string, who had won the race the year before in min. - / sec.,--the fastest mile ever run in university games. as the english score in athletic games, only first places count, and on the second of the three laps i found myself debating whether it is not unnecessarily strenuous to force a desperate finish where the only question is how far a man can keep in front of the tail end. several of the fellows had already dropped out in the quietest and most matter of fact manner; and as we were finishing the lap against the wind, i became a convert to the english code of sportsmanship. as the bunch drew away from me and turned into the easy going of the sheltered stretch, i was filled with envy of them, and with uncontrollable disgust at myself, the like of which i had never felt when beaten, however badly, after making a fair struggle. and when i saw them finishing against the hurricane, striding as if they were running upstairs, i felt the heroism of a desperate finish as i had never done before. it did not help matters when i realized that it was the last race i was ever to run. at the sports' dinner that night at the holborn restaurant, i pocketed some of my disgust. the occasion was so happy that i remember wishing we might have something like it after our meetings at home, for good-fellowship chastens the pride of winning and gives dignity to honest defeat. there was homage for the victors and humorous sympathy for the vanquished. light blue and dark blue applauded and poked fun at each other impartially. sir richard webster, q. c., now lord chief justice, himself an old blue, presided at the dinner, and explained how it was that the performances of his day were really not to be sneezed at; and the young blues, receiving their prizes, looked happy and said nothing. after dinner, we divided into squads and went to the empire theatre of varieties, cantab locking arms with oxonian. by supper time, at st. james', i was almost cheerful again. yet the disgust of having quitted that race has never left me. the spirit of english sportsmanship will always seem to me very gracious and charming. as a nation, i think we can never be too thankful for the lesson our kinspeople have to teach us in sportsmanly moderation and in chivalry toward an opponent. but every man must draw his own line between the amenities of life and the austerities; and i know one american who hopes never again to quit a contest, even a contest in sport, until he has had the humble satisfaction of doing his best. v english and american sportsmanship the prevalence of out-of-door sports in england, and the amenity of the english sporting spirit, may be laid, i think, primarily, to the influence of climate. through the long, temperate summer, all nature conspires to entice a man out of doors, while in america sunstroke is imminent. all day long the village greens in england are thronged with boys playing cricket in many-colored blazers, while every stream is dotted with boats of all sorts and descriptions; and in the evenings, long after the quick american twilight has shut down on the heated earth, the english horizon gives light for the recreations of those who have labored all day. in the winter the result is the same, though the cause is very different. stupefying exhalations rise from the damp earth, and the livelong twilight that does for day forces a man back for good cheer upon mere animal spirits. in the english summer no normal man could resist the beckoning of the fields and the river. in the winter it is sweat, man, or die. it is perhaps because of the incessant call to be out of doors that englishmen care so little to have their houses properly tempered. at my first dinner with the dons of my college, the company assembled about a huge sea-coal fire. on a rough calculation the coal it consumed, if used in one of our steam-heaters, would have heated the entire college to incandescence. as it was, its only effect seemed to be to draw an icy blast across our ankles from mediæval doors and windows that swept the fire bodily up the chimney, and left us shivering. one of the dons explained that an open fire has two supreme advantages: it is the most cheerful thing in life, and it insures thorough ventilation. i agreed with him heartily, warming one ankle in my palms, but demurred that in an american winter heat was as necessary as cheerfulness and ventilation. "but if one wears thick woolens," he replied, "the cold and draught are quite endurable. when you get too cold reading, put on your great-coat." i asked him what he did when he went out of doors. "i take off my great-coat. it is much warmer there, especially if one walks briskly." some days later, when i went to dine with my tutor, my hostess apologized for the chill of the drawing-room. "it will presently be much warmer," she added; "i have always noticed that when you have sat in a room awhile, it gets warm from the heat of your bodies." she proved to be right. but when we went into the dining-room, we found it like a barn. she smiled with repeated reassurances. again she proved right; but we had hardly tempered the frost when we had to shift again to the drawing-room, which by this time again required, so to speak, to be acclimated. meanwhile my tutor, who was of a jocular turn of mind, diverted our thoughts from our suffering by ragging me about american steam heat, and forced me, to his infinite delight, to admit that we aim to keep our rooms warmed to sixty-eight degrees fahrenheit. needless to say, this don was an athlete. as the winter wore away, i repeatedly saw him in balliol hockey squashes, chasing the ball about with the agility of a terrier pup. at nightfall, no doubt, he returned to his wife and family prepared to heat any room in the house to the required temperature. heaven forbid that i should resent the opprobrium englishmen heap upon our steam heat! i merely wish to point out that the english have failed as signally as we, though for the opposite reason, in making their houses habitable in the winter, and that an englishman is forced into athletics to resist the deadly stupefaction of a boeotian climate, and to keep his house warm. in a sportsman it would be most ungracious to inveigh against english weather. the very qualities one instinctively curses make possible the full and varied development of outdoor games, which americans admire without stint. our football teams do day labor to get fit, and then, after a game or so, the sport is nipped in the bud. to teach our oarsmen the rudiments of the stroke we resort to months of the galley-slavery of tank-rowing. our track athletes begin their season in the dead of winter with the dreary monotony of wooden dumb-bells and pulley-weights, while the baseball men are learning to slide for bases in the cage. in england the gymnasium is happily unknown. winter and summer alike the sportsman lives beneath the skies, and the sports are so diverse and so widely cultivated that any man, whatever his mental or physical capacity, finds suitable exercise that is also recreation. it is because of this universality of athletic sports that english training is briefer and less severe. the american makes, and is forced to make, a long and tedious business of getting fit, whereas an englishman has merely to exercise and sleep a trifle more than usual, and this only for a brief period. our oarsmen work daily from january to july, about six months, or did so before mr. lehmann brought english ideas among us; the english 'varsity crews row together nine or ten weeks. our football players slog daily for six or seven weeks; english teams seldom or never "practice," and play at most two matches a week. our track athletes are in training at frequent intervals throughout the college year, and are often at the training-table six weeks; in england six weeks is the maximum period of training, and the men as a rule are given only three days a week of exercise on the cinder-track. to an american training is an abnormal condition; to an englishman it is the consummation of the normal. the moderation of english training is powerfully abetted by a peculiarity of the climate. the very dullness and depression that make exercise imperative also make it impossible to sustain much of it. the clear, bright american sky--the sky that renders it difficult for us to take the same delight in italy as an englishman takes, and leads us to prefer ruskin's descriptions to the reality--cheers the american athlete; and the crispness of the atmosphere and its extreme variability keeps his nerves alert. an english athlete would go hopelessly stale on work that would scarcely key an american up to his highest pitch. the effect of these differences on the temperament of the athlete is marked. the crispness and variety of our climate foster nervous vitality at the expense of physical vitality, while the equability of the english climate has the opposite effect. in all contests that require sustained effort--distance running and cross-country running, for example--we are in general far behind; while during the comparatively few years in which we have practiced athletic sports we have shown, on the whole, vastly superior form in all contests depending upon nervous energy--sprinting, hurdling, jumping, and weight-throwing. because of these differences of climate and of temperament, no rigid comparisons can be made between english and american training; but it is probably true that english athletes tend to train too little. mr. horan, the president of the cambridge team that ran against yale at new haven, said as much after a very careful study of american methods; but he was not convinced that our thoroughness is quite worth while. the law of diminishing returns, he said, applies to training as to other things, so that, after a certain point, very little is gained even for a great sacrifice of convenience and pleasantness. our american athletes are twice as rigid in denying the spirit for an advantage, mr. horan admitted, of enough to win by. the remark is worth recording: it strikes the note of difference between english and american sportsmanship. after making all allowances for the conditions here and abroad that are merely accidental, one vital difference remains. for better or for worse, a sport is a sport to an englishman, and whatever tends to make it anything else is not encouraged; as far as possible it is made pleasant, socially and physically. contests are arranged without what american undergraduates call diplomacy; and they come off without jockeying. it is very seldom that an englishman forgets that he is a man first and an athlete afterwards. yet admirable as this quality is, it has its defects, at least to the transatlantic mind. even more, perhaps, than others, englishmen relish the joy of eating their hearts at the end of a contest, but they have no taste for the careful preparation that alone enables a man to fight out a finish to the best advantage. it is no doubt true, as the duke of wellington said, that the battle of waterloo was won on the playing-fields of england; but for any inconsiderable sum i would agree to furnish a similar saying as to why the generals in south africa ran into ambush after ambush. in america, sportsmanship is almost a religion. fellows mortify the flesh for months and leave no means untried that may help to bring honor to their college; or if they don't, public opinion brings swift and sure retribution. it is true that this leads to excesses. rivalries are so strong that undergraduates have been known to be more than politic in arranging matches with each other. so the graduate steps in to moderate the ardor of emulation, and often ends by keeping alive ancient animosities long after they would have been forgotten in the vanishing generations of undergraduates. the harvard eleven wants to play the usual football game; but it is not allowed to, because a committee of graduates sees fit to snub yale; the athletic team wants to accept a challenge from oxford and cambridge, but it is not allowed to because pennsylvania, which is not challenged, has a better team, and it is the policy of the university (which has an eye to its graduate schools) to ingratiate sister institutions. in a word, the undergraduates are left to manage their studies while the faculty manages their pastimes. when a contest is finally on, excesses are rampant. of occasional brutalities too much has perhaps been said; but more serious errors are unreproved. there is a tradition that it is the duty of all non-athletes to inspire the 'varsity teams by cheering the play from the side lines; and from time to time one reads leading articles in the college papers exhorting men to back the teams. the spectator is thus given an important part in every contest, and after a 'varsity match he is praised or blamed, together with the members of the team, according to his deserts. yale may outplay harvard, but if harvard sufficiently out-cheers yale she wins, and to the rooters belong the praise. in baseball games especially, a season's championship is not infrequently decided by the fact that the partisans of one side are more numerous, or for other reasons make more noise. these are serious excesses, and are worthy of the pen of the robustest reformer; but after all has been said they are incidents, and in the slow course of time are probably disappearing. the signal fact is that our young men do what they do with the diligence of enthusiasm, and with the devotion that inspires the highest courage. it is not unknown that, in the bitterness of failure, american athletes have burst into tears. when our english cousins hear of this they are apt to smile, and doubtless the practice is not altogether to be commended; but in the length and breadth of a man's experience there are only two or three things one would wish so humbly as the devotion that makes it possible. such earnestness is the quintessence of americanism, and is probably to be traced to the signal fact that in the struggle of life we all start with a fighting chance of coming out on top. whatever the game, so long as it is treated as a game, nothing could be as wholesome as the spirit that tends to make our young men play it for all it is worth, to do everything that can be done to secure victory with personal honor. in later years, when these men stand for the honor of the larger alma mater, on the field of battle or in the routine of administration, it is not likely that they will altogether forget the virtues of their youth. the superiority of english sportsmanship arises, not from the spirit of the men, but from the breadth of the development of the sports, and this, climate aside, is the result of the division of the university into colleges. the average college of only a hundred and fifty men maintains two football teams--a rugby fifteen and an association eleven--an eight and two torpids, a cricket eleven, and a hockey eleven. each college has also a set of athletic games yearly. if we add the men who play golf, lawn and court tennis, rackets and fives, who swim, box, wrestle, and who shoot on the ranges of the gun club, the total of men schooled in competition reaches eighty to one hundred. a simple calculation will show that when so many are exercising daily, few are left for spectators. not a bench is prepared, nor even a plank laid on the spongy english turf, to stand between the hanger-on and pneumonia. a man's place is in the field of strife; to take part in athletic contests is almost as much a matter of course as to bathe. of late years there has been a tendency in england to believe that the vigor of undergraduates--and of all englishmen, for the matter of that--is in decadence. as regards their cultivation of sports at least, the reverse is true. contests are more numerous now than ever, and are probably more earnestly waged. what is called english decadence is in reality the increasing superiority of england's rivals. quite aside from the physical and moral benefit to the men engaged, this multiplication of contests has a striking effect in lessening the importance of winning or losing any particular one of them. it is more powerful than any other factor in keeping english sports free from the excesses that have so often characterized our sports. from time to time a voice is raised in america as of a prophet of despair demanding the abolition of inter-university contests. as yet the contests have not been abolished, and do not seem likely to be. might it not be argued without impertinence that the best means of doing away with the excesses in question is not to have fewer contests, but more of them? if our universities were divided into residential units, corresponding roughly to the english colleges, the excesses in particular contests could scarcely fail to be mitigated; and what is perhaps of still higher importance, the great body of non-athletes would be brought directly under the influence of all those strong and fine traditions of undergraduate life which centre in the spirit of sportsmanship. note. for a discussion of the influences of climate in international athletics, see appendix ii. footnote: [ ] for a note on the value of walking as a part of athletic training, see appendix i. iii the college as an educational force i the passman in the educational life of oxford, as in the social and athletic life, the distinctive feature, at least to the american mind, is the duality of organization in consequence of which an undergraduate is amenable first to his college and then to the university: the college teaches and the university examines. in america, so far as the undergraduate is concerned, the college and the university are identical: the instructor in each course of lectures is also the examiner. it follows from this that whereas in america the degree is awarded on the basis of many separate examinations--one in each of the sixteen or more "courses" which are necessary for the degree--in england it is awarded on the basis of a single examination. for three or four years the college tutor labors with his pupil, and the result of his labors is gauged by an examination, set and judged by the university. this system is characteristic of both cambridge and oxford, and for that matter, of all english education; and the details of its organization present many striking contrasts to american educational methods. sir isaac newton's happy thought of having a big hole in his door for the cat and a little hole for the kitten must have first been held up to ridicule by an american. in england, the land of classes, it could hardly fail of full sympathy. in america there is but one hole of exit, though men differ in their proportions as they go out through it. in england there are passmen and classmen. to say that the passman is the kitten would not be altogether precise. he is rather a distinct species of undergraduate. more than that, he is the historic species, tracing his origin quite without break to the primal undergraduate of the middle ages. he is a tradition from the time when the fund of liberal knowledge was so small that the university undertook to serve it all up in a pint-pot to whoever might apply. the pint-pot still exists at oxford; and though the increasing knowledge of nine centuries long ago overflowed its brim, the passman still holds it forth trustfully to his tutor. the tutor patiently mingles in it an elixir compounded of as many educational simples as possible, and then the passman presents it to the examiners, who smile and dub him bachelor of arts. after three years, if he is alive and pays the sum of twelve pounds, they dub him master. the system for granting the pass degree is, in its broader outlines, the same as for all degrees. in the first examination--that for matriculation--it is identical for passmen and classmen. this examination is called "responsions," and is, like its name, of mediæval origin. it is the equivalent of the american entrance examination; but by one of the many paradoxes of oxford life it was for centuries required to be taken after the pupil had been admitted into residence in one of the colleges. in the early middle ages the lack of preparatory schools made it necessary first to catch your undergraduate. it was not until the nineteenth century that a man could take an equivalent test before coming up, for example at a public school; but it is now fast becoming the rule to do so; and it is probable that all colleges will soon require an entrance examination. in this way two or three terms more of a student's residence are devoted to preparation for the two later and severer university tests. the subjects required for matriculation are easy enough, according to our standards. candidates offer: ( ) the whole of arithmetic, and either (_a_) elementary algebra as far as simple equations involving two unknown quantities, or (_b_) the first two books of euclid; ( ) greek and latin grammar, latin prose composition, and prepared translation from one greek and one latin book. the passages for prepared translation are selected from six possible greek authors and five possible latin authors. the influence of english colonial expansion is evident in the fact that candidates who are not "european british subjects" may by special permission offer classical sanskrit, arabic, or pali as a substitute for either greek or latin: the dark-skinned orientals, who are so familiar a part of oxford life, are not denied the right to study the classics of their native tongues. thus the election of subjects is a well-recognized part of responsions, though the scope of the election does not extend to science and the modern languages. once installed in the college and matriculated in the university, both passman and honor man are examined twice and twice only. the first public examination, more familiarly called "moderations," or "mods," takes place in the middle of an undergraduate's course. here the passmen have only a single subject in common with the men seeking honors, namely, the examination in holy scripture, or the rudiments of faith and religion, more familiarly called "divinners," which is to say divinities. the subject of the examination is the gospels of st. luke and st. john in the greek text; and either the acts of the apostles or the two books of kings in the revised version. as in all oxford examinations, cram-books abound containing a reprint of the questions put in recent examinations; and, as many of these questions recur from year to year, the student of holy scripture is advised to master them. a cram-book which came to my notice is entitled "the undergraduate's guide to the rudiments of faith and religion," and contains, among other items of useful information: tables of the ten plagues; of the halting-places during the journey in the wilderness; of the twelve apostles; and of the seven deacons. the book recommends that the kings of judah and israel, the journeys of st. paul, and the thirty-nine articles shall be committed to memory. the obviously pious author of this guide to the rudiments of these important accomplishments speaks thus cheerfully in his preface: "the compiler feels assured that if candidates will but follow the plan he has suggested, no candidate of even ordinary ability need have the least fear of failure." according to report, it is perhaps not so easy to acquire the rudiments of faith and religion. in a paper set some years ago, as one of the examiners informed me, a new and unexpected question was put: "name the prophets and discriminate between the major and the minor." one astute passman wrote: "far be it from me to make discriminations between these wise and holy men. the kings of judah and israel are as follows." unless a man passes the examination, he has to take it again, and the fee to the examiner is one guinea. "this time i go through," exclaimed an often ploughed passman. "i need these guineas for cigars." those who are not "european british subjects" may substitute certain sacred works in sanskrit, arabic, or pali; and those who object for conscientious scruples to a study of the bible may substitute the phædo of plato; but the sagacious undergraduate knows that if he does this he must have no conscientious scruples against harder work. in america there is no such examination, so far as i know. at harvard an elective course in the history and literature of the jews is given by the semitic department; and if this does not insure success in acquiring the rudiments of faith and religion, it was, on one occasion at least, the means of redoubling the attendance at chapel. just before the final examination, it transpired that the professor in charge of the course was conducting morning service, and was giving five minute summaries of jewish history. for ten days the front pews were crowded with waistcoats of unwonted brilliance; the so-called sports who had taken the course as a snap were glad to grind it up under the very best auspices. let me not be misunderstood. in the long run, the english undergraduates no doubt add greatly to their chances of spiritual edification. at the very least they gain a considerable knowledge of one of the great monuments of the world's literature. in america the bible is much less read in families than in england, so that it would seem much more important to prescribe a course in biblical history and literature. at one time professor child gave a course in spenser and the english bible, and is said to have been moved at times when reading before his classes to a truly elizabethan access of tears. some years before the great master died, he gave up the course in despair at the biblical ignorance of his pupils. the usual harvard undergraduate cannot name five of the prophets, with or without discrimination, or be certain of five of the kings of judah. as i write this, i am painfully uncertain as to whether there were as many as five. but to return to our muttons. the remaining subjects for pass moderations are: ( ) portions of three classic authors, two greek and one latin, or two latin and one greek. the passages of each author to be studied are prescribed, but the candidate may elect, with certain slight limitations, from eight greek and eight latin authors "of the best age." as in the case of responsions and holy scripture, sanskrit, arabic, or pali may be substituted for either greek or latin. the examination covers not only grammar and literature, but any question arising out of the text. besides these are required: ( ) latin prose composition; ( ) sight translation of greek and latin; and ( ) either logic or the elements of geometry and algebra. the final pass examination allows a considerable range of election. three general subjects must be offered. at least one of these must be chosen from the following: greek, latin, sanskrit, persian, german, and french. if a candidate wishes, he may choose two of his three subjects in ancient language, literature, and history, or in modern language, literature, history, and economics. the remaining one or two subjects may be chosen from a dozen courses ranging through the elements of mathematics, natural science, law, and theology. this range of choice is very different from that in america, in that a student is not permitted freely to elect subjects without reference to one another. for the pass degree, no considerable originality or grasp of the subject is necessary, any more than for an undistinguished degree in an american college; but the body of necessary facts is pretty sure to be well ordered, if not digested. the idea of grouping electives is the fundamental difference between english and american education. in the case of the honor man it will be seen to be of chief importance. in order to take the oxford degree, it is further necessary to be in residence three years, and a man may reside four years before going up for his final examination. the period of study--or loafing--may be broken in various ways; and it is characteristic that though a man may anticipate his time and take his last examination before the last term of his third year, he is required to reside at the university, studies or no studies, until the minimum residence is completed. nothing could indicate more clearly the importance which is attached to the merely social side of university life. it is, in fact, as a social being that the passman usually shines. you may know him most often from the fact that you sight him in the high by a waistcoat of many colors. at night he is apt to evade the statutes as to academicals; but if he wears his gown, he wraps it about his neck as if it were a muffler, and tilts his mortar-board at all angles. he is the genius of the fox terrier and the bulldog pipe; he rides to the hounds, and is apt in evading the vice-chancellor's regulations as to tandems and four-in-hands. or perhaps he sits comfortably in his rooms discoursing lightly of the impious philosophies that are the studies of the classman, and writes horatian verse for the "isis" and the "oxford magazine." he does anything, in fact, that is well-bred, amusing, and not too strenuous. curiously enough, it sometimes happens that he does sufficient reading on his own account to give him no little real culture. of late there has been a reaction in favor of the pass school as affording a far better general education. if the passman loiters through the three or four years, it is mainly the fault--or the virtue--of the public school he comes from. of late the best public schools have had so strong and admirable an influence that boys have often been kept in them by their parents until they reach the age limit, generally nineteen. by this time they have anticipated most of the studies required for a pass degree in the university, and find little or nothing to do when they go up but to evade their tutors and to "reside." it is by this means, as the satirist long ago explained, that oxford has become an institution of such great learning. every freshman brings to it a little knowledge and no graduate takes any away. there is reason in all this. in the first place, as i have said, the passman is the historical undergraduate, and little short of a convulsion could disestablish him--that is the best of british reasons. moreover, to be scrupulously just, the passman knows quite as much as the american student who barely takes a degree by cramming a few hours with a venal tutor before each of his many examinations, and perhaps more than the larger proportion of german students who confine their serious interests to the duel and the kneipe, and never graduate. and then, the oxonian argues amiably, if it were not for the pass schools, the majority of the passmen would not come to oxford at all, and would spend their impressionable period in some place of much less amenity. clearly, they learn all that is necessary for a gentleman to know, and are perhaps kept from a great deal that is dangerous to young fellows with money and leisure. it means much to the aristocracy and nobility of england that, whatever their ambitions and capacities, they are encouraged by the pursuit of a not too elusive a.b. to stay four years in the university. even the ambitious student profits by the arrangement. wherever his future may lie, in the public service, in law, medicine, or even the church, it is of advantage to know men of birth and position--of far greater advantage, from the common sensible english point of view, than to have been educated in an atmosphere of studious enthusiasm and exact scholarship. ii the honor schools the modern extension of the world's knowledge, with the corresponding advance in educational requirements, which are perhaps the most signal results of the nineteenth century, could not fail to exert a powerful influence on all university teaching. in the united states, the monument to its influence is the elective system. in england, it is the honor schools. both countries felt the inadequacy of the antique pint-pot of learning. the democratic new world has not dreamed of making a sharp distinction between the indifferent and the ambitious. under the lead of the scientific spirit of the german universities, it has placed the noblest branches of human knowledge on a par with the least twig of science. with characteristic conservatism england kept the old pint-pot for the unscholarly, to whom its contents are still of value, though extending its scope to suit the changing spirit of the age; and for those who felt the new ambitions it made new pint-pots, each one of which should contain the essence gathered from a separate field of learning. the new pint-pots are the honor schools, and the children of the new ambition are the honor men. the honor schools of oxford are eight in number. here again the english conservatism is evident. the oldest of them, literæ humaniores, which was at first the only honor school, has for its subject-matter a thorough view of classical language, literature, and thought. it is an _édition de luxe_ of the old pass school. because of the nobility of its proportions, it is familiarly called "greats," and it justifies its name by enrolling almost half of all oxford candidates for the honor degree. an overwhelming majority of famous oxford graduates have taken their degree in "greats." the other schools are sometimes known as the minor schools. mathematics was originally a part of the school in literæ humaniores, but was soon made into a separate school. since then schools have been established in six new subjects--natural science, jurisprudence, modern history, theology, oriental studies, and english. under our elective system, a student continues through his four years, choosing each year at random, or as the fates decree, this, that, or the other brief "course." under the honor system a man decides sooner or later which one of the several branches he most desires, and sets out to master it. an oxford man's decision may be made at the outset; but far the larger number of men defer the choice. they do this by reading for moderations, for pass moderations as well as honor mods may be followed by an honor school at finals. the subject-matter for honor mods is, roughly speaking, the same as for pass mods--the classics and kindred studies; but the field covered is considerably more extended, and to take a high class the student is required to exhibit in his examination papers no little grasp of the subjects as a whole, and if possible to develop his own individuality in the process. having done with moderations, an honor man is forced to choose a final school. the logical sequence of honor mods is literæ humaniores; but one may choose instead modern history, theology, oriental studies, or english. the men who commit themselves to a choice at the outset are those who go in for science or jurisprudence. these men begin by reading for a form of moderations known as science preliminaries or jurisprudence preliminaries. the exact sequence of examinations is fixed only by common sense. the school of history is open to those who have taken pass mods, and even to those who have taken the jurisprudence preliminary, though mods is usually preferred in order to give a man the use of the necessary languages. if a science man's chief work is to be in astronomy or physics, which require some mathematics, he may take the mathematical mods, and devote only the second half of his course to science. even after a man has chosen his subject and begun to work on it with his tutor, there is considerable range of election. as classical mods are supposed to cover all the subjects essential to polite education, election is mainly a question as to the ancient authors read. if a man knows what final school he is to enter, he may choose his authors accordingly. thus, a history man chooses the ancient historians; a man who intends to enter the school in english literature, the ancient poets and dramatists. in addition to such authors, all candidates for classical mods choose, according to their future needs, one of four subjects: the history of classical literature, comparative classical philology, classical archæology, and logic. the preliminary examinations in natural science and in jurisprudence are concerned with a general view of the field, and thus do not admit of much variation, whatever the branch to be pursued later; and the same is true of mathematical moderations. a man who chooses any one of these three honor schools has made the great choice of bidding good-by to the classics. in the final schools the range of choice is greater than at moderations, and is greater in some schools than in others. literæ humaniores offers the least scope for election. the reason is that the subject-matter is a synthetic view of the classic world entire. still, in so vast a field, a student perforce selects, laying emphasis on those aspects of the ancient world which he considers (or which he expects the examining board to consider) of most interest and importance. it has been objected even at oxford that such a course of study gives a student little or no training in exact scholarship. the examination statutes accordingly give a choice of one among no less than forty special subjects, the original sources of which a man may thresh out anew in the hope of adding his iota to the field of science; and, on six months' notice, a student may, under approval, select a subject of his own. the unimportance of this part of the "greats" curriculum is evident in the fact that it is recommended, not required. the history school requires the student to cover the constitutional and political history of england entire, political science and economy, with economic history, constitutional law, and political and descriptive geography. it also requires a special subject "carefully studied with reference to the original authorities," and a period of general history. if a student does not aim at a first or second class at graduation, he may omit certain parts of all this. in any case, he has to choose from the general history of the modern world one special period for a more detailed examination. in the school of natural science, the student, after filling in the broad outlines of the subject for his preliminary, must choose for his final examination one of the following seven subjects: physics, chemistry, animal physiology, zoölogy, botany, geology, and astronomy. besides the written examination, a "practical" examination of three hours is required to show the student's ability at laboratory work. these three honor schools are the most important, and may be regarded as representative. after a man has taken one honor degree, for example, in literæ humaniores, he may take another, for example, in modern history. he then becomes a double honor man, and if he has got a first class in both schools, he is a "double first." in america, the election of studies goes by fragmentary subjects, and the degree is awarded for passing some four such subjects a year, the whole number being as disconnected, even chaotic, as the student pleases or as chance decrees. in england, the degree is granted for final proficiency in a coherent and well-balanced course of study; but within this not unreasonable limit there is the utmost freedom of election. the student first chooses what honor school he shall pursue, and then chooses the general lines along which he shall pursue it. iii the tutor in preparing for his two "public examinations," the pupil is solely in the hands of a college tutor. any familiar account of the oxford don is apt to make him appear to the american, and especially to the german mind, a sufficiently humble person. his first duty is the very unprofessional one of making newcomers welcome. he invites his pupils to breakfast and to dinner, and introduces them to their fellows so that they shall enter easily into the life of the college; he tells them to go in for one or another of the various undergraduate activities. as a teacher, moreover, his position is strikingly similar to that of the venal tutors in our universities, who amiably keep lame ducks from halting, and temper the frost of the examination period to gilded grasshoppers. it is all this that makes the american scholar so apt to smile at the tutor, and the german, perhaps, to sniff. the tutor is not easily put down. if he replies with anything more than a british silence, it is to say that after all education cannot be quite dissociated from a man's life among his fellows. and then there is the best of all english reasons why the tutor should think well of his vocation: it is approved by custom and tradition. newman, pusey, jowett, pater, stubbs, lang, and many such were tutors, and they thought it well worth while to spend the better part of each day with their pupils. homely as are the primary duties of the tutor, it is none the less necessary that certain information should be imparted. the shadow of the examiners looms across the path twice in the three or four years of an undergraduate's life. there is no dodging it: in order to get a degree, certain papers must be written and well written. here is where the real dignity of the tutor resides, the attribute that distinguishes him from all german and american teachers. he is responsible to the college that his pupils shall acquit themselves well before the examiners,--that the reputation of the college shall be maintained. by the same token, the examiners are responsible to the university that its degrees shall be justly awarded, so that the course of education in england is a struggle of tutor against examiner. in germany and in america, an instructor is expected to be a master of his subject; he may be or may not be--and usually is not--a teacher. in england, a tutor may be a scholar, and often is not. his success is measured first and foremost by the excellence of the papers his pupils write. is donkin of balliol a good tutor? well, rather, he has got more firsts than any don in oxford; by which is meant of course that his pupils have got the firsts. a college is rated partly by its number of blues and partly by its number of firsts. for a tutor to lead his pupils to success is as sacred a duty as for an athletic undergraduate to play for the university. the leisurely, not to say loafing, tutor of eighteenth-century tradition has been reformed out of existence. if the modern tutor fails of any high attainment as a scholar, it is mainly because he is required to be a very lively, strenuous, and efficient leader of youth. the means by which the tutor conducts his charges in the narrow path to success in the schools are characteristic. the secret lies in gaining the good-will of the pupil. thus any breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners that the hospitable tutor gives to his pupils while they are learning the ways of the place are bread cast upon the waters in a very literal sense. for a decent fellow to neglect the just wishes of a teacher to whom he is indebted is easy enough on occasions; but systematically to shirk a genuine debt of gratitude without losing caste with one's self requires supreme ingenuity. if you don't want to get into the clutches of your tutor, don't take the least chance of getting to like him. this is the soundest advice ever given by the wary upper classman. it has not been ordained by nature that the soul of the teacher is sib to the soul of the taught, but clearly, by exercising the humanities, the irrepressible conflict may be kept within bounds. sometimes harsher measures are necessary. then a man is sent up to the head of the college, which is not at all a promotion. one fellow used to tell a story of how jowett, the quondam master of balliol, chastised him. when he reported, the master was writing, and merely paused to say: "sit down, mr. barnes, you are working with mr. donkin, are you not?" the culprit said he was, and sat down. jowett wrote on, page after page, while the undergraduate fidgeted. finally jowett looked up and remarked: "mr. donkin says you are not. good-morning." after that the undergraduate was more inclined to work with mr. donkin. for graver offenses a man is imprisoned within the paradise behind the college walls--"gated," the term is. one fellow i knew--a third year man who roomed out of college--was obliged to lodge in the rooms of the dean, mr. j. l. strachan davidson. the two turned out excellent friends. no one could be altogether objectionable, the undergraduate explained, whose whiskey and tobacco were as good as the dean's. in extreme cases a man may be sent down, but if this happens, he must either have the most unfortunate of dispositions, or the skin of a rhinoceros against tact and kindness. it is by similar means that the don maintains his intellectual ascendency. nothing is more foreign to oxford than an assumption of pedagogic authority. mr. hilaire belloc, who is now not unknown in london as a man of letters, used to tell of a memorable encounter with jowett. mr. belloc was holding forth in his vein of excellent enthusiasm with regard to his countrymen. for a long time jowett listened with courteously qualified assent, but finally said: "mr. belloc, do you know the inscription which is said to stand above the gate to hell?" mr. belloc was ready with the familiar line from dante. "no, mr. belloc, _ici on parle français_." the oratory of even a president of the oxford union broke down in laughter. under such a system a mutual confidence increases day by day between teacher and taught, which may end in a comradeship more intimate than that between father and son. our universities are fast adopting the german or pseudo-german idea that an advanced education consists merely in mastering the subject one may choose to pursue. the point of departure is the "course." if we gain the acquaintance of lowell or longfellow, agassiz, child, or norton, we have to thank our lucky stars. in england, the social relationship is the basis of the system of instruction. iv reading for examinations how easy is the course of oxford discipline on the whole is evident in the regulations as to the times for taking the examinations. the earliest date when a man may go up for moderations is his fifth term after matriculation. as there are four terms a year, this earliest date falls at the outset of his second year. for a passman there is apparently no time beyond which it is forbidden to take mods, or finals either. an honor man may repeat his attempts at mods until eight terms are gone--two full and pleasant years; that is, he may take mods in any of three terms--almost an entire year. for finals he may go up as early as his eleventh term, and as late as his sixteenth--giving a latitude of more than a year. if he wishes to take a final examination in a second subject, he may do so up to his twentieth term. clearly, the pupil's work is done without pressure other than the personal influence of the tutor. when an american student fails to pass his examinations on the hour, he is disclassed and put on probation, the penalty of which is that he cannot play on any of the athletic teams. on this point, at least, the oxford system of discipline is not the less childish of the two. as to the nature of the work done, it is aptly expressed in the oxford term, "reading." the aim is not merely to acquire facts. from week to week the tutor is apt to meet his pupils, and especially the less forward ones, in familiar conversation, often over a cup of tea and a cigarette. he listens to the report of what the pupil has lately been reading, asks questions to see how thoroughly he has comprehended it, and advises him as to what to read next. when there are several pupils present, the conference becomes general, and thus of greater advantage to all. in the discussions that arise, opposing views are balanced, phrases are struck out and fixed in mind, and the sum of the pupil's knowledge is given order and consistency. the best tutors consciously aim at such a result, for it makes all the difference between a brilliant and a dull examination paper, and the examiners highly value this difference. the staple of tutorial instruction is lectures. in the old days the colleges were mutually exclusive units, each doing the entire work of instruction for its pupils. this arrangement was obviously wasteful, in that it presupposed a complete and adequate teaching force in each of the twenty colleges. latterly, a system of "intercollegiate lectures" has been devised, under which a tutor lectures only on his best subjects and welcomes pupils from other colleges. these intercollegiate tutorial lectures are quite like lecture courses at an american college, except that they are not used as a means of police regulation. attendance is not compulsory, and there are no examinations. a man issues from the walls of his college for booty, and comes back with what he thinks he can profit by. the importance of the university examinations is thus proportionate to their rarity. the examiners are chosen from the best available members of the teaching force of the university; they are paid a very considerable salary, and the term of service is of considerable length. the preparation for the examination, at least as regards honor men, has a significance impossible under our system. matters of fact are regarded mainly as determining whether a man shall or shall not get his degree; the class he receives--there are four classes--depends on his grasp of facts and upon the aptitude of his way of writing. no man can get either a first or a second class whose knowledge has not been assimilated into his vitals, and who has not attained in some considerable degree the art of expression in language. one of the incidents of reading is a set of examinations set by the colleges severally. they take place three times a year, at the end of each term, and are called collections--apparently from the fact that at this time certain college fees used to be collected from the students. the papers are set by the dons, and as is the case with all tutorial exercises, the results have nothing at all to do with the class a man receives in the public examinations--mods and finals. i was surprised to find that it was rather the rule to crib; and my inquiries disclosed a very characteristic state of affairs. one man, who was as honorable in all respects as most fellows, related how he had been caught cribbing. his tutor took the crib and examined it carefully. "quite right," he said. "in fact, excellent. don't be at any pains to conceal it. by the finals, of course, you will have to carry all these things in your head; at present, all we want to know is how well you can write an examination paper." the emphasis as to the necessity of knowing how to write was quite as genuine as the sarcasm. these examinations have a further interest to americans. they are probably a debased survival of examinations which in centuries past were a police regulation to test a student's diligence, and thus had some such relation to a degree as our hour examinations, midyears, and finals. in other words, they suggest a future utility for our present midyears and finals, if ever a genuine honor examination is made requisite for an american honor degree. for the greater part of his course, an undergraduate's reading is by no means portentous. it was dr. johnson, if i am not mistaken, whose aim was "five good hours a day." at oxford, this is the maximum which even a solid reading man requires of himself. during term time most men do much less, for here is another of the endlessly diverting oxford paradoxes: passman and classman alike aim to do most of their reading in vacations. as usual, a kernel of common sense may be found. if the climate of england is as little favorable to a strenuous intellectual life as it is to strenuous athleticisms, the climate of oxford is the climate of england to the _n_th power. a man's intellectual machinery works better at home in the country. and even as the necessity of relaxation is greater at oxford, so is the chance of having fun and of making good friends--of growing used to the ways of the world of men. the months at the university are the heyday of life. the home friends and the home sports are the same yesterday and forever. the university clearly recognizes all this. it rigidly requires a man to reside at oxford a certain definite time before graduation; but how and when he studies and is examined, it leaves to his own free choice. a man reads enough at oxford to keep in the current of tutorial instruction, and to get on the trail of the books to be wrestled with in vacation. v the examination when mods and finals approach, the tune is altered. weeks and months together the fellows dig and dig, morning, noon, and night. all sport and recreation is now regarded only as sustaining the vital forces for the ordeal. sometimes, in despair at the distractions of oxford life, knots of fellow sufferers form reading parties, gain permission to take a house together in the country, and draw up a code of terrible penalties against the man who suggests a turn at whist, the forbidden cup, or a trip to town. from the simplest tutorial cram-book to the profoundest available monograph, no page is left unturned. and this is only half. the motto of squeers is altered. when a man knows a thing, he goes and writes it. passages apt for quotation are learned by rote; phrases are polished until they are luminous; periods are premeditated; paragraphs and sections prevised. an apt epigram turns up in talk or in reading--the wary student jots it down, polishes it to a point, and keeps it in ambush to dart it at this or that possible question. one man i knew was electrified with chaucer's description of the sergeant of the law,-- no wher so bisy a man as he ther nas, and yet he semed bisier than he was;-- and fell into despair because he could not think of any historical personage in his subject-matter to whom it might aptly apply. on the other hand, there was alfred the great, whose character was sure to be asked for. did i know any line of chaucer that would hit off alfred the great? so unusual to quote chaucer. all this sort of thing has, of course, its limits. in the last days of preparation, the brains are few that do not reel under their weight of sudden knowledge; the minds are rare that are not dazzled by their own unaccustomed brilliance. the superlatively trained athlete knocks off for a day or two before an important contest--and perhaps has a dash at the flesh-pots by way of relaxing tension from the snapping point. so does the over-read examinee. he goes home to his sisters and his aunts, and to all the soothing wholesomeness of english country life. and then that terrible week of incessant examinations! all the facts and any degree of style will fail to save a man unless he has every resource ready at command. no athletic contest, perhaps no battle, could be a severer test of courage. life does not depend upon the examination, but a living may. in america, degrees are more and more despised; but in england, it still pays to disarrange the alphabet at the end of one's name, or to let it be known to a prospective employer that one is a first-class honor man. the nature of the young graduate's employment and his salary too have a pretty close correspondence with his class at graduation. if he can add a blue to a first, the world is his oyster. the magnitude of the issue makes the examinee--or breaks him. brilliant and laborious students too often come off with a bare third, and happy audacity has as often brought the careless a first. it may seem that the ordeal is unnecessarily severe; but even here the reason may be found, if it be only granted that the aim of a university is to turn out capable men. the honor examination requires some knowledge, more address, and most of all pluck--pluck or be plucked, as the cambridge phrase is; and these things in this order are what count in the life of the british empire. vi oxford qualities and their defects under the german-american system, the main end is scholarly training. our graduates are apt to have the socratic virtue of knowing how little they know--and perhaps not much besides. even for the scholar this knowledge is not all. though the english undergraduate is not taught to read manuscripts and decipher inscriptions--to trace out knowledge in its sources--the examination system gives him the breadth of view and mental grasp which are the only safe foundations of scholarship. if he contributes to science, he usually does so after he has left the university. the qualities which then distinguish him are rare among scholars--sound common sense and catholicity of judgment. such qualities, for instance, enabled an oxford classical first to recognize schliemann's greatness while yet the german universities could only see that he was not an orthodox researcher according to their standards. if a man were bent on obtaining the best possible scholarly training, he probably could not do better than to take an english b. a. and then a german or an american ph.d. as for the world of deeds and of men, the knowledge which is power is that which is combined with address and pluck; and the english system seems based on practical sense, in that it lays chief stress on producing this rare combination. to attribute to the honor schools the success with which englishmen have solved the problems of civic government and colonial administration would be to ignore a multitude of contributory causes; but the honor schools are highly characteristic of the english system, and are responsible for no small part of its success. a striking illustration of this may be seen in the part which the periodical press plays in public affairs. in america, nothing is rarer than a writer who combines broad information with the power of clear and convincing expression. the editor of any serious american publication will bear me out in the observation that, notwithstanding the multitude of topics of the deepest and most vital interest, it is difficult to find any one to treat them adequately; and any reader can satisfy himself on this point by comparing the best of our periodicals with the leading english reviews. now the writing of a review article requires nothing more nor less than the writing of a first-class examination paper, even to the element of pluck; for to marshal the full forces of the mind in the pressure of public life or of journalism requires self-command in a very high degree. the same thing is as obvious in the daily papers. the world is filled with english newspaper men who combine with reportorial training the power of treating a subject briefly and tellingly in its broadest relations. the public advantage of this was not long ago very aptly exemplified. when our late war suddenly brought us face to face with the fact that our national destiny had encountered the destinies of the great nations of the world, the most thoughtful people were those who felt most doubt and uncertainty; the more one considered, the less could one say just what he thought. at that crisis a very clear note was sounded. the london correspondents of our papers--englishmen, and for the most part honor men--presented the issue to us from british and imperialistic point of view with a vigor and conviction that had immediate effect, as we all remember, and gave the larger part of the nation a new view of the crisis, and a new name for it. it was not until weeks later that our own most thoughtful writers as a body perceived the essential difference between our position and that of great britain, and we have scarcely yet discarded the word "imperialism." the knowledge, address, and pluck--or shall we call it audacity?--of the english correspondents enabled them to make a stroke of state policy. this is only one of many citable instances. to the robustious intelligence of the honor man, it must be admitted, the finer enthusiasm of scientific culture is likely to be a sealed book. the whole system of education is against it. even if a student is possessed by the zeal for research, few tutors, in their pursuit of firsts, scruple to discourage it. "that is an extremely interesting point, but it will not count for schools." one student in a discussion with his tutor quoted a novel opinion of schwegler's, and was confuted with the remark, "yes, but that is the german view." it is this tutor who is reported to have remarked: "what i like about my subject is that when you know it you know it, and there's an end of it." his subject was that tangle of falsehood and misconception called history. it must, of course, be remembered in extenuation that with all his social and tutorial duties, the don is very hard worked. and considering the pressure of the necessary preparation for schools, the temptation to shun the byways is very great. the examining board for each school is elected by the entire faculty of that school from its own members; and though it is scarcely possible for an unscrupulous examiner to frame the questions to suit his own pupils, there is nothing to prevent the tutor from framing his pupils' knowledge to meet the presumptive demands of the examiners. "we shall have to pay particular attention to scottish history, for scotus is on the board, and that is his hobby." in the school of literæ humaniores, no one expects either pupil or tutor to go far into textual criticism, philology, or archæology. these branches are considered only as regards their results. in history, a special subject has to be studied with reference to its original sources, but its relative importance is small, and a student is discouraged from spending much time on it. stubbs's "select charters" are the only original documents required, and even with regard to these all conclusions are cut and dried. to be sure there is a science school, but few men elect it, and it is in distinctly bad odor. in the slang of the university it is known as "stinks," and its laboratories as "stink shops." one must admit that its unpopularity is deserved. as it is impossible that each of the twenty colleges should have complete apparatus, the laboratories are maintained by the university, and not well maintained, for the wealth of oxford is mainly in the coffers of the colleges. the whole end of laboratory work at oxford is to prepare the student for a "practical examination" of some three hours. the linacre professor has made many strenuous efforts, and has delivered much pointed criticism, but he has not yet been able to place the school on a modern or a rational basis. in his nostrils, perhaps, more than those of the university, the school of science is unsavory. many subjects of the highest practical importance are entirely ignored. no advanced instruction is offered in modern languages and literatures except english, and the school in english is only six years old and very small. no one of the technical branches that are coming to be so prominent a part of american university life is as yet recognized. the oxford honor first knows what he knows and sometimes he knows more. few things are as distressing as the sciolism of a second-rate english editor of a classic. the mint sauce quite forgets that it is not lamb. the english minor reviewer exhibits the pride of intellect in its purest form. the don perhaps intensifies these amiable foibles. there is an epigram current in oxford which the summer guide will tell you jowett wrote to celebrate his own attainments:-- here i am, my name is jowett; i am the master of balliol college. all there is to know, i know it. what i know not is not knowledge. this is clearly a satire written against jowett, and it would be more clearly a legitimate satire if aimed at the generality of dons. vii the university and reform this tale of oxford shortcomings is no news to the english radical. the regeneration of the university has long been advocated. on the one hand, the reformers have tried to make it possible, as it was in the middle ages, to live and study at oxford without being attached to any of the colleges; on the other, they have tried to bring into the educational system such modern subjects and methods of study as are cultivated in germany, where the new branches have been so admirably grafted on the mediæval trunk. in general it must be said that oxford is becoming more democratic and even more studious; but the advance has come in spite of the constitution of the university. all studied attempts at reform have proved almost ludicrously futile. in order to combat the monopoly of the colleges, and to build up a body of more serious students without their walls, a new order of "unattached" students was created. the experiment has no doubt been interesting, but it cannot be said that it has revived the glorious democracy and the intellectual enthusiasm of the mediæval university. few things could be lonelier, or more profitless intellectually, than the lot of the unattached students. excluded by the force of circumstances from the life of the colleges, they have no more real life of their own than the socially unaffiliated in american universities. they have been forced to imitate the organization of the colleges. they lunch and dine one another as best they can, hold yearly a set of athletic games, and place a boat in the college bumping races. they have thus come to be precisely like any of the colleges, except that they have none of the felicities, social or intellectual, that come from life within walls. from time to time the introduction of new honor schools is proposed to keep pace with modern learning. a long-standing agitation in favor of a school in modern languages was compromised by the founding of the school in english; but it is not yet downed, and before the century is over may yet rise to smite conservatism. coupled with this there is an ever-increasing desire to cultivate research. as yet these agitations have had about as much effect as the kindred agitation that led to the rehabilitation of the unattached student. the bodleian library is a treasure chest of the rarest of old books and of unexplored documents; but nothing in the bod counts for schools, and so the shadow of an undergraduate darkens the door only when he is showing off the university to his sisters--and to other fellows'. when i applied for permission to read, the fact that i wore a commoner's gown, as i was required to by statute while reading there, almost excluded me. if i had been after knowledge useful in the schools, no doubt i should have been obliged to consult a choice collection of well-approved books across the way in the camera of the radcliffe. in america, a serious student is welcome to range in the stack, and to take such books as he needs to his own rooms. some few researchers come to the bodleian from the world without to spend halcyon days beneath the brave old timber roof of duke humphrey's library; but any one used to the freedom of books in america would find very little encouragement to do so. the librarian is probably an eminently serviceable man according to the traditions of the bodleian; but there are times when he appears to be a grudging autocrat intrenched behind antique rules and regulations. in the middle ages it was the custom to chain the books to the shelves, as one may still observe in the quaint old library of merton college. the modern method at the bodleian would seem to be a refinement on the custom. and what is not known about the bodleian in the bodleian would fill a library almost as large. in the picture gallery hangs a van dyck portrait of william herbert, earl of pembroke, a former chancellor of the university, a nephew of sir philip sydney, son of mary, countess of pembroke, and the once reputed patron to whom shakespeare addressed the first series of his sonnets. the librarian did not know how or when the portrait came into the possession of the university, or whether it was an original; and not being required to know by statute, he did not care to find out, and did not find out. the crowning absurdity of the educational system is the professors, and here is an oxford paradox as yet unredeemed by a glimmering of reason. when i wanted assistance as to a thesis on which i was working, my tutor referred me to the regius professor of modern history, who he thought would be more likely than any one else to know about the sources of elizabethan literature. few as are the professors, they are all too many for the needs of oxford. they are learned and ardent scholars, many of them with a full measure of german training in addition to oxford culture. but in proportion as they are wise and able they are lifted out of the life of the university. they lecture, to be sure, in the schools; and now and then an undergraduate evades his tutor long enough to hear them. several young women may be found at their feet--students from somerville and lady margaret. when the subject and the lecturer are popular, residents of the town drop in. but as regards the great mass of undergraduates, wisdom crieth in the streets. the professors are as effectually shelved as ever their learned books will be when the twentieth century is dust. "the university, it is true," mr. brodrick admits in his "history of oxford," "has yet to harmonize many conflicting elements which mar the symmetry of its institutions." this torpor in which the university lies is no mere matter of accident. i quote from mr. gladstone's romanes lecture, delivered in :-- "the chief dangers before the english universities are probably two: one that in [cultivating?] research, considered as apart from their teaching office, they should relax and consequently dwindle [as teachers?]; the other that, under pressure from without, they should lean, if ever so little, to that theory of education, which would have it to construct machines of so many horse power rather than to form character, and to rear into true excellence the marvelous creature we call man; which gloats upon success in life, instead of studying to secure that the man shall ever be greater than his work, and never bounded by it, but that his eye shall boldly run-- along the line of limitless desire." few will question the necessity of rising above the sphere of mere science and commercialism; but many will question whether the way to rise is not rather by mastering the genius of the century than by ignoring it. it is scarcely too much to say that the greatest intellectual movement of the nineteenth century, though largely the work of english scientists, has left no mark on oxford education. if, as professor von holst asserts, the american universities are hybrids, oxford and cambridge cannot be called universities at all. viii the university and the people as a result of the narrowness of the scope of oxford teaching, the university has no relation to the industrial life of the people--a grave shortcoming in a nation which is not unwilling to be known as a nation of shopkeepers. the wail of the british tradesman is not unfamiliar. wares "made in germany" undersell english wares that used to command the market; and being often made of a cheaper grade to suit the demands of purchasers, the phrase "made in germany" is clearly indicative of fraudulent intention. certain instances are exceptionally galling. aniline dyes were first manufactured from the residuum of coal tar in great britain. but enterprising germany, which has coal-fields of its own, sent apprentices to england who learned the manufacture, and then by means of the chemistry taught in the german universities, revolutionized the process, and discovered how to extract new colors from the coal tar, so that now the bulk of aniline dyes are made in germany. obviously, the german chemist is a perfidious person. the yankee is shrewd and well taught in the technical professions. he makes new and quite unexampled tools, and machinery of all sorts. it takes the briton some years to be sure that these are not iniquitous--a yankee trick; but in the end he adopts them. even then, to the briton's surprise, the yankee competes successfully. a commission (no german spy) is sent to america to find out why, and on its return gleefully reports that the yankee works his tools at a ruinous rate, driving them so hard that in a decade it will be necessary to reëquip his plant entire. at the end of the decade, the conservative englishman's tools are as good as if they had been kept in cotton batting; but by this time the yankee has invented newer and more economical devices, and when he reëquips his plant with them he is able to undersell the english producer even more signally. the honest british manufacturer sells his old tools to an unsuspecting brother in trade and adopts the new ones. the yankee machinist is obviously as perfidious as the german chemist. the upper middle classes in england realize that the destinies of great britain and america run together, and they are very hospitable to americans, but the industrial population hate us scarcely less than they hate the germans. all this is, of course, not directly chargeable to the english universities: but the fact remains that in germany and in america the educational system is the most powerful ally of industry. here again the english radical is on his guard. from time to time, in letters to the daily papers or political speeches before industrial audiences, the case is very clearly stated. in a recent epistolary agitation in "the times" it was shown that whereas american and german business men learn foreign languages, englishmen attempt to sell their wares by means of interpreters, and do not even have their pamphlets and prospectuses translated. admitting the facts, one gentleman gravely urged that if only the english would stick out the fight, their language would soon be the business language of the world. if it is the conscious purpose of the nation to make it so, it might be of advantage to spell the language as it has been pronounced in the centuries since chaucer; already with some such purpose the germans are adopting roman characters. but at least it will be many decades before english is the volapük of business, and meantime england is losing ground. from the point of view of the mere outsider, it would seem of little moment to england what language is used, if the profits of the business transacted accrue to russian, german, and american corporations. it has even been strongly urged that commercial and technical subjects be taught in the universities. cambridge and the university of glasgow have already a fund with this in view; and the new midland university at birmingham, of which mr. joseph chamberlain is chancellor, is to be mainly devoted to commercial science and engineering. it cannot be foretold that the ancient universities will hold their own against the modern. in a speech at birmingham (january , ), mr. chamberlain said: "finance is the crux of the situation. upon our finance depends entirely the extent to which we shall be able to develop this new experiment. with us, in fact, money is the root of all good. i am very glad to say that the promises of donations which, when i last addressed you, amounted to £ , , have risen since then to an estimated amount of about £ , .... now £ , is a large sum. i heard the other day that the university of cambridge, which has for some time past been appealing for further assistance, has only up to the present time received £ , . i most deeply regret that their fund is not larger, and i regret also that ours is so small." oxford has apparently not entered the new competition even in a half-hearted manner. for centuries it has been the resort of the nobility and aristocracy, the "governing classes," and though the spirit of the age has so far invaded it as to have been in mr. gladstone's eyes its chief danger, the university has as yet only the slenderest connection with the industrial life of the nation. the virtues of the oxford educational system, like those of the social and athletic life, are pretty clearly traceable in the main to the division of the university into colleges; at least, it is hard to see how anything other than this could have suggested the idea of having one body to teach the student and another to examine him. and they have a strong family likeness one to another, the concrete result being a highly sturdy and effective character. but the educational system differs from the social and athletic system in that the defects of its qualities are the more vigorous. as far as these defects result from the educational system, they are chargeable not so much to the preponderance of the colleges as to the torpor of the university; and they are powerfully abetted by the oxford tradition as to the nature and function of a liberal education. this has not always been the case at oxford. to understand the situation more clearly, it is necessary to review in brief the origin and the growth of the colleges, and the extinction of the mediæval university. this will throw further light on oxford's social history. we shall thus be better able to judge how and to what extent the college system offers a solution for the correction of our american instruction. iv the history of the university and the college i the university before the college in the beginning was the university. the colleges were as unimportant as the university is now. if it be admitted that the university exists to-day, they were less important; for there were no colleges. the origin of the university was probably due to a migration of students in from the then world-famous university of paris. the first definite mention of a _studium generale_ at oxford, or assembly of masters of the different faculties, dates from , when giraldus cambrensis, as he himself relates, read his new work, "topographia hibernia," before the citizens and scholars of the town, and entertained in his hostel "all the doctors of the different faculties." at this time, and for many centuries afterward, oxford, like other mediæval universities, was a guild, and was not unlike the trade guilds of the time. its object was to train and give titles to those who dealt in the arts and professions. the master tanner was trained by his guild to make leather, and he made it; the master of arts was trained by the university to teach, and he taught. he was required to rent rooms in the university schools, for a year and even two, and to show that he deserved his title of master by lecturing in them, and conducting "disputations." the masters lived directly from the contributions of their hearers, their means varying with the popularity of their lectures; and the students were mainly poor clerks, who sought degrees for their money value. the lectures were mere dictations from manuscript, necessitated by the lack of accessible texts. the students copied the lectures verbatim for future study. the instruction in arts covered the entire field of secular knowledge, the "seven arts," the trivium (grammar, rhetoric, and logic or dialectic), and the quadrivium (music, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy). the lectures were the main and often the only means of imparting knowledge. the disputations were scholastic arguments--debates--on some set question, and were conducted by the masters. they were the practical application of what the student had learned from the lectures, and were the chief means of intellectual training. besides attending lectures and disputing, the candidate for the degree had to pass an examination; but the great test of his acquirement seems to have been the skill with which he used his knowledge in debate. thus the formal disputations occupied very much the same place as the modern written examinations, and they must have required very much the same rare combination of knowledge, address, and pluck. all learning was in a pint-pot; but it was a very serviceable pint-pot. the university education did not make a man above the work of the world: it made him an engine of so many horse power to perform it. it brought him benefices in that great sphere of activity, the mediæval church, and important posts in that other sphere of mediæval statecraft, which was so often identified with the church. if the clerk was above the carpenter, it was not because he came from a different station in life, for he often did not: it was because his work was more important. and he was far above the carpenter. it was a strenuous, glorious life, and the man of intelligence and training found his level, which is the highest. the kings and the nobility were warriors, and may have affected to despise education; but they were far from despising educated men. the machinery of state was organized and controlled by clerks from the university. if the scientific and mechanical professions had existed then, there is no doubt that they would not have been despised as to-day, but would have had full recognition. socially, the university was chaos. in the absence of colleges, all the students lived with the townsmen in "chamberdekyns," which appear to be etymologically and historically the forbears of the "diggings" to which the fourth year man now retreats when he has been routed from college by incoming freshmen and by the necessity of reading for his final examination. but such discipline as is now exerted over out-of-college students was undreamed of. in his interesting and profoundly scholarly history of the universities of the middle ages, the rev. hastings rashdall gives a vivid picture of mediæval student life, which was pretty much the same in all the universities of europe. boys went up to the university at as early an age as thirteen, and the average freshman could not have been older than fifteen; yet they were allowed almost absolute liberty. drunkenness was rarely treated as a university offense; and for introducing suspicious women into his rooms, it was only on being repeatedly caught that an undergraduate was disciplined. at the university of ingolstadt, a student who had killed another in a drunken quarrel had his scholastic effects and garments confiscated by the university. he may have been warned to be good in future, but he was not expelled. "it is satisfactory to add," rashdall continues, "that at prague, a master of arts, believed to have assisted in cutting the throat of a friar bishop, was actually expelled." the body of undergraduates was "an undisciplined student-horde." hende nicholas, in chaucer's "miller's tale," is, it must be admitted, a lively and adventuring youth; but he might have been much livelier without being untrue to student life in chamberdekyns. the townspeople seem to have been the not unnatural fathers of the tradesmen and landlords of modern oxford; and the likeness is well borne out in the matter of charges. but where to-day a man sometimes tries amiably to beat down the landlord's prices, the way of the middle ages was to beat down the landlord. as the student was in many cases of the same station in life as the townsman, he naturally failed to command the servility with which the modern undergraduate is regarded. both sides used to gird on their armor, and meet in battles that began in bloodshed and often ended in death. pages of rashdall's history are filled with accounts of savage encounters between town and gown, which are of importance historically as showing the steps by which the university achieved the anomalous legal dominance over the city which it still in some measure retains. for our present purpose, it is enough to note that mediæval oxford was unruly, very. "fighting," says rashdall, "was perpetually going on in the streets of oxford.... there is probably not a single yard of ground in any part of the classic high street that lies between st. martin's and st. mary's [almost a quarter of a mile] which has not at one time or other been stained with human blood. there are historic battlefields on which less has been spilt." as if this were not enough, there were civil feuds. in the middle ages, sectional differences were more obvious and more important than now; and the first subdivision of the universities, both in england and on the continent, was by "nations." at oxford there were two nations; and if, when the north countryman rubbed elbows with the south countryman, he was offended by his silken gown and soft vowels, he rapped him across the pate. hence more strife and bloodshed. amid all this disorder there was a full measure of mediæval want and misery. at best, the student of moderate means led a precarious life; and poor students, shivering, homeless, and starved, lived by the still reputable art of the beggar. something had to be done. ii the mediÆval hall the mediæval spirit of organization, which resulted in so many noble and deathless institutions, was not slow in exerting itself against the social chaos of the university. out of chaos grew the halls, and out of the halls the colleges. the first permanent organizations of student life were small, and had their origin in the immediate wants of the individual. to gain the economy of coöperation and the safety of numbers, the students at oxford, as at paris and elsewhere, began to live in separate small colonies under one roof. these were called aulæ or halls. they were no less interesting in themselves than for the fact that they were the germ out of which the oxford college system grew. at first the halls appear to have been mere chance associations. each had a principal who managed its affairs; but the principal had no official status, and might even be an undergraduate. the halls correspond roughly to the fraternities of american college life. their internal rule was absolutely democratic. the students lived together by mutual consent under laws of their own framing, and under a principal of their own electing. they were quite without fear or favor of the university. the principal's duties were to lease the hall, to be a sort of over-steward of it, and to lead in enforcing the self-imposed rules of the community. his term of office, like his election, depended on the good-will of his fellows; if he made himself disliked, they were quite at liberty to take up residence elsewhere. in the thirteenth century there was really no such thing as university discipline. the men who lived in the halls came and went as they pleased, and were as free as their contemporary in chamberdekyns to loiter, quarrel, and carouse. chaucer's "reeve's tale" gives us a glimpse into "soler halle at cantebregge," from which it would appear that the members were quite as loose and free as hende nicholas, their oxford contemporary. but the liberty was an organized liberty. in contrast with the chaos of the life of the students in chamberdekyns, the early halls must have been brave places to work and to play in, and one might wish that a fuller record had been left of the life in them. it was their fate to be obscured by the greater splendor and permanence of the colleges to which they paved the way. iii the college system the english college, roughly speaking, is a mediæval hall supported by a permanent fund which the socii or fellows administer. the first fund for the support of scholars was bequeathed in , but it can scarcely be regarded as marking the first college, for it provided for two scholars only, and these lived where they pleased. in william of durham bequeathed a fund for the support of ten or more masters of arts. at first these also lived apart; it was only in , after the type of the english college had been fixed, that they were formed into the body now known as university college. the first organized community at oxford was founded by sir john de balliol some little time before ; but the allowances to the scholars, as was the case in colleges of the university of paris, after which it was doubtless modeled, were not from a permanent fund, being paid annually by the founder. balliol cannot therefore be regarded as the first characteristic english college. it was not until that sir john's widow, dervorguilla, adopted the new english idea by making the endowment of the "house of balliol" permanent, and placing it under the management of the fellows. the real founder of the english college was walter de merton. in walter provided by endowment for the permanent maintenance of twenty scholars, who were to live together in a hall as a community; and in he drew up the statutes which fix the type of the earliest english college. the principal of merton was not, like the principal of a mediæval hall, the temporary head of a chance community, but a permanent head with established power; and he had to manage, not the periodic contributions of free associates, but a landed estate held in permanent trust. he was called "warden," a title which the head of merton retains to this day. this idea of a body supported in a permanent residence by a permanent fund is perhaps of monastic origin, and was accompanied by certain features of brotherhood rule. the scholars lived a life of order and seclusion which was in striking contrast to the life of the students in chamberdekyns, and even of those in the halls. but with the monastic order they had also the monastic democracy, so that in one way the government of the college was strikingly similar to that of the halls. vacancies in the community were filled by coöptation, and the warden was elected by the thirteen senior fellows from their own number. though partly monastic in constitution, the hall of merton was not properly a religious body. the fellows took no vows, and seem rather to have been expected to enter lay callings. this college of merton was the result of a gradual development of the hall along monastic lines--a lay brotherhood of students. it was destined to work a revolution in english university life and in english university teaching. the constitutions of university and balliol were, as i have indicated, remodeled on the lines of merton; and other colleges were founded as follows: exeter, ; oriel, ; queens, ; and canterbury, now extinct, , most of which were profoundly influenced by the constitution of merton. [illustration: new college cloisters, bell tower, and chapel] it was at first no part of the duty of the elders (socii, or, as chaucer calls them, felawes) to teach the younger. the scholars of the college received the regular mediæval education in the university. but even in merton the germ of tutorial instruction was present. twelve "parvuli" who were not old enough, or sufficiently used to the latin tongue, to profit by the lectures and disputations of the university, lived in or near the colleges and were taught by a grammar master; and it appears that even the older scholars might, "without blushing," consult this grammar master on matters that "pertained to his faculty." in his relation to these older students the grammar master may be regarded as the precursor of the system of tutorial instruction. the first college to develop regular undergraduate instruction within its walls was "s. marie college of winchester in oxford," founded in , by william of wykeham. "s. marie's" brought in so many innovations that it came to be called "new college," a title which, incongruously enough, it has retained for more than five hundred years. wykeham's first innovation was to place the grammar master, for the greater good of his pupils, at the head of a "college" of seventy boys at winchester, thus outlining the english system of public schools. new college was accordingly able to exclude all who had not attained the ripe age of fifteen. the effect of this innovation on the college was peculiar. when the boys came up from winchester, they appear to have been farther advanced than most of the undergraduates attending lectures and disputes in the university schools; in any case, wykeham arranged that the older fellows should supplement the university teaching by private tuition within the college. little by little the new college type succeeded that of merton. magdalen college, founded in , carried the tutorial system to its logical end by endowing lectureships in theology, metaphysics, and natural philosophy. the older colleges--those of the merton type--little by little followed this new example, so that by the end of the middle ages it was possible for a student to receive his entire instruction within the walls of his college. in wolsey's splendid foundation, cardinal college ( ), now styled christ church, there was a still more ample endowment for professorships. at first the college instruction was regarded as supplementary to the university teaching, though it soon became far more important. the masters of the university continued to read lectures on the recognized subjects, living as of old on fees from those who chose to listen; but they were clearly unable to compete with the endowed tutors and professors of the colleges. by the beginning of the fifteenth century, the mediæval teaching master was disappearing. the only real teaching in arts--by all odds the most popular branch of study at oxford--was given within the colleges and halls. the discipline of the earlier colleges was much severer than that of to-day, but the difference is one of degree rather than of kind. the lectures in schools began at six, instead of nine; and at any hour it was forbidden to leave the college except on a studious errand. when attending out-of-college lectures, all scholars were required to go and come in a body; and in one set of statutes even a chaplain was forbidden to leave the gates, except to go to lectures or to the library, without taking at least one companion, who, in the antique phrase of the statute, was to be a "witness of his honest conversation." there were only two meals a day, dinner at ten and supper at five. breakfast, now the great rallying-point of oxford hospitality, was the invention of a more luxurious age. of athletics there was none, or next to none. the only licensed hilarities were certain so-called "honest jokes," with which the tutors were in at least one case required to regale their pupils after dinner, and a "potation" which was permitted after supper, perhaps as an offset to the "honest jokes." [illustration: new college gardens showing the mediæval wall of oxford] the severity of these regulations is mainly explainable in the fact that the inmates of the colleges were fed, clothed, and housed out of the endowment, and might thus be reasonably expected to give a good account of themselves. furthermore, they were most of them mere boys. a statute dating as late as requires that "scholars" shall be at least twelve years old. at fourteen or fifteen a scholar might become a fellow. the average age of "determining" as bachelor of arts was little if at all over seventeen. at nineteen, the age at which the modern oxonian comes up from the public schools, the mediæval student might, if he were clever, be a master of arts, lecturing and disputing in schools for the benefit of the bachelors and scholars of the university. the modern oxonian delights to tell visiting friends that he is forbidden by statute to play marbles on the steps of the bodleian, and to roll hoop in the high; but if a mediæval master of arts were to "come up" to-day, he would be amused, not that so many rules framed for his boyish pupils of old should be applied to grown men, but that the men so obviously require a check to juvenile exuberance. yet this much has been gained, that the outgrown restrictions of college life have kept oxford wholesomely young. the survivals of the monastic system meanwhile have kept it wholesomely democratic. after the colleges reached their full development, the extinction of the mediæval university as an institution for teaching was largely a matter of form. the quietus was given in . the earl of leicester, then chancellor, ordered that the government should be in the hands of the chancellor, doctors, proctors, and the heads of the colleges and halls. in (the year of the founding of the first american college) the statutes of the university were revised and codified by archbishop laud; the sole authority was placed in the hands of an oligarchy composed of the leading dons of the colleges. the government was limited to the vice-chancellor, the proctors, and the heads of houses, and the vice-chancellor and the proctors were elected in sequence by each of the colleges from its own members. the teaching of the university was now legally as well as actually in the hands of the college tutors, and the examination was in the hands of a board chosen by the colleges. university lectures were still delivered in the schools by the regent masters, but they had ceased to play any important part in oxford education. iv the golden age of the mediÆval hall like the colleges, the halls meanwhile tended gradually towards an organized community life. the starting-point was a regulation that the principal should give the university security for the rent of the house. the logical result of this was that the principal became the representative of the university, and the hall one of its recognized institutions. the advantage of living in separate communities meantime had become so clearly evident that by the middle of the fifteenth century chamberdekyns were abolished. all students not living in a college were required to live in a hall. it was thus that the halls lost some of their democratic independence. at this period in their development they may be roughly compared to such modern american halls as claverly at harvard, where the residents govern their own affairs in the main, admitting newcomers only by vote, but are all alike subject to the authority of a resident university proctor. the analogy is by no means close, for the principal of the mediæval hall was not so much a resident policeman as the actual head of the community. as the colleges developed tutorial instruction, the halls followed suit; the local administrator became responsible not only for the social régime, but for the tuition of the undergraduates. the halls thus differed from the college mainly in that they had no corporate existence such as is necessary to an endowed institution. the mediæval hall was now in its golden age; it was a well-conceived instrument for all the purposes of residence and of education. it is especially to be noted that the régime of the community was still in the main democratic. though the head was appointed by the university, he had to be accepted by vote of the undergraduates, a provision that was still observed, at least in one instance, until the close of the nineteenth century. the discipline of the halls of the fifteenth century, severe though it was by comparison with that of the earliest halls, was far less severe than the discipline in the colleges. it was quite as much as the university could accomplish, according to rashdall, "to prevent students expelled from one hall being welcomed at another, to prevent the masters themselves condoning or sharing the worst excesses of their pupils, to compel fairly regular attendance at lectures and other university or college exercises, to require all students to return home by curfew at or p.m., to get the outer doors of the pedagogy locked till morning, and to insist on the presence of a regent throughout the night." when the early habits of the community generally are remembered, it will be evident that these regulations still allowed a vast deal of liberty, or rather of license. boys of fifteen or sixteen living in the very centre of large and densely populated towns were in general perfectly free to roam about the streets up to the hour at which all respectable citizens were accustomed, if not actually compelled by town statutes, to retire to bed. the halls were reduced in number by the wars of the roses and by a period of intellectual stagnation that followed, but they still numbered seventy-one, as against eighteen colleges (including those maintained by monasteries, which disappeared with the reformation); and the number of their students is estimated at seven hundred, as against three hundred in the colleges. in the light of subsequent development it seems probable that it would have been far better for the university if the halls had remained the characteristic subdivision. their fate was decided not by any inherent superiority on the part of the colleges, but by the force of corporate wealth. even in the fifteenth century, the halls were tending to pass into the possession of the colleges, and later events made the tendency a fact. "as stars lose their light when the sun ariseth," says an ancient cambridge worthy, "so all these hostels decayed by degrees when endowed colleges began to appear." the reformation, and a recurrent pestilence, "the sweating sickness," a kind of inflammatory rheumatism due apparently to the unwholesome situation of the university, resulted in a sharp falling off in the number of students. the colleges lived on, however thinned their ranks, by virtue of the endowments; but the halls disappeared with the students who had frequented them. in it was recorded that sixteen had lately been abandoned. when the numbers of the university swelled again under elizabeth, the increase found place partly in the few halls that were left, but mainly in the colleges. in there were only eight halls, and these were all mere dependencies of separate colleges. "_singulæ singulis a colegiis pendent_," as a contemporary expresses it. only one of these, st. edmund hall, now retains even a show of the old democratic independence, and this has lately been brought into closer subjection to queen's college. socially as well as educationally, the mediæval university faded before the organization and endowment of the colleges. the life of oxford was concentrated in a dozen or more separate institutions, and so thoroughly concentrated that there was little association, intellectual or social, between any two of them. v the origin of the modern undergraduate if the tutors of new college were epoch-making, the amplitude and splendor of its social life were no less so. its original buildings are in such perfect preservation that it is hard to believe that they are almost the oldest in oxford, and that the new college quadrangle is the father of all quads. the establishment of the "head" was of similar dignity. the master of balliol received forty shillings yearly; the warden of new college, forty pounds. in the statutes of an old cambridge college we find it required that since it would be "indecent" for the master to go afoot, and "scandalous" to the college for him to "conducere hackeneye," he might be allowed one horse. the warden of new college had a coach and six. as century followed century the value of the endowments increased, and the scale of living was proportionately raised. the colleges in general became the home of comfort, and sometimes of a very positive luxury. in the colleges of the middle ages the students were the _socii_, and were maintained by the endowment. these are the dons and foundationers, or scholarship men, of to-day. but the comfort and order of the life in the colleges were very attractive, and the sons of the rich were early welcomed as "gentlemen commoners," precursors of the modern "commoners." the statutes of magdalen make the first clear provision for receiving and teaching such "non-foundation" students. they permit the admission of twenty _filii nobilium_ as _commensales_, or commoners, in the vernacular. at first these were few and unimportant; in the centuries during which the numbers of the university were at an ebb, they could easily be accommodated within the depleted colleges. when the university increased under elizabeth, the idea of living in halls in the mediæval fashion, as we have seen, was obsolescent, so that the result of the increase was to enlarge the colleges. thus, largely as a matter of chance, the commoners of to-day, the characteristic and by far the larger part of the undergraduate body, live under a régime invented for the endowed scholars of the middle ages, and the democratic license of the mediæval undergraduate at large has given way to a democratic rule of commoners in colleges. though the commoner is no longer called a gentleman commoner, he is more than likely to come from a family of position and means, for the comfort of life in the colleges is expensive. all this has transformed oxford from a mediæval guild of masters and apprenticed students, a free mart of available knowledge, into a closely organized anteroom to social and professional life. vi the insignificance of the modern university though the university as a teaching body pined before the rising colleges, and for centuries lay in a swoon, it was not dead. it was kept alive by certain endowments for lecturers. but so thoroughly did the college tutors supply all undergraduate needs that, unless walls indeed have ears, the lectures were never heard. the professors gradually abandoned the university schools and gave the unattended lectures in their own houses. such lectures were known as "study lectures." even these gave way to silence. an odd situation was caused by the fact that there were also salaries paid to university proctors, a part of whose duty it was to see that the professorial lectures were properly given. when a proctor appeared, the learned professor would snatch up his manuscript and read until his auditor got tired and left. this was one case in which a thief was not the person to catch a thief; such energy on the part of the proctor was unusual, and was regarded as in extremely bad form. the abuse proceeded so far that in some cases, when hearers appeared at the appointed hour, the professors refused point blank to read their lectures. the climax of the farce was that at graduation students were fined for having cut these lectures that had never been given. when samuel johnson was fined for neglecting a college lecture to go "sliding on christ church meadow," he exclaimed, "sir, you have fined me twopence for missing a lecture that was not worth a penny!" his untimely departure from oxford has lamentably left us to conjecture what he would have said upon paying the university fines at graduation for cutting lectures that had never been given. even the university examinations became farcical. under the laudian statutes the very examiners became corrupt. instead of a feast of reason and a flow of soul, the wary student provided his examiner with good meat and wine; and the two, with what company they bade in, got gloriously drunk together. b. a. meant bacchanal of arts. even when the forms of examination were held to, the farce was only less obvious. a writer in _terræ filius_, march , , tells us that the examination consisted in "a formal repetition of a set of syllogisms upon some ridiculous question in logick, which the candidates get by rote, or perhaps read out of their caps, which lie before them." these commodious sets of syllogisms were called strings, and descended from undergraduate to undergraduate in a regular succession like themes and mechanical drawings in an american club or fraternity. "i have in my custody a book of strings upon most or all of the questions discussed in a certain college noted for its ratiocinative faculty; on the first leaf of which are these words: _ex dono richardi p----e primæ classi benefactoris munificentissimi_." lord eldon took his degree at university college by an examination that consisted of two questions: "what is the meaning of golgotha?" and "who founded university college?" it was, no doubt, the bearers of degrees thus achieved who owned those marvelous libraries of the eighteenth century, which consisted of pasteboard boxes exquisitely backed in tooled calf, and labeled with the names of the standard greek and latin classics. the decline of the university teaching and examination did not result in a corresponding rise in the colleges. each of the dozen and more institutions was supposed, as i have said, to keep a separate faculty in arts, and often in law and theology as well. if there had been any incentive to ambition, the colleges might have vied with one another in their impossible task, or at least have gone far enough to bring about a reform. but they were rich and did not care. the wealth of collegiate endowments, that had begun by ruining the university, ended by ruining the colleges. there were still earnest teachers and students at oxford, but they were not the rule. the chief energies of the tutors were spent in increasing their salaries by a careful management of the estates, and in evading their pupils. in "the splendid foppery of a well-turned period" gibbon thus pictures the dons of magdalen in : "their deep and dull potations excused the brisk intemperance of youth." only one result was possible. in t. j. hogg, shelley's college-mate at university college, referred to oxford as a seat of learning. "why do you call it so?" shelley cried indignantly. "because," hogg replied, "it is a place in which learning sits very comfortably, well thrown back as in an easy chair, and sleeps so soundly that neither you nor i nor anybody else can wake her." permanent endowments had transferred the seat of learning from a nobly indigent university to the colleges, and the deep and dull potations of endowed tutors had put it asleep on the common-room chairs. the nineteenth century did not altogether arouse it. "the studies of the university," according to the testimony of the oxford commission of , "were first raised from their abject state by a statute passed in ." heretofore all students had pursued the same studies, and there was no distinction to be gained at graduation except the mere fact of becoming a bachelor of arts. the statute of provided that such students as chose might distinguish themselves from the rest by taking honors; and for both passman and honor man it provided a dignified and quite undebauchable university examining board. at first the subjects studied were, roughly speaking, the same for passman and honor man; the difference was made by raising the standard of the honor examination. the examination followed the mediæval custom in being mainly oral; and though it soon came to be written, it still preserves the tradition of the mediæval disputation by including a _viva voce_ which is open to the attendance of the public. throughout the nineteenth century the development consisted mainly in adding a few minor schools. the good and bad features of the english college system as a whole should not be hard to distinguish. in all social aspects the colleges are as nearly perfect as human institutions are capable of becoming, and they are the foundation of an unequaled athletic life. educationally, their qualities are mixed. for the purpose of common or garden english gentlemen, nothing could be better than a happy combination of tutorial instruction and university examining. for the purposes of scholarly instruction in general, and of instruction in the modern sciences and mechanic arts in particular, few things could be worse than the system as at present construed. to exult over the superiority of american institutions in so many of the things that make up a modern university would not be a very profitable proceeding. let us neglect the imperfections of oxford. it is of much greater profit to consider the extraordinary social advantages that arise from the division of the university into colleges, and the educational advantages of the honor schools. these are points with regard to which we are as poor as oxford is poor in the scope of university instruction. the point will perhaps be clearer for a brief review of the manner in which our college system grew out of the english. the development is the reverse of what we have just been considering. in england, the colleges overshadowed the university and sapped its life. with us, the university has overshadowed the college and is bidding fair to annihilate it. vii the college in america in the commonwealth of massachusetts passed an act to establish a "schoole or colledge," and set apart a tract of land in "new towne" as its seat, which they called cambridge. our puritan forefathers had carried from the english university the conviction that "sound learning" is the "root of true religion," and were resolved, in their own vigorous phrase, that it should not be "buried in the graves of the fathers." in a master of arts of emmanuel college, cambridge, john harvard, bequeathed to the new institution his library and half his fortune, some £ . a timber building was erected and a corporation formed which bore the donor's name. from the regulations in force in it is evident that in its manner of life, its laws of government, the studies taught, and the manner of granting the degree, harvard college was a close counterpart of the english college of the early seventeenth century, its very phraseology including such terms as "disputing," "proceeding," "determining." it was the first institution of higher education in british america. until the founding of the first state university, the university of virginia, in , the constitution afforded the principal model for subsequent foundations, and to-day colleges of the harvard type are perhaps the strongest factor in american education. harvard thus transplanted to american soil the full measure of the traditions of the middle ages, many of which exist in a modified form to-day. in "harvard college by an oxonian" dr. george birkbeck hill suggests that john harvard expected others to found similar institutions which collectively were to reproduce the university of cambridge in new england. the supposition is by no means impossible, and the manuscript records in the harvard library would perhaps reward research. but whatever the intention, it is abundantly clear that in the full english sense of the word no second college was established at cambridge. the first constitution was in all essentials the same as that of to-day. hutchinson's "history of massachusetts" records ( ): "there are but four fellowships, the two seniors have each _l._ per ann. and the two juniors _l._, but no diet is allowed: there are tutors to all such as are admitted students.... the government of these colledges is in the governor and magistrates of massachusetts and the president of the colledge, together with the teaching elders of the six adjacent towns." the fellows are the forbears of the modern corporation, the tutors of the faculty; and though the institution has been separated from the state, the "teaching elders" are the earliest overseers. furthermore, the endowment of harvard has remained undivided; and generations elapsed before the present very un-english division was made by which the teaching force is separated into independent faculties for arts and the various professions. from the first the "college" was a "university" in that it granted degrees; and less than twenty years after its founding the two terms are used as synonymous; an appendix to what is called the charter of harvard "college" calls the institution a "university." this confusion of terms still persists, and is found at most other american institutions, the constitutions of which were largely modeled after that of harvard. for generations the endowments and the teaching force of the american college and university were identical. thus as regards its constitution the typical american university is a single english college writ large. almost from the outset, however, there were, in one sense of the word, several colleges. in "an inventory of the whole estate of harvd colledge taken by the president & fellows as they find the same to be decemb. , ," the first two items are as follows:-- "imprs. the building called the old colledge, conteyning a hall, kitchen, buttery, cellar, turrett & studeys & therin chambers for students in them. a pantry & small corne chamber. a library & books therin, vallued at lb. "it. another house called goffes colledge, & was purchased of edw: goffe. conteyning five chambers. studyes. a kitchen cellar & garretts."[ ] it is to be noted that "old colledge," which was harvard's building, had a kitchen, buttery, and cellar, a pantry and a small corn chamber, and was thus primitively modeled after an english hall or college. presumably the inmates, like their cousins across the water, dined in the hall. as for "goffe's colledge," granting that the punctuation of the inventory is intentional, it had a kitchen cellar, which would seem to imply a kitchen; and it is not impossible that there should be a comma after "kitchen." no hall is mentioned, and it is hardly likely that there could have been so imposing a room in what was built for a private house; but it would have been possible and natural to serve meals in the largest of the five "chambers." a third building hutchinson's history describes as "a small brick building called the indian colledge, where some few indians did study, but now it is a printing house," the first printing house in british america. the two earliest buildings at harvard would thus be the abodes of separate communities, and though i can find no intimation as to the indian college, it can scarcely be doubted that since it was established for the separate use of the redskins, it contained a separate living-plant. a later record shows that there was a separate kitchen in the first stoughton hall. these early "colledges" at harvard are more properly termed halls, and such as survived are now so called. they had probably little in common with the democratic english halls of the middle ages. both at oxford and at cambridge the halls of the seventeenth century were, as i have said, mere pendants of the colleges; they must have had a separate character as a social community and a certain independence; but if they had separate endowments, they did not manage them, and each of them depended for its instruction mainly on the college to which it was affiliated. the printed records of the early american halls are too meagre to warrant definite conclusions; but they seem to show that the halls were conceived in the spirit of the english hall of the seventeenth century, in that they provided for separate social and residential communities without separate endowment or teaching force. if the increase of students at harvard had been rapid, it is not unlikely that many new halls would have been established, each the home of a complete community; but for half a century the number fluctuated between fifteen and thirty. if we take the english estimate of two hundred and fifty as the largest feasible size for a single community, the limit was not reached until as late as . by the timber "colledge" built at the charge of mr. harvard, which bore his name, had been superseded by the first harvard hall, which hutchinson describes as "a fair pile of brick building covered with tiles by reason of the late indian warre not yet finished.... it contains twenty chambers for students, two in a chamber, a large hall which serves for a chapel; over that a convenient library." in these ample accommodations it was found that the student body could be most conveniently and cheaply fed as a single community. thus, like the idea of a group of colleges with separate finances and teaching bodies, the idea of separate residential halls must have passed away with the generation of divines educated in england. the american college and the american university remained identical, not only educationally and in their finances, but as a social organization. this fact has caused a curious reversion in america toward the mediæval type of university, both socially and educationally. as the university has expanded, it has declined socially: to-day the residential life is only a degree better than that in the ancient chamberdekyns. educationally, the reversion has been fortunate: the university is alive to the needs of the life about it. if it here resembles the modern german universities, this is largely due to the fact that both have more faithfully preserved the system and the spirit of the middle ages: the resemblance is quite as much a matter of native growth in america as of foreign imitation. in england, the mediæval idea of a multiplicity of residential bodies has survived, and the educational idea of the mediæval university has perished. in germany, the educational idea has survived, and the old community life has perished. in america, the two ideas have survived by virtue of their identity. but for the same reason both are in a rudimentary and very imperfect state of development. footnote: [ ] william g. brown in _the nation_, vol. , no. , p. . v the problems of the american university i the social and athletic problem the imperfection of the modern american university in its social organization has been stated with the utmost clearness and authority, at least as regards harvard. the "harvard graduates' magazine" for september, , published posthumously an article by frank bolles, late secretary of the college, entitled "the administrative problem." "in the present state of affairs," says mr. bolles, "student social life is stunted and distorted.... there is something very ugly in the possibility of a young man's coming to cambridge, and while here sleeping and studying alone in a cheerless lodging, eating alone in a dismal restaurant, feeling himself unknown, and so alone in his lectures, his chapel, and his recreations, and not even having the privilege of seeing his administrative officers, who know most of his record, without having to explain to them at each visit who he is and what he is, before they can be made to remember that he is a living, hoping, or despairing part of harvard college." some of these men who fail to find a place in the social community meet their isolation grimly and are embittered against life. others, after a few months or a year of lonesomeness and neglect, give up their university career broken-hearted, and by so doing perhaps take the first step in a life of failures. one man of whom i happened to know confided to his daily themes a depth of misery of which it can only be hoped that it was hysterical. at night when he heard a step on his staircase he prayed that it might be some one coming to see him. the tide of undergraduate life and of joy in living flowed all about him and left him thirsting. if a man finds sweetness in the uses of such adversity, it can only be by virtue of the firmest and calmest of tempers. sometimes fellows starve physically without a friend with whom to share their hardship, living perhaps on bread, milk, and oatmeal, which they cook over the study lamp. occasionally one hears disquieting rumors that such short rations have resulted in disease and even death before the authorities were aware. if this be so, the hardships of life in the earliest mediæval university, though far enough removed from us to be picturesque, could hardly have been more real. the sickness of the body politic has been portrayed with artistic sympathy and veracity by mr. c. m. flandrau, in his "harvard episodes," the wittiest and most searching of studies of undergraduate life. it is no doubt for this reason that the book is both read and resented by the healthy and unthinking college man. to dwell on such individual instances would be unpleasant. the point of importance is to show how the social chaos affects the health of the community as a whole. as it happens, we have a barometer. for better or for worse, the moving passion of the undergraduate body, aside from studies, is athletic success. if athletics prosper, it is because the life of the college finds an easy and natural expression; if athletics languish, there is pretty sure to be some check on wholesome functioning. the causes of harvard's abundant failures and the remedies have been a fertile theme of discussion. one cause is obvious. the rivals with distressing frequency have produced better teams. every one knows that what cambridge chooses to call yale luck is nine parts yale pluck; and the quality is well developed at princeton, pennsylvania, and elsewhere. but why is it developed at these places more than at harvard? the explanations are legion. the first cry was bad coaching. this was repeated until the fault was corrected, at least in part, and until every one was wholly tired of hearing the explanation. then came the cry of bad physical training. this in turn was repeated until it brought partial remedy and total weariness of the agitation. by and by, all other complaints having been worn threadbare, harvard's defeat was attributed to the fog on soldier's field. it is not unlikely that the fog will be dissipated and the athletes duly benefited. yet it is far from certain that this will make the athletic body sound. the fault lies deeper than yale pluck--or even the fog on soldier's field. it is to be found in the conditions, social, administrative, and even educational, which are at the basis of the life of the university. if these conditions were peculiar to harvard, it would decidedly not be worth while to discuss them publicly. but they are inherent in the type of university of which harvard is the earliest and most developed example, and are destined to crop out in every american institution of learning in proportion as it grows, as harvard has grown, from the english college of a few decades ago into the teutonized university of the present and of the future. in considering the causes, it is necessary to speak concretely of our one eminent example; but the main fact brought out will be applicable in greater or less degree to the present or future of any american college. the sources of harvard's weakness are mainly social. when the college was small, it had its share of victory; but almost from the year when it began to outgrow its rivals, its prowess declined. forty years ago, and even less, the undergraduate constitution of american institutions was, roughly speaking, that of the colleges of oxford and cambridge: a freshman was measurably sure of falling into easy relationship with the fellows of his class and of other classes, and thus of finding his level or his pinnacle in athletic teams and in clubs. considered as a machine for developing good fellows and good sportsmen, it was well adjusted and well oiled; it worked. but it was not capable of expansion. two or three hundred fellows can live and even dine together with comfort and an increase of mutual understanding; they soon become an organized community. when a thousand or two live as a single community and dine at one board (let us call it dining), the social bond relaxes. next door neighbors are unknown to one another, having no common ground of meeting, and even the college commons fail to bring them together. the relaxing influence of the hour spent at table and in the subsequent conversation, during which social intercourse should most freely flourish, is quite lost. the undergraduate body is a mob, or at best an aggregation of shifting cliques. if men live in crowds or in cliques, their life is that of crowds or of cliques, and is unprofitable both to themselves and to the community that should prosper by their loyal activity. it is true that there are societies and clubs, but these also to a certain degree have been swamped in the rising tide of undergraduates. with freshman classes as large as those of to-day, the old social machinery becomes incapable of sifting the clubable from the less clubable, those who deserve recognition in the body of undergraduates from those who do not. the evil is increased by the fact that as a rule in america the social life is organized early in the undergraduate course, so that the men who fail of election in the first year or two have failed for good. there are, to be sure, cases in which men who have later developed signal merit have been taken into the all-important societies and clubs of the upper classmen, and sometimes these societies make a special and most creditable effort thus to remedy the failures of the system; but the men who are thus elected are an exception, and an exception of the kind that proves the rule. unless a man has been prominent in one of the large preparatory schools, or becomes prominent in athletics in the first year or so, there is only one way to make sure of meeting such fellows as he wishes to know, and that is both to choose friends and to avoid them with an eye to social chances, a method which is scarcely to be commended. as the incoming classes grow larger, there is an increasingly large proportion of undergraduates who fail to qualify in the first year or two in any of these ways. throughout their course they neither receive benefit from the general life of the university nor contribute to it. they are often of loyal and disinterested character, and they not infrequently develop into men of exceptional ability in all of the paths of undergraduate life; not a few of them have been 'varsity captains. but instead of exerting the influence on the welfare of the university which such men might and should exert, they find it impossible to get into the main currents, and revolve impotently on the outside, each in the particular eddy where fate has thrust him. at harvard, where the evil has long been recognized, a remedy has been sought in increasing the membership of the great sophomore and senior societies, the institute of and the hasty pudding club. the result has been the reverse of what was intended. the larger the club the less compact its life and its influence,--what a few men have gained the club has lost. the tendency toward disintegration is confirmed by a peculiarity of the organization of the societies. the first half of the members of the institute form a separate club, the d. k. e., or dickey. from this the second half are excluded, becoming a sort of social fringe; they often form a part of the mob that dines at memorial or of the cliques that dine in boarding-houses, and are only a shade less excluded than the rest from the centres of the college life. if this inner club, the dickey, were the instrument of a united and efficient public spirit, the case would not be so bad, but its members in turn are split into a number of small clubs; as a social organization the dickey is mainly a name. if now these small clubs took a strong part in the general life of the college, the case would still not be so bad; but each spends its main strength in struggling with the others to secure as many members as possible from the first ten of the dickey. they are scarcely to be regarded as engines of public spirit. the same is true of the great senior society, the hasty pudding. its most prominent members belong to the few small clubs of upper classmen; the rest are as much a social fringe as the later tens of the institute. and the senior clubs, like the clubs of the under classmen, are more interested in their private politics than in the policy of the college as a whole. at yale the senior societies still exert a strong and generally wholesome influence, but at harvard they have long ceased to do so, if they ever did. in proportion as a man is successful in the social world the system lifts him out of the body of undergraduate life. the reward of athletic distinction or of good-fellowship is a sort of pool pocket, upon getting into which a man is definitely out of the game. the leaders in the college life, social and athletic, are chosen on the superficial tests of the freshman year, and are not truly representative; and the organization of which they become a part is calculated only to suppress general and efficient public spirit. the outer layers are dead wood and the kernels sterile. this is at least one reason why harvard does not oftener win. in all this there is no place for a philosophy of despair. the spirit of the undergraduate, clubbed and unclubbed, is normal and sound. the efforts which the clubs themselves make from time to time to become representative are admirably public spirited; and there is no less desire on the part of the outsiders to live for the best interests of the college. on the day of an athletic contest the university is behind the team, heart and lungs; and when defeat comes it is felt alike by all conditions of men. from time to time ancient athletes journey to cambridge to exhort the undergraduate body to pull together; and it is a poor orator indeed who cannot set in motion strong currents of enthusiasm. half an hour of earnest talk on the strenuous life from theodore roosevelt has often been known to raise a passion of aspiration that has positively lasted for weeks. but the social system cannot be galvanized into life and functioning. the undergraduates aspire and strive, but every effort is throttled by a little old man of the sea. when all is said and done, the mob and the cliques remain mob and cliques; with discord within and exclusive without, there is small hope of organized efficiency. at yale the oligarchic spirit of the senior societies is compact and operative where that of the harvard clubs is not; but yale also is being swamped. the vast and increasing mob of the unaffiliated has several times within the last decade shown a shocking disrespect for the sacred authority of the captains; and the non-representative character of the sophomore societies, from which the senior societies are recruited, has been a public scandal. one result of this disorder is that the ancient athletic prestige is slipping away, or is so far in abeyance that it is again a question whether harvard or yale has--shall we say the worse team? the case of the older universities is typical. other institutions are expanding as fast or faster, and it is only a question of time when the increase of numbers will swamp the social system. that there is something rotten in the state of denmark has of late been officially recognized, at least at harvard. in order to create a general social and athletic life in the community a union has been established, modeled on the oxford union. it would be pleasant to picture the college house of the future shaking hands with claverly, the phi beta kappa linking elbows with the porcellian, and the fellows who now, in spite of a desire to be sociable, have lived through four years of solitary confinement each in his petty circle, enjoying the bosom friendship of all the men they may desire to know. it would be pleasant but perhaps not altogether warrantable, when one considers the essential nature of the union. the oxford union of celebrity, as has been pointed out in an earlier chapter, is a thing of the past. it was an exclusive institution, in which no attempt was made to foster universal brotherhood. when it was thrown open to the entire undergraduate world, it lost caste and authority. the elect flocked by themselves each in his own exclusive club. if the harvard union had been modeled on the old exclusive oxford union, it might perhaps have been equally efficient in bringing together a broadly representative body of men. but it was modeled on the modern democratic union. here is a plain case: when the oxford union ceased to be exclusive, its best elements flocked by themselves, and the result is a growth of small exclusive clubs. at harvard the exclusive clubs and societies are both ancient and honorable, and, moreover, very comfortable, and it hardly seems likely that their members will rout themselves out of their cosy corners to join the merry rout at the harvard union. this is not to cast a gloomy eye upon the new university club; it is rather by way of emphasizing the importance of the work it has to do, and will succeed in doing. hitherto the lounging grounds of the unaffiliated (alas! that in such an alma mater so many are forever unaffiliated!) have been public billiard-rooms and tobacco shops. for the solace of a midnight supper one had to go to the locally familiar straw-hatted genius of the sandwich, and for the luxury of a late breakfast to john of the holly tree. and john the orange man! great worthies these, ancient and most honorable. but even in the enchantment of retrospect they somehow or other explain why so many fellows choose to live, for the most part, in small cliques in one another's rooms and cultivate the deadly chafing-dish. for the unaffiliated--by far the larger part of each class--the new club-house will be a godsend. it is much more fun to cut a nine-o'clock lecture if you are sure of a comfortable chair at breakfast and a real napkin; and even in the brutal gladness of youth, it is pleasant at a midnight supper to be seated. and then, after that athletic dinner at memorial, a place to loaf quietly over a pipe with whatever congenial spirit one finds, and listen to the clicking of billiard-balls! it is also proposed that the 'varsity athletes have their training tables at the new union, so that any fellow may come to know them clothed and in their right minds. i fancy that the new club will leave those old worthies a trifle lonesome, and will banish the chafing-dish forever. the spirit of an old graduate somehow takes kindly to the idea of a place like that. how the spirit of bishop brooks, for instance, would enjoy slipping in of an evening for the cigar they have denied him in the house erected in his memory! and for the graduate in the flesh the club-house will be no less welcome, especially if he is unlucky enough not to have a club of his own to go back to. to love one's alma mater it is, of course, not necessary to have a club; but it somehow interferes with the sentiment of a home-coming to be obliged to go back to boston by trolley for luncheon and dinner, and to eat it among aliens. in the new union it will even be possible to put up for the night. a long step has been made in advance of the old unhappy order. yet the new union leaves the vital evil in the community life as far as ever from solution. what the authorities have failed to do consciously may, according to present indications, be accomplished, in some manner at least, by an unconscious growth. when memorial became inadequate to the mere demand for seating-room, new dining-halls were established. in the future it is possible that these new halls may be kept within the line where community life becomes impossible and mob life begins. if they could be, the problem would be at least one step nearer solution. but to gain the highest effect of community organization, it is necessary that the men who dine in the same hall shall live near one another. under the present system this rarely happens, and when it does, it does not even follow that they know one another by sight. until the halls represent some real division in undergraduate life--separate and organized communities--they must remain the resort of a student mob. fortunately, another movement is discernible in the direction of separate residential organization. already certain of the dormitories in american universities are governed democratically by the inmates: no student is admitted except by order of a committee of the members. the fraternity houses so widely diffused in america offer a still better example, almost a counterpart, of the halls of the golden age of the mediæval university. any considerable development of hall or fraternity life in the great universities would result in a dual organization of the kind that has proved of such advantage in england, so that a man would have his residence in a small democratic community, and satisfy his more special interests in the exclusive clubs of the university. in such an arrangement the hall would profit by the clubman as the clubman would gain influence through the hall. all undergraduates would thus be united in the general university life in a way which is now undreamed of, and which is unlikely, as i think, even in the new harvard union. the tendency toward division in the dining-halls and the dormitories is evident also in athletics; but here it is very far from unconscious. the division by classes long ago ceased to be an adequate means of developing material for the 'varsity teams, and when the english rowing coach, mr. r. c. lehmann, was in charge of the harvard oarsmen, he outlined a plan for developing separate crews not unlike the college crews of england. this system has since been effected with excellent results. separate boating clubs have been established, each of which has races among its own crews and races with the crews of its rivals. only one thing has prevented the complete success of the system. the division into clubs is factitious, representing no real rivalry such as exists among english colleges. to supply this rivalry, it is only necessary that each boat club shall represent a hall. the same division would of course be equally of benefit in all branches of sport. the various teams within the university would then represent a real social rivalry, such as has long ceased to exist. this could scarcely fail to produce the effect that has been so remarkable at the english universities. as in england, a multiplication of contests would on the one hand develop far better university material, and on the other hand it would lessen rather than exaggerate the excessive importance of intercollegiate contests. ii the administrative problem the administrative evil of the american university, as typified in harvard, mr. bolles described even more vividly than the social evil. the bare fact of the problem he stated as follows: "in the college contained students; in , ; in , ; in , ; in , ; in , ; in , ." he then pointed out that the only means the authorities have found for meeting this increasing demand on the administrative office is, not to divide the students into separate small bodies each under a single administrator, but to divide the duties of administration among several officers. thus each of the added officers is required to perform his duty toward the entire student body. it is apparently assumed that he can discharge one duty toward two or three thousand students as intelligently as in former years he could discharge two or three duties toward two or three hundred. by this arrangement the most valuable factor in administration is eliminated--personal knowledge and personal contact between the administrator and his charges. it is said that the members of the administrative board of the college--professors whose time is of extreme value to the university and to the world, and who receive no pay as administrators--sit three hours a night three nights in the week deciding the cases that come before them, not from personal knowledge of the undergraduates concerned, but from oral and documentary reports. "it is only by a fiction that the recorder [or the dean, or the member of the administrative board] can be assumed to have any personal knowledge of even a half of the men whose absences he counts, whose petitions he acts upon, and against whose delinquencies he remonstrates; yet the fiction is maintained while its absurdity keeps on growing.... if the rate of growth and our present administrative system are maintained, the dean and recorder of harvard college will [in ] be personally caring for individuals, with all of whom they will be presumed to have an intelligent acquaintance." mr. bolles lived through the period in which a brilliant band of german-trained american professors, having made over our educational system as far as possible on german lines, were endeavoring to substitute german discipline, or lack of it, for the traditional system of collegiate residence which aims to make the college a well-regulated social community. at one time these reformers rejoiced in the fact that harvard students attended the ice carnival at montreal or basked in the bermudan sun while the faculty had no means of knowing where they were and no responsibility for the success of their college work. the overseers, however, were not in sympathy with the teutonized faculty, and soon put an end to this; but the reformers were, and perhaps still are, only waiting the opportunity to establish again the teutonic license. "it is sometimes said," mr. bolles continues, "that harvard may eventually free itself from all its remaining parental responsibility and leave students' habits, health, and morals to their individual care, confining itself to teaching, research, and the granting of degrees. before it can do this, it must be freed from dormitories. as long as fifteen hundred of its students live in monastic quarters provided or approved by the university, so long must the university be held responsible by the city, by parents, and by society at large, for the sanitary and moral condition of such quarters. the dormitory system implies and necessitates oversight of health and morals. the trouble to-day is that the administrative machinery in use is not capable of doing all that is and ought to be expected of it.... if it be determined openly that the health and morals of harvard undergraduates are not to occupy the attention of the dean and board of the college, then the present system may be perpetuated, but if this determination is not reached, then either the system must be changed or the present attempt to accomplish the impossible will go on until something snaps." since mr. bolles's day there has been much earnest effort to solve the administrative problem; but the difficulties have increased rather than diminished. the duties of the dean are still much the same as when the freshman class numbered one hundred instead of five. only the dean has been improved. he is at least five times as human and five times as earnest as any other dean; but the freshman class keeps on growing, and when he has satisfied his very exacting conscience and retires (or, not having satisfied his conscience, perishes), no man knows where his better is to be found. of the secretary and the recorder and his assistants mr. bolles has spoken. a regent has among other duties a general charge of the rooms the fellows live in, and usually makes each room and its occupant a yearly visit--which the occupant, in the perversity of undergraduate nature, regards as a visitation. then there is the physician. so large a proportion of the undergraduates were found to be isolated and unhappy in their circumstances, and remote from the knowledge of the authorities, that it became necessary to appoint some one to whom they might appeal in need. thus the details as to each undergraduate's residence are in the hands of seven different officials, each of whom, in order to attain the best results, requires a personal acquaintance with the thousands of undergraduates. furthermore the entire body of undergraduates changes every four years. if every administrator had the commodity of lives commonly attributed to the cat, the duties of their offices would still be infinitely beyond them. mr. bolles suggested a solution of the administrative problem: "if the college is too large for its dean and administrative board to manage in the way most certain to benefit its students, it should be divided, using as a divisor the number ... which experts may agree in thinking is the number of young men whom one dean and board should be expected to know and govern effectively." when mr. bolles wrote, one class of administrative officer and one only was limited in his duties to a single small community: in each building in which students lived, a proctor resided who was supposed to see that the regent's orders were enforced. since then another step has been taken in the same direction; a board of advisers has been established, each member of which is supposed to have a helpful care of twenty-five freshmen. these two officials, it will be seen, divide the administrative duties of an english tutor. that they represent a step toward mr. bolles's solution of the administrative difficulty has probably never occurred to the authorities; and as yet it must be admitted the step is mainly theoretical. the position of both, as i know from sad personal experience, is such that their duties, like those of all other administrators, resolve into a mere matter of police regulation. the men are apt to resist all friendly advances. in the end, a proctor's activities usually consist in preventing them of a sunday from shouting too loud over games of indoor football, and at other times from blowing holes through the cornice with shotguns. the case of the freshman adviser is much the same. his first duty is to expound to his charges the mysteries of the elective system, and to help each student choose his courses. according to the original intention, he was to exert as far as possible a beneficial personal influence on newcomers; but the result seldom follows the intention. beyond the visit which each freshman is obliged to make to his adviser in order to have his list of electives duly signed, there is nothing except misdemeanor to bring the two within the same horizon. when the adviser takes pains to proffer hospitality, the freshman's first thought is that he is to be disciplined. when, as often happens, a proctor is also a freshman adviser, he unites the two administrative duties of an english tutor; but his position is much less favorable in that his duties are performed toward two distinct bodies of men. with time, tact, and labor, he might conceivably force himself into personal relationship with his fifty-odd charges; but the inevitable ground of meeting, such as the english tutor finds in his teaching, is lacking. an attempt to become acquainted is very apt to appear gratuitous. in point of fact, such acquaintance is scarcely expected by the university, and is certainly not paid for. what little an administrator earns is apt to be so much an hour (and not so very much) for teaching. a gratuitous office is so difficult that one hesitates to perform it gratuitously. if the young instructor is bent on making himself unnecessary trouble, there is plenty of opportunity in connection with his teaching; and here, of course, owing to the characteristic lack of organic coördination, he has to deal with a body of men who, except by rare accident, are quite distinct both from those whom he advises and those whom he proctorizes. the system at harvard may be different in detail from that at other american universities; but wherever a large body of undergraduates are living under a single administrative system, it can scarcely be different in kind. enough has been said to show that the only office which an administrator can perform is a police office. where the college and the university are identical, the element of personal influence is necessarily eliminated. but if the college were divided into separate administrative units, the situation would be very different. the seven general and two special offices i have indicated might be discharged, as regards each undergraduate, by a dean and a few proctor-advisers; and as the students and their officers would be living in the same building, personal knowledge and influence might become the controlling force. the solution of the administrative problem is identical with the solution of the social and athletic problem, and in both cases a movement toward it is begun. if the student body is eventually divided into residential halls of the early mediæval type, much good will result, and probably nothing but good, even if the tutorial function proper is absent. as to the addition of the tutorial function, that is a question of extreme complexity and uncertainty, in order to grasp which it is necessary to review the peculiar educational institutions of american universities. iii the educational problem as regards the american teaching system, the fact that the college so long remained identical with the university has caused little else than good. at oxford and cambridge, when a demand arose for instruction in new fields, the university could not meet it because it had little or no wealth and had surrendered its teaching function; and the score of richly endowed colleges, by force of their inertia, collectively resisted the demand. the enlargement in the scope of instruction has been of the slowest. in america, each new demand instantly created its supply. the moment the students in theology required more than a single professor, their tuition fees as well as other funds could be applied to the creation of a divinity school; and the professorships in law, medicine, and the technical professions were likewise organized into schools, each fully equipped under a separate faculty for the pursuit of its special aim. thus the ancient college was developed by segregation into a fully organized modern university. american institutions are composed of a reduplication, not of similar colleges, but of distinct schools, each with its special subject to teach. this fact makes possible a far higher standard of instruction. the virtue of the administrative and social organization in the english university, as has been pointed out, results from division of the university into separate communities,--distinct organs, each with its separate activity. the virtue of the american university in its teaching functions results from a precisely similar cause. in the case of the college, one or two details have lately been the occasion of criticism. in the educational as in the social and administrative functions, the machinery is apparently overgrown. until well into the nineteenth century, the body of instruction offered was much the same as in the english colleges of the seventeenth century, or in the pass schools of to-day,--a modified version of the mediæval trivium and quadrivium. when a new world of intellectual life was opened, most academic leaders regarded it with abhorrence. the old studies were the only studies to develop the manners and the mind; the new studies were barbarous, and dwarfed the understanding. all learning had been contained in a pint-pot, and must continue to be so. if the old curriculum had prevailed, the old system might have continued to serve, in spite of the enormous increase of students; but it did not. discussions of the educational value of the new learning are still allowed to consume paper and ink; but the cause of the old pint-pot was lost decades ago. all branches are taught, and are open to all students. the live question to-day both in england and america is not whether we shall recognize the new subjects, but how and in what proportion we shall teach them. in england, where the colleges and the university are separate, the teaching and the examining are separate. the student prepares in college for an examination by the university. it is as a result of this that the subjects of instruction have been divided and organized into honor schools; and here again the division and organization have resulted in sounder and more efficient functioning. in america, such a division has never been made: the teaching and the degree-granting offices have remained identical. the professor in each "course" is also the examiner, and the freedom of choice of necessity goes not by groups of related studies but by small disconnected courses. as the field of recognized knowledge developed, new courses were added, and the student was granted a greater range of choice. whereas of old all the instruction of the college might and had to be taken in four years, the modern courses could scarcely be exhausted in a full century. this american system, earliest advocated at harvard, is called the elective system, and has made its way, in a more or less developed form, into all american universities worthy of the name. its primary work was that of the oxford honor schools--the shattering of the old pint-pot. it has done this work; but it is now in train to become no less a superstition than the older system, and is thus no less a menace to the cause of education. it is perhaps only natural, though it was scarcely to be expected, that the university which in late years has most severely criticised the elective system is that which a quarter of a century ago deliberately advocated it, and in the face of almost universal opposition justified it in the eyes of american educators. there has evidently been a miscalculation. yet though harvard has cautiously acknowledged its failure in the persons of no less authorities than professor münsterberg and dean briggs, the element of error has not yet been clearly stated, nor has the remedy been proposed. many things have been said against the elective system, but they may all be summed up in one phrase: it is not elective. this is no specious paradox. it is the offer of free election that is specious. no offer could seem fairer. the student is at liberty to choose as he will. he may specialize microscopically or scatter his attention over the universe; he may elect the most ancient subjects or the most modern, the hardest or the easiest. no offer, i repeat, could seem fairer. but experience disillusions. some day or other a serious student wakes up to the fact that he is the victim of--shall we say a thimble-rigging game? for example, let us take the case of a serious specialist. of all the world's knowledge the serious specialist values only one little plot. a multitude of courses is listed in the catalogue, fairly exhausting his field. delightful! clearly he can see which walnut-shell covers the pea. he chooses for his first year's study four courses--the very best possible selection, the only selection, to open up his field. one moment: on closer scrutiny he finds that two of the four courses are given at the same hour, and that, therefore, he cannot take them in the same year. still, there are at his command other courses, not so well adapted to his purposes, but sooner or later necessary. he chooses one. hold again! on closer inspection he finds that appended to the course is a roman numeral, and that the same numeral is against one of his other courses. after half an hour's search in the catalogue he finds that, though the two courses are given at different hours, and indeed on different days of the week, the mid-year and final examinations in both take place on the same days. obviously these two cannot be taken in the same year. with dampened spirits his eye lights on a second substitute. he could easily deny himself this course; but it is vastly interesting, if not important, and he must arrange a year's work. behold, this most interesting course was given last year, and will be given next year, but neither love nor money nor the void of a soul hungering for knowledge could induce the professor who gives it to deliver one sentence of one lecture; he is busy and more than busy with another course which will not be given next year. the specialist is at last forced to elect a course he does not really want. one entanglement as to hours of which the present deponent had knowledge forced a specialist in elizabethan literature to elect--and, being a candidate for a degree with distinction, to get a high grade in--a course in the history of finance legislation in the united states. this was a tragic waste, for so many and so minute are the courses offered that the years at the student's disposal are all too few to cover even a comparatively narrow field. the specialist may well ruminate on the philosophy of alice and her wonderland jam. yesterday he could elect anything, and to-morrow anything; but how empty is to-day! highly as the modern university regards the serious specialist, a more general sympathy will probably be given to the man who is seeking a liberal education. such a man knows that in four years at his disposal he cannot gain any real scientific knowledge even of the studies of the old-fashioned college curriculum. as taught now, at harvard, they would occupy, according to president eliot's report for - , twice four years. but by choosing a single group of closely related subjects, and taking honors in it, he hopes to master a considerable plot of the field of knowledge. i will not say that he chooses the ancient classics, for--though they are admirably taught in a general way in the great oxford honor school of literæ humaniores--the american student may be held to require, even in studying the classics, a larger element of scientific culture, which would take more time than is to be had. for the same reason i will not say that he chooses the modern languages and literatures, though such a choice might be defended. let us say that he chooses a single modern language and literature--his own.[ ] surely this is not too large a field for four years' study. of classics, mathematics, science, and history he has supposedly been given a working knowledge in the preparatory school. for the rest he relies on the elective system. even in the beginning, like the specialist, he is unable to choose the courses he most wants, because of the conflict of the hours of instruction and examination; and this difficulty pursues him year by year, increasing as the subjects to be taken grow fewer and fewer. but let us dismiss this as an incidental annoyance. his fate is foreshadowed when he finds that the multitude of courses by which alone he could cover the entire field of english literature would fill twice the time at his disposal. already he has discovered that the elective system is not so very elective. he sadly omits icelandic and gothic, and all but one half course is anglo-saxon. some day he means to cover the ground by means of a history of literature and translations; but in point of fact, as the subjects are not at all necessary for his degree, and as he is overburdened with other work, he never does. he sticks to his last, and is the more willing to do so because, being wise beyond the wont of undergraduates, he knows that it will be well to fortify his knowledge of the english language and literature with a complementary knowledge of the history of the english people, and of the history and literature of the neighboring germans and french. having barely time for a rapid survey of these complementary subjects, he elects only the introductory courses. in the aggregate they require many precious hours, and to take them he is obliged to omit outright english literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; but he knows that it is better to neglect a finial or two than the buttresses of the edifice he is building. again he has miscalculated. after his complementary courses are begun, and it is too late to withdraw from them, he discovers even more clearly than the specialist how very unelective the elective system can be. it is the same old question of the thimble and the pea. these introductory courses are intended to introduce him to the study of history and of literature, not to complement his studies of english. what he wanted to know in english history was the social and the political movements, the vital and picturesque aspect; what he is taught is the sources and constitutions--the dry bones. in german and french he wanted to know the epochs of literature; he is taught the language, considered scientifically, or, at most, certain haphazard authors in whom he has only a casual interest. if he is studying for honors, he is obliged to waste enough time on these disappointing courses to reach a high grade in each. the system of free election is mighty, for he is a slave to it. this difficulty is typical. thus a student of history or of german who wants to study elizabethan literature for its bearing on his subject is obliged to spend one full course--a quarter of a year's work--on the language of four or five plays of shakespeare before he is permitted to take a half course on shakespeare as a dramatist; and even then all the rest of the elizabethan period is untouched. let us suppose that our student of english is wary as well as wise, preternaturally wary, and leaves all complementary subjects to private reading--for which he has no time. he is then able to devote himself to the three or four most important epochs in english literature. he has to leave out much that is of importance, so that he cannot hope to gain a synoptic view of the field as a whole; but of his few subjects he will at least be master. here at last is the thimble that covers the pea. not yet! in four courses out of five of those devoted to the greatest writers, the teacher's attention is directed primarily to a very special and scientific study of the language; the examination consists in explaining linguistic cruxes. literary criticism, even of the most sober kind, is quite neglected. if the student learns only what is taught, he may attain the highest grades and the highest honors without being able in the end to distinguish accurately the spirit of chaucer from that of elizabethan literature. furthermore, not every student is sufficiently well advised to know precisely what courses he requires to attain his end. for example, to gain an understanding of the verse forms and even the spirit of middle english and elizabethan english, it is necessary to know the older french and italian; but, as it happened, our student was not aware of the fact until he broke his shins against it, and it was nobody's business to tell him of it. and even if he had been aware of it, he could not have taken those subjects without leaving great gaps in his english studies. he has graduated _summa cum laude_ and with highest honors in english; but he has not even a correct outline knowledge of his subject. his education is a thing of shreds and patches. whatever may be the aim of the serious student, the elective system is similarly fatal to it. i must be content with a single instance more. the signal merit of the old-fashioned curriculum was that its insistence on the classics and mathematics insured a mental culture and discipline of a very high order, and of a kind that is impossible where the student elects only purely scientific courses, or courses in which he happens to be especially interested. let us suppose that the serious student wishes to elect his courses so as to receive this discipline. his plight is indicated in "some old-fashioned doubts about new-fashioned education" which have lately been divulged[ ] by the dean of harvard college, professor le b. r. briggs. the undergraduate "may choose the old studies but not the old instruction. instruction under an elective system is aimed at the specialist. in elective mathematics, for example, the non-mathematical student who takes the study for self-discipline finds the instruction too high for him; indeed, he finds no encouragement for electing mathematics at all." the same is true of the classics. one kind of student, to be quite candid, profits vastly by the elective system, namely, the student whose artistic instinct makes him ambitious of gaining the maximum effect, an a.b., with the minimum expenditure of means. history d is a good course: the lectures do not come until eleven o'clock, and no thought of them blunts the edge of the evening before. semitic c is another good course--only two lectures a week, and you can pass it with a few evenings of cramming. if such a man is fortunate enough to have learned foreign languages in the nursery or in traveling abroad, he elects all the general courses in french and german. this sort of man is regarded by dean briggs with unwonted impatience; but he has one great claim to our admiration. of all possible kinds of students, he alone has found the pea. for him the elective system is elective. the men who developed the elective system, it is quite unnecessary to say, had no sinister intention. they were pioneers of educational progress who revolted against the narrowness of the old curriculum. the nearest means of reform was suggested to them by the german plan, and they sought to naturalize this _in toto_ without regard to native needs and conditions. but the pioneer work of the elective system has been done, and the men who now uphold it in its entirety are clogging the wheels of progress no less than those who fought it at the outset. the logic of circumstances early forced them to the theory that all knowledge is of equal importance, provided only that it is scientifically pursued, and this position in effect they still maintain. you may elect to study shakespeare and end by studying american finance legislation; but so long as you are compelled to study scientifically, bless you, you are free. the serenity of these men must of late have been somewhat clouded. professor hugo münsterberg, as an editorial writer in "scribner's magazine" lately remarked, "has been explaining, gently but firmly, ostensibly to the teachers in secondary schools, but really to his colleagues in the harvard faculty, that they are not imitating the german method successfully." in no way is the american college man in the same case as the german undergraduate. his preparatory schooling is likely to be three years in arrears, and, in any case, what he seeks is usually culture, not science. "the new notion of scholarship," this writer continues, "by which the degree means so much latin and greek, or the equivalent of them in botany or blacksmithing, finds no favor at all in what is supposed to be the native soil of the 'elective system.'" dr. münsterberg's own words, guarded as they are, are not without point: "even in the college two thirds of the elections are haphazard, controlled by accidental motives; election, of course, demands a wide view and broad knowledge of the whole field.... a helter-skelter chase of the unknown is no election." the writer in "scribner's" concludes: "it is not desirable that a man should sell his birthright for a mess of pottage, even if he gets the pottage. if he does not get it, as dr. münsterberg intimates, of course his state is even worse." rough as the elective system is upon the student who aspires to be merely a scholar, it is rougher on the undergraduate who only wants to train his mind and to equip it for business and professional life. to him a purely scientific training is usually a positive detriment. scrupulous exactitude and a sense of the elusiveness of all knowledge are an excellent and indispensable part of the bringing up of a scholar; but few things are more fitted, if pursued exclusively, to check the self-confidence of a normal man and to blight his will. poor richard had a formula for the case: "a handsaw is a very good thing, but not to shave with." before taking a vigorous hold on the affairs of wall street or of washington, our recent graduate has first to get away from most of the standards that obtain in the university, or at least to supplement them by a host of others which he should have learned there. in another passage in the article already quoted, dean briggs has touched the vital spot. he is speaking of the value, to teachers especially, of the peculiar fetich of teutonized university instruction, the thesis, and of its liability to be of fictitious value. "such theses, i suspect, have more than once been accepted for higher degrees; yet higher degrees won through them leave the winner farther from the best qualities of a teacher, remote from men and still more remote from boys. it was a relief the other day to hear a head-master say, 'i am looking for an under-teacher. i want first a man, and next a man to teach.'" what is true of teaching is even more obviously true of the great world of business and of politics. what it wants is men. the cause of the break-down of the elective system, as at present constituted, is to be found in the machinery of instruction. the office of the teacher has become inextricably mixed up with a totally alien office--university discipline. attendance at lectures is the only means of recording a student's presence in the university, and success in the examination in lecture courses is the only basis for judging of his diligence. at the tolling of a bell the student leaves all other affairs to report at a certain place. in the middle ages, as we have seen, lectures were of necessity the main means of instruction. books were rare and their prices prohibitive. the master read and the student copied. to-day, there are tens of thousands of books in every college library. only in the higher courses are lectures necessary or profitable. but still instruction is carried on, even in the most general courses, by means of professorial lectures. where great periods are covered by leaps and bounds, freshness or individuality of treatment is quite impossible. the tolling of the college bell dooms hundreds of students to hear a necessarily hurried and inarticulate statement of knowledge which has been carefully handled in printed form by the most brilliant writers, and to which a tutor might refer the student in a few minutes' conference. modify the lecture system? it is the foundation of the police regulation. the boasted freedom in elective studies simmers down to this, that it enables the student to choose in what courses he shall be made the unwilling ally of the administrative officer. the lectures waste the time of the student and exhaust the energy of the teacher; but unless the lecturers give them and the studious attend, how can the university know that the shiftless stay away? it is necessary, moreover, for the administrator to judge of the student's success as well as of his diligence. twice every year the professors hold an examination lasting for three hours in each of their several courses. of late years an ingenious means has been devised for making the examination system an even more perfect ally of the police. in the middle of each term an examination of one hour is held to insure that the student has not only attended lectures but studied outside; and, in order to expose the procrastinator, it has become the custom for the examination to be given without warning. like the lecture system, the examination system throws the onus of discipline on the studious and the teachers. two thousand students write yearly , examination books. quite obviously the most advanced of the professors cannot spare time for the herculean task of reading and duly grading their share of these books. they give over most of them to underpaid assistants. the logical result of such a system is that the examinations tend to be regarded merely as statements of fact, and the reading of the books merely as clerical labor. if academic distinctions are disprized in america, both in college and out of it, this is amply explained by the fact that they attest a student's diligence rather than his ability. they are awarded, like a sunday-school prize, in return for a certain number of good-conduct checks. it is not enough that the machinery of instruction wastes the time of the student and debases the office of the examiner; it is, as i have said, the cause of the break-down of the elective system. as long as each student is required to pursue every study under the eye of the disciplinarian, the decision as to what he shall study rests not with his desires or his needs, but with an elaborate schedule of lectures and examinations. so excessive are the evils of the present system that no less a man than professor william james has advocated the abolition of the examinations. this remedy is perhaps extreme; but the only alternative is almost as radical. it is to enable the student, at least the more serious student, to slip the trammels of the elective system, and to study rationally, and to be rationally examined in, the subject or group of subjects which he prefers. in a word, the remedy is to divide and organize our courses of instruction for the more serious students into groups corresponding in some measure to what the english call honor schools. it may be objected that already it is possible to read for honors. the objection will scarcely convince any one who has taken the examination. it is oral, and occupies an hour or two. the men who conduct it are leading men in the department, and are often of world-wide reputation. they are so great that they understand the nature of the farce they are playing. no candidate is expected to have covered the field of his honor subject even in the broadest outlines. when the astute student is not sure of an answer, he candidly admits the fact and receives credit for knowing that he does not know--a cardinal virtue to the scientific mind. if i may be allowed a personal instance, i went up for the examination in english literature in complete ignorance as to all but a single brief movement. when my ignorances were laid bare, the examiners most considerately confined their questions to my period. we had much pleasant conversation. each of the examiners had imparted in his courses his latest rays of new light, and each in turn gave me the privilege of reflecting these rays to the others. for a brief but happy hour my importance was no less than that of the most eminent publication of the learned world. it need scarcely be said that such examinations are not supposed to have much weight in judging of the candidate's fitness. a more important test is a thesis studied from original sources, and the most important is good-conduct marks in a certain arbitrary number of set lecture courses. the policeman's examination is supreme. iv the american hall the college has shown a tendency, as i have indicated, to divide in its social life into separate organizations for the purposes of residence, dining, and athletics. in the administrative life, at least the proctors and the freshman advisers are each in charge of separate bodies of undergraduates. in the educational life, a similar tendency is noticeable. year by year there has been an increasing disposition to supplement lectures or to substitute them by what is in effect tutorial instruction. in the history courses, for example, the lectures and examinations have for some time been supplemented by private personal conferences. if the student is proceeding properly, he is encouraged; if not, he is given the necessary guidance and assistance. i do not know what the result has been in the teaching of history; but in the teaching of english composition, where the conferences have largely supplanted lectures, it has been an almost unmixed benefit. the instructor's comments are given a directness and a personal interest impossible either in the lecture-room or by means of written correction and criticism; and the students are usually eager to discuss their work and the means for bettering it. as the lecture system proves more and more inadequate, the tutorial instruction must necessarily continue to increase, and is not unlikely to afford the basis for a more sensibly devised scheme of honor schools. if the american college were organized into separate halls, it would be necessary and proper, as mr. bolles suggested, to place in each a dean and administrative board; and the most economical plan of administration, as he pointed out, would be to give each administrator as many duties as possible toward a single set of pupils. thus the proctor on each staircase of the hall would be the adviser of the men who roomed on it. it would be only a logical extension of the principle to give the proctor-adviser a tutorial office. all this indicates a reversion toward the golden age of the mediæval hall. here is where the gain would lie: the administration of the hall would make it no longer necessary to rely on the lecture courses for police duty, and the wise guidance of a tutor would in some measure remove the necessity of the recurrent police examinations. thus the student would be able to elect such courses only as the competent adviser might judge best for him; and if the faculty were relieved of the labor of unnecessary instruction and examination it would be possible, with less expense than the present system involves, to offer a well-considered honor examination, and to provide that the examination books should be graded not with mere clerical intelligence, but with the highest available critical appreciation. thus and only thus can the american honor degree be given that value as an asset which the english honor degree has possessed for almost a century. it would by no means be necessary as at oxford to make the honor examination the only basis for granting the degree. the fewer lecture courses which the student found available would be those in which the instruction is more advanced--the "university" courses properly speaking; and his examinations in these would be a criterion, such as oxford is very much in need of, for correcting the evidence of the honor examination. furthermore, in connection with one or more of these courses it would be easy for the student to prepare an honor thesis studied from the original sources under the constant advice of a university professor. such an arrangement might be made to combine in any desired proportion the merits of the english honor schools with the merits of advanced instruction in america. with the introduction of the tutor, the american hall would be the complete counterpart of the mediæval hall of the golden age, and would solve the educational as well as the social and administrative problem. as to the details of the new system, experience would be the final teacher; but for a first experiment, the english arrangement is in its main outline suggestive. an american pass degree might be taken by electing, as all students now elect, a certain number of courses at random. for the increasing number of those who can afford only three years' study, a pass degree would probably prove of the greatest advantage. it was by making this sharp distinction between the pass degree and the honor degree that the english universities long ago solved the question, much agitated still in america, of the three years' course. for the honor men[ ] two general examinations would probably suffice. for his second year honor examination (the english "moderations") a student might select from three or four general groups. this examination would necessarily offer precisely that opportunity for mental culture the lack of which dean briggs laments as the worst feature of the elective system as at present conducted. furthermore, it would be easy to arrange the second year honor groups so as to include only such subjects as are serviceable both for the purposes of a general education and to lead up to the subjects the student is likely to elect for final honors. for the final honor examination the student might choose from a dozen or more honor groups, in any one of which he would receive scientific culture of the most advanced type, while at the same time, by means of private reading under his tutor, he might fill in very pleasantly the outlines of his subject. it is probable that such a system would even facilitate the efforts of those who are endeavoring to transplant german standards. according to professor münsterberg, the student who specializes in the german university is a good two years or more in advance of the american freshman. the spirit of german instruction would thus require that the period of general culture be extended at least to the middle of the undergraduate course. some such reorganization of our methods of teaching and examining, and i fear only this, would enable an undergraduate to choose what he wants and to pursue it with a fair chance of success. it would make the elective system elective. a concrete plan for an american hall will perhaps make the project clearer. the poorer students at harvard have for some years had a separate dining-hall, foxcroft, where the fare and the system of paying for it are adapted to the slenderest of purses. they have also lived mainly in certain primitive dormitories in which the rooms are cheapest. more than any other set of men except the clubmen they are a united body, or are capable of being made so. when next a bequest is received, might not the university erect a building in which a hundred or two of these men could live in common? the quadrangle would insure privacy, the first requisite of community life; the kitchen and dining-hall would insure the maximum comfort and convenience with the minimum expense. nothing could contribute more to the self-respect and the general standing of the poorer students than a comfortable and well-ordered place and way of living, if only because nothing could more surely correct the idiosyncrasies in manners and appearance which are fostered by their present discomfort and isolation. the life of the hall would not of course be as strictly regulated as the life in an english college--perhaps no more strictly than in any other american college building. if in the hope of creating a closer community feeling stricter rules were adopted, they should be adopted, as in a mediæval hall, only by consent of the undergraduates. such a hall would develop athletic teams of its own, and would produce university athletes. under the present arrangement, when the poorer students are members of university teams, they may, and often do, become honorary members of the university clubs; but their lack of means and sometimes of the manner of the world make it difficult for them to be at home in the clubs; their social life is usually limited to a small circle of friends. if they had first been trained in the life of a hall, they would more easily fall in with the broader life outside; and instead of being isolated as at present, they would exert no small influence both in their hall and in the university. few things could be better for the general life of the undergraduate than the coöperation of such men, and few things could be better for the members of a hall than to be brought by means of its leading members into close connection with the life of the university. if such a hall were successful, it could not fail to attract serious students of all sorts and conditions. at oxford, balliol has for generations been known as in the main unfashionable and scholarly; but it is seldom without a blue or two, and its eight has often been at the head of the river. as a result of all this, it never ceases to attract the more serious men from the aristocracy and even the nobility. in america, the success of one residential hall would probably lead to the establishment of others, so that in the end the life of the university might be given all the advantages of a dual organization. no change could be more far reaching and beneficial. the american institutions of the present are usually divided into two classes, the university, or "large college," and the "small college." the merit of the large colleges is that those fortunately placed in them gain greater familiarity with the ways of the world and of men, while for those who wish it, they offer more advanced instruction--the instruction characteristic of german universities. but to the increasing number of undergraduates who are not fortunately placed, their very size is the source of unhappiness; and for those undergraduates who wish anything else than scientific instruction, their virtues become merely a detriment. it is for this reason that many wise parents still prefer to intrust the education of their sons to the small colleges. these small colleges possess many of the virtues of the english universities; they train the mind and cultivate it, and at the same time develop the social man. if now the american university were to divide its undergraduate department into organized residential halls, it would combine the advantages of the two types of american institution, which are the two types of instruction the world over. already our college life at its best is as happy as the college life in england; and the educational advantages of the four or five of our leading universities are rapidly becoming equal to those of the four or five leading universities in germany. a combination of the residential hall and the teaching university would reproduce the highest type of the university of the middle ages; and in proportion as life and knowledge have been bettered in six hundred years, it would better that type. england has lost the educational virtues of the mediæval university, while germany, in losing the residential halls, has lost its peculiar social virtues. when the american university combines the old social life with the new instruction, it will be the most perfect educational instruction in the history of civilization. footnotes: [ ] for a detailed statement as to the course such a student would be able to pursue under the english system of honor schools, see appendix iii. [ ] _the atlantic monthly_, october, . [ ] for full details as to the scheme of an english honor school, see appendix iii. appendix i. athletic training in england in one or two particulars it seemed to me that we might learn from the english methods of training. on the oxford team we took long walks every other day instead of track work. our instructions were to climb all the hills in our way. this was in order to bring into play new muscles as far as possible, so as to rest those used in running. though similar walks are sometimes given in america as a preliminary "seasoning," our training, for months before a meeting, is confined to the track. this is not unwise as long as a runner's stride needs developing; and in the heat of our summers such walks as the english take might sometimes prove exhausting. yet my personal observations convinced me that for distance runners--and for sprinters, too, perhaps--the english method is far better. under our training the muscles often seem overpowered by nervous lassitude; at the start of a race i have often felt it an effort to stand. in england there was little or none of this; we felt, as the bottle-holders are fond of putting it, "like a magnum of champagne." this idea of long walks, which the english have arrived at empirically, has been curiously approved in america by scientific discovery. it has been shown that after muscles appear too stiff from exhaustion to move, they can be excited to action by electric currents; while the motor nerves on being examined after such fatigue are found to be shrunken and empty, as in extreme old age. the limit of muscular exertion is thus clearly determined by the limit of the energy of the motor nerve. now in a perfectly trained runner, the heart and lung must obviously reach their prime simultaneously with the motor nerves used in running; but since these organs are ordained to supply the entire system with fuel, they will usually require a longer time to reach prime condition than any single set of nerves. thus continual track work is likely to develop the running nerves to the utmost before the heart and lungs are at prime. conversely stated, if the development of the running nerves is retarded so as to keep pace with the development of the heart and lungs, the total result is likely to be higher. all this amounts to what any good english trainer will tell you--that you must take long walks on up and down grades in order to rest your running muscles and at the same time give your heart and lungs plenty of work--that is, in order to keep from getting "track stale." the amount of work we did from day to day will best be understood, perhaps, by quoting one or two of the training-cards. for the hundred yards the training during the final ten days was as follows: _monday_ and _tuesday_, sprints (three or four dashes of sixty yards at top speed); _wednesday_, a fast yards at the queen's club grounds; _thursday_, walk; _friday_, sprints; _saturday_, yards trial at queen's club; _sunday_, walk; _monday_, light work at queen's club; _tuesday_, easy walk; _wednesday_, inter-varsity sports. the man for whom this card was written happened to be over weight and short of training, or he would have had less track work. if he had been training for the quarter in addition to the hundred, he would have had fewer sprints, and, instead of the fast , a trial quarter a week before the sports, with perhaps a fast on the following friday. for the mile, the following is a characteristic week's work, ending with a trial: _sunday_, walk; _monday_, one lap ( / mile); _tuesday_, two laps, fast-ish; _wednesday_, walk; _thursday_, easy mile; _friday_, walk; _saturday_, a two lap trial (at the rate of . for the mile). for the three miles, the following is a schedule of the first ten days (the walks are unusually frequent because the "first string" had a bruise on the ball of his foot): _monday_, walk; _tuesday_, walk; _wednesday_, two slow laps at the queen's club; _thursday_, walk; _friday_, walk; _saturday_, a long run at the queen's club; _sunday_, walk; _monday_, four laps, fast-ish, at the queen's club; _tuesday_, walk; _wednesday_, inter-varsity sports. the chief difference between this work and what we should give in america is in the matter of walking. ii. climate and international athletics the value of international contests as a basis for comparing english and american training is impaired by the fact that the visiting team is pretty sure to be under the weather, as may be indicated by summarizing the history of international contests. the first representatives we sent abroad, the harvard four-oared crew of , became so overtrained on the thames on work which would have been only sufficient at home, that two of the four men had to be substituted. the substitutes were taken from the "second" crew, which had just come over from the race at worcester. the men in this crew had been so inferior as oarsmen that they had been allowed to compete against yale only after vigorous protest; but in the race against oxford, owing probably to the brevity of their training in england, the substitutes pulled the strongest oars in the boat. the crew got off very well, but when the time came for the final effort, the two original members had not the nervous stamina to respond. the experience of the yale athletes who competed against oxford in was much the same. their performances in the games were so far below their american form that they won only the events in which they literally outclassed their opponents--the hammer, shot, and broad jump. they were sportsmen enough not to explain their poor showing, and perhaps they never quite realized how the soft and genial english summer had unnerved them; but several competent observers who had watched their practice told me that they lost form from day to day. their downfall was doubtless aided by the fact that instead of training at brighton or elsewhere on the coast, they trained in the thames valley and at oxford. the experience of the cornell crew, of which i got full and frank information while crossing the atlantic with them after the race, was along the same lines. before leaving ithaca, they rowed over the equivalent of the henley course in time that was well under seven minutes, and not far from the henley record of six minutes, fifty-one seconds. at henley they rowed their first trial in seven minutes and three seconds, if my memory serves, and in consequence were generally expected to win. from that day they grew worse and worse. certain of the eight went stale and had to be substituted. in the race the crew, like the earlier harvard crew, went to pieces when they were called on for a spurt--the test of nerve force in reserve--and were beaten in wretchedly slow time. they had gone hopelessly stale on work which would have been none too much in america. the experience of the yale crew in the year after was similar to that of harvard and cornell. the crew went to pieces and lost the race for the lack of precisely that burst of energy for which american athletes, and yale in particular, are remarkable. meantime one or two american athletes training at oxford had been gathering experience, which, humble though it was, had the merit of being thorough. mr. j. l. bremer, who will be remembered in america as making a new world's record over the low hurdles, steadily lost suppleness and energy at oxford, so that he was beaten in the quarter mile in time distinctly inferior to his best in america. clearly, the effect of the english climate is to relax the nervous system and thereby to reduce the athlete's power both of sprinting _per se_ and of spurting at the finish of the race. my own experience in english training confirmed the conclusion, and pointed to an interesting extension of it. i was forced to conclude that the first few weeks in england are more than likely to undo an athlete, and especially for sprinting; and even if he stays long enough to find himself again, his ability to sprint is likely to be lessened. in the long run, on the other hand, the english climate produces staying power in almost the same proportion as it destroys speed. when the joint team of track athletes from yale and harvard went to england in , the powers that were took advantage of past experiences, and instead of going to the thames valley to train, they went to brighton; and instead of doing most of their training in england, they gave themselves only the few days necessary to get their shore legs and become acquainted with the queen's club track. as a result, the team was in general up to its normal form, or above it, and, except for the fact that one of the men was ill, would have won. the experience of the english athletes who came to america in points to a similar conclusion. though the heat was intense and oppressive and most of the visitors were positively sick, one of the sprinters, in spite of severe illness, was far above his previous best, while all of the distance men went quite to pieces. thus our climate would seem to reduce the staying power of the english athletes, and perhaps to increase the speed of sprinters. it appears on the whole probable that in these international contests the visiting athlete had best do as much as possible of his training at home, and it follows that the visiting team is at a distinct and inevitable disadvantage. iii. an oxford final honor school the scope and content of an english honor school is well illustrated in the following passage from the oxford examination statutes, which treats of the final school in english literature. the system will be seen to be very different from a system under which a student may receive honors in ignorance of all but a single movement in english literature. § . _of the honour school of english language and literature._ . the examination in the school of english language and literature shall always include authors or portions of authors belonging to the different periods of english literature, together with the history of the english language and the history of english literature. the examination shall also include special subjects falling within or usually studied in connexion with the english language and literature. . every candidate shall be expected to have studied the authors or portions of authors which he offers ( ) with reference to the forms of the language, ( ) as examples of literature, and ( ) in their relation to the history and thought of the period to which they belong. he shall also be expected to show a competent knowledge ( ) of the chief periods of the english language, including old english (anglo-saxon), and ( ) of the relation of english to the languages with which it is etymologically connected, and ( ) of the history of english literature, and ( ) of the history, especially the social history, of england during the period of english literature which he offers. . the examination in special subjects may be omitted by candidates who do not aim at a place in the first or second class. . no candidate shall be admitted to examination in the final honour school of english language and literature, unless he has either obtained honours in some final honour school or has passed the first public examination [_i. e._ moderation]. . the examination shall be under the supervision of a board of studies. . it shall be the duty of the board of studies in framing regulations, and also of the examiners in the conduct of the examination, to see that as far as possible equal weight is given to language and literature: provided always that candidates who offer special subjects shall be at liberty to choose subjects connected either with language or with literature or with both. . the board of studies shall by notice from time to time make regulations respecting the examination; and shall have power-- ( ) to prescribe authors or portions of authors. ( ) to specify one or more related languages or dialects to be offered either as a necessary or as an optional part of the examination. ( ) to name periods of the history of english literature, and to fix their limits. ( ) to issue lists of special subjects in connexion either with language or with literature or with both, prescribing books or authorities where they think it desirable. ( ) to prescribe or recommend authors or portions of authors in languages other than english, to be studied in connexion with special subjects to which they are intimately related. ( ) to determine whether candidates who aim at a place in the first or second class shall be required to offer more than one special subject. (_ii_) _regulations of the board of studies for the examinations in and ._ the subjects of examination in this school are-- i. portions of english authors. ii. the history of the english language. iii. the history of english literature. iv. (in the case of those candidates who aim at a place in the first or second class) a special subject of language or literature. i. english authors. candidates will be examined in the following texts:-- _beowulf._ the texts printed in sweet's _anglo-saxon reader_. _king horn._ _havelok._ laurence minot. _sir gawain and the green knight._ chaucer's _canterbury tales_, the _prologue_ and the following tales:-- _the knight's_, _the man of law's_, _the prioress's_, _sir thopas_, _the monk's_, _the nun's priest's_, _the pardoner's_, _the clerk's_, _the squire's_, _the second nun's_, _the canon's yeoman's_ _piers plowman_, the _prologue_ and first seven _passus_ (text b). shakespeare, with a special study of the following plays: _midsummer night's dream_, _king john,_ _much ado about nothing_, _macbeth_, _cymbeline_. milton, with a special study of _paradise lost_. these texts are to be studied ( ) with reference to the forms of the language; ( ) as examples of literature; and ( ) in their relation to the history and thought of the period to which they belong. after milton no special texts are prescribed, but candidates are expected to show an adequate knowledge of the chief authors. ii. history of the english language. candidates will be examined in the philology and history of the language, in gothic (the gospel of st. mark), and in translation from old english and middle english authors not specially offered. iii. history of english literature. the examination in the history of english literature will not be limited to the prescribed texts. it will include the history of criticism and of style in prose and verse; for these subjects, candidates are recommended to consult the following works:-- sidney, _apology for poetry_. daniel, _defence of rhyme_. dryden, _essay of dramatic poesy_, and _preface to fables_. addison, papers on milton in the _spectator_. pope, _essay on criticism_. johnson, _preface to shakespeare_ and _lives of the poets_. wordsworth, _prefaces, etc., to lyrical ballads_. coleridge, _biographia literaria_. iv. special subjects. candidates who aim at a place in the first or second class will be expected to offer a special subject, which may be chosen from the following list:-- . old english language and literature to a. d. . middle english language and literature, - a. d. . old french philology, with special reference to anglo-norman french, together with a special study of the following texts:-- computus of philippe de thaun, voyage of st. brandan, the song of dermot and the earl, les contes moralisés de nicole bozon. . scandinavian philology, with special reference to icelandic, together with a special study of the following texts:-- gylfaginning, laxdæla saga, gunnlaugssaga ormstungu. . elizabethan literature, - a. d. . english literature, - a. d. . english literature, - a. d. . wordsworth and his contemporaries, - a. d. . history of scottish poetry to a. d. candidates who desire to offer any other subject or period as a special subject must obtain the leave of the board of studies a year before the examination. candidates who offer a period of english literature will be expected to show a competent knowledge of the history, especially the social history, of england during such period. the following scheme of papers is contemplated:-- . beowulf and other old english texts. . king horn, havelok, minot, sir gawain. . chaucer and piers plowman. . shakespeare. . milton. . history of the language. . gothic--o. e. and m. e. translations. . } history of the literature, including questions . } on the history of criticism. two papers, ( ) to , ( ) after . . special subjects. the riverside press _electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton & co._ _cambridge, mass., u. s. a._ green bays. verses and parodies. by arthur thomas quiller-couch (q). et, si non alium late jactaret odorem laurus erat. most of the verses in this volume were written at oxford, and first appeared in the 'oxford magazine.' a few are reprinted from 'the speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by messrs. cassell and co. q. contents. in a college garden. the splendid spur. the white moth. irish melodies i. tim the dragoon. ii. kenmare river. lady jane (sapphics). a triolet. an oath. upon graciosa, walking and talking. written upon love's frontier-post. titania. measure for measure. retrospection. why this volume is so thin. nugae oxonienses. twilight. willaloo. the sair stroke. the doom of the esquire bedell. 'behold! i am not one that goes to lectures.' caliban upon rudiments. solvitur acris hiemps. a letter. occasional verses. anecdote for fathers. unity put quarterly. fire! de tea fabula. l'envoi (as i laye a-dreamynge). in a college garden. senex. saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, what ayles thee soe to pyne? thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake when dayes be fyne and greene thynges twyne: saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne? turtur. naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, what ayles thee thus to chyde? my love is fled by garden-gate; since lammas-tyde i wayte my bryde. saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde? senex. loe! i am he, the 'lonelie manne,' of time forgotten quite, that no remembered face may scanne-- sadde eremyte, i wayte tonyghte pale death, nor any other wyghte. o cushat, cushat, callynge lowe, goe waken time from sleepe: goe whysper in his ear, that soe his besom sweepe me to that heape where all my recollections keepe. hath he forgott? or did i viewe a ghostlye companye this even, by the dismalle yewe, of faces three that beckoned mee to land where no repynynges bee? o harrye, harrye, tom and dicke, each lost companion! why loyter i among the quicke, when ye are gonne? shalle i alone delayinge crye 'anon, anon'? naye, let the spyder have my gowne, to brayde therein her veste. my cappe shal serve, now i 'goe downe,' for mouse's neste. loe! this is best. i care not, soe i gayne my reste. the splendid spur. not on the neck of prince or hound, nor on a woman's finger twin'd, may gold from the deriding ground keep sacred that we sacred bind: only the heel of splendid steel shall stand secure on sliding fate, when golden navies weep their freight. the scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave are measures, not the springs, of worth; in a wife's lap, as in a grave, man's airy notions mix with earth. seek other spur bravely to stir the dust in this loud world, and tread alp-high among the whisp'ring dead. _trust in thyself_,--then spur amain: so shall charybdis wear a grace, grim aetna laugh, the libyan plain take roses to her shrivell'd face. this orb--this round of sight and sound-- count it the lists that god hath built for haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. the white moth. _if a leaf rustled, she would start: and yet she died, a year ago. how had so frail a thing the heart to journey where she trembled so? and do they turn and turn in fright, those little feet, in so much night?_ the light above the poet's head streamed on the page and on the cloth, and twice and thrice there buffeted on the black pane a white-wing'd moth; 'twas annie's soul that beat outside and 'open, open, open!' cried: 'i could not find the way to god; there were too many flaming suns for signposts, and the fearful road led over wastes where millions of tangled comets hissed and burned-- i was bewilder'd and i turned. 'o, it was easy then! i knew your window and no star beside. look up, and take me back to you!' --he rose and thrust the window wide. 'twas but because his brain was hot with rhyming; for he heard her not. but poets polishing a phrase show anger over trivial things; and as she blundered in the blaze towards him, on ecstatic wings, he raised a hand and smote her dead; then wrote '_that i had died instead!_' irish melodies. i. tim the dragoon (from 'troy town') be aisy an' list to a chune that's sung of bowld tim the dragoon-- sure, 'twas he'd niver miss to be stalin' a kiss, or a brace, by the light of the moon-- aroon-- wid a wink at the man in the moon! rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick; for he's gone from the land of the quick: but he's still makin' love to the leddies above, an' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick-- avick-- niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick! 'tis by tim the dear saints'll set sthore, and 'ull thrate him to whisky galore: for they 've only to sip but the tip of his lip an' bedad! they'll be askin' for more-- asthore-- by the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'ancore!' irish melodies. ii. kenmare river. 'tis pretty to be in ballinderry, 'tis pretty to be in ballindoon, but 'tis prettier far in county kerry coortin' under the bran' new moon, aroon, aroon! 'twas there by the bosom of blue killarney they came by the hundther' a-coortin' me; sure i was the one to give back their blarney, an' merry was i to be fancy-free. but niver a step in the lot was lighter, an' divvle a boulder among the bhoys, than phelim o'shea, me dynamither, me illigant arthist in clock-work toys. 'twas all for love he would bring his figgers of iminent statesmen, in toy machines, an' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers an' scattered the thraytors to smithereens. an' to see the queen in her crystial pallus fly up to the roof, an' the windeys broke! and all with divvle a trace of malus,-- but he was the bhoy that enjoyed his joke! then o, but his cheek would flush, an' 'bridget,' he 'd say, 'will yez love me?' but i 'd be coy and answer him, 'arrah now, dear, don't fidget!' though at heart i loved him, me arthist bhoy! one night we stood by the kenmare river, an' 'bridget, creina, now whist,' said he, 'i'll be goin' to-night, an' may be for iver; open your arms at the last to me.' 'twas there by the banks of the kenmare river he took in his hands me white, white face, an' we kissed our first an' our last for iver-- for phelim o'shea is disparsed in space. 'twas pretty to be by blue killarney, 'twas pretty to hear the linnets's call, but whist! for i cannot attind their blarney, nor whistle in answer at all, at all. for the voice that he swore 'ud out-call the linnet's is cracked intoirely, and out of chune, since the clock-work missed it by thirteen minutes an' scattered me phelim around the moon, aroon, aroon! lady jane. sapphics. down the green hill-side fro' the castle window lady jane spied bill amaranth a-workin'; day by day watched him go about his ample nursery garden. cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff-- kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes, artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows, early potatoes. lady jane cared not very much for all these: what she cared much for was a glimpse o' willum strippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti- -cultural effort. little guessed willum, never extra-vain, that up the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle, feminine eyes could so delight to view his noble proportions. only one day while, in an innocent mood, moppin' his brow ('cos 'twas a trifle sweaty) with a blue kerchief--lo, he spies a white 'un coyly responding. oh, delightsome love! not a jot do _you_ care for the restrictions set on human inter- -course by cold-blooded social refiners; nor do i, neither. day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks, willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin', till his hot sighs out-growin' all repression busted his weskit. lady jane's guardian was a haughty peer, who clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper; can we blame willum that he hardly cared to risk a refusal? year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks, wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps. thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden wave fro' her window. but the nineteenth spring, i' the castle post-bag, came by book-post bill's catalogue o' seedlings mark'd wi' blue ink at 'paragraphs relatin' mainly to pumpkins.' 'w. a. can,' so the lady jane read, 'strongly commend that very noble gourd, the _lady jane_, first-class medal, ornamental; grows to a great height.' scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows-- down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway-- came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier, easily shouldered. 'whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd-leaves, forth ye bear with slow step?' a mourner answer'd, ''tis the poor clay-cold body lady jane grew tired to abide in.' 'delve my grave quick, then, for i die to-morrow. delve it one furlong fro' the kidney bean-sticks, where i may dream she's goin' on precisely as she was used to.' hardly died bill when, fro' the lady jane's grave, crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin: climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi' billowy verdure. simple this tale!--but delicately perfumed as the sweet roadside honeysuckle. that's why, difficult though its metre was to tackle, i'm glad i wrote it. a triolet. to commemorate the virtue of homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned. love, that in a tear was drown'd, lives revived by a tear. stella heard them mourn around love that in a tear was drown'd, came and coax'd his dripping swound, wept '_the fault was mine, my dear!_' love, that in a tear was drown'd, lives, revived by a tear. an oath. (from 'troy town'.) a month ago lysander pray'd to jove, to cupid, and to venus, that he might die if he betray'd a single vow that pass'd between us. ah, careless gods, to hear so ill and cheat a maid on you relying! for false lysander's thriving still, and 'tis corinna lies a-dying. upon graciosa, walking and talking. (from 'troy town'.) when as abroad, to greet the morn, i mark my graciosa walk, in homage bends the whisp'ring corn, yet to confess its awkwardness must hang its head upon the stalk. and when she talks, her lips do heal the wounds her lightest glances give:-- in pity then be harsh, and deal such wounds that i may hourly die, and, by a word restored, live. written upon love's frontier-post. (from 'troy town'.) toiling love, loose your pack, all your sighs and tears unbind: care's a ware will break a back, will not bend a maiden's mind. in this state a man shall need neither priest nor law giver: those same lips that are his creed shall confess their worshipper. all the laws he must obey, now in force and now repeal'd, shift in eyes that shift as they, till alike with kisses seal'd. titania. by lord t-n. so bluff sir leolin gave the bride away: and when they married her, the little church had seldom seen a costlier ritual. the coach and pair alone were two-pound-ten, and two-pound-ten apiece the wedding-cakes;-- three wedding-cakes. a cupid poised a-top of each hung shivering to the frosted loves of two fond cushats on a field of ice, as who should say '_i_ see you!'--such the joy when english-hearted edwin swore his faith with mariana of the moated grange. for edwin, plump head-waiter at the cock, grown sick of custom, spoilt of plenitude, lacking the finer wit that saith, 'i wait, they come; and if i make them wait, they go,' fell in a jaundiced humour petulant-green, watched the dull clerk slow-rounding to his cheese, flicked a full dozen flies that flecked the pane-- all crystal-cheated of the fuller air, blurted a free 'good-day t'ye,' left and right, and shaped his gathering choler to this head:-- 'custom! and yet what profit of it all? the old order changeth yielding place to new, to me small change, and this the counter-change of custom beating on the self-same bar-- change out of chop. ah me! the talk, the tip, the would-be-evening should-be-mourning suit, the forged solicitude for petty wants more petty still than they,--all these i loathe, learning they lie who feign that all things come to him that waiteth. i have waited long, and now i go, to mate me with a bride who is aweary waiting, even as i!' but when the amorous moon of honeycomb was over, ere the matron-flower of love-- step-sister of to-morrow's marmalade-- swooned scentless, mariana found her lord did something jar the nicer feminine sense with usage, being all too fine and large, instinct of warmth and colour, with a trick of blunting 'mariana's' keener edge to 'mary ann'--the same but not the same: whereat she girded, tore her crisped hair, called him 'sir churl,' and ever calling 'churl!' drave him to science, then to alcohol, to forge a thousand theories of the rocks, then somewhat else for thousands dewy cool, wherewith he sought a more pacific isle and there found love, a duskier love than hers. measure for measure. by o--r k--m. wake! for the closed pavilion doors have kept their silence while the white-eyed kaffir slept, and wailed the nightingale with 'jug, jug, jug!' whereat, for empty cup, the white rose wept. enter with me where yonder door hangs out its red triangle to a world of drought, inviting to the palace of the djinn, where death, aladdin, waits as chuckerout. methought, last night, that one in suit of woe stood by the tavern-door and whispered, 'lo, the pledge departed, what avails the cup? then take the pledge and let the wine-cup go.' but i: 'for every thirsty soul that drains this anodyne of thought its rim contains-- free-will the _can_, necessity the _must_, pour off the _must_, and, see, the _can_ remains. 'then, pot or glass, why label it "_with care_"? or why your sheepskin with my gourd compare? lo! here the bar and i the only judge:-- o, dog that bit me, i exact an hair!' we are the sum of things, who jot our score with caesar's clay behind the tavern door: and alexander's armies--where are they, but gone to pot--that pot you push for more? and this same jug i empty, could it speak, might whisper that itself had been a beak and dealt me fourteen days 'without the op.'-- your worship, see, my lip is on your cheek. yourself condemned to three score years and ten, say, did you judge the ways of other men? why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with wine, and has the clay more licence now than then? life is a draught, good sir; its brevity gives you and me our measures, and thereby has docked your virtue to a tankard's span, and left of my criterion--a cri'! retrospection. after c. s. c. when the hunter-star orion (or, it may be, charles his wain) tempts the tiny elves to try on all their little tricks again; when the earth is calmly breathing draughts of slumber undefiled, and the sire, unused to teething, seeks for errant pins his child; when the moon is on the ocean, and our little sons and heirs from a natural emotion wish the luminary theirs; then a feeling hard to stifle, even harder to define, makes me feel i 'd give a trifle for the days of auld lang syne. james--for we have been as brothers (are, to speak correctly, twins), went about in one another's clothing, bore each other's sins, rose together, ere the pearly tint of morn had left the heaven, and retired (absurdly early) simultaneously at seven-- james, the days of yore were pleasant. sweet to climb for alien pears till the irritated peasant came and took us unawares; sweet to devastate his chickens, as the ambush'd catapult scattered, and the very dickens was the natural result; sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit; break the next-door neighbour's pane; cultivate the smoker's habit on the not-innocuous cane; leave the exercise unwritten; systematically cut morning school, to plunge the kitten in his bath, the water-butt. age, my james, that from the cheek of beauty steals its rosy hue, has not left us much to speak of: but 'tis not for this i rue. beauty with its thousand graces, hair and tints that will not fade, you may get from many places practically ready-made. no; it is the evanescence of those lovelier tints of hope-- bubbles, such as adolescence joys to win from melted soap-- emphasizing the conclusion that the dreams of youth remain castles that are an delusion (castles, that's to say, in spain). age thinks 'fit,' and i say 'fiat.' here i stand for fortune's butt, as for sunday swains to shy at stands the stoic coco-nut. if you wish it put succinctly, gone are all our little games; but i thought i 'd say distinctly what i feel about it, james. why this volume is so thin. in youth i dreamed, as other youths have dreamt, of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar to verses of my own,--a stout attempt to hold communion with the evening star i wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan. ah me! how trippingly those last lines ran.-- _o hesperus! o happy star! to bend o'er helen's bosom in the tranced west, to match the hours heave by upon her breast, and at her parted lip for dreams attend-- if dawn defraud thee, how shall i be deemed, who house within that bosom, and am dreamed?_ for weeks i thought these lines remarkable; for weeks i put on airs and called myself a bard: till on a day, as it befell, i took a small green moxon from the shelf at random, opened at a casual place, and found my young illusions face to face with this:--'_still steadfast, still unchangeable, pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast to feel for ever its soft fall and swell, awake for ever in a sweet unrest; still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, and so live ever,--or else swoon to death._' o gulf not to be crossed by taking thought! o heights by toil not to be overcome! great keats, unto your altar straight i brought my speech, and from the shrine departed dumb. --and yet sometimes i think you played it hard upon a rather hopeful minor bard. nugae oxonienses. twilight. by w--ll--m c--wp--r. 'tis evening. see with its resorting throng rude carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited with too-familiar elbow, swell the curse vortiginous. the boating man returns, his rawness growing with experience-- strange union! and directs the optic glass not unresponsive to jemima's charms, who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise perambulant, the child. the gouty cit, asthmatical, with elevated cane pursues the unregarding tram, as one who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds his loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man, blaspheming. now the clangorous bell proclaims the _times or chronicle_, and rauca screams the latest horrid murder in the ear of nervous dons expectant of the urn and mild domestic muffin. to the parks drags the slow ladies' school, consuming time in passing given points. here glow the lamps, and tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum of scientific circles. here resounds the football-field with its discordant train, the crowd that cheers but not discriminates, as ever into touch the ball returns and shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds with fine irregularity well worth the paltry shilling.-- draw the curtains close while i resume the night-cap dear to all familiar with my illustrated works. willaloo. by e. a. p. in the sad and sodden street, to and fro, flit the fever-stricken feet of the freshers as they meet, come and go, ever buying, buying, buying where the shopmen stand supplying, vying, vying all they know, while the autumn lies a-dying sad and low as the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes blow, of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row on the way to jericho. see the freshers as they row to and fro, up and down the lower river for an afternoon or so-- (for the deft manipulation of the never-resting oar, though it lead to approbation, will induce excoriation)-- they are infinitely sore, keeping time, time, time in a sort of runic rhyme up and down the way to iffley in an afternoon or so; (which is slow). do they blow? 'tis the wind and nothing more, 'tis the wind that in vacation has a tendency to go: but the coach's objurgation and his tendency to 'score' will be sated--nevermore. see the freshers in the street, the _elite_! their apparel how unquestionably neat! how delighted at a distance, inexpensively attired, i have wondered with persistence at their butterfly existence! how admired! and the payment--o, the payment! it is tardy for the raiment: yet the haberdasher gloats as he sells, and he tells, 'this is best to be dress'd rather better than the rest, to be noticeably drest, to be swells, to be swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, to be simply and indisputably swells.' see the freshers one or two, just a few, now on view, who are sensibly and innocently new; how they cluster, cluster, cluster round the rugged walls of worcester! see them stand, book in hand, in the garden ground of john's! how they dote upon their dons! see in every man a blue! it is true they are lamentably few; but i spied yesternight upon the staircase just a pair of boots outside upon the floor, just a little pair of boots upon the stairs where i reside, lying there and nothing more; and i swore while these dainty twins continued sentry by the chamber door that the hope their presence planted should be with me evermore, should desert me--nevermore. the sair stroke. _o waly, waly, my bonnie crew gin ye maun bumpit be! and waly, waly, my stroke sae true, ye leuk unpleasauntlie!_ _o hae ye suppit the sad sherrie that gars the wind gae soon; or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e, ye be sae stricken doun?_ i hae na suppit the sad sherrie, for a' my heart is sair; for keiller's still i' the bonnie dundee, and his is halesome fare. but i hae slain our gude captain, that c'uld baith shout and sweer, and ither twain put out o' pain-- the scribe and treasurere. there's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate, and twa by the black, black brig: and waefu', waefu', was the fate that gar'd them there to lig! they waked us soon, they warked us lang, wearily did we greet; '_should he abrade_' was a' our sang, our food but butcher's-meat. we hadna train'd but ower a week, a week, but barely twa, three sonsie steeds they fared to seek, that mightna gar them fa'. they 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse, and wow! but it was wark; and ilka coach he sware him hoorse, that ilka man s'uld hark. then upped and spake our pawkie bow, --o, but he wasna late! 'now who shall gar them cry _enow_, that gang this fearsome gate?' syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap, and cast the keevils in, and wha but me to gae (god hap!) and stay our captain's din? i stayed his din by the meadow-gate, his feres' by nuneham brig, and waefu', waefu', was the fate that gar'd them there to lig! o, waly to the welkin's top! and waly round the braes! and waly all about the shop (to use a southron phrase). rede ither crews be debonair, but we 've a weird to dree, i wis we maun be bumpit sair by boaties two and three: sing stretchers of yew for our toggere, sith we maun bumpit be! the doom of the esquire bedell. adown the torturing mile of street i mark him come and go, thread in and out with tireless feet the crossings to and fro; a soul that treads without retreat a labyrinth of woe. palsied with awe of such despair, all living things give room, they flit before his sightless glare as horrid shapes, that loom and shriek the curse that bids him bear the symbol of his doom. the very stones are coals that bake and scorch his fevered skin; a fire no hissing hail may slake consumes his heart within. still must he hasten on to rake the furnace of his sin. still forward! forward! for he feels fierce claws that pluck his breast, and blindly beckon as he reels upon his awful quest: for there is that behind his heels knows neither ruth nor rest. the fiends in hell have flung the dice; the destinies depend on feet that run for fearful price, and fangs that gape to rend; and still the footsteps of his vice pursue him to the end:-- the feet of his incarnate vice shall dog him to the end. 'behold! i am not one that goes to lectures.' by w. w. behold! i am not one that goes to lectures or the pow-wow of professors. the elementary laws never apologise: neither do i apologise. i find letters from the dean dropt on my table--and every one is signed by the dean's name-- and i leave them where they are; for i know that as long as i stay up others will punctually come for ever and ever. i am one who goes to the river, i sit in the boat and think of 'life' and of 'time.' how life is much, but time is more; and the beginning is everything, but the end is something. i loll in the parks, i go to the wicket, i swipe. i see twenty-two young men from foster's watching me, and the trousers of the twenty-two young men, i see the balliol men _en masse_ watching me.--the hottentot that loves his mother, the untutored bedowee, the cave-man that wears only his certificate of baptism, and the shaggy sioux that hangs his testamur with his scalps. i see the don who ploughed me in rudiments watching me: and the wife of the don who ploughed me in rudiments watching me. i see the rapport of the wicket-keeper and umpire. i cannot see that i am out. oh! you umpires! i am not one who greatly cares for experience, soap, bull-dogs, cautions, majorities, or a graduated income-tax, the certainty of space, punctuation, sexes, institutions, copiousness, degrees, committees, delicatesse, or the fetters of rhyme-- for none of these do i care: but least for the fetters of rhyme. myself only i sing. me imperturbe! me prononce! me progressive and the depth of me progressive, and the bathos, anglice bathos of me chanting to the public the song of simple enumeration. caliban upon rudiments[ ]. or autoschediastic theology in a hole. rudiments, rudiments, and rudiments! 'thinketh one made them i' the fit o' the blues. 'thinketh one made them with the 'tips' to match, but not the answers; 'doubteth there be none, only guides, helps, analyses, such as that: also this beast, that groweth sleek thereon, and snow-white bands that round the neck o' the same. 'thinketh, it came of being ill at ease. 'hath heard that satan finds some mischief still for idle hands, and the rest o 't. that's the case. also 'hath heard they pop the names i' the hat, toss out a brace, a dozen stick inside; let forty through and plough the sorry rest. 'thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in them, only their strength, being made o' sloth i' the main-- 'am strong myself compared to yonder names o' jewish towns i' the paper. watch th' event-- 'let twenty pass, 'have a shot at twenty-first, 'miss ramoth-gilead, 'take jehoiakim, 'let abner by and spot melchizedek, knowing not, caring not, just choosing so, as it likes me each time, i do: so they. 'saith they be terrible: watch their feats i' the viva! one question plays the deuce with six months' toil. aha, if they would tell me! no, not they! there is the sport: 'come read me right or die!' all at their mercy,--why they like it most when--when--well, never try the same shot twice! 'hath fled himself and only got up a tree. 'will say a plain word if he gets a plough. [ ] caliban museth of the now extinct examination in the rudiments of faith and religion. solvitur acris hiemps. my juggins, see: the pasture green, obeying nature's kindly law, renews its mantle; there has been a thaw. the frost-bound earth is free at last, that lay 'neath winter's sullen yoke 'till people felt it getting past a joke. now forth again the freshers fare, and get them tasty summer suits wherein they flaunt afield and scare the brutes. again the stream suspects the keel; again the shrieking captain drops upon his crew; again the meal of chops divides the too-laborious day; again the student sighs o'er mods, and prompts his enemies to lay long odds. again the shopman spreads his wiles; again the organ-pipes, unbound, distract the populace for miles around. then, juggins, ere december's touch once more the wealth of spring reclaim, since each successive year is much the same; since too the monarch on his throne in purple lapped and frankincense, who from his infancy has blown expense, no less than he who barely gets the boon of out-of-door relief, must see desuetude,--come let's be brief. at those resolves last new year's day the easy gods indulgent wink. then downward, ho!--the shortest way is drink. a letter. addressed during the summer term of by mr. algernon dexter, scholar of ------ college, oxford, to his cousin, miss kitty tremayne, at ------ vicarage, devonshire. after w. m. p. dear kitty, at length the term's ending; i 'm in for my schools in a week; and the time that at present i'm spending on you should be spent upon greek: but i'm fairly well read in my plato, i'm thoroughly red in the eyes, and i've almost forgotten the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise. so 'the best of all ways'--why repeat you the verse at . a.m., when i 'm stealing an hour to entreat you dear kitty, to come to commem.? oh, come! you shall rustle in satin through halls where examiners trod: your laughter shall triumph o'er latin in lecture-room, garden, and quad. they stand in the silent sheldonian-- our orators, waiting--for you, their style guaranteed ciceronian, their subject--'the ladies in blue.' the vice sits arrayed in his scarlet; he's pale, but they say he dissem- -bles by calling his beadle a 'varlet' whenever he thinks of commem. there are dances, flirtations at nuneham, flower-shows, the procession of eights: there's a list stretching _usque ad lunam_ of concerts, and lunches, and fetes: there's the newdigate all about 'gordon,' --so sweet, and they say it will scan. you shall flirt with a proctor, a warden shall run for your shawl and your fan. they are sportive as gods broken loose from olympus, and yet very em- -inent men. there are plenty to choose from, you'll find, if you come to commem. i know your excuses: red sorrel has stumbled and broken her knees; aunt phoebe thinks waltzing immoral; and 'algy, you are such a tease; it's nonsense, of course, but she _is_ strict'; and little dick hodge has the croup; and there's no one to visit your 'district' or make mother tettleby's soup. let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you; oh, leave them to manage _pro tem_. with their croups and their soups and their ague) dear kitty, and come to commem. don't tell me papa has lumbago, that you haven't a frock fit to wear, that the curate 'has notions, and may go to lengths if there's nobody there,' that the squire has 'said things' to the vicar, and the vicar 'had words' with the squire, that the organist's taken to liquor, and leaves you to manage the choir: for papa must be cured, and the curate coerced, and your gown is a gem; and the moral is--don't be obdurate, dear kitty, but come to commem. 'my gown? though, no doubt, sir, you're clever, you 'd better leave fashions alone. do you think that a frock lasts for ever?' dear kitty, i'll grant you have grown; but i thought of my 'scene' with mcvittie that night when he trod on your train at the bachelor's ball. ''twas a pity,' you said, but i knew 'twas champagne. and your gown was enough to compel me to fall down and worship its hem-- (are 'hems' wearing? if not, you shall tell me what is, when you come to commem.) have you thought, since that night, of the grotto? of the words whispered under the palms, while the minutes flew by and forgot to remind us of aunt and her qualms? of the stains of the old _journalisten_? of the rose that i begged from your hair? when you turned, and i saw something glisten-- dear kitty, don't frown; it _was_ there! but that idiot delane in the middle bounced in with 'our dance, i--ahem!' and--the rose you may find in my liddell and scott when you come to commem. then, kitty, let 'yes' be the answer. we'll dance at the 'varsity ball, and the morning shall find you a dancer in christ church or trinity hall. and perhaps, when the elders are yawning and rafters grow pale overhead with the day, there shall come with its dawning some thought of that sentence unsaid. be it this, be it that--'i forget,' or 'was joking'--whatever the fem- -inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor and come,--you _will_ come? to commem. occasional verses. anecdote for fathers. designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children. by the late w. w. (of h.m. inland revenue service). and is it so? can folly stalk and aim her unrespecting darts in shades where grave professors walk and bachelors of arts? i have a boy, not six years old, a sprite of birth and lineage high: his birth i did myself behold, his caste is in his eye. and oh! his limbs are full of grace, his boyish beauty past compare: his mother's joy to wash his face, and mine to brush his hair! one morn we strolled on our short walk, with four goloshes on our shoes, and held the customary talk that parents love to use. (and oft i turn it into verse, and write it down upon a page, which, being sold, supplies my purse and ministers to age.) so as we paced the curving high, to view the sights of oxford town we raised our feet (like nelly bly), and then we put them down. 'now, little edward, answer me'-- i said, and clutched him by the gown-- 'at cambridge would you rather be, or here in oxford town?' my boy replied with tiny frown (he'd been a year at cavendish), 'i'd rather dwell in oxford town, if i could have my wish.' 'now, little edward, say why so; my little edward, tell me why.' 'well, really, pa, i hardly know.' 'remarkable!' said i: 'for cambridge has her "king's parade," and much the more becoming gown; why should you slight her so,' i said, 'compared with oxford town?' at this my boy hung down his head, while sterner grew the parent's eye; and six-and-thirty times i said, 'come, edward, tell me why?' for i loved cambridge (where they deal-- how strange!--in butter by the yard); and so, with every third appeal, i hit him rather hard. twelve times i struck, as may be seen (for three times twelve is thirty-six), when in a shop the _magazine_ his tearful sight did fix. he saw it plain, it made him smile, and thus to me he made reply:-- '_at oxford there's a crocodile_;[ ] and that's the reason why.' oh, mr. editor! my heart for deeper lore would seldom yearn, could i believe the hundredth part of what from you i learn. [ ] certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the museum, had been perplexing the readers of the _oxford magazine_ for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning. unity put quarterly[ ]. by a. c. s. the centuries kiss and commingle, cling, clasp, and are knit in a chain; no cycle but scorns to be single, no two but demur to be twain, 'till the land of the lute and the love-tale be bride of the boreal breast, and the dawn with the darkness shall dovetail, the east with the west. the desire of the grey for the dun nights is that of the dun for the grey; the tales of the thousand and one nights touch lips with 'the times' of to-day.-- come, chasten the cheap with the classic; choose, churton, thy chair and thy class, mix, melt in the must that is massic the beer that is bass! omnipotent age of the aorist! infinitely freely exact!-- as the fragrance of fiction is fairest if frayed in the furnace of fact-- though nine be the muses in number there is hope if the handbook be one,-- dispelling the planets that cumber the path of the sun. though crimson thy hands and thy hood be with the blood of a brother betrayed, o would-be-professor of would-be, we call thee to bless and to aid. transmuted would travel with er, see the land of the rolling of logs, charmed, chained to thy side, as to circe the ithacan hogs. o bourne of the black and the godly! o land where the good niggers go. with the books that are borrowed of bodley, old moons and our castaway clo'! there, there, till the roses be ripened rebuke us, revile, and review, then take thee thine annual stipend so long over-due. [ ] suggested by an article in the _quarterly review_, enforcing the unity of literature ancient and modern, and the necessity of providing a new school of literature in oxford. fire! by sir w. s. written on the occasion of the visit of the united fire brigades to oxford, . i. st. giles's street is fair and wide, st. giles's street is long; but long or wide, may naught abide therein of guile or wrong; for through st. giles's, to and fro, the mild ecclesiastics go from prime to evensong. it were a fearsome task, perdie! to sin in such good company. ii. long had the slanting beam of day proclaimed the thirtieth of may ere now, erect, its fiery heat illumined all that hallowed street, and breathing benediction on thy serried battlements, st. john, suffused at once with equal glow the cluster'd archipelago, the art professor's studio and mr. greenwood's shop, thy building, pusey, where below the stout salvation soldiers blow the cornet till they drop; thine, balliol, where we move, and oh! thine, randolph, where we stop. iii. but what is this that frights the air, and wakes the curate from his lair in pusey's cool retreat, to leave the feast, to climb the stair, and scan the startled street? as when perambulate the young and call with unrelenting tongue on home, mamma, and sire; or voters shout with strength of lung for hall & co's entire; or sabbath-breakers scream and shout-- the band of booth, with drum devout, eliza on her sunday out, or farmer with his choir:-- iv. e'en so, with shriek of fife and drum and horrid clang of brass, the fire brigades of england come and down st. giles's pass. oh grand, methinks, in such array to spend a whitsun holiday all soaking to the skin! (yet shoes and hose alike are stout; the shoes to keep the water out, the hose to keep it in.) v. they came from henley on the thames, from berwick on the tweed, and at the mercy of the flames they left their children and their dames, to come and play their little games on morrell's dewy mead. yet feared they not with fire to play-- the pyrotechnics (so they say) were very fine indeed. vi. (p.s. by lord macaulay). then let us bless our gracious queen and eke the fire brigade, and bless no less the horrid mess they've been and gone and made; remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire, bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one shouted 'fire!' de tea fabula. plain language from truthful james[ ]. do i sleep? do i dream? am i hoaxed by a scout? are things what they seem, or is sophists about? is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is robert browning played out? which expressions like these may be fairly applied by a party who sees a society skied upon tea that the warden of keble had biled with legitimate pride. 'twas november the third, and i says to bill nye, 'which it's true what i've heard: if you're, so to speak, fly, there's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as high.' which i mentioned its name, and he ups and remarks: 'if dress-coats is the game and pow-wow in the parks, then i 'm nuts on sordello and hohenstiel-schwangau and similar snarks.' now the pride of bill nye cannot well be express'd; for he wore a white tie and a cut-away vest: says i, 'solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well dress'd.' but not far did we wend, when we saw pippa pass on the arm of a friend --doctor furnivall 'twas, and he wore in his hat two half-tickets for london, return, second-class. 'well,' i thought, 'this is odd.' but we came pretty quick to a sort of a quad that was all of red brick, and i says to the porter,--'r. browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.' but says he, dripping tears in his check handkerchief, 'that symposium's career's been regrettably brief, for it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder-leaf!' then we tucked up the sleeves of our shirts (that were biled), which the reader perceives that our feelings were riled, and we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child. which emotions like these must be freely indulged by a party who sees a society bulged on a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged. but i ask,--do i dream? _has_ it gone up the spout? are things what they seem, or is sophists about? is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is robert browning played out? [ ] the oxford browning society expired at keble the week before this was written. l'envoi. as i laye a-dreamynge. after t. i. as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree, and meseemed unto my syghte came rydynge many a knyghte all cased in armoure bryghte cap-a-pie, as i laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye! as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe, and meseemed of alle that hoste notte a face but was the ghoste of a friend that i hadde loste long agoe. as i laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe! as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre, and laste upon the tracke came one i hayled as 'jacke!' but he turned mee his backe with a stare: as i laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there. stille i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, and gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne, and meseemed a voyce yt cry'd-- 'they shall ryde, and they shall ryde 'tyll the truce of tyme and tyde come agayne! alle for eldorado, yette never maye attayne!' stille i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, and scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente: 'shalle to-morrowe see them nygher to a golden walle or spyre? you have better in yr fyre, bee contente.' as i laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment. but i laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge and rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye: 'uppe and sette yr lance in reste! uppe and followe on the queste! leave the issue to be guessed at the endynge of the waye'-- as i laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say-- 'whatte and if it alle be feynynge? there be better thynges than gaynynge, rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'-- and 'twas truthe she seemed to saye. whyles the dawne was breakynge, i rode upon my waye. the end